Thankfulness
1. For the love and goodness of God--permeating, surrounding, upholding, guiding my life and loved ones.
2. For my faithful, caring husband. He has been faithful to God, to his calling, and to me--with singleness of heart and eyes. He is a good, dependable husband, father and grandfather.
3. For the Word--seven times pure, true and absolute; a sure foundation, eternal; the expression and history of God at work in humanity; grace and mercy applied to our lives.
4. For my kids: Danny, with his wonderful wittiness and insight; faithful to the Lord and His calling; standing firm in the midst of the fire. For Natalie, who loves him dearly.
Chrissy, my little girl, beautiful wife and mother; so very talented and creative--not even aware of all her potential. For Matt, gifted beyond comprehension--good husband and father.
5. For my lovely, talented, unpredictably-creative grandchildren. Their potential and destiny still unknown, untapped--but secure in God.
6. For my dad and mom--incredible heritage; siblings--related by blood and by our love for each other; our memories of rich experiences in life.`
Friday, November 26, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
POLIO—IN THE NEWS, BUT NOT NEW
________________________________________
Polio is in the news again, but for some, it never went away. This new outbreak recently reared its ugly head on another continent, far from our own doorsteps, but not so long ago we lived the terror here too. In the decades of the thirties, and especially the forties and fifties, public swimming pools, playgrounds and sidewalks—anywhere children normally played—were mostly deserted. Parents lived in fear, cloistering their children indoors, when the spectre of polio stalked their communities.
But the mass epidemics of the Twentieth Century seemed a mystery to scientists, who conjectured that perhaps the discovery of bacteria as causing illness led to more hygienic habits. This was a good thing, of course—but which left children with less immunity against the contagious virus
My own grandfather contracted polio circa 1882, though the rural doctor was not able to diagnose the illness, except that the young boy suffered a high fever and lingering paralysis, which left him with a limp the remainder of his life.
In 1947, I myself, came down with polio at the age of 18 months becoming paralyzed from the waist down. The life-long residual effects were evident as soon as the paralysis passed: a withered left leg and spinal deformity. After several orthopedic surgeries, and with a full-length leg brace, I achieved the ability to walk reasonably well.
Many well-known people from every profession are included in the hall-of-fame list of polio survivors. Some familiar names: Actors, Alan Alda and Donald Sutherland (who both played Hawkeye on M*A*S*H), Mia Farrow; movie director, Francis Ford Coppola; Judy Collins, singer and song-writer; Itzhak Perlman, famed violinist; Robert McNamara, former U.S. Secretary of Defense; Jack Nicklaus, pro-golfer. Sir Walter Scott (an ancestor of mine, incidentally), historical novelist and poet, was left lame after developing what we now know as polio, though it was undiagnosed at the time.
.
A retired schoolteacher, Eleanor Abbott, contracted polio in 1948. While confined in hospital she invented and designed a game—Candy Land—for the children recuperating there.
The most well-known polio survivor, of course, was our 32nd president, Franklin D. Roosevelt. The March of Dimes—an organization that helped hundreds of thousands of polio survivors, including me—began through his efforts and influence. My hospital care, surgeries and prosthetic devices were covered in their entirety by the generous, warm-hearted giving of millions of school children, who carefully inserted their dimes on the donation cards, then turned them in at school for the March of Dimes.
Thankfully, other than these heart-breaking incidences in under-developed countries, polio is no longer a threat. In 1955 the announcement of Jonas Salk’s successful vaccine resulted in hundreds of thousands of children lining up to be inoculated. Modern science declared a major victory in the fight against disease by vanquishing the deadly, menacing wraith of poliomyletis.
But, thousands of us still face its consequences as a daily fact of life. Of course, like World War II vets, there aren’t many of us left, and when we’re gone, barring—God forbid—another massive outbreak, polio will have passed into history.
Possibly the most intriguing aspect of polio survivors is exactly what that word signifies: We view ourselves not as victims, but fighters, warriors battling for our very existence. Every movement must be re-learned, thought out, planned ahead. What amounts to a small hill for others is cliff-climbing for us. A staircase becomes Mt. Everest; spring-loaded doors a steel trap. Challenges face us at every turn, but something within us rises to meet it. We do not give up. We improvise, innovate, sometimes fall (literally) but get up again and keep going. And we survive. Stronger, more resilient, perhaps, than others for whom movement is easy, unencumbered—thoughtless, even. The majority of survivors exhibit Type A characteristics. Thus polio has made us.
I can say, without a doubt, that my handicap has been a blessing, shaping me beyond the mere hereditary qualities of parents and ancestors into who I am today. I quote notable photojournalist, Dorothea Lange, whose polio left her with a withered leg and limp. She commented, “It was perhaps the most important thing that happened to me. It formed me, guided, instructed me, helped me, and humiliated me. All those things at once. I've never gotten over it and am aware of the force and power of it.”
Life throws some unforeseen, course-changing events at us, but by God’s grace, it is what you make of it. As of a few years, I have experienced a gradual but noticeable diminution of physical strength, resulting in the need to use a wheelchair. For short distances, I am able to walk with a cane. Over-used joints, fulfilling unintended functions for more than 60 years, are wearing out. I remain grateful for the parts that work reasonably well and for good health, all things considered.
I have accomplished many things my doctors predicted as impossible, or at best, difficult: in my childhood, learning to ride a two-wheel bike; carrying two healthy pregnancies and rearing two rambunctious children; as well as serving in ministerial roles with my husband in third-world countries.
Though doggedly independent and self-reliant to a fault, my increasing needs have required me over the years to ask for assistance, even from strangers, and I derive pleasure in their across-the-board, wholehearted willingness. People like to be needed. Even the most unlikely—at least to my age-linked viewpoint, such as the heavy-metal rockers with purple mohawks and innumerable piercings who hurried to open a door for me—have been more than eager to assist.
