Comforting Others
Comforting Others – An Act of Kindness
Comforting others can be uncomfortable for many of us. We don’t know what to say or how to act. Comforting others is an act of selflessness, as we think of someone else who needs a kind word or a reassuring touch.
Consider this short story, which illustrates the importance of looking beyond ourselves to help others in need.
Comforting others can be uncomfortable for many of us. We don’t know what to say or how to act. Comforting others is an act of selflessness, as we think of someone else who needs a kind word or a reassuring touch.
Consider this short story, which illustrates the importance of looking beyond ourselves to help others in need.
Comforting Others - The Funeral
By Jeff Norberg
Sam made his way over the grassy hill toward the tree where the coffin would be buried. Over the rise Sam could see the tree with the triangular shaped hole in the front come into sight. The memories connected to this tree matched the number of grass blades on the hill. This was their tree, where Sam and Helen would come to be alone -- in good times and bad. If there were ever a time Helen just disappeared, more often than not Sam would find her there, inside that hollow trunk. It wasn’t much of a surprise then when she requested to be buried near this tree when she died. Sam would give anything to be able to find her in there now and hug and hold her once more. He knew that Jesus was holding her now, but still, it hurt. Near the tree, a crowd of mourners gathered on each side of the six-foot deep hole where her body would be lowered.
The pallbearers set the coffin down on the flat piece of wood, which would be lowered into the grave; then stepped off to the side to stand among the crowd. As the funeral went on, Sam kept glancing at an elderly woman dressed in black, a woman Sam knew all too well. Her name was Audrey Ryan, Helen's mother. He never really got along with Audrey, it was always a love-hate relationship between them. Every time they were all together, a spark of dissension would ignite a fire of argument, sometimes over something serious, but mostly it was trivial. Inside, Sam was searching for that animosity he held for Audrey to resurface, but he was struggling. Like opposing prizefighters, righteousness and pride were battling it out inside him. He tried to ignore her, tried to make excuses to himself, but it was no use. Seeing her standing by the gravesite, with her head down and covered by the dark veil, filled him with enormous sympathy. He knew she was going through unimaginable grief. He loved Helen more than life itself, but his loss and sadness couldn’t compare to Audrey’s loss of her only child; nothing could equal that pain. He knew this all too well, having watched his mother fall into a deep depression after the death of his sister.
He bowed his head and prayed a silent prayer that God would send someone to comfort Audrey, just like he had prayed for his mother in her moment of despair. Standing before him now, for the first time, he saw Audrey Ryan, a different woman, a mother who had just lost her only child. Seeing Audrey there, forced memories of his own mother to surface. After his mom died, Sam had always felt guilty for not doing more to comfort her. In his mind, he remembered standing next to her at her bedside when she was about to die herself.
“I should have done more. I’m sorry.” Sam said, holding his mother’s hand.
His mother turned toward him and whispered the words “I love you Sam, it wasn’t your fault.”
The memory faded away and he was looking at his mother-in-law again. He stood there and cried silent tears, for his mother and for Helen. Just like with his mother, Sam felt he could have done more for Helen that may have kept her alive. He died inside, blaming himself. He constantly prayed to the Lord in the week before the funeral, wondering if his prayers were bouncing off the ceiling. He knew now that they didn’t. As he stood and watched her he felt his heart begin to lighten and his focus begin to change. He felt as if God was giving him another chance and was saying to him, "It's never too late to help another of my children.” Those past grievances that had driven them apart faded from memory. He felt a deeper love for her than ever before. He slowly made his way over and stood beside her.
"Hello, Audrey." Sam said.
"Oh, Sam." Audrey said, understandably in tears. "What am I going to do? After Roger died, she was all I had left. I don't know how I'm gonna get through this."
His hand reached out to her as if he was a puppet and love, God's love, was the puppeteer.
He touched her softly on the shoulder. "Maybe, we can help each other."
She put her arms around him and cried. He stood there patiently with his arms around Audrey and was just there for her. By giving a little of himself, he felt his mind at peace. He realized then that his prayer he prayed for her had been answered. It wasn't in the way he had anticipated at the time, but it was answered in God's way. Sam may never get over Helen, a part of him didn't want to. He knew, however, by always being there for each other it would be a little easier for both of them to move on. Out of such a tragic situation God managed to bring togetherness out of bitterness and hope out of despair.
Learn more about grief and comfortBy Jeff Norberg
Sam made his way over the grassy hill toward the tree where the coffin would be buried. Over the rise Sam could see the tree with the triangular shaped hole in the front come into sight. The memories connected to this tree matched the number of grass blades on the hill. This was their tree, where Sam and Helen would come to be alone -- in good times and bad. If there were ever a time Helen just disappeared, more often than not Sam would find her there, inside that hollow trunk. It wasn’t much of a surprise then when she requested to be buried near this tree when she died. Sam would give anything to be able to find her in there now and hug and hold her once more. He knew that Jesus was holding her now, but still, it hurt. Near the tree, a crowd of mourners gathered on each side of the six-foot deep hole where her body would be lowered.
The pallbearers set the coffin down on the flat piece of wood, which would be lowered into the grave; then stepped off to the side to stand among the crowd. As the funeral went on, Sam kept glancing at an elderly woman dressed in black, a woman Sam knew all too well. Her name was Audrey Ryan, Helen's mother. He never really got along with Audrey, it was always a love-hate relationship between them. Every time they were all together, a spark of dissension would ignite a fire of argument, sometimes over something serious, but mostly it was trivial. Inside, Sam was searching for that animosity he held for Audrey to resurface, but he was struggling. Like opposing prizefighters, righteousness and pride were battling it out inside him. He tried to ignore her, tried to make excuses to himself, but it was no use. Seeing her standing by the gravesite, with her head down and covered by the dark veil, filled him with enormous sympathy. He knew she was going through unimaginable grief. He loved Helen more than life itself, but his loss and sadness couldn’t compare to Audrey’s loss of her only child; nothing could equal that pain. He knew this all too well, having watched his mother fall into a deep depression after the death of his sister.
He bowed his head and prayed a silent prayer that God would send someone to comfort Audrey, just like he had prayed for his mother in her moment of despair. Standing before him now, for the first time, he saw Audrey Ryan, a different woman, a mother who had just lost her only child. Seeing Audrey there, forced memories of his own mother to surface. After his mom died, Sam had always felt guilty for not doing more to comfort her. In his mind, he remembered standing next to her at her bedside when she was about to die herself.
“I should have done more. I’m sorry.” Sam said, holding his mother’s hand.
His mother turned toward him and whispered the words “I love you Sam, it wasn’t your fault.”
The memory faded away and he was looking at his mother-in-law again. He stood there and cried silent tears, for his mother and for Helen. Just like with his mother, Sam felt he could have done more for Helen that may have kept her alive. He died inside, blaming himself. He constantly prayed to the Lord in the week before the funeral, wondering if his prayers were bouncing off the ceiling. He knew now that they didn’t. As he stood and watched her he felt his heart begin to lighten and his focus begin to change. He felt as if God was giving him another chance and was saying to him, "It's never too late to help another of my children.” Those past grievances that had driven them apart faded from memory. He felt a deeper love for her than ever before. He slowly made his way over and stood beside her.
"Hello, Audrey." Sam said.
"Oh, Sam." Audrey said, understandably in tears. "What am I going to do? After Roger died, she was all I had left. I don't know how I'm gonna get through this."
His hand reached out to her as if he was a puppet and love, God's love, was the puppeteer.
He touched her softly on the shoulder. "Maybe, we can help each other."
She put her arms around him and cried. He stood there patiently with his arms around Audrey and was just there for her. By giving a little of himself, he felt his mind at peace. He realized then that his prayer he prayed for her had been answered. It wasn't in the way he had anticipated at the time, but it was answered in God's way. Sam may never get over Helen, a part of him didn't want to. He knew, however, by always being there for each other it would be a little easier for both of them to move on. Out of such a tragic situation God managed to bring togetherness out of bitterness and hope out of despair.
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
We have all sinned and deserve God’s judgment. God, the Father, sent His only Son to satisfy that judgment for those who believe in Him. Jesus, the creator and eternal Son of God, who lived a sinless life, loves us so much that He died for our sins, taking the punishment that we deserve, was buried, and rose from the dead according to the Bible. If you truly believe and trust this in your heart, receiving Jesus alone as your Savior, declaring, "Jesus is Lord," you will be saved from judgment and spend eternity with God in heaven.
What is your response?
What is your response?
Death from AIDS
Death from AIDS
Experiencing death from AIDS can be hard, especially from the family who is looking on. Consider this real-life story from Brenda who knows death from AIDS all too well.
Experiencing death from AIDS can be hard, especially from the family who is looking on. Consider this real-life story from Brenda who knows death from AIDS all too well.
Death from AIDS - Man Dying with AIDS has Hope for Eternity
By Brenda Blakely
The call came early in the morning. “If you want to see your brother alive you better get here.” Right after noon we were able to “roll out” driving hard to cover the 700 or so miles between my home and the hospital bed where he laid. My task was clear, make sure he knows Jesus as his Savior. I asked Lord, “Please don’t take him until I know that he knows You.”
My sister had said my brother Bert was hospitalized and they didn’t expect him to live but a few days. We arrived late in the night expecting to be able to go to the hospital and see him.
However the decision to allow us to bend the rules in this life and death occasion had been rescinded. We were told to get a night’s sleep and come to the hospital during the morning visiting hours. As I prayed, God’s still quiet voice spoke peace, it was ok; rest and he will still be there.
Finally my turn came to go into his intensive care room. I had no real expectations except that God was going to allow me to speak to him.
The man I saw lying there connected to tubes and all kinds of medical equipment was the brother I had prayed for as a little child. He looked so uncomfortable; the oxygen mask hindered his being able to talk much. Word became valuable, their scarcity made each one precious. “I love you. . .I love you.”
I had to ask, “Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” He spoke the words I had prayed to hear, “Yes.”
Discussions with family and the inevitable talks with the doctor jerked us into a drama that I felt could hardly be real. Bert was dying of AIDS. A long story was about to unfold but it had to be put aside for an even more important agenda. We had to give Bert the best last moment on earth with his family that we could and let him know he was loved.
They moved him to a hospice bed just before lunch. When we returned from lunch he was moved and settled. The nurses said he had opened his eyes to look outside for a moment. God’s creation was at its peak of beauty -- flowers blooming, the azure blue sky so soft and beautiful. As he lay on the bed gasping for breath we tried to make it like a family gathering. We laughed and shared memories and stories taking time to remember the good times that had blessed us. The pastor came and we prayed holding Bert’s hands to include him in the circle.
Bert’s boss came by to visit and as he began to leave he looked at Bert and said, “You know Jesus don’t you Bert?” Bert’s slight nod of the head and slight smile told the story. This man had given Bert the greatest gift of all; we hoped to learn the rest of the story later.
There was no one by his bedside for a moment and I didn’t want him to go through this alone so I stepped up next to his bedside. I noticed Bert stirring and struggling to come to the surface of his deep, drug-induced sleep. His eyelids barely cracked to reveal the hurting mirror of his soul beneath them, words surfaced on his lips, a weak breath carried them to my ears, “Help me.”
As he settled back into his rest, my heart cried quiet sobs covered my helplessness. Oh son, there is nothing I can do now. If only you had cried out for help sooner.
When the family was finally able to leave the hospital that night, Mother kept saying how hard it was to leave his body lying on the hospice bed even though we knew he was no longer there. It was over, he was gone. No more chances to say I love you, no more chances to share his grief and fear at having the dread disease.
The church was filled with people whose lives Bert had touched. People to whom Bert had listened when they shared their pain and maybe some with whom Bert had shared his pain. Yet, Bert had been unable to share his pain with his family.
People at the service spoke of a man who loved life, brought those special surprise moments to life for others and loved to share. Bert had left this earth so peacefully and I believe had such joy at being free of the body that had been destroyed by AIDS.
But those of us who are left behind today have so much to work through.
Occasionally I cry gut-wrenching sobs from the depths of my soul. A friend of Bert’s has told me that Bert really wanted to call and tell me but just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
How would I have responded? Bert had sought solace for the pain in his life in the wrong places and carried the results of that encounter to his deathbed. God had allowed the truth to be brought to him, quickened him to accept it and strengthened him to make the turn from his old life to the new life God had created him to live. Would I have recognized this when confronted with the reality of his life situation?
I have worked many years in ministry with other people in crisis but this was too close to home. This time it was my family; my brother, the one I had prayed for who had lived with us for long stretches of time. The one my daughter called her Brouncle (brother-uncle). The one who cared about other people and went into action when someone had a need, who took care of wounded animals, loved pretty things, and collected vintage toys often to be given to needy kids. He celebrated Christmas any day of the year and the one with whom I had shared experiences and memories.
I can still hear his words, “Help me” coming from his deathbed. But the only thing I can do now is stand on whatever platform God gives me and repeat the truth. God is still available to help and will forgive and heal the vilest sin.
There is hope.
Jesus has given us the commission, Bert’s boss accepted. He took the time in a busy work world to notice someone who needed Jesus and gave my brother the greatest gift of all -- hope for eternity. Has God put someone in your pathway who needs to know the Savior? Will you accept the commission? It can make all the difference in a life.
Read MoreBy Brenda Blakely
The call came early in the morning. “If you want to see your brother alive you better get here.” Right after noon we were able to “roll out” driving hard to cover the 700 or so miles between my home and the hospital bed where he laid. My task was clear, make sure he knows Jesus as his Savior. I asked Lord, “Please don’t take him until I know that he knows You.”
My sister had said my brother Bert was hospitalized and they didn’t expect him to live but a few days. We arrived late in the night expecting to be able to go to the hospital and see him.
However the decision to allow us to bend the rules in this life and death occasion had been rescinded. We were told to get a night’s sleep and come to the hospital during the morning visiting hours. As I prayed, God’s still quiet voice spoke peace, it was ok; rest and he will still be there.
Finally my turn came to go into his intensive care room. I had no real expectations except that God was going to allow me to speak to him.
The man I saw lying there connected to tubes and all kinds of medical equipment was the brother I had prayed for as a little child. He looked so uncomfortable; the oxygen mask hindered his being able to talk much. Word became valuable, their scarcity made each one precious. “I love you. . .I love you.”
I had to ask, “Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” He spoke the words I had prayed to hear, “Yes.”
Discussions with family and the inevitable talks with the doctor jerked us into a drama that I felt could hardly be real. Bert was dying of AIDS. A long story was about to unfold but it had to be put aside for an even more important agenda. We had to give Bert the best last moment on earth with his family that we could and let him know he was loved.
They moved him to a hospice bed just before lunch. When we returned from lunch he was moved and settled. The nurses said he had opened his eyes to look outside for a moment. God’s creation was at its peak of beauty -- flowers blooming, the azure blue sky so soft and beautiful. As he lay on the bed gasping for breath we tried to make it like a family gathering. We laughed and shared memories and stories taking time to remember the good times that had blessed us. The pastor came and we prayed holding Bert’s hands to include him in the circle.
Bert’s boss came by to visit and as he began to leave he looked at Bert and said, “You know Jesus don’t you Bert?” Bert’s slight nod of the head and slight smile told the story. This man had given Bert the greatest gift of all; we hoped to learn the rest of the story later.
There was no one by his bedside for a moment and I didn’t want him to go through this alone so I stepped up next to his bedside. I noticed Bert stirring and struggling to come to the surface of his deep, drug-induced sleep. His eyelids barely cracked to reveal the hurting mirror of his soul beneath them, words surfaced on his lips, a weak breath carried them to my ears, “Help me.”
As he settled back into his rest, my heart cried quiet sobs covered my helplessness. Oh son, there is nothing I can do now. If only you had cried out for help sooner.
When the family was finally able to leave the hospital that night, Mother kept saying how hard it was to leave his body lying on the hospice bed even though we knew he was no longer there. It was over, he was gone. No more chances to say I love you, no more chances to share his grief and fear at having the dread disease.
The church was filled with people whose lives Bert had touched. People to whom Bert had listened when they shared their pain and maybe some with whom Bert had shared his pain. Yet, Bert had been unable to share his pain with his family.
People at the service spoke of a man who loved life, brought those special surprise moments to life for others and loved to share. Bert had left this earth so peacefully and I believe had such joy at being free of the body that had been destroyed by AIDS.
But those of us who are left behind today have so much to work through.
Occasionally I cry gut-wrenching sobs from the depths of my soul. A friend of Bert’s has told me that Bert really wanted to call and tell me but just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
How would I have responded? Bert had sought solace for the pain in his life in the wrong places and carried the results of that encounter to his deathbed. God had allowed the truth to be brought to him, quickened him to accept it and strengthened him to make the turn from his old life to the new life God had created him to live. Would I have recognized this when confronted with the reality of his life situation?
I have worked many years in ministry with other people in crisis but this was too close to home. This time it was my family; my brother, the one I had prayed for who had lived with us for long stretches of time. The one my daughter called her Brouncle (brother-uncle). The one who cared about other people and went into action when someone had a need, who took care of wounded animals, loved pretty things, and collected vintage toys often to be given to needy kids. He celebrated Christmas any day of the year and the one with whom I had shared experiences and memories.
I can still hear his words, “Help me” coming from his deathbed. But the only thing I can do now is stand on whatever platform God gives me and repeat the truth. God is still available to help and will forgive and heal the vilest sin.
There is hope.
Jesus has given us the commission, Bert’s boss accepted. He took the time in a busy work world to notice someone who needed Jesus and gave my brother the greatest gift of all -- hope for eternity. Has God put someone in your pathway who needs to know the Savior? Will you accept the commission? It can make all the difference in a life.
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
We have all sinned and deserve God’s judgment. God, the Father, sent His only Son to satisfy that judgment for those who believe in Him. Jesus, the creator and eternal Son of God, who lived a sinless life, loves us so much that He died for our sins, taking the punishment that we deserve, was buried, and rose from the dead according to the Bible. If you truly believe and trust this in your heart, receiving Jesus alone as your Savior, declaring, "Jesus is Lord," you will be saved from judgment and spend eternity with God in heaven.
What is your response?
What is your response?
God is Watching
God is Watching
Do you believe that God is watching? The Bible says, “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows” (Luke 12:6-7).
Consider this illustration, written by Jenny Ralston.
Do you believe that God is watching? The Bible says, “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows” (Luke 12:6-7).
Consider this illustration, written by Jenny Ralston.
God is Watching
I have been a non-sleeper for several years. I’m doing better now, but some days my eyes wake up long before the rest of me is ready to join them. One morning a couple of years ago, my eyes woke up at about 4:15 and immediately began urging the rest of my body to hop right up. So, I got up, went paddling downstairs in my PJ’s, clicked on the light over the stove, and turned the coffee pot on, thinking I would sip my coffee and read or maybe catch a great old movie on TV.
As I was standing there in the very, very quiet of the morning, I heard a soft movement behind me followed by a clear statement, “I’ve got my eye on you!” I froze. Right there in front of the coffee pot, with me in my PJ’s, God was telling me He was watching me.
I had a friend who was a great believer in hearing God’s voice and seeing visions. She has now gone on to glory and I have no doubt she is raising a garden in heaven. We were close, open, frank, great friends. I always told her she was crazy. She thought I was daffy. I never bought into her movie-type visions or audible voice of God theories, but there I was, hearing the very clear statement that God had his eye on me and I immediately thought of Suzie and decided she was right and I was wrong.
It took a moment, but I then realized that God’s voice sounded like a voice I knew. It was Sulley, the little one-eyed, green monster from the movie Monster’s Inc. One of the my grandsons had brought the little talking, doll-like creature over, left him at our house, and he was chatting away on his own -- doing a really good job of scaring me out of my socks.
After I calmed down a bit, though, I realized that we should conduct our lives as if God’s audible voice was always telling us that he had his eye on us. All the time. In every aspect of our lives. Watching, encouraging, helping, holding, forgiving.
We should always remember that if the raven (or the sparrow) is important enough for God to watch, then we, his beloved creation, made to fellowship with him and worship him, are much, much more worthy of his attention and love.
And so, I’m going to try to live my life with that in mind. When God watches me I want him to see joy and kindness and enthusiasm and a spirit willing to help others. I want to be a good friend, a loving wife and mother. When he glances my way, I want him to put a check-mark under the “good egg” column!
I want to feel like the writer in Zechariah 2:8 who states “. . .for whoever touches you touches the apples of his eye. . .” I want to be the apple of God’s eye.
Read More!I have been a non-sleeper for several years. I’m doing better now, but some days my eyes wake up long before the rest of me is ready to join them. One morning a couple of years ago, my eyes woke up at about 4:15 and immediately began urging the rest of my body to hop right up. So, I got up, went paddling downstairs in my PJ’s, clicked on the light over the stove, and turned the coffee pot on, thinking I would sip my coffee and read or maybe catch a great old movie on TV.
As I was standing there in the very, very quiet of the morning, I heard a soft movement behind me followed by a clear statement, “I’ve got my eye on you!” I froze. Right there in front of the coffee pot, with me in my PJ’s, God was telling me He was watching me.
I had a friend who was a great believer in hearing God’s voice and seeing visions. She has now gone on to glory and I have no doubt she is raising a garden in heaven. We were close, open, frank, great friends. I always told her she was crazy. She thought I was daffy. I never bought into her movie-type visions or audible voice of God theories, but there I was, hearing the very clear statement that God had his eye on me and I immediately thought of Suzie and decided she was right and I was wrong.
It took a moment, but I then realized that God’s voice sounded like a voice I knew. It was Sulley, the little one-eyed, green monster from the movie Monster’s Inc. One of the my grandsons had brought the little talking, doll-like creature over, left him at our house, and he was chatting away on his own -- doing a really good job of scaring me out of my socks.
After I calmed down a bit, though, I realized that we should conduct our lives as if God’s audible voice was always telling us that he had his eye on us. All the time. In every aspect of our lives. Watching, encouraging, helping, holding, forgiving.
We should always remember that if the raven (or the sparrow) is important enough for God to watch, then we, his beloved creation, made to fellowship with him and worship him, are much, much more worthy of his attention and love.
And so, I’m going to try to live my life with that in mind. When God watches me I want him to see joy and kindness and enthusiasm and a spirit willing to help others. I want to be a good friend, a loving wife and mother. When he glances my way, I want him to put a check-mark under the “good egg” column!