I am grateful for those who offer to help, who do so not knowing if they’ll be rejected, brushed off, or even resented. Thank you for caring.
Perhaps it is this cheerful giving and receiving of compassion that weaves us together in the intricate fabric of God’s creation. Something such as polio, intertwining dark, somber fibers into the embroidery of life, can reveal the brightness of that better side of humanity. Thus humankind’s best potential is highlighted in colorful threads of mercy and humility.
Connie Schisler Vellekoop
November 13, 2010
Polio is in the news again, but for some, it never went away. This new outbreak recently reared its ugly head on another continent, far from our own doorsteps, but not so long ago we lived the terror here too. In the decades of the thirties, and especially the forties and fifties, public swimming pools, playgrounds and sidewalks—anywhere children normally played—were mostly deserted. Parents lived in fear, cloistering their children indoors, when the spectre of polio stalked their communities.
But the mass epidemics of the Twentieth Century seemed a mystery to scientists, who conjectured that perhaps the discovery of bacteria as causing illness led to more hygienic habits. This was a good thing, of course—but which left children with less immunity against the contagious virus
My own grandfather contracted polio circa 1882, though the rural doctor was not able to diagnose the illness, except that the young boy suffered a high fever and lingering paralysis, which left him with a limp the remainder of his life.
In 1947, I myself, came down with polio at the age of 18 months becoming paralyzed from the waist down. The life-long residual effects were evident as soon as the paralysis passed: a withered left leg and spinal deformity. After several orthopedic surgeries, and with a full-length leg brace, I achieved the ability to walk reasonably well.
Many well-known people from every profession are included in the hall-of-fame list of polio survivors. Some familiar names: Actors, Alan Alda and Donald Sutherland (who both played Hawkeye on M*A*S*H), Mia Farrow; movie director, Francis Ford Coppola; Judy Collins, singer and song-writer; Itzhak Perlman, famed violinist; Robert McNamara, former U.S. Secretary of Defense; Jack Nicklaus, pro-golfer. Sir Walter Scott (an ancestor of mine, incidentally), historical novelist and poet, was left lame after developing what we now know as polio, though it was undiagnosed at the time.
.
A retired schoolteacher, Eleanor Abbott, contracted polio in 1948. While confined in hospital she invented and designed a game—Candy Land—for the children recuperating there.
The most well-known polio survivor, of course, was our 32nd president, Franklin D. Roosevelt. The March of Dimes—an organization that helped hundreds of thousands of polio survivors, including me—began through his efforts and influence. My hospital care, surgeries and prosthetic devices were covered in their entirety by the generous, warm-hearted giving of millions of school children, who carefully inserted their dimes on the donation cards, then turned them in at school for the March of Dimes.
Thankfully, other than these heart-breaking incidences in under-developed countries, polio is no longer a threat. In 1955 the announcement of Jonas Salk’s successful vaccine resulted in hundreds of thousands of children lining up to be inoculated. Modern science declared a major victory in the fight against disease by vanquishing the deadly, menacing wraith of poliomyletis.
But, thousands of us still face its consequences as a daily fact of life. Of course, like World War II vets, there aren’t many of us left, and when we’re gone, barring—God forbid—another massive outbreak, polio will have passed into history.
Possibly the most intriguing aspect of polio survivors is exactly what that word signifies: We view ourselves not as victims, but fighters, warriors battling for our very existence. Every movement must be re-learned, thought out, planned ahead. What amounts to a small hill for others is cliff-climbing for us. A staircase becomes Mt. Everest; spring-loaded doors a steel trap. Challenges face us at every turn, but something within us rises to meet it. We do not give up. We improvise, innovate, sometimes fall (literally) but get up again and keep going. And we survive. Stronger, more resilient, perhaps, than others for whom movement is easy, unencumbered—thoughtless, even. The majority of survivors exhibit Type A characteristics. Thus polio has made us.
I can say, without a doubt, that my handicap has been a blessing, shaping me beyond the mere hereditary qualities of parents and ancestors into who I am today. I quote notable photojournalist, Dorothea Lange, whose polio left her with a withered leg and limp. She commented, “It was perhaps the most important thing that happened to me. It formed me, guided, instructed me, helped me, and humiliated me. All those things at once. I've never gotten over it and am aware of the force and power of it.”
Life throws some unforeseen, course-changing events at us, but by God’s grace, it is what you make of it. As of a few years, I have experienced a gradual but noticeable diminution of physical strength, resulting in the need to use a wheelchair. For short distances, I am able to walk with a cane. Over-used joints, fulfilling unintended functions for more than 60 years, are wearing out. I remain grateful for the parts that work reasonably well and for good health, all things considered.
I have accomplished many things my doctors predicted as impossible, or at best, difficult: in my childhood, learning to ride a two-wheel bike; carrying two healthy pregnancies and rearing two rambunctious children; as well as serving in ministerial roles with my husband in third-world countries.
Though doggedly independent and self-reliant to a fault, my increasing needs have required me over the years to ask for assistance, even from strangers, and I derive pleasure in their across-the-board, wholehearted willingness. People like to be needed. Even the most unlikely—at least to my age-linked viewpoint, such as the heavy-metal rockers with purple mohawks and innumerable piercings who hurried to open a door for me—have been more than eager to assist.
I am grateful for those who offer to help, who do so not knowing if they’ll be rejected, brushed off, or even resented. Thank you for caring.
Perhaps it is this cheerful giving and receiving of compassion that weaves us together in the intricate fabric of God’s creation. Something such as polio, intertwining dark, somber fibers into the embroidery of life, can reveal the brightness of that better side of humanity. Thus humankind’s best potential is highlighted in colorful threads of mercy and humility.