I want to feel like the writer in Zechariah 2:8 who states “. . .for whoever touches you touches the apples of his eye. . .” I want to be the apple of God’s eye.
God's Peace
The setting for God’s peace
by Gloria Small
Early March was a wonderful time of year. The hot winds of summer were still weeks away. Our parsonage sat in the midst of the Kissatche Forest just a few miles out of the twin cities of Pineville-Alexandria in the state of Louisiana. Pineville had been the location of an army training camp during the second great "War to end all Wars."
The Red River flows through Alexandria and there are many small rivulets that empty into it along the way. We liked to fish in the streams and there were some great feasts from those forays into the old campgrounds. In late spring, we would pack up the children and a picnic basket and head out to the thickets to pick black berries that were as big as the end of your thumb. The children would eat as many berries as they picked and end up with purple stained mouths and hands. The memory of the jam made from those wonderful berries makes my mouth water with anticipation. Not even "Knottsberry Farm" jam could match that full black berry taste. It was a happy time for all of us.
Of all the times during the year, spring was my favorite. The breeze whispered through the wonderful tall white pines and the song they sang lulled me to sleep many nights. The pines were soft needled and the cones they produced huge. When time permitted, I loved to walk through their halls. The dropped needles were a cushion beneath my feet and the sun painted a dappled pattern on the paths as I walked. In the morning, you could see the trails the armadillos made in their "nose to the ground" search for grubs and tender roots.
This place, of all the places we'd lived, was the most peaceful and beautiful. Our parsonage yard was a lovely place as well. There were Azaleas in a multitude of hues and soft petals of the Camellias, the graceful Mimosa tree and of course an old gnarled Crepe Myrtle tree in the side yard.
by Gloria Small
Early March was a wonderful time of year. The hot winds of summer were still weeks away. Our parsonage sat in the midst of the Kissatche Forest just a few miles out of the twin cities of Pineville-Alexandria in the state of Louisiana. Pineville had been the location of an army training camp during the second great "War to end all Wars."
The Red River flows through Alexandria and there are many small rivulets that empty into it along the way. We liked to fish in the streams and there were some great feasts from those forays into the old campgrounds. In late spring, we would pack up the children and a picnic basket and head out to the thickets to pick black berries that were as big as the end of your thumb. The children would eat as many berries as they picked and end up with purple stained mouths and hands. The memory of the jam made from those wonderful berries makes my mouth water with anticipation. Not even "Knottsberry Farm" jam could match that full black berry taste. It was a happy time for all of us.
Of all the times during the year, spring was my favorite. The breeze whispered through the wonderful tall white pines and the song they sang lulled me to sleep many nights. The pines were soft needled and the cones they produced huge. When time permitted, I loved to walk through their halls. The dropped needles were a cushion beneath my feet and the sun painted a dappled pattern on the paths as I walked. In the morning, you could see the trails the armadillos made in their "nose to the ground" search for grubs and tender roots.
This place, of all the places we'd lived, was the most peaceful and beautiful. Our parsonage yard was a lovely place as well. There were Azaleas in a multitude of hues and soft petals of the Camellias, the graceful Mimosa tree and of course an old gnarled Crepe Myrtle tree in the side yard.
Experiencing God’s peace firsthand
The day had begun like so many others, I had hung wash outside and it had already dried and been taken in. The children, there were only three at home at the time, were out side playing. The windows were open and I could hear their murmuring as they played in the sand box in the side yard. Before I knew it, it was near lunchtime and I fixed a bite to eat and then went to call the children in. I looked out of the bedroom window at the three of them playing together in the sand. For a few minutes I just watched them. They had made roads in the sand and all three, including my baby girl, were running their toy cars and trucks along the roads. They had even set up make-believe filling stations and trees made out of twigs dotted their sand paved road. I smiled to myself and thought it was really nice to see them playing so peacefully and I almost hated to break up their make believe game.
Just then I saw some movement under the crepe myrtle tree that shaded the sand box. There, at the base of the tree was a coiled snake. I could feel the panic well up in my throat and I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the scream that was trying to force its way through my vocal cords. It was then I felt a hand of calm touch my heart saying, "Peace be still." To my amazement my voice gently told the children to lay down their toys and get up slowly and come into the house at once.
They obeyed immediately! Now that in itself was a miracle. Usually there would be an argument. The "please just a little while longer, Mommy" or "we don't want to come in now." Because, of course, they knew that after lunch was nap time. But, there was none of that now, only obedience as they left their toys in the sand. As I look back on that time, I know that it was the LORD'S hand protecting my children from the danger they did not know they were in.
As they moved to obey my voice the snake rose as if to strike. There was no time to pray then, no time to call on the name of the LORD. Only the grace of God kept that snake from striking one of those tender arms or legs. Only that peace He spoke to my heart kept the screams from tearing out of my throat. The children did not even see the danger that lurked beneath that tree and blithely came running in for lunch.
Once the children were safely in the house, I set them to washing their hands and I went to the garage and got a spade. With out thinking I went to the sand box and raised that sharp spade and brought it down again and again on the snake until it no longer moved. I left it there and went back into the house to feed my children, shaking with a sense of righteous purpose.
After lunch, I put the children down for their nap and then went back out to scoop up the snake and put it into a small cardboard box. Then when I saw the snake that I had severed into many pieces I realized just what the LORD had saved my children from. The snake was a Copperhead! Now, my body shook with emotion as I fell to my knees in thanksgiving. My mind raced with the "what ifs" and I knew I had witnessed my very own miracle that day. God had given me the strength and peace I needed to act with in His instructions. The snake was dead, the danger gone.
The day had begun like so many others, I had hung wash outside and it had already dried and been taken in. The children, there were only three at home at the time, were out side playing. The windows were open and I could hear their murmuring as they played in the sand box in the side yard. Before I knew it, it was near lunchtime and I fixed a bite to eat and then went to call the children in. I looked out of the bedroom window at the three of them playing together in the sand. For a few minutes I just watched them. They had made roads in the sand and all three, including my baby girl, were running their toy cars and trucks along the roads. They had even set up make-believe filling stations and trees made out of twigs dotted their sand paved road. I smiled to myself and thought it was really nice to see them playing so peacefully and I almost hated to break up their make believe game.
Just then I saw some movement under the crepe myrtle tree that shaded the sand box. There, at the base of the tree was a coiled snake. I could feel the panic well up in my throat and I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the scream that was trying to force its way through my vocal cords. It was then I felt a hand of calm touch my heart saying, "Peace be still." To my amazement my voice gently told the children to lay down their toys and get up slowly and come into the house at once.
They obeyed immediately! Now that in itself was a miracle. Usually there would be an argument. The "please just a little while longer, Mommy" or "we don't want to come in now." Because, of course, they knew that after lunch was nap time. But, there was none of that now, only obedience as they left their toys in the sand. As I look back on that time, I know that it was the LORD'S hand protecting my children from the danger they did not know they were in.
As they moved to obey my voice the snake rose as if to strike. There was no time to pray then, no time to call on the name of the LORD. Only the grace of God kept that snake from striking one of those tender arms or legs. Only that peace He spoke to my heart kept the screams from tearing out of my throat. The children did not even see the danger that lurked beneath that tree and blithely came running in for lunch.
Once the children were safely in the house, I set them to washing their hands and I went to the garage and got a spade. With out thinking I went to the sand box and raised that sharp spade and brought it down again and again on the snake until it no longer moved. I left it there and went back into the house to feed my children, shaking with a sense of righteous purpose.
After lunch, I put the children down for their nap and then went back out to scoop up the snake and put it into a small cardboard box. Then when I saw the snake that I had severed into many pieces I realized just what the LORD had saved my children from. The snake was a Copperhead! Now, my body shook with emotion as I fell to my knees in thanksgiving. My mind raced with the "what ifs" and I knew I had witnessed my very own miracle that day. God had given me the strength and peace I needed to act with in His instructions. The snake was dead, the danger gone.
Remembering God’s peace and mercy
Now years later, the LORD brings the day to my mind and the lessons of that snake are clear as if written in stone upon my heart. I could not have done what I did in my own strength. My panic was calmed by the voice of my Savior. "Peace be still" is His message in the face of whatever situation I may face.
The danger of that snake is like the danger of sin. It must be cut out and dealt with at the time and not left to imperil my soul and my testimony. And there are times that the LORD will allow "snakes" to come in to my life. I need to listen to His voice and heed His instructions. If I do, the outcome will indeed be peace and safety. How grateful I am for that miracle the LORD allowed me to partake in and the lessons that keep re-enforcing His perfect will in my life.
Read More!Now years later, the LORD brings the day to my mind and the lessons of that snake are clear as if written in stone upon my heart. I could not have done what I did in my own strength. My panic was calmed by the voice of my Savior. "Peace be still" is His message in the face of whatever situation I may face.
The danger of that snake is like the danger of sin. It must be cut out and dealt with at the time and not left to imperil my soul and my testimony. And there are times that the LORD will allow "snakes" to come in to my life. I need to listen to His voice and heed His instructions. If I do, the outcome will indeed be peace and safety. How grateful I am for that miracle the LORD allowed me to partake in and the lessons that keep re-enforcing His perfect will in my life.
Here in the Dark
Here in the Dark -- Twilight’s Descent
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, long past the time when normal people—working people, family people—are resting, long past the moment when the eyes dry and the focus dims, it is here, in this moment, when the descent begins. This is where I lose, where I come undone, where my heart breaks and my mind searches for reasons, for wherefores and whys. There must be something larger than this, something directing this, something bigger than the one long cumulative failure that has become of my ceaseless struggle to stand. On my own.
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, long past the time when normal people—working people, family people—are resting, long past the moment when the eyes dry and the focus dims, it is here, in this moment, when the descent begins. This is where I lose, where I come undone, where my heart breaks and my mind searches for reasons, for wherefores and whys. There must be something larger than this, something directing this, something bigger than the one long cumulative failure that has become of my ceaseless struggle to stand. On my own.
Here in the Dark – The Waning Hours of the Night
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, long past the time when normal people have already said their prayers, that I begin mine. In this moment, the hand and the heart reach out, but the mind holds back in fear, in loss, in pride. God is there, He guides us, He keeps us. Like a floodgate, He holds us back until He determines we can move forward, and then only at His predetermined speed. A blessing, to be confined. A lesson, to become disgrace. A purpose, to struggle.
Job was blessed? In the end, yes. Was it a blessing to suffer? If so, then what was the reward at the end of his suffering? There was the blessing, the reward for suffering and not turning on his Savior. There in the dark, in the waning hours of night, Job cried out to God, and thought he wasn’t heard. To finally hear His voice, even in chastisement, was reward, blessing, proximity.
I do not hear His voice—none do, anymore, not since His gift, His Spirit, entered us—but I have His Book, His Word. I have His Spirit that speaks to me, but It uses my voice and my thoughts, and so I get confused. But here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, long past the time when the body begins to feel numb, as if on a drug, when even the cat has taken to his bed, here, now, my restless mind is less convoluted, more open.
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, long past the time when normal people have already said their prayers, that I begin mine. In this moment, the hand and the heart reach out, but the mind holds back in fear, in loss, in pride. God is there, He guides us, He keeps us. Like a floodgate, He holds us back until He determines we can move forward, and then only at His predetermined speed. A blessing, to be confined. A lesson, to become disgrace. A purpose, to struggle.
Job was blessed? In the end, yes. Was it a blessing to suffer? If so, then what was the reward at the end of his suffering? There was the blessing, the reward for suffering and not turning on his Savior. There in the dark, in the waning hours of night, Job cried out to God, and thought he wasn’t heard. To finally hear His voice, even in chastisement, was reward, blessing, proximity.
I do not hear His voice—none do, anymore, not since His gift, His Spirit, entered us—but I have His Book, His Word. I have His Spirit that speaks to me, but It uses my voice and my thoughts, and so I get confused. But here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, long past the time when the body begins to feel numb, as if on a drug, when even the cat has taken to his bed, here, now, my restless mind is less convoluted, more open.
Here in the Dark – A Time for Questions
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, when I beg for clarity but receive purpose, when I plead for understanding but am given resolve, when I long for completion but find only patience.
Pain is a wave; struggle a tide. In the reflection on the water, space and time are altered, and the temporary seems both permanent and vitally important. The face looking back at me is never right, it’s always shifted here or there. The image is undeniably me, but it’s different. I’m different. I’m not what looks back at me, and yet it must be that I am. I claim to deny myself, but cling to an imagined reality that is wholly encompassed by myself, my being, my perception. To deny the self is to seek God, yes, of course. But how to give up the perception when it seems to be all I have that is real?
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, when security guards fight sleep, when the night shift workers contemplate the fluorescent lights in the long empty hallway, when the children stumble to the bathroom, here is where barriers loosen, just for a moment, and the world beneath our perceptions appears. It is here, in the dark, just behind what our eyes see, what our bodies feel, and what our mind claims control over.
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, when I beg for clarity but receive purpose, when I plead for understanding but am given resolve, when I long for completion but find only patience.
Pain is a wave; struggle a tide. In the reflection on the water, space and time are altered, and the temporary seems both permanent and vitally important. The face looking back at me is never right, it’s always shifted here or there. The image is undeniably me, but it’s different. I’m different. I’m not what looks back at me, and yet it must be that I am. I claim to deny myself, but cling to an imagined reality that is wholly encompassed by myself, my being, my perception. To deny the self is to seek God, yes, of course. But how to give up the perception when it seems to be all I have that is real?
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, when security guards fight sleep, when the night shift workers contemplate the fluorescent lights in the long empty hallway, when the children stumble to the bathroom, here is where barriers loosen, just for a moment, and the world beneath our perceptions appears. It is here, in the dark, just behind what our eyes see, what our bodies feel, and what our mind claims control over.
Here in the Dark – A Time for God
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, when the mind wanders through locked doors, when the heart allows the scars to bleed, when the body begins to heal. Here, in the dark, is where I am truly myself, and not a perception or a disguise. And here is where God is, where He has been waiting for me, where I can finally feel Him, simultaneously right next to me, touching me, and so very far away I can’t see His face.
It is here in the dark, when I’m too tired not to find God, that He finds me.
It is here in the dark, in the waning hours of the night, when the mind wanders through locked doors, when the heart allows the scars to bleed, when the body begins to heal. Here, in the dark, is where I am truly myself, and not a perception or a disguise. And here is where God is, where He has been waiting for me, where I can finally feel Him, simultaneously right next to me, touching me, and so very far away I can’t see His face.
It is here in the dark, when I’m too tired not to find God, that He finds me.
- It does not, therefore, depend on man's desire or effort, but on God's mercy. Romans 9:16
Reflect Jesus
Reflect Jesus
It is our goal to reflect Jesus, our Savior, in all we do. Consider this illustration, written by Jenny Ralson.
It is our goal to reflect Jesus, our Savior, in all we do. Consider this illustration, written by Jenny Ralson.
Reflect Jesus - Pass the Fruit
When I was just a youngun' we found our entertainment in the company of friends. Vacations were non-existent, "formal" evenings out were just as rare, movies were an occasional treat at best. And so, picnics, potluck dinners, and company dinners were where we found our relaxation.
Mom was a wonderful cook. As a matter of fact, my husband gave me explicit instructions to never turn down an opportunity to eat with Mom and Dad. She never spared the seasoning goodies so, as my younger daughter once observed, each green bean was individually buttered . . . and all the other delicious goodies were treated with equal care.
I have never been a particular lover of fruit salad, something Mom frequently served. I enjoy fruit just fine, but I want every member to remain in a neutral corner. Don't come running to the center of the ring and join in a mad melee, which ends up tasting like sweet soup. However, I have always eaten fruit salad because I know it is "good for me" and also for the following reason: the fruit salad bowl.
Mom served her fruit salad in a half-football shaped cut glass bowl. It caught the light in a wonderful fashion and reflected it back to my myopic eyes in a dancing rainbow of color. This bowl was a wedding gift to Mom and Dad from Dad's aunt, my namesake, and it stood on three great little legs and one leg which was broken and had been repaired. No matter, it was the perfect bowl. There has never been one more beautiful.
I have always held the opinion that every mother should have a fruit salad bowl. When the family comes together or when friends come to call, the bowl should be brought out, set in a place of honor (always in the sunlight), and filled with fruit.
Perhaps there is a life lesson to be learned here. When we are polished up, set near the Son, and filled with good things, then we shine and shimmer and show ourselves to be the best we can be!
Please pass the fruit!
Read More!When I was just a youngun' we found our entertainment in the company of friends. Vacations were non-existent, "formal" evenings out were just as rare, movies were an occasional treat at best. And so, picnics, potluck dinners, and company dinners were where we found our relaxation.
Mom was a wonderful cook. As a matter of fact, my husband gave me explicit instructions to never turn down an opportunity to eat with Mom and Dad. She never spared the seasoning goodies so, as my younger daughter once observed, each green bean was individually buttered . . . and all the other delicious goodies were treated with equal care.
I have never been a particular lover of fruit salad, something Mom frequently served. I enjoy fruit just fine, but I want every member to remain in a neutral corner. Don't come running to the center of the ring and join in a mad melee, which ends up tasting like sweet soup. However, I have always eaten fruit salad because I know it is "good for me" and also for the following reason: the fruit salad bowl.
Mom served her fruit salad in a half-football shaped cut glass bowl. It caught the light in a wonderful fashion and reflected it back to my myopic eyes in a dancing rainbow of color. This bowl was a wedding gift to Mom and Dad from Dad's aunt, my namesake, and it stood on three great little legs and one leg which was broken and had been repaired. No matter, it was the perfect bowl. There has never been one more beautiful.
I have always held the opinion that every mother should have a fruit salad bowl. When the family comes together or when friends come to call, the bowl should be brought out, set in a place of honor (always in the sunlight), and filled with fruit.
Perhaps there is a life lesson to be learned here. When we are polished up, set near the Son, and filled with good things, then we shine and shimmer and show ourselves to be the best we can be!
Please pass the fruit!
Daily Life in Uganda
Daily Life in Uganda – A Day in My Life
Some ask what it’s like here, but I seldom go into too much detail for several reasons. One being that it seems that opening up ones heart to the public leaves one too vulnerable to scrutiny. And when we feel most vulnerable, as I do right now, this sort of inspection can feel soul crushing. Interestingly it’s when we need to open up and release the most that we fear doing so the most. But in reality how can it hurt? After all God examines our hearts far more intimately and more accurately than anyone else. In fact sometimes I shiver at how much I fool myself when the fact of the matter is God sees it all. And yet somehow I see a fig leaf as clothing adequate enough to hide my fears from His omnipresence.
Regardless right now I believe that God wants me to put in writing “a day or so in the life of me” and I had better do it quickly before this “courage” runs through the fingers of my clasped hands, gone forever. If interested, and I will understand if you are not, perhaps you might feel the raw underbelly of life here and then pray for me when I have no words of my own to pray. It’s hard to express this stuff because it feels as though once spoken, or in this case typed, the ocean of tears that want to produce a tsunami will start only to never stop. Then suddenly people will look the other way embarrassed leaving me far more aware of God himself. Now I am starting to talk myself out of this.
Some ask what it’s like here, but I seldom go into too much detail for several reasons. One being that it seems that opening up ones heart to the public leaves one too vulnerable to scrutiny. And when we feel most vulnerable, as I do right now, this sort of inspection can feel soul crushing. Interestingly it’s when we need to open up and release the most that we fear doing so the most. But in reality how can it hurt? After all God examines our hearts far more intimately and more accurately than anyone else. In fact sometimes I shiver at how much I fool myself when the fact of the matter is God sees it all. And yet somehow I see a fig leaf as clothing adequate enough to hide my fears from His omnipresence.
Regardless right now I believe that God wants me to put in writing “a day or so in the life of me” and I had better do it quickly before this “courage” runs through the fingers of my clasped hands, gone forever. If interested, and I will understand if you are not, perhaps you might feel the raw underbelly of life here and then pray for me when I have no words of my own to pray. It’s hard to express this stuff because it feels as though once spoken, or in this case typed, the ocean of tears that want to produce a tsunami will start only to never stop. Then suddenly people will look the other way embarrassed leaving me far more aware of God himself. Now I am starting to talk myself out of this.
Daily Life in Uganda – The Wrong Side
Yesterday as nearly every day I left the Jinja office and crossed the Owen Falls Dam heading for my home in Njeru, which is on the “wrong side of tracks” as it were. I say the “wrong side” for a few reasons. One because most western missionaries in this region seem to live in Jinja Town separated from one another by what seems to be only two broken winding tarmac roads that grind their way through a maze of compound walls with razor wire on top. Having only one thin bridge and a sizeable river between us and them leaves us feeling a bit vulnerable since we live through and next to a village that reeks of IDP camp conditions. Conditions that when joined with man’s inclination to sin, crimes of desperation are born. And this infant wrapped in a tattered ill-scented blanket woven with threads of sewer, disease, hunger and addiction suckles on ignorance. And refuses to wean.
Interestingly this slum is called “Acholi Village” because most of the villagers are Dinka from Southern Sudan not Acholi from northwestern Uganda, otherwise known as the West Nile. Either way sometimes when driving through a young man or two will make a throat cutting gesture with their finger and yell “keal da muzungu” (kill the white man). It’s eerie for sure but the worst is when a 4 or 5 year old boy makes the same gesture. The boy usually faithfully fulfills the learned ritual then runs away since he still has transparent fear in his spirit. Now transparent, soon translucent and surely one day soon, angrily opaque. But sure enough they are learning the trade and shall one day become “men” just like their older brothers and their most probably deceased fathers. And if they do not wind up dead or in prison they have the few remaining “men” scattered around to look up to. In the meantime on a well behaved day these little ones stand in their worn-out reddish brown feces stained shorts, or simply naked, and mostly yell “muzungu bye!” or “you gimme sweetie” or they say nothing at all and just throw small rocks at my truck.