Connie Schisler Vellekoop
November 13, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
A TIME TO MUSE ABOUT TIME
“Teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart.” (Ps. 90:12—NRSV)
I've been thinking a lot about time, lately. Not CLOCK time, but CALENDAR time. Clock time gallops along, ticking merrily through the day, reminding us that there are things to accomplish, chores to be slogged through. Meals need to be whipped up and ingested, and a daily list has to be checked off (if you're one of those Persnickety List People) before sagging into bed at night, brain on the verge of flat-line.
We talk about "beating the clock, working against the clock, watching the clock, marking time, killing time," referring to daily deadlines or lack thereof. We have clocks, watches (at least older people do—younger ones just flip open their ever-at-hand, ubiquitous cell-phones), iPods, Blackberries, and other electronic devices. Our frantic, panting, scrabbling life styles require us to be ever glancing at time-pieces, yet they still don't tell us much about the Relentless March of Time. Mostly, we're grateful for that welcome sleep which marks the end of the clock-watching (unless one has issues with insomnia—"is there any possible way to turn the mind off at night?!")
The calendar, however, is another whole ball-game. Twelve measly pages flip through at warp-speed.
I just completed my sixty-fifth year of life. I am now older than my mother when she died. Granted, she was unconscionably and unacceptably young for her life to have ended. But, the Calendar continues to move forward, unimpeded by my protests and denial. I am 65. There is no avoiding or changing it.
Actually, heaven looks pretty appealing. Mom is there, and more and more people I’ve known and loved. And I’ll have a new body—unhampered by polio. Best of all, Jesus is there—the Focus and Culmination of time and eternity.
I am not brooding or morose—merely looking at the facts. I have probably 25 or so more years here on God's little planet—maybe a bit longer, since longevity is a family trait. I've accomplished a few things, but not nearly as many as I had thought by this stage.
Someone said once, "Most of what we do for God is inadvertent—'accidental'" It's sort of like on the way to doing something else we touched a life, spoke a word, or encouraged someone. There are times we even get to find out we did something right. Mostly, we'll probably only get to see our fruit when we get Over There. And then it won't matter—Jesus will get all the glory anyway.
So, as I see it, the most important thing is to stay faithful, plugging away for the long haul at whatever seems to be the task at hand that God puts in front of me; don't get carried away with any sort of feeling of self-importance; shooting stars burn out quickly—so shine steadily where I'm put. I don't want to end my days a sour old woman, and for that reason I plan on aging gracefully—a jolly old lady to the end—one that kids and cats like being around.
So I'm going to keep dyeing my hair red; wearing lipstick and blue eye shadow, watching my diet and pushing myself to do that dratted hour per day on the exercycle. Most important—I'm going to keep on loving Jesus, my husband, my family. And I’ll always reach out to people and maybe get to bless a few along the way.
Heaven will wait.
I've been thinking a lot about time, lately. Not CLOCK time, but CALENDAR time. Clock time gallops along, ticking merrily through the day, reminding us that there are things to accomplish, chores to be slogged through. Meals need to be whipped up and ingested, and a daily list has to be checked off (if you're one of those Persnickety List People) before sagging into bed at night, brain on the verge of flat-line.
We talk about "beating the clock, working against the clock, watching the clock, marking time, killing time," referring to daily deadlines or lack thereof. We have clocks, watches (at least older people do—younger ones just flip open their ever-at-hand, ubiquitous cell-phones), iPods, Blackberries, and other electronic devices. Our frantic, panting, scrabbling life styles require us to be ever glancing at time-pieces, yet they still don't tell us much about the Relentless March of Time. Mostly, we're grateful for that welcome sleep which marks the end of the clock-watching (unless one has issues with insomnia—"is there any possible way to turn the mind off at night?!")
The calendar, however, is another whole ball-game. Twelve measly pages flip through at warp-speed.
I just completed my sixty-fifth year of life. I am now older than my mother when she died. Granted, she was unconscionably and unacceptably young for her life to have ended. But, the Calendar continues to move forward, unimpeded by my protests and denial. I am 65. There is no avoiding or changing it.
Actually, heaven looks pretty appealing. Mom is there, and more and more people I’ve known and loved. And I’ll have a new body—unhampered by polio. Best of all, Jesus is there—the Focus and Culmination of time and eternity.
I am not brooding or morose—merely looking at the facts. I have probably 25 or so more years here on God's little planet—maybe a bit longer, since longevity is a family trait. I've accomplished a few things, but not nearly as many as I had thought by this stage.
Someone said once, "Most of what we do for God is inadvertent—'accidental'" It's sort of like on the way to doing something else we touched a life, spoke a word, or encouraged someone. There are times we even get to find out we did something right. Mostly, we'll probably only get to see our fruit when we get Over There. And then it won't matter—Jesus will get all the glory anyway.
So, as I see it, the most important thing is to stay faithful, plugging away for the long haul at whatever seems to be the task at hand that God puts in front of me; don't get carried away with any sort of feeling of self-importance; shooting stars burn out quickly—so shine steadily where I'm put. I don't want to end my days a sour old woman, and for that reason I plan on aging gracefully—a jolly old lady to the end—one that kids and cats like being around.
So I'm going to keep dyeing my hair red; wearing lipstick and blue eye shadow, watching my diet and pushing myself to do that dratted hour per day on the exercycle. Most important—I'm going to keep on loving Jesus, my husband, my family. And I’ll always reach out to people and maybe get to bless a few along the way.
Heaven will wait.
PROUD OWNER OF NEW iPad!!