Yesterday as nearly every day I left the Jinja office and crossed the Owen Falls Dam heading for my home in Njeru, which is on the “wrong side of tracks” as it were. I say the “wrong side” for a few reasons. One because most western missionaries in this region seem to live in Jinja Town separated from one another by what seems to be only two broken winding tarmac roads that grind their way through a maze of compound walls with razor wire on top. Having only one thin bridge and a sizeable river between us and them leaves us feeling a bit vulnerable since we live through and next to a village that reeks of IDP camp conditions. Conditions that when joined with man’s inclination to sin, crimes of desperation are born. And this infant wrapped in a tattered ill-scented blanket woven with threads of sewer, disease, hunger and addiction suckles on ignorance. And refuses to wean.
Interestingly this slum is called “Acholi Village” because most of the villagers are Dinka from Southern Sudan not Acholi from northwestern Uganda, otherwise known as the West Nile. Either way sometimes when driving through a young man or two will make a throat cutting gesture with their finger and yell “keal da muzungu” (kill the white man). It’s eerie for sure but the worst is when a 4 or 5 year old boy makes the same gesture. The boy usually faithfully fulfills the learned ritual then runs away since he still has transparent fear in his spirit. Now transparent, soon translucent and surely one day soon, angrily opaque. But sure enough they are learning the trade and shall one day become “men” just like their older brothers and their most probably deceased fathers. And if they do not wind up dead or in prison they have the few remaining “men” scattered around to look up to. In the meantime on a well behaved day these little ones stand in their worn-out reddish brown feces stained shorts, or simply naked, and mostly yell “muzungu bye!” or “you gimme sweetie” or they say nothing at all and just throw small rocks at my truck.
Daily Life in Uganda – The Men
Fathers and grandfathers? There are a handful of broken older men scattered about among the women and children that are not as idle as the younger generation. These men are not idle at all. In fact they are usually walking somewhere, quite drunk looking for some more homemade brew; the sludge the local ladies ferment on plastic tarps which they spread out like bed sheets below the equatorial sun just next to the dusty then muddy then dusty dirt road. And of course it’s not uncommon for one of these men, looking to escape his reality, to drink a bad batch of waragi (local gin) and poison himself to death. But that appears to be his fate and depending on the family and his status which is mostly determined by age he may or may not receive a coffin. And if the buzzards, or a witch doctor for that matter, don’t find him first he will definitely get dropped a few feet into a hole then covered with the same type of soil found on the walls of his sagging grass thatched roof mud hut.
Now the younger men, when not working, and they never do, usually cram 5 men onto one of four short rickety oily timber benches. The serious bow in the middle of the long seat makes me wonder why they do not snap, but somehow still they never do. Even when I sit on them they never do. I emphasize 5 men per bench because according to my western spatial needs only 2 men should be using each bench. Then again the structural condition of those benches does not even qualify for any western man to sit upon it. For the westerner it defies physics…somehow here in Uganda it does not. Perhaps I am seeing God rework one of his own natural laws, symbolic of the relentless compassion he is showing humanity. A world that does not deserve as much.
So what’s going on that so many men need to share these benches? Well it’s not church, it’s not school and it’s not work. They play a board game all day long, day after day after day. Then on Sunday when the faithful church goers go to church, one of which is a makeshift shanty, the ladies some of whom produce the ever fermenting millet beer, some of whom are bleak prostitutes, some of whom work at the local brewery, blanket wrap and swing their undernourished dusty reddish black children onto their backs, the ones that can stand follow behind. They then make their short journey to the church that squats in the mud stained grass just behind their own shacks…next to the makeshift pit latrines complements of the same dusty architect who piecemealed the church shack in the first place. But the young men? They remain focused on their board game. Without flinch. Sometimes I wonder if they have even noticed that their children are missing.
Fathers and grandfathers? There are a handful of broken older men scattered about among the women and children that are not as idle as the younger generation. These men are not idle at all. In fact they are usually walking somewhere, quite drunk looking for some more homemade brew; the sludge the local ladies ferment on plastic tarps which they spread out like bed sheets below the equatorial sun just next to the dusty then muddy then dusty dirt road. And of course it’s not uncommon for one of these men, looking to escape his reality, to drink a bad batch of waragi (local gin) and poison himself to death. But that appears to be his fate and depending on the family and his status which is mostly determined by age he may or may not receive a coffin. And if the buzzards, or a witch doctor for that matter, don’t find him first he will definitely get dropped a few feet into a hole then covered with the same type of soil found on the walls of his sagging grass thatched roof mud hut.
Now the younger men, when not working, and they never do, usually cram 5 men onto one of four short rickety oily timber benches. The serious bow in the middle of the long seat makes me wonder why they do not snap, but somehow still they never do. Even when I sit on them they never do. I emphasize 5 men per bench because according to my western spatial needs only 2 men should be using each bench. Then again the structural condition of those benches does not even qualify for any western man to sit upon it. For the westerner it defies physics…somehow here in Uganda it does not. Perhaps I am seeing God rework one of his own natural laws, symbolic of the relentless compassion he is showing humanity. A world that does not deserve as much.
So what’s going on that so many men need to share these benches? Well it’s not church, it’s not school and it’s not work. They play a board game all day long, day after day after day. Then on Sunday when the faithful church goers go to church, one of which is a makeshift shanty, the ladies some of whom produce the ever fermenting millet beer, some of whom are bleak prostitutes, some of whom work at the local brewery, blanket wrap and swing their undernourished dusty reddish black children onto their backs, the ones that can stand follow behind. They then make their short journey to the church that squats in the mud stained grass just behind their own shacks…next to the makeshift pit latrines complements of the same dusty architect who piecemealed the church shack in the first place. But the young men? They remain focused on their board game. Without flinch. Sometimes I wonder if they have even noticed that their children are missing.
Daily Life in Uganda – The Women and Children
All that! along with the Jinja town homeless k’jong children that eat third world trash only to chase it with a sniff of gasoline fumes, the prostitutes that have given up all hope and work the streets in an AIDS infested land, the adult male opium addicts that somehow manage to walk comatose half naked, or sometimes completely naked, from trash pile to trash pile in search of food, the insane that walk in front of cars some getting hit and others not yet, along with the babies that play in the muddy sewer water in the Muslim dominated market where I purchase my lunch for 50 cents…if I have a predictable routine this is it. Yes this is a day or so in the life of not only me but also my family. But what’s worse is that this is “the day in the life” of countless millions of Ugandans who were not born with a travel visa good for virtually any nation in the world. They are stuck.
All that! along with the Jinja town homeless k’jong children that eat third world trash only to chase it with a sniff of gasoline fumes, the prostitutes that have given up all hope and work the streets in an AIDS infested land, the adult male opium addicts that somehow manage to walk comatose half naked, or sometimes completely naked, from trash pile to trash pile in search of food, the insane that walk in front of cars some getting hit and others not yet, along with the babies that play in the muddy sewer water in the Muslim dominated market where I purchase my lunch for 50 cents…if I have a predictable routine this is it. Yes this is a day or so in the life of not only me but also my family. But what’s worse is that this is “the day in the life” of countless millions of Ugandans who were not born with a travel visa good for virtually any nation in the world. They are stuck.
Daily Life in Uganda – Is God Good?
I must be honest, quite often I hold this all in struggling to look up to the Lord for answers. I want to scream at Him with serious accusations. Attacked by the devastating pain that inundates all of my five senses, if ones soul can be bruised mine is. But then I am reminded that God is God and God is always good. Several years ago just after being told I only had two years to live I can remember worshipping with eMi USA at their Friday morning chapel. The very last song we sang was “Blessed Be Your Name” by Matt Redman. The refrain spoke loud and clear to me at that very moment:
You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name
Today I chose to say the same;“Lord, blessed be Your name”. God is God and God is always Good even when I do not fully understand.
Is God Good? Learn More!I must be honest, quite often I hold this all in struggling to look up to the Lord for answers. I want to scream at Him with serious accusations. Attacked by the devastating pain that inundates all of my five senses, if ones soul can be bruised mine is. But then I am reminded that God is God and God is always good. Several years ago just after being told I only had two years to live I can remember worshipping with eMi USA at their Friday morning chapel. The very last song we sang was “Blessed Be Your Name” by Matt Redman. The refrain spoke loud and clear to me at that very moment:
You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name
Today I chose to say the same;“Lord, blessed be Your name”. God is God and God is always Good even when I do not fully understand.
Authored by Steven Hoyt.
Family Memories
Enjoy this short story of family memories, written by Jenny Ralston.
Family Memories – The Family Table
Last night I dusted our dining room table. In the overall scheme of things it is a great table. It does just what a dining table is supposed to do -- allow one to dine. But as I looked at that table I wanted to raise my arms and shout, "HOORAY" because that particular table has done much, much more.
If I bow down and hold my head "just so" I can see indentations of written homework. Sometimes I can catch a full word, but more often there are only curves and lines that reflect back to me. And so, I realize this table has had a hand, so to speak, in the education of three children. It has encouraged two college graduates and is well on its way to being able to add number three to its list. When you consider that the grandchildren are now zipping into our lives (a phrase that would probably not be used to describe the delivery process by those directly involved, by the way) I think the old table should take a deep breath and prepare to be involved in another generation's knowledge absorption. Math and English and history have been mastered, not to mention castles built, clocks assembled, balloons sucked into jars, and so on. The list is virtually endless.
There are also fine, evenly spaced pock marks. To the untrained eye these peculiar markings might be unrecognizable. But any seamstress would immediately discern the trail of a tracing wheel. How many items of clothing began as a length of fabric laid on the table? Frilly little dresses, prom dresses, suit coats, pants, pajamas, shorts. Throw in curtains, pillows, purses. . . and the equation is compounded to an endless number!
On one front corner, if an oval table can have a corner, is a little glob. This stands as tribute to the staying power of Super Glue. Not only does that magic goop stick your forefinger to your thumb, it also dries into an unremovable mound. Alcohol, nail polish remover, paint thinner -- nothing disturbs Super Glue, and the table is proof positive of that!
A family has been held together financially by money decisions made at our old friend. Sometimes there was no problem . . . just a routine time of paying the bills. Sometimes, though, elbows rested on the table and the upraised hands held a worried head. Often time the "rob Peter to pay Paul" method was employed, but thankfully the end results have been good. The wolf has had his bags packed and our address tucked in his coat pocket several times, but the processes of plus, minus, and division pulled together at the table and protected us.
The most powerful thing about the table is something unseen. It is an aura of worship. The shadow of hands joined in prayer, heads bowed. Unseen, yet still there. What more could a table need than to be a place where a family comes together and offers thanks to the Creator?
And so, with this in mind, I'm going to dust with more care, more appreciation. Furniture may not have feelings, but it certainly does evoke feelings, and memories, and thankfulness. An amazing list. Amazing!
Please pass the fruit!
Read More!Last night I dusted our dining room table. In the overall scheme of things it is a great table. It does just what a dining table is supposed to do -- allow one to dine. But as I looked at that table I wanted to raise my arms and shout, "HOORAY" because that particular table has done much, much more.
If I bow down and hold my head "just so" I can see indentations of written homework. Sometimes I can catch a full word, but more often there are only curves and lines that reflect back to me. And so, I realize this table has had a hand, so to speak, in the education of three children. It has encouraged two college graduates and is well on its way to being able to add number three to its list. When you consider that the grandchildren are now zipping into our lives (a phrase that would probably not be used to describe the delivery process by those directly involved, by the way) I think the old table should take a deep breath and prepare to be involved in another generation's knowledge absorption. Math and English and history have been mastered, not to mention castles built, clocks assembled, balloons sucked into jars, and so on. The list is virtually endless.