Following up my previous blog: my incredible husband GAVE me an iPad for my 65th Birthday (plus the Blue Tooth external keyboard)!! I had $200 in my iPad Fund and he paid for the rest. I am having great fun learning it (as long as I can consult my "Techie-Assistant-Son-in-Law." Actually, I've already been able to use it very efficiently to take notes for a debriefing I did with an EF missionary.
There's a slim possibility I may write another biography--this time for a well-known Elim person, and the iPad will be very useful for note-taking at interviews. I will have to take your advice, DV, on the "coolness factor" and get John Lennon sunglasses and a beret.
The learning curve is as big as Kansas, but I'm gettin' there!
There's a slim possibility I may write another biography--this time for a well-known Elim person, and the iPad will be very useful for note-taking at interviews. I will have to take your advice, DV, on the "coolness factor" and get John Lennon sunglasses and a beret.
The learning curve is as big as Kansas, but I'm gettin' there!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Technology and Old Age
Well, I'm ba-a-a-ack, after more than a month since I've written anything--a month of lots of events, travel, busyness--you know, the usual stuff of life!
One of the things I've encountered is the marvel of technology in an IPad. It begs the questions--do I need it? Can I live without it? Can I actually LEARN how to use one!? I'm having one of those Big Birthdays this month, so maybe an new techie challenge would be good for my aging brain. At least it gives me a good excuse. And then, out of the blue, a friend slipped me a crisp one-hundred dollar bill at church last Sunday (hey! Perhaps my mentioning this will provide impetus to someone to attend church!)which immediately became the beginning of my "IPad Fund." Now, all I need is $400 more....
One of the reasons I think an IPad would be handy is that for creative writing, I absolutely depend on my computer -- an IPad would be with me wherever I go and I would be able to write when the muse strikes me. Have I convinced you yet? Stay tuned....!
One of the things I've encountered is the marvel of technology in an IPad. It begs the questions--do I need it? Can I live without it? Can I actually LEARN how to use one!? I'm having one of those Big Birthdays this month, so maybe an new techie challenge would be good for my aging brain. At least it gives me a good excuse. And then, out of the blue, a friend slipped me a crisp one-hundred dollar bill at church last Sunday (hey! Perhaps my mentioning this will provide impetus to someone to attend church!)which immediately became the beginning of my "IPad Fund." Now, all I need is $400 more....
One of the reasons I think an IPad would be handy is that for creative writing, I absolutely depend on my computer -- an IPad would be with me wherever I go and I would be able to write when the muse strikes me. Have I convinced you yet? Stay tuned....!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Don't Bother Jesus--He's Busy!
It was in a small hamlet of Judea, with its random cluster of humble mud and stone dwellings—a setting unchanged over the centuries. Jesus sat in the shade of an ancient, twisting olive tree in the village square. His disciples were nearby, seated on stones, or squatting on their heels. The afternoon heat shimmered off the stone walls, but a steady breeze kept it bearable. A bougainvillea tumbled over the garden wall nearby, its vivid flowers nodding in the light wind, as if in agreement. There was the gentle fragrance of bread baking on a stone hearth somewhere in the vicinity that blended with the smells of dust, donkeys, sheep and goats. Chickens pecked aimlessly at the hard ground and clucked to their offspring.
Jesus’ voice was strong and commanding, but at the same time, infused with compassion. As he continued His teaching on persevering in prayer, on humility, townspeople began gathering in a loose semi-circle behind the disciples. There was something about His voice….was it authority? He spoke straight into one’s heart—not like the religious leaders they heard on the Sabbath in the synagogues, whose boring homilies seemed to go around in circles.
Speckled sunlight played over Jesus’ head and face, illuminating his tanned, pleasant features; highlighting the unfathomable depths of His eyes. When He looked at a person, one felt His gaze penetrating into one’s very soul, searching every corner. But it was a good feeling—maybe a relief that SOMEONE knows you utterly; that one can’t hide and one doesn’t really want to anymore.
As Jesus was speaking, a little girl, about two or three years old, detached herself from her mother’s side and took a few steps toward Jesus. Her dark eyes were wide and unblinking as she gazed at Him, not comprehending His words, but His face and voice awakened something in her. This child had been born with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. In those few seconds of lack of oxygen, certain damage had happened and the toddler was unable to learn basic speech and early skills.
Jesus stopped His teaching, turned His head and looked at the tiny girl. Reaching out his hand toward her, Jesus smiled. The child’s little face began to light up, as if by a growing incandescence within. She laughed out loud as she ran to Him, and buried her face in His chest, as Jesus put His arms around her. Picking her up, Jesus set the small one on His lap. He cradled her flower-like face in His strong, work-calloused hands, and looking into her eyes, He blessed her—with new Life, with Destiny, with Hope for a future.
The little girl’s mother had quickly approached, perhaps thinking the child was bothering Jesus, but when she saw the tender scene of His love—enveloping, covering, healing her baby, she stood back with tears flowing down her cheeks.
Other mothers in the small courtyard began moving toward Jesus with their own babies and small children. He kissed the first little girl on the top of her head and set her down; then began picking up other wee ones, as they were handed to Him. Putting His hands on them, He also blessed each of them, as the parents stood nearby, with hearts warmed and gladdened by His loving touch.
The small children somehow were aware of the specialness of this moment and seemed to bask in the tender glow of Jesus’ care. Their usual wiggles and energy quieted as He touched and hugged them, kissed their round, dimpled cheeks, and imparted His Life to them. One little boy laughed out loud in his joy, as Jesus tickled his tummy. Tiny babies stopped fussing and relaxed in His arms.
The disciples, at first tolerated the interruption, but as they saw more and more people pushing into the courtyard with their children, they felt annoyed. Jesus certainly had more important people and issues to deal with—why was He bothering with these children! Peter and others of the disciples began intercepting the mothers to turn them away. Jesus spoke up with His gentle but firm tone, “Let the little children come to me – and don’t hinder them – these are what God’s Kingdom is made up of.”
The Messiah—as always—finding a teaching moment in everything, looked around at His abashed disciples by turn, “For unless you become as one of these, you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“These children embody the meaning of simplicity, humility and teachableness,” was in essence what Jesus was saying. “Don’t complicate things by trying to analyze my Kingdom and adjust it to your expectations and experience. Come to Me with childlike wonder and acceptance. Don’t strive, strain and struggle. Don’t worry. Just BE! It’s God’s Joyous Kingdom of Children—and you have to become as one of them to enter It!”
Connie Vellekoop—8/22/10
Jesus’ voice was strong and commanding, but at the same time, infused with compassion. As he continued His teaching on persevering in prayer, on humility, townspeople began gathering in a loose semi-circle behind the disciples. There was something about His voice….was it authority? He spoke straight into one’s heart—not like the religious leaders they heard on the Sabbath in the synagogues, whose boring homilies seemed to go around in circles.
Speckled sunlight played over Jesus’ head and face, illuminating his tanned, pleasant features; highlighting the unfathomable depths of His eyes. When He looked at a person, one felt His gaze penetrating into one’s very soul, searching every corner. But it was a good feeling—maybe a relief that SOMEONE knows you utterly; that one can’t hide and one doesn’t really want to anymore.
As Jesus was speaking, a little girl, about two or three years old, detached herself from her mother’s side and took a few steps toward Jesus. Her dark eyes were wide and unblinking as she gazed at Him, not comprehending His words, but His face and voice awakened something in her. This child had been born with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. In those few seconds of lack of oxygen, certain damage had happened and the toddler was unable to learn basic speech and early skills.
Jesus stopped His teaching, turned His head and looked at the tiny girl. Reaching out his hand toward her, Jesus smiled. The child’s little face began to light up, as if by a growing incandescence within. She laughed out loud as she ran to Him, and buried her face in His chest, as Jesus put His arms around her. Picking her up, Jesus set the small one on His lap. He cradled her flower-like face in His strong, work-calloused hands, and looking into her eyes, He blessed her—with new Life, with Destiny, with Hope for a future.
The little girl’s mother had quickly approached, perhaps thinking the child was bothering Jesus, but when she saw the tender scene of His love—enveloping, covering, healing her baby, she stood back with tears flowing down her cheeks.
Other mothers in the small courtyard began moving toward Jesus with their own babies and small children. He kissed the first little girl on the top of her head and set her down; then began picking up other wee ones, as they were handed to Him. Putting His hands on them, He also blessed each of them, as the parents stood nearby, with hearts warmed and gladdened by His loving touch.
The small children somehow were aware of the specialness of this moment and seemed to bask in the tender glow of Jesus’ care. Their usual wiggles and energy quieted as He touched and hugged them, kissed their round, dimpled cheeks, and imparted His Life to them. One little boy laughed out loud in his joy, as Jesus tickled his tummy. Tiny babies stopped fussing and relaxed in His arms.
The disciples, at first tolerated the interruption, but as they saw more and more people pushing into the courtyard with their children, they felt annoyed. Jesus certainly had more important people and issues to deal with—why was He bothering with these children! Peter and others of the disciples began intercepting the mothers to turn them away. Jesus spoke up with His gentle but firm tone, “Let the little children come to me – and don’t hinder them – these are what God’s Kingdom is made up of.”
The Messiah—as always—finding a teaching moment in everything, looked around at His abashed disciples by turn, “For unless you become as one of these, you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“These children embody the meaning of simplicity, humility and teachableness,” was in essence what Jesus was saying. “Don’t complicate things by trying to analyze my Kingdom and adjust it to your expectations and experience. Come to Me with childlike wonder and acceptance. Don’t strive, strain and struggle. Don’t worry. Just BE! It’s God’s Joyous Kingdom of Children—and you have to become as one of them to enter It!”
Connie Vellekoop—8/22/10
The Alabaster Flask
Tamara pulled her head covering over the bottom of her face and slipped into the garden through a small, private gate. She seemed to know the way well as she hurried along the stone path between beds of flowers and herbs. A breeze wafted the scent of their fragrance over her, though she wasn’t conscious of it. Olive and fruit trees provided welcome shade. Entering an arched doorway of the palatial home, Tamara came into the kitchen, where servants were hurrying about, preparing and serving guests at a banquet.
The aged cook, with a lined, tired-looking face, glanced at her quickly and pressed her lips together in disapproval as she continued stirring a large cooking pot. “You! Here again!” she hissed. “No, Aunt Lydia—I have not been summoned by your master, I’m here for another reason,” Tamara answered softly, but urgently. “If your dear, departed parents could see what you’ve become,” the elderly woman continued, in suppressed anger, “They would die from shame!”
Tamara dropped her head, as tears started up in her eyes, “No, Auntie—please listen to me. Is HE here?” Lydia snorted, “Who? My master— Simon!? Of course! He’s with his guests in the banquet hall!”
“NO! Not him,” Tamara almost spat out the word. Her face flushed with anger and scorn. “I mean, Jesus—I heard He was invited by Simon.” Lydia leaned closer, “Yes,” she whispered, “He is there at the table, the guest of honor. I saw a glimpse of Him—such a wonderful man—I wish I could speak to Him myself.”
Tamara said nothing, but swiftly left the kitchen, dodging the busy traffic of servants coming and going with trays of meat, bowls of fruit, plates of sweets, and flagons of wine. She walked down the long, stone-flagged corridor to the banquet hall and slid inside the doorway, pressing herself against the wall.