There are also fine, evenly spaced pock marks. To the untrained eye these peculiar markings might be unrecognizable. But any seamstress would immediately discern the trail of a tracing wheel. How many items of clothing began as a length of fabric laid on the table? Frilly little dresses, prom dresses, suit coats, pants, pajamas, shorts. Throw in curtains, pillows, purses. . . and the equation is compounded to an endless number!
On one front corner, if an oval table can have a corner, is a little glob. This stands as tribute to the staying power of Super Glue. Not only does that magic goop stick your forefinger to your thumb, it also dries into an unremovable mound. Alcohol, nail polish remover, paint thinner -- nothing disturbs Super Glue, and the table is proof positive of that!
A family has been held together financially by money decisions made at our old friend. Sometimes there was no problem . . . just a routine time of paying the bills. Sometimes, though, elbows rested on the table and the upraised hands held a worried head. Often time the "rob Peter to pay Paul" method was employed, but thankfully the end results have been good. The wolf has had his bags packed and our address tucked in his coat pocket several times, but the processes of plus, minus, and division pulled together at the table and protected us.
The most powerful thing about the table is something unseen. It is an aura of worship. The shadow of hands joined in prayer, heads bowed. Unseen, yet still there. What more could a table need than to be a place where a family comes together and offers thanks to the Creator?
And so, with this in mind, I'm going to dust with more care, more appreciation. Furniture may not have feelings, but it certainly does evoke feelings, and memories, and thankfulness. An amazing list. Amazing!
Please pass the fruit!
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
We have all sinned and deserve God’s judgment. God, the Father, sent His only Son to satisfy that judgment for those who believe in Him. Jesus, the creator and eternal Son of God, who lived a sinless life, loves us so much that He died for our sins, taking the punishment that we deserve, was buried, and rose from the dead according to the Bible. If you truly believe and trust this in your heart, receiving Jesus alone as your Savior, declaring, "Jesus is Lord," you will be saved from judgment and spend eternity with God in heaven.
What is your response?
What is your response?
God's Mercy
God’s Mercy
The Bible tells us that God’s mercy is new every morning. “Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning” (Lamentations 3:23). Enjoy this illustration, written by Brenda Craig.
The Bible tells us that God’s mercy is new every morning. “Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning” (Lamentations 3:23). Enjoy this illustration, written by Brenda Craig.
God’s Mercy - Blackberries, Thorns, and Sweet Cream
A couple of days ago, in the early morning light of a misty, rainy day, I stood with amazed elation in the midst of my small raised garden. I felt like Jack in the Beanstalk had been at work. No, there was no golden egg, but. . .
Reserved at one time for only tomatoes, one corner now gave way to a sprawling blackberry bush -- a thornless blackberry bush. Observing it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Almost overnight it was teaming with blooms and red berries reaching upward, imploring the sun to shine as leaves fell heavy with cascading droplets of water . . . falling in rivulets to the ground, saturating the roots below. Ah . . . rain and sun dancing together.
Right in the middle stood three lone ripe berries, plump and beautiful, calling out my name. Ever so tenderly, I plucked them. The two years of waiting was worth it as my mouth salivated in anticipation, but I waited. The four day, unheard of ice storm, which gave them much needed cold weather, was worth it . . . but I waited.
Yes, I waited for my husband to come and join me in the hot tub for our usual Saturday morning of soaking, sipping coffee and praying. I waited to show him my prize possessions.
Before he could even get in the hot tub, my words overflowed my patience and came tumbling out, “Look, look what I found,” holding my treasured blackberries up for him to see. His dubious look should have warned me, but my elation was too great to notice.
“B,” he said “All the work and space . . . how many blackberries do you think you will get, a pint? Is it worth it? It takes up so much of your garden? Couldn’t you just buy some at the grocery store?”
Obviously he doesn’t have the fondness for the plump purple berries I do. And this became very evident when I let him have one. He promptly frowned with skepticism and put it in his mouth. With a look of disgust on his face, which spoke volumes, he chewed fast and took a big gulp.
“Ugh, B, How nasty and bitter can you get? You like these things?”
Popping mine in my mouth, expecting bitterness, I found a delicious sweetness well worth all my anticipation.
Smilingly I chided him, “Guess you got the wrong one.”
“I doubt it. Where’s my coffee? I need to get this taste out of my mouth.”
Blackberries forgotten, conversation changed, the day proceeded on . . .
A couple of days ago, in the early morning light of a misty, rainy day, I stood with amazed elation in the midst of my small raised garden. I felt like Jack in the Beanstalk had been at work. No, there was no golden egg, but. . .
Reserved at one time for only tomatoes, one corner now gave way to a sprawling blackberry bush -- a thornless blackberry bush. Observing it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Almost overnight it was teaming with blooms and red berries reaching upward, imploring the sun to shine as leaves fell heavy with cascading droplets of water . . . falling in rivulets to the ground, saturating the roots below. Ah . . . rain and sun dancing together.
Right in the middle stood three lone ripe berries, plump and beautiful, calling out my name. Ever so tenderly, I plucked them. The two years of waiting was worth it as my mouth salivated in anticipation, but I waited. The four day, unheard of ice storm, which gave them much needed cold weather, was worth it . . . but I waited.
Yes, I waited for my husband to come and join me in the hot tub for our usual Saturday morning of soaking, sipping coffee and praying. I waited to show him my prize possessions.
Before he could even get in the hot tub, my words overflowed my patience and came tumbling out, “Look, look what I found,” holding my treasured blackberries up for him to see. His dubious look should have warned me, but my elation was too great to notice.
“B,” he said “All the work and space . . . how many blackberries do you think you will get, a pint? Is it worth it? It takes up so much of your garden? Couldn’t you just buy some at the grocery store?”
Obviously he doesn’t have the fondness for the plump purple berries I do. And this became very evident when I let him have one. He promptly frowned with skepticism and put it in his mouth. With a look of disgust on his face, which spoke volumes, he chewed fast and took a big gulp.
“Ugh, B, How nasty and bitter can you get? You like these things?”
Popping mine in my mouth, expecting bitterness, I found a delicious sweetness well worth all my anticipation.
Smilingly I chided him, “Guess you got the wrong one.”
“I doubt it. Where’s my coffee? I need to get this taste out of my mouth.”
Blackberries forgotten, conversation changed, the day proceeded on . . .
God’s Mercy – Days Later
Several days later on the way to feed my chickens I glanced over to find an abundance of deep purple coloring one corner of my garden. I dropped everything, flung open the gate, and with cupped hand began to pick my feast.
With eyes closed, and sweet juice filling my senses God whispered,
“Look at your bush more closely and see what I see. Every morning you come here and the new berries that are ripened are like My mercy, new every morning. You can’t go to the store and buy mercy; it simply grows out of relationship with Me. It is a gift.
There are no thorns on your blackberry bush for you My love because I already wore them in your place. And like the juice running down your fingertips, blood ran down My face, down the cross and paid the price for new mercies . . . And now, like berries submersed in sweet cream and sugar you are submerged in Me.
As you reach into the bush, know you can reach your hand into Me, into My word. And because I bore the thorns, you can receive My sweet cream of mercy every moment of your life. I am the ultimate sweetener. As for the sometimes bitter berries, well, they often represent things in your life needing a little more rain, a little more time in the Son. And sometimes My mercy doesn’t seem sweet to you, displaying itself in unusual and sometimes hard ways. However, like the berries needed the cold, you need seasons of winter to bring about proper growth. This is where trust comes in. Trust Me always for I have plans for good and not evil. You are the joy of My heart.
As my mercy and goodness ripen in your heart you will be like a sprawling, thornless blackberry bush, full of blooms and fruit in all stages of ripeness. And when others reach into your life to eat from your abundance, they will not be pricked, nor find bitter fruit, for you have been, are being, and will be transformed. I give you abundant joy. I pour over you showers of rain and Sonshine today. Enjoy, be fruitful, and multiply!”
With tears of gratefulness and love streaming down my face, I looked over at my thorny raspberry bush. As one lone red berry peeked out from under its skirt, I wondered what “God Whispers” were being picked up by the breeze of His presence to be whispered another day.
Read More!Several days later on the way to feed my chickens I glanced over to find an abundance of deep purple coloring one corner of my garden. I dropped everything, flung open the gate, and with cupped hand began to pick my feast.
With eyes closed, and sweet juice filling my senses God whispered,
“Look at your bush more closely and see what I see. Every morning you come here and the new berries that are ripened are like My mercy, new every morning. You can’t go to the store and buy mercy; it simply grows out of relationship with Me. It is a gift.
There are no thorns on your blackberry bush for you My love because I already wore them in your place. And like the juice running down your fingertips, blood ran down My face, down the cross and paid the price for new mercies . . . And now, like berries submersed in sweet cream and sugar you are submerged in Me.
As you reach into the bush, know you can reach your hand into Me, into My word. And because I bore the thorns, you can receive My sweet cream of mercy every moment of your life. I am the ultimate sweetener. As for the sometimes bitter berries, well, they often represent things in your life needing a little more rain, a little more time in the Son. And sometimes My mercy doesn’t seem sweet to you, displaying itself in unusual and sometimes hard ways. However, like the berries needed the cold, you need seasons of winter to bring about proper growth. This is where trust comes in. Trust Me always for I have plans for good and not evil. You are the joy of My heart.
As my mercy and goodness ripen in your heart you will be like a sprawling, thornless blackberry bush, full of blooms and fruit in all stages of ripeness. And when others reach into your life to eat from your abundance, they will not be pricked, nor find bitter fruit, for you have been, are being, and will be transformed. I give you abundant joy. I pour over you showers of rain and Sonshine today. Enjoy, be fruitful, and multiply!”
With tears of gratefulness and love streaming down my face, I looked over at my thorny raspberry bush. As one lone red berry peeked out from under its skirt, I wondered what “God Whispers” were being picked up by the breeze of His presence to be whispered another day.
Healing Stories
Healing Stories - Arise From Your Grave
By Diane Ouida Wright
It was a nice Friday autumn afternoon in October, and Aaron Wright was at his office working as a technical writer in a management firm located in Virginia. He was very edgy because he felt at the time he should be going home.
For many months, his wife, Shari, had been experiencing pain from a sore throat, which would not succumb to medication for healing. She stopped talking because it irritated her throat to make conversation. She consulted the doctor, but he could not find the problem, so he prescribed some over-the-counter pain tablets to ease the frustrating scratchy throat.
Soon, it was time for Aaron to leave the office and head home. Surprisingly, the drive was easy for a Friday afternoon with not much traffic on the roads. He arrived there in a very short amount of time. He entered the house and called out for Shari, but there was no answer. As he walked into the bedroom, he found her lying motionless in bed, and upon taking her pulse, he discovered it was very weak.
He immediately called 911, and it was not long before paramedics came into the house and they transported her to the intensive care unit of the closest hospital. Immediately, the team of doctors discovered she had accidentally overdosed on the pain tablets so they began treatment to remove the toxins from her body as she lay comatose.
From their tests, it looked as if there could be damage to the liver, but they were not certain as to the extent. They decided to release her from their care and transport her to another ICU where there was the necessary equipment to treat liver abnormalities. However, there were no beds available in that specialized hospital so she had to stay where she was. The waiting was very tense because she needed care that only the other hospital could give her.
Aaron and I felt we were in the way of the medical team so we nervously walked out into the hallway and began to pray for a bed to become available. It wasn't long before the nurse came flying through the doors of ICU out into the hall to tell us a bed had just opened up.
She was transported at midnight on a Saturday night. It was there they discovered her liver was NOT functioning at all. She was so critically ill the doctors felt she would not live, and she was placed on life support. The doctor suggested to Shari's parents, myself, and Aaron that all of the family should be called in. He was afraid the worse was going to happen, and that if she did survive, the medical team would have to do a transplant for which the doctor asked for permission to perform such an operation.
Of course, the family agreed, and her name was placed along the eastern seaboard for a donor liver. We then had to wait for God to stabilize Shari so the surgery could be done to receive the donor liver, and also pray a compatible liver would come in.
In the meantime, the family began coming in for prayer and support for Shari and Aaron. Because the family was so large with many aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, it wasn't long before the waiting room was filled with love and support that was miraculous within itself. Many prayers were said that evening petitioning God for Shari's healing, and many tears shed at the fear of losing her.
At this time, my son was also informed by the hospital administration as to the cost of surgery as well as outpatient costs. Of course, he really did not have presence of mind to hear all of this as his wife was critically ill! Liver medication is extremely expensive after a transplant, and Aaron was looking at approximately $1500.00 a month out of his pocket that insurance would not cover.
In the meantime, I had been at the hospital for quite some time, so I decided to go home for a while and rest to return later. I had just started to lie down when the telephone rang, and it was Aaron. His voice was quite urgent and very disturbed. He proceeded to inform me regarding the situation with the insurance.
"Mom, what am I going to do? I cannot afford $1500 a month out of my pocket for this kind of expense," he asked quite excitedly. Knowing that he was under a lot of stress from all that was going on, I tried to be as reassuring as I could be.
"There is nobody who can afford something like that unless they are a millionaire. I know there are charitable organizations out there that may help, but also remember this, God is in control of this situation. I know how difficult it is to wait, but we must put our faith in God."
Later on that day, Shari miraculously became stable so the medical team could perform the surgery. Two donor livers arrived, and the medical team picked the most compatible liver for the transplant.
Before surgery was performed on Tuesday morning, my son's minister called the elders together the evening before to anoint Shari with oil and pray over her. At the same time, the family and friends prayed in the waiting room outside of ICU.
The surgery began at 2:30 the next morning. When the doctors opened her to perform the transplant, they were quite amazed and stunned at what they saw. By some miraculous turn of events, Shari's liver was functioning between 60-80%. This defied all scientific explanations, and the doctor immediately halted surgery, sewed her back up, and gave the liver to someone who needed it! God answered two prayers at once -- healing for Shari and no outpatient expense for my son after the surgery.
The medical team immediately went into conference for one hour to make sense of a dead liver that had just come to life. Livers can rejuvenate themselves. However, the doctor was asked before the surgery if that scenario was a possibility, and he said, "That is impossible because her liver is 'dead.' That can only be possible if there is any life in the liver, and from our tests, we find none whatsoever."
The Sunday before Shari's surgery, my pastor preached on Lazarus, and how Jesus had told him to come forth from the grave. In that Bible story, Lazarus had been dead a number of days, but when Jesus told him to come forth, he emerged from the tomb in his burial clothes. Shari never lost her life even though she was close to it, but her liver had died. Since the liver is such a vital organ for life, this near-tragedy parallels the story of Lazarus.
My son had absolutely no idea the sermon that was preached on Sunday at my church. As he was sitting in the waiting room while surgery was taking place, he opened his Bible to the following scripture: John 11:4, "This sickness will not end in death. No, it is for God's glory so that God's Son may be glorified through it." God led my son to the same chapter on Lazarus my pastor had related to my church congregation the Sunday before her surgery. God told us in that Scripture Shari would live through this illness.
She came close to death again when she began to experience congestive heart failure, but, that obstacle was also overcome through the grace of God. She is now at home alive and well where she remains strong in her faith in a God who heals.
Before her release from the hospital, the medical team visited her room together, and told her they could not believe she was alive. They attributed her recovery as nothing short of a "miracle."
Learn More!By Diane Ouida Wright
It was a nice Friday autumn afternoon in October, and Aaron Wright was at his office working as a technical writer in a management firm located in Virginia. He was very edgy because he felt at the time he should be going home.
For many months, his wife, Shari, had been experiencing pain from a sore throat, which would not succumb to medication for healing. She stopped talking because it irritated her throat to make conversation. She consulted the doctor, but he could not find the problem, so he prescribed some over-the-counter pain tablets to ease the frustrating scratchy throat.
Soon, it was time for Aaron to leave the office and head home. Surprisingly, the drive was easy for a Friday afternoon with not much traffic on the roads. He arrived there in a very short amount of time. He entered the house and called out for Shari, but there was no answer. As he walked into the bedroom, he found her lying motionless in bed, and upon taking her pulse, he discovered it was very weak.
He immediately called 911, and it was not long before paramedics came into the house and they transported her to the intensive care unit of the closest hospital. Immediately, the team of doctors discovered she had accidentally overdosed on the pain tablets so they began treatment to remove the toxins from her body as she lay comatose.
From their tests, it looked as if there could be damage to the liver, but they were not certain as to the extent. They decided to release her from their care and transport her to another ICU where there was the necessary equipment to treat liver abnormalities. However, there were no beds available in that specialized hospital so she had to stay where she was. The waiting was very tense because she needed care that only the other hospital could give her.
Aaron and I felt we were in the way of the medical team so we nervously walked out into the hallway and began to pray for a bed to become available. It wasn't long before the nurse came flying through the doors of ICU out into the hall to tell us a bed had just opened up.
She was transported at midnight on a Saturday night. It was there they discovered her liver was NOT functioning at all. She was so critically ill the doctors felt she would not live, and she was placed on life support. The doctor suggested to Shari's parents, myself, and Aaron that all of the family should be called in. He was afraid the worse was going to happen, and that if she did survive, the medical team would have to do a transplant for which the doctor asked for permission to perform such an operation.
Of course, the family agreed, and her name was placed along the eastern seaboard for a donor liver. We then had to wait for God to stabilize Shari so the surgery could be done to receive the donor liver, and also pray a compatible liver would come in.
In the meantime, the family began coming in for prayer and support for Shari and Aaron. Because the family was so large with many aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, it wasn't long before the waiting room was filled with love and support that was miraculous within itself. Many prayers were said that evening petitioning God for Shari's healing, and many tears shed at the fear of losing her.
At this time, my son was also informed by the hospital administration as to the cost of surgery as well as outpatient costs. Of course, he really did not have presence of mind to hear all of this as his wife was critically ill! Liver medication is extremely expensive after a transplant, and Aaron was looking at approximately $1500.00 a month out of his pocket that insurance would not cover.
In the meantime, I had been at the hospital for quite some time, so I decided to go home for a while and rest to return later. I had just started to lie down when the telephone rang, and it was Aaron. His voice was quite urgent and very disturbed. He proceeded to inform me regarding the situation with the insurance.
"Mom, what am I going to do? I cannot afford $1500 a month out of my pocket for this kind of expense," he asked quite excitedly. Knowing that he was under a lot of stress from all that was going on, I tried to be as reassuring as I could be.
"There is nobody who can afford something like that unless they are a millionaire. I know there are charitable organizations out there that may help, but also remember this, God is in control of this situation. I know how difficult it is to wait, but we must put our faith in God."
Later on that day, Shari miraculously became stable so the medical team could perform the surgery. Two donor livers arrived, and the medical team picked the most compatible liver for the transplant.
Before surgery was performed on Tuesday morning, my son's minister called the elders together the evening before to anoint Shari with oil and pray over her. At the same time, the family and friends prayed in the waiting room outside of ICU.
The surgery began at 2:30 the next morning. When the doctors opened her to perform the transplant, they were quite amazed and stunned at what they saw. By some miraculous turn of events, Shari's liver was functioning between 60-80%. This defied all scientific explanations, and the doctor immediately halted surgery, sewed her back up, and gave the liver to someone who needed it! God answered two prayers at once -- healing for Shari and no outpatient expense for my son after the surgery.
The medical team immediately went into conference for one hour to make sense of a dead liver that had just come to life. Livers can rejuvenate themselves. However, the doctor was asked before the surgery if that scenario was a possibility, and he said, "That is impossible because her liver is 'dead.' That can only be possible if there is any life in the liver, and from our tests, we find none whatsoever."
The Sunday before Shari's surgery, my pastor preached on Lazarus, and how Jesus had told him to come forth from the grave. In that Bible story, Lazarus had been dead a number of days, but when Jesus told him to come forth, he emerged from the tomb in his burial clothes. Shari never lost her life even though she was close to it, but her liver had died. Since the liver is such a vital organ for life, this near-tragedy parallels the story of Lazarus.
My son had absolutely no idea the sermon that was preached on Sunday at my church. As he was sitting in the waiting room while surgery was taking place, he opened his Bible to the following scripture: John 11:4, "This sickness will not end in death. No, it is for God's glory so that God's Son may be glorified through it." God led my son to the same chapter on Lazarus my pastor had related to my church congregation the Sunday before her surgery. God told us in that Scripture Shari would live through this illness.
She came close to death again when she began to experience congestive heart failure, but, that obstacle was also overcome through the grace of God. She is now at home alive and well where she remains strong in her faith in a God who heals.
Before her release from the hospital, the medical team visited her room together, and told her they could not believe she was alive. They attributed her recovery as nothing short of a "miracle."
Listening to God’s Voice
Listening to God’s Voice – Talking Less, Listening More
The sea of life has been quite turbulent for me lately. So this week I have taken a few days off for some R&R. Perhaps since this is not my culture my mind exaggerates how hard it really is, but I doubt it. It’s harsh and for a while now I have needed a rest.
During this mini vacation on Lake Victoria I have tried hard to talk less at and listen more to God. After all He already knows my long desperate list of needs before it ever reaches my lips. He has always known them; He’s God. The problem is not that God wants to know my will so therefore I need to tell it to Him, rather the problem is that I halfheartedly want to know God’s will but all too often I do not allow him to tell it to me. Why? It is a scary proposition when your focus on the Lord is blurred by the world and when you think you know more about your needs than He does.
I really have been trying to listen to Him, but my fears and frustrations have hijacked me. Seeing a bloated dead man get pulled out of the lake, having Melinda tell me she just killed a 3-foot-long venomous boom slang snake in our living room under the oversized cushions on which the girls play, always wondering if the cash is coming next month for our basic needs, has distracted me.
All this and more has overwhelmed me. The bellows have stoked life into that smoldering lie deep within my heart; the one that God is neither behind nor in front of me. I have been overwhelmed with a dreaded feeling that perhaps God is not holding my Family and me in His arms. Scriptures that were meant for someone with far greater faith than I have, such as “my grace is sufficient,” pops into my head. I remember some personally butchered version of 2 Kings telling me that I am surrounded by “horses and chariots of fire,” but when I look I see piles of burning trash with fellow human beings no longer even avoiding the rats as they pick through what remains of my overindulgence. People that desire a small bite of fish and bread as might be distributed by a disciple instead receive dysentery as distributed by bacteria.