With her veil pulled around her face, she quickly scanned the banquet room. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling—the smoke mingling with the food smells and heavy incense. A long table, covered with a white Egyptian linen cloth, was filled with sumptuous food. All around were the guests, lounging on settees, as they leaned on one elbow next to the table. Tamara saw Simon the Pharisee and immediately turned her eyes from him in disgust. Then she saw HIM—Jesus. Everything else in the room faded out of focus—she could only see Him, talking to Simon and the other guests.
Tamara silently approached Jesus’ feet, which were unsandaled, but showing the dust of Judea’s roads still on them. She bowed low, and covering her face with trembling hands she began weeping, her head lowered until it almost touched His feet.
The anguished woman’s veil slipped from her head, revealing the golden auburn tresses that had distinguished her as an incredibly beautiful woman. With green eyes and shapely form, she had been talked about in many male circles, often with ribald admiration, especially by those men who bragged of knowing very her personally.
Tamara’s tears flowed so freely that they began to wet Jesus’ feet. In an instant, she unbound her long, beautiful hair and started to wipe His feet, cleaning them with her tears. Then, pulling an alabaster flask from her waist, she opened it and poured the golden, sweet-smelling liquid onto His feet and continued wiping, kissing them, and weeping—her tears mingling with the ointment—until His feet were cleansed of the roadway dirt. Tamara was utterly unaware of anyone else—so much so, that she had no idea of the spectacle she presented.
Jesus had turned from the table and sat up as He watched her actions—His eyes moist, His heart deeply moved. The guests became completely silent, shocked into speechlessness—each of them reacting, either in disdain or fascination, as the expensive perfume filled the room with its perfect fragrance.
Tamara finally looked up, with a tear-stained face and encountered Jesus’ incomparable gaze upon her. His tender, pure love-filled eyes looked into hers and penetrated the very depths of her troubled, sin-wracked soul. In one earth-shaking, time-suspending moment she knew she was accepted and forgiven.
Simon had stiffened noticeably when he and the other guests became aware of Tamara’s intrusion and actions. His face flushed as he recognized who it was, no doubt remembering his trysts with her. “If this Man were really a Prophet, He would know who it is that is touching Him and would be repulsed!” were Simon’s inward thoughts.
Jesus, turned to His host, and commenced telling him and all the others lounging at the table a short parable about two men whose debts were cancelled—one owing much and the other, a small sum. “So, Simon, which of the two would be more grateful?” Simon, visibly uncomfortable, responded, “I suppose the one who was forgiven the most?”
“Exactly,” was Jesus reply. “Do you see this woman? I came to your home; you provided no water for my feet, but she rained tears on my feet and dried them with her hair. You gave me no greeting, but from the time I arrived she hasn’t quit kissing my feet. You provided nothing for freshening up, but she has soothed my feet with perfume. Impressive, isn’t it? She was forgiven many, many sins, and so she is very, very grateful. If the forgiveness is minimal, the gratitude is minimal.”*
Jesus then spoke with gentle authority to Tamara, still kneeling at His feet, “I forgive your sins. Go in peace, you faith has saved you.” He smiled as she stood to her feet, unable to speak her thankfulness, but her face told of her joy—a brand new life had now begun.
All that human-kind requires is one profound glimpse into the repugnance of our own sin-sick, wretched souls, to realize that as we throw ourselves on His mercy, we have been forgiven much—gracefully, completely, and abundantly. For such we should be eternally grateful.
*(The Message Bible) Connie Vellekoop,
The aged cook, with a lined, tired-looking face, glanced at her quickly and pressed her lips together in disapproval as she continued stirring a large cooking pot. “You! Here again!” she hissed. “No, Aunt Lydia—I have not been summoned by your master, I’m here for another reason,” Tamara answered softly, but urgently. “If your dear, departed parents could see what you’ve become,” the elderly woman continued, in suppressed anger, “They would die from shame!”
Tamara dropped her head, as tears started up in her eyes, “No, Auntie—please listen to me. Is HE here?” Lydia snorted, “Who? My master— Simon!? Of course! He’s with his guests in the banquet hall!”
“NO! Not him,” Tamara almost spat out the word. Her face flushed with anger and scorn. “I mean, Jesus—I heard He was invited by Simon.” Lydia leaned closer, “Yes,” she whispered, “He is there at the table, the guest of honor. I saw a glimpse of Him—such a wonderful man—I wish I could speak to Him myself.”
Tamara said nothing, but swiftly left the kitchen, dodging the busy traffic of servants coming and going with trays of meat, bowls of fruit, plates of sweets, and flagons of wine. She walked down the long, stone-flagged corridor to the banquet hall and slid inside the doorway, pressing herself against the wall.
With her veil pulled around her face, she quickly scanned the banquet room. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling—the smoke mingling with the food smells and heavy incense. A long table, covered with a white Egyptian linen cloth, was filled with sumptuous food. All around were the guests, lounging on settees, as they leaned on one elbow next to the table. Tamara saw Simon the Pharisee and immediately turned her eyes from him in disgust. Then she saw HIM—Jesus. Everything else in the room faded out of focus—she could only see Him, talking to Simon and the other guests.
Tamara silently approached Jesus’ feet, which were unsandaled, but showing the dust of Judea’s roads still on them. She bowed low, and covering her face with trembling hands she began weeping, her head lowered until it almost touched His feet.
The anguished woman’s veil slipped from her head, revealing the golden auburn tresses that had distinguished her as an incredibly beautiful woman. With green eyes and shapely form, she had been talked about in many male circles, often with ribald admiration, especially by those men who bragged of knowing very her personally.
Tamara’s tears flowed so freely that they began to wet Jesus’ feet. In an instant, she unbound her long, beautiful hair and started to wipe His feet, cleaning them with her tears. Then, pulling an alabaster flask from her waist, she opened it and poured the golden, sweet-smelling liquid onto His feet and continued wiping, kissing them, and weeping—her tears mingling with the ointment—until His feet were cleansed of the roadway dirt. Tamara was utterly unaware of anyone else—so much so, that she had no idea of the spectacle she presented.
Jesus had turned from the table and sat up as He watched her actions—His eyes moist, His heart deeply moved. The guests became completely silent, shocked into speechlessness—each of them reacting, either in disdain or fascination, as the expensive perfume filled the room with its perfect fragrance.
Tamara finally looked up, with a tear-stained face and encountered Jesus’ incomparable gaze upon her. His tender, pure love-filled eyes looked into hers and penetrated the very depths of her troubled, sin-wracked soul. In one earth-shaking, time-suspending moment she knew she was accepted and forgiven.
Simon had stiffened noticeably when he and the other guests became aware of Tamara’s intrusion and actions. His face flushed as he recognized who it was, no doubt remembering his trysts with her. “If this Man were really a Prophet, He would know who it is that is touching Him and would be repulsed!” were Simon’s inward thoughts.
Jesus, turned to His host, and commenced telling him and all the others lounging at the table a short parable about two men whose debts were cancelled—one owing much and the other, a small sum. “So, Simon, which of the two would be more grateful?” Simon, visibly uncomfortable, responded, “I suppose the one who was forgiven the most?”
“Exactly,” was Jesus reply. “Do you see this woman? I came to your home; you provided no water for my feet, but she rained tears on my feet and dried them with her hair. You gave me no greeting, but from the time I arrived she hasn’t quit kissing my feet. You provided nothing for freshening up, but she has soothed my feet with perfume. Impressive, isn’t it? She was forgiven many, many sins, and so she is very, very grateful. If the forgiveness is minimal, the gratitude is minimal.”*
Jesus then spoke with gentle authority to Tamara, still kneeling at His feet, “I forgive your sins. Go in peace, you faith has saved you.” He smiled as she stood to her feet, unable to speak her thankfulness, but her face told of her joy—a brand new life had now begun.
All that human-kind requires is one profound glimpse into the repugnance of our own sin-sick, wretched souls, to realize that as we throw ourselves on His mercy, we have been forgiven much—gracefully, completely, and abundantly. For such we should be eternally grateful.
*(The Message Bible) Connie Vellekoop,
Friday, July 16, 2010
Until Shiloh Comes
UNTIL SHILOH COMES
The quavering, cracked voice rose and fell like a gossamer web on a breath of wind. An old man lay dying, propped on sheepskin pillows, as two female family members hovered nearby. Daughter, Dinah, offered him sips of water, while Rodah, one of many granddaughters gently smoothed the wispy white hair back from his wrinkled forehead.
Jacob’s twelve sons had gathered at his bedside, and as many others of the burgeoning family as could, crowded into the tent. Jacob was giving them his final blessings, which for some, amounted to a rebuke. Smoky oil lamps hung from the tent poles, and the flickering light cast shadows on the sombre faces surrounding Jacob’s bed. A desert breeze stirred the tent flaps but the air inside the tent was heavy and close.
Jacob struggled to raise himself and the two women hurried to help him. “Judah…Judah,” Jacob whispered hoarsely. Pushing through those standing closest to the ancient patriarch, Judah responded, “I am here, Father.”
“You are a lion’s cub, Judah; you return from the prey, my son…..the scepter will not depart from Judah….” And here Jacob’s voice faded; he gasped a few times, then continued, haltingly. His voice was raspy, yet the unmistakable authority as patriarch of the clan was clearly evident. “Nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet, until Shiloh comes, and unto him shall the gathering of the people be.”
Judah unconsciously squared his shoulders and stood straighter, as a thrill went through the crowd. “Until Shiloh comes….” It was repeated through the ranks from one to another in soft voices as they looked at each other with wonder-filled eyes. “Until Shiloh comes!” It seemed to carry a sense of enigma and mystery, of an Event in the distant future, far off down the corridors of centuries. Who was Shiloh and what did it mean?
Jacob continued his final words, naming his remaining sons, pronouncing prophetic blessing and warnings over each. All the while, Judah, transfixed in his own thoughts asked himself: “Ruler’s staff? Scepter? Would this ‘Shiloh’ be one of my own descendants—a prince? Maybe even a King?”
He could not have known that some 250 years later, another prophecy would be given by a renegade prophet, Balaam: “There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel….”
Nor could Judah have foreseen that more than a thousand years later one of his progeny, Possessor of Judah’s own DNA, would be the Prince of Peace, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, and that the government would be upon His shoulders. If Judah had only known…perhaps certain aspects of his life would have been different. Or maybe nothing would have changed, who knows?
No one can know the future. It stretches out into the vast, unrevealed reaches of time. God will, at times, give hints—-glimpses, even—-to potential and opportunity. If I knew that one of MY descendants would be the Son of God, would I have committed some of the sinful, even heinous, acts that Judah did?
We have no say in our destiny and portion, but we DO have control over how this comes about, and in what time-frame, in our own life-time. Our choices and decisions can delay or even alter the outcome, not only for ourselves, but for our descendants and the heritage we leave them. Fortunately for hopelessly-lost humankind, in God’s sovereignty the Messiah, Shiloh came....inexorably on schedule—-in the fullness of time.
The quavering, cracked voice rose and fell like a gossamer web on a breath of wind. An old man lay dying, propped on sheepskin pillows, as two female family members hovered nearby. Daughter, Dinah, offered him sips of water, while Rodah, one of many granddaughters gently smoothed the wispy white hair back from his wrinkled forehead.