Many of the men on my jobsites have broken bread with rats and vultures, but never a western missionary. These same men know what it means to lose it “all.” Yet somehow they still raise their hands and praise God for His provision. What amazing faith.
The sea of life has been quite turbulent for me lately. So this week I have taken a few days off for some R&R. Perhaps since this is not my culture my mind exaggerates how hard it really is, but I doubt it. It’s harsh and for a while now I have needed a rest.
During this mini vacation on Lake Victoria I have tried hard to talk less at and listen more to God. After all He already knows my long desperate list of needs before it ever reaches my lips. He has always known them; He’s God. The problem is not that God wants to know my will so therefore I need to tell it to Him, rather the problem is that I halfheartedly want to know God’s will but all too often I do not allow him to tell it to me. Why? It is a scary proposition when your focus on the Lord is blurred by the world and when you think you know more about your needs than He does.
I really have been trying to listen to Him, but my fears and frustrations have hijacked me. Seeing a bloated dead man get pulled out of the lake, having Melinda tell me she just killed a 3-foot-long venomous boom slang snake in our living room under the oversized cushions on which the girls play, always wondering if the cash is coming next month for our basic needs, has distracted me.
All this and more has overwhelmed me. The bellows have stoked life into that smoldering lie deep within my heart; the one that God is neither behind nor in front of me. I have been overwhelmed with a dreaded feeling that perhaps God is not holding my Family and me in His arms. Scriptures that were meant for someone with far greater faith than I have, such as “my grace is sufficient,” pops into my head. I remember some personally butchered version of 2 Kings telling me that I am surrounded by “horses and chariots of fire,” but when I look I see piles of burning trash with fellow human beings no longer even avoiding the rats as they pick through what remains of my overindulgence. People that desire a small bite of fish and bread as might be distributed by a disciple instead receive dysentery as distributed by bacteria.
Many of the men on my jobsites have broken bread with rats and vultures, but never a western missionary. These same men know what it means to lose it “all.” Yet somehow they still raise their hands and praise God for His provision. What amazing faith.
Listening to God’s Voice – A Matter of Faith
In recent months I have been asking God a lot of questions, never pausing long enough for an answer. My big question has been “God why are you not feeding your children?”
So during my recent time away I aggressively pursued a difficult pause for my spirit. Then this morning as I prayed I tried my hardest to think of nothing and to ask for nothing. But I could not do it! On my own accord I am far too selfish to listen to God without my personal agenda…God I want…God I want…God I want. Finally I had to be honest with Him and admit I do not know how to just be quiet and listen. I do not know how to listen to Him when my personal will groans atop this mountain of trash many call “Man is Mostly Good.” So then rather ironically I asked something more of God.
I admitted the truth of the matter, and that is I cannot listen to Him unless he gives me the faith to do so. I cannot stand in this dump and truly love God unless he gives me the faith to do so. I cannot see Jesus in this sewer unless He gives me the faith to do so. So I asked that God quiet my soul long enough that I might hear from Him, and then I asked God for the faith to believe what He tells me.
Suddenly my fears stopped screaming at me. My spirit became quiet. Around me there were a dozen or so species of birds each singing a timeless melody created by Christ Himself to proclaim His own greatness. The waves from the lake honored Gods laws as they played upon the beach like an eternal piano. The clouds above gathered like a choir so that Gods creation on the highlands would receive refreshment. The invisible breeze sang a love song to the King as it grabbed seeds from the countless species of trees and flung them along the ground, distributing His wealth.
But it was the pounding and scraping rhythmic tune that caught my attention most; another among the God Songs that I all too often ignore. Just beyond my line of site a man was managing his garden so that he might feed his people. I then imagined the man beyond the farmer, seated in a wooden boat that wore a coat of mildew, calling back to the farmer as though in poetic refrain “Pray for good weather. God willing I shall return safely tonight with our dinner”.
I then realized I have been receiving blessings beyond belief all along. God breaks my heart so that I may have a small glimpse into His. God allows the trash piles to break my spirit so that I must rely on His. God allows sin to tempt me so that when I fail I can appreciate all the more his faultless time on earth. God gives and takes away so that I may not wander from his hand, the hand that sustains me.
In recent months I have been asking God a lot of questions, never pausing long enough for an answer. My big question has been “God why are you not feeding your children?”
So during my recent time away I aggressively pursued a difficult pause for my spirit. Then this morning as I prayed I tried my hardest to think of nothing and to ask for nothing. But I could not do it! On my own accord I am far too selfish to listen to God without my personal agenda…God I want…God I want…God I want. Finally I had to be honest with Him and admit I do not know how to just be quiet and listen. I do not know how to listen to Him when my personal will groans atop this mountain of trash many call “Man is Mostly Good.” So then rather ironically I asked something more of God.
I admitted the truth of the matter, and that is I cannot listen to Him unless he gives me the faith to do so. I cannot stand in this dump and truly love God unless he gives me the faith to do so. I cannot see Jesus in this sewer unless He gives me the faith to do so. So I asked that God quiet my soul long enough that I might hear from Him, and then I asked God for the faith to believe what He tells me.
Suddenly my fears stopped screaming at me. My spirit became quiet. Around me there were a dozen or so species of birds each singing a timeless melody created by Christ Himself to proclaim His own greatness. The waves from the lake honored Gods laws as they played upon the beach like an eternal piano. The clouds above gathered like a choir so that Gods creation on the highlands would receive refreshment. The invisible breeze sang a love song to the King as it grabbed seeds from the countless species of trees and flung them along the ground, distributing His wealth.
But it was the pounding and scraping rhythmic tune that caught my attention most; another among the God Songs that I all too often ignore. Just beyond my line of site a man was managing his garden so that he might feed his people. I then imagined the man beyond the farmer, seated in a wooden boat that wore a coat of mildew, calling back to the farmer as though in poetic refrain “Pray for good weather. God willing I shall return safely tonight with our dinner”.
I then realized I have been receiving blessings beyond belief all along. God breaks my heart so that I may have a small glimpse into His. God allows the trash piles to break my spirit so that I must rely on His. God allows sin to tempt me so that when I fail I can appreciate all the more his faultless time on earth. God gives and takes away so that I may not wander from his hand, the hand that sustains me.
Listening to God’s Voice – A Change in Perspective
Every day I am blessed because I get to see Jesus as he chooses to reveal himself to me between now and when he returns. He may not have opened my eyes to see the “horses and chariots of fire” but he has given me the faith to believe they are there chomping at their fiery bits. I do not see that, but God has opened my eyes so that in the homeless child, the prostitute, the drug addict, and the ill-equipped husband and father I can see Jesus as He reveals Himself to me.
The question I have been asking of God “Why are you not feeding your children?” is backwards. Today God slugged me in the gut with this question; “Affluent church you say you are my bride…so why are you not feeding my children?”
Matthew 25:34-40
“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’
Learn More about Hearing God’s Voice!Every day I am blessed because I get to see Jesus as he chooses to reveal himself to me between now and when he returns. He may not have opened my eyes to see the “horses and chariots of fire” but he has given me the faith to believe they are there chomping at their fiery bits. I do not see that, but God has opened my eyes so that in the homeless child, the prostitute, the drug addict, and the ill-equipped husband and father I can see Jesus as He reveals Himself to me.
The question I have been asking of God “Why are you not feeding your children?” is backwards. Today God slugged me in the gut with this question; “Affluent church you say you are my bride…so why are you not feeding my children?”
Matthew 25:34-40
“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’
Authored by Steven Hoyt.
Comfort Zone
Comfort Zone
The comfort zone is a place of refuge for many of us. What happens when we step out and take a risk? Consider this story written by Jenny Ralston.
The comfort zone is a place of refuge for many of us. What happens when we step out and take a risk? Consider this story written by Jenny Ralston.
Comfort Zone
Instead of assisting me through the delivery of our second daughter, my husband should have been at home battening down the proverbial hatches. To say she had a strong personality would be a vast understatement. Even during our nearly week-long hospital stay after her birth, the staff in the hospital nursery would call over the intercom and ask if we would like to come get our baby. She was being thrown out of the nursery!
Our trip home from the hospital was a major challenge. She began crying just as soon as her 7 pound body was placed in the car seat and kept it up until she was lifted out and introduced to her sister and her new home.
From that point on, travel with her was a study in patience and the ability to equip the back seat with a traveling road show. Her sister, a grandparent, a friend, a hitch-hiker (just kidding there) had to ride in the back seat with this strong-willed infant and sing, gesture, quack, crow, juggle. . . just to keep her entertained because when the “show” stopped, the crying began! There is no use to even pretend the driver was relaxed, enjoying the ride. It was always a frantic dash to an appointment and back again. It was never a meandering, relaxing ride!
However, through some means of growth coupled with a miracle, this infant grew into a beautiful, self-assured, capable, bright young woman. She is a college graduate, is engaged to be married soon, and holds a position of responsibility at a local hospital.
Still, given her own way as an infant, she would have never left the launch pad, so to speak. She would have spent her life in the same hospital where she was born. She would have never traveled, never known what was outside those walls because she didn’t want to be in an infant seat and confined in a car!
We are often like that with God. He has a plan, but we don’t want to stop being an infant. We don’t want to leave the place where we are at to go to the place we need to be in order to grow. Change frequently is uncomfortable, but if we would just look up, God often provides entertainment along the way and a wonderful promise of success at the end of the journey. So step outside those walls of comfort and be prepared to grow!
Read More!Instead of assisting me through the delivery of our second daughter, my husband should have been at home battening down the proverbial hatches. To say she had a strong personality would be a vast understatement. Even during our nearly week-long hospital stay after her birth, the staff in the hospital nursery would call over the intercom and ask if we would like to come get our baby. She was being thrown out of the nursery!
Our trip home from the hospital was a major challenge. She began crying just as soon as her 7 pound body was placed in the car seat and kept it up until she was lifted out and introduced to her sister and her new home.
From that point on, travel with her was a study in patience and the ability to equip the back seat with a traveling road show. Her sister, a grandparent, a friend, a hitch-hiker (just kidding there) had to ride in the back seat with this strong-willed infant and sing, gesture, quack, crow, juggle. . . just to keep her entertained because when the “show” stopped, the crying began! There is no use to even pretend the driver was relaxed, enjoying the ride. It was always a frantic dash to an appointment and back again. It was never a meandering, relaxing ride!
However, through some means of growth coupled with a miracle, this infant grew into a beautiful, self-assured, capable, bright young woman. She is a college graduate, is engaged to be married soon, and holds a position of responsibility at a local hospital.
Still, given her own way as an infant, she would have never left the launch pad, so to speak. She would have spent her life in the same hospital where she was born. She would have never traveled, never known what was outside those walls because she didn’t want to be in an infant seat and confined in a car!
We are often like that with God. He has a plan, but we don’t want to stop being an infant. We don’t want to leave the place where we are at to go to the place we need to be in order to grow. Change frequently is uncomfortable, but if we would just look up, God often provides entertainment along the way and a wonderful promise of success at the end of the journey. So step outside those walls of comfort and be prepared to grow!
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