Jacob’s twelve sons had gathered at his bedside, and as many others of the burgeoning family as could, crowded into the tent. Jacob was giving them his final blessings, which for some, amounted to a rebuke. Smoky oil lamps hung from the tent poles, and the flickering light cast shadows on the sombre faces surrounding Jacob’s bed. A desert breeze stirred the tent flaps but the air inside the tent was heavy and close.
Jacob struggled to raise himself and the two women hurried to help him. “Judah…Judah,” Jacob whispered hoarsely. Pushing through those standing closest to the ancient patriarch, Judah responded, “I am here, Father.”
“You are a lion’s cub, Judah; you return from the prey, my son…..the scepter will not depart from Judah….” And here Jacob’s voice faded; he gasped a few times, then continued, haltingly. His voice was raspy, yet the unmistakable authority as patriarch of the clan was clearly evident. “Nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet, until Shiloh comes, and unto him shall the gathering of the people be.”
Judah unconsciously squared his shoulders and stood straighter, as a thrill went through the crowd. “Until Shiloh comes….” It was repeated through the ranks from one to another in soft voices as they looked at each other with wonder-filled eyes. “Until Shiloh comes!” It seemed to carry a sense of enigma and mystery, of an Event in the distant future, far off down the corridors of centuries. Who was Shiloh and what did it mean?
Jacob continued his final words, naming his remaining sons, pronouncing prophetic blessing and warnings over each. All the while, Judah, transfixed in his own thoughts asked himself: “Ruler’s staff? Scepter? Would this ‘Shiloh’ be one of my own descendants—a prince? Maybe even a King?”
He could not have known that some 250 years later, another prophecy would be given by a renegade prophet, Balaam: “There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel….”
Nor could Judah have foreseen that more than a thousand years later one of his progeny, Possessor of Judah’s own DNA, would be the Prince of Peace, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, and that the government would be upon His shoulders. If Judah had only known…perhaps certain aspects of his life would have been different. Or maybe nothing would have changed, who knows?
No one can know the future. It stretches out into the vast, unrevealed reaches of time. God will, at times, give hints—-glimpses, even—-to potential and opportunity. If I knew that one of MY descendants would be the Son of God, would I have committed some of the sinful, even heinous, acts that Judah did?
We have no say in our destiny and portion, but we DO have control over how this comes about, and in what time-frame, in our own life-time. Our choices and decisions can delay or even alter the outcome, not only for ourselves, but for our descendants and the heritage we leave them. Fortunately for hopelessly-lost humankind, in God’s sovereignty the Messiah, Shiloh came....inexorably on schedule—-in the fullness of time.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Father's Face
A couple of years ago I had occasion on a number of times during the church service to observe a father holding his two-year old son, John Nathan. The little one would often sit in his father’s arms facing his dad. Since they sat on the opposite side from where I was, toward the front, I couldn’t see Mike’s face, but I could see John Nathan’s. The small boy would look into his father’s face with love, security, and safety shining in his eyes. I didn’t have to see the father’s face to know that John Nathan’s expression was a reflection of what was shining from his father’s face. There was no guilt, no under-lying fear. This wonderful little boy probably had done things to require his father to mete out some form of punishment—but John Nathan knew he was fully accepted by his dad—no matter what.
I remembered that today in the Sunday morning service, as we were reminded over and over of our Father’s perfect love. I wondered, does my face reflect my Heavenly Father’s love? Can others see that in me? Can I look into His eyes, receive His love and acceptance—and reciprocate with my own love and worship
I remembered that today in the Sunday morning service, as we were reminded over and over of our Father’s perfect love. I wondered, does my face reflect my Heavenly Father’s love? Can others see that in me? Can I look into His eyes, receive His love and acceptance—and reciprocate with my own love and worship
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Things I Learn From My Garden
I dream of a Victorian garden in my backyard, with sun-sparkled, gentle fountains, a curving stone path, elegantly pruned hedges, statuary, and bright flower beds throughout. The reality, however, is two small flower beds and a few hostas. Sigh.
I still enjoy gardening and often think about life-lessons you can learn from it. Probably is why Jesus used farming and gardening to teach his disciples.
Gardens require a lot of care. I lost some plantings because I was too busy to tend to them--snails and drought got to most of the hostas. Weeds overgrew the impatiens and slowed their growth greatly. My spiritual life requires a lot of tending to. Busyness is the worst enemy.
Weeds need to be pulled up before they get too large, but it's easier when they're big enough to see and get a hold of. As soon as the Holy Spirit points to something in me, I need to deal with it, but I have to be able to see it first--I mean REALLY see it for what it is. Not just a tiny little quirk of personality--but SIN. "Uproot it, Holy Spirit. Change my heart, Oh God."
I learn a lot from my garden -- I'll "cogitate" some more on this subject later....
I still enjoy gardening and often think about life-lessons you can learn from it. Probably is why Jesus used farming and gardening to teach his disciples.
Gardens require a lot of care. I lost some plantings because I was too busy to tend to them--snails and drought got to most of the hostas. Weeds overgrew the impatiens and slowed their growth greatly. My spiritual life requires a lot of tending to. Busyness is the worst enemy.
Weeds need to be pulled up before they get too large, but it's easier when they're big enough to see and get a hold of. As soon as the Holy Spirit points to something in me, I need to deal with it, but I have to be able to see it first--I mean REALLY see it for what it is. Not just a tiny little quirk of personality--but SIN. "Uproot it, Holy Spirit. Change my heart, Oh God."
I learn a lot from my garden -- I'll "cogitate" some more on this subject later....
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