Four Faithful Friends

Mark 2:1-12--“When Jesus saw their faith...”

Reuben lay dozing on his mat in the afternoon heat, generally where one would find him any day or night. Besides the hot, dust-laden breeze, the familiar sounds of village life drifted in through the open doorway: children’s shouts and laughter, a rooster crowing, the braying of a donkey.  Reuben heard but barely heeded.

It had been ten years since the accident. Falling twenty-five feet off a rock-faced cliff while trying to collect birds’ eggs had been the split-second event that changed his life forever.

A mere teenager at the time, Reuben had been with four of his friends, who thought it would be great fun to climb to where falcons had their nests. His companions had teased him a bit about being afraid to mount up to the spot where they could see a very fine hole in the rock with a bird’s nest there. Boys being who they are, from that it turned into a good-natured dare. At that age, who can resist?

Reuben, a sensitive, tentative fifteen-year old, had resolutely swallowed his fear of heights and proceeded to cautiously climb higher.

Then it happened. The rock he was clinging to with his bare toes, gave way and crumbled under him. His hands slipped and he plunged to the ground, narrowly escaping with his life, though his neck was broken and his whole body paralyzed.

This tragedy marked not only Reuben’s life, but his four friends as well. Their genuine sorrow and guilt over having egged him on, provoking his effort that resulted in permanent injury, weighed heavily on them. Consequently, they dealt with their own consciences by assuming his care—each of them taking turns. Their devotion was unswerving and determined, year after long year.

At first, it went well. Reuben was grateful and showed remarkable resilience. Then, as time crept forward, he sank gradually into deep depression and bitterness. Raging and complaining at life, at his family, at his dedicated friends, and ultimately at God, became a seeping wound that affected his mood and outlook. Complications had developed from his inert, prone position and he experienced constant pain.

His friends were not detracted from their mission. They would care for him, all his days, as long as they were able.  Each one became more determined as time went on.

Marcus, the oldest of the group, was in the marketplace one day, when he saw a crowd of people tightly clustered around a Man. His curiosity stirred, Marcus edged closer. With rough, homespun clothing this person looked like any ordinary Jewish man, but there was something about His face. Marcus was mesmerized. Was it His quiet dignity?  No, it was more than that. A look of authority, of contained-power?  Of gentleness, of mercy? Yes, it was all that. But more—it was the countenance of a King, a royal Person, clad in unremarkable garb. He learned from a by-stander that this was Jesus of Nazareth, a carpenter.

The Man was teaching—using common illustrations and stories from the lives, stories, and livelihood of the Jewish people. His words carried force, authority, and spoke straight to one’s heart. Marcus felt something stirring at the deepest level in his own being. For the first time in his life, the strong Jewish foundations he had acquired from the rabbis, took on new meaning. The Torah wasn’t just a book of laws and regulations.  This Jesus made it alive: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, soul, mind, strength--and thy neighbor as thyself.” He then proceeded to define who our neighbor was:  the downtrodden, the despised--even the Samaritan.

Tears slid, unbidden, down Marcus’ face. Something very deep within had been stirred and changed. The teaching concluded and he turned quickly. “I must tell the others,” he muttered to himself.

Finding his three friends, Marcus gathered them at his home and related the story of his encounter with Jesus. “You must come with me to hear Him. Never a man spoke as this man does!” he urged them.

The four companions, knit closely by their circumstances, made their way to the town square the next day—a Sabbath. They saw Jesus, surrounded by his followers, sitting under an olive tree. Jesus turned and smiled at the four. “Welcome, friends,” he said, cheerfully, and gestured for them to draw near. As the crowd continued to gather, Jesus began to teach. His words about the hypocrisy of Pharisees and religious leaders were strong and painfully direct; but He spoke gently to the common people, warning them to be on their guard against such practices. “The greatest among you will be your servant. For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.”

The four friends looked at each other and nodded with agreement. This man’s teaching was right on! And he wasn’t afraid to confront the religious hierarchy—this took real courage.  Some of his words made one uncomfortable, as if looking in a mirror and seeing oneself as one truly looked on the inside.  Yet, when Jesus’ dark, brilliant eyes met yours, one felt he accepted you and forgave the penitent, repenting heart.

Marcus and his companions were captivated, unable to tear themselves away.  Nearby, a cluster of Pharisees and scribes stood, their arms folded, at times whispering among themselves. Marcus heard one of them say with a sneer, “I wonder if this man dares to perform one of his so-called miracles on the Sabbath!” Jesus turned and looked directly and sternly at the Pharisee, then deliberately spoke to a man with a withered hand, “Stand up, my friend, and come close. Stretch out your hand!” When he did, his hand became completely normal—exactly as his other hand.

The crowd was delighted and cheers went up on all sides, as once again, Jesus had bested and humiliated the religious gentry.  Marcus turned and grinned at his friends: “Round one—Jesus wins; Religious leaders—zero!” Then, it was as if they all had the same thought, as their eyes widened and they all seemed to speak to each other at once.

“Reuben! We must bring him to Jesus!”

Arriving at Reuben’s home, they found his aged mother bending over him, sponging his face with cool water. “He’s ill – a fever has taken hold of him.” She spoke in terse tones to the men.  “It is indeed the worst I have seen him.”

Reuben, moaning and mumbling incoherently, seemed unaware of his surroundings.  His head, the only appendage he could move, tossed from side to side.

“We must take him to Jesus—now! Marcus said urgently. They carried him on his pallet and headed back to the marketplace. Arriving, they found Jesus and his disciples had gone; but a woman, standing in her doorway, said they had been invited to one of the Pharisee’s homes—“down that street, in front of the synagogue,” she told them.

When they reached the house, they found it filled to overflowing with people, crammed in every corner, hallway, and room, and stretching out into the street. It would be impossible even for a man, alone, to get through the crowd, much less four men carrying a stretcher.

One of the friends pointed to the flat roof-top and the stairs leading to the top along the side of the house.  “Quick!” he said, “We must try that way—Reuben might not last much longer!”

A young boy had followed them up. “Tell us—which room is Jesus in?” Marcus asked. “This main room, right under here,” the lad answered. The men began to dig with some tools the boy brought them. Roofs in Palestine were made of reeds, overspread with mud, or tiles. It wasn’t too difficult to make an opening.

In the room below, Jesus had been preaching, but then people began commenting, as dirt and chunks of dried mud began to fall on them. Soon, they could see the men’s hands, then their determined faces, as they created an opening. The home-owner had begun remonstrating when he saw the action they were taking, but Marcus called down, “Do not worry—we are honorable men, and we will repair the damage!”

Jesus chuckled as he saw what they were about to do, “A fortunate man is this, to have four friends with such faith!” Soon, the pallet began descending, as the men lowered their emaciated, gravely ill companion down to Jesus.

He gazed at the feverish, pain-ridden man, and saw deep into his sin-sick soul—the bitterness, the rage, the resentment against his circumstances. “Son, your sins are forgiven,” Jesus spoke gently.

The teachers of the law, seated nearby, thought to themselves, “Who does this upstart think he is? Only God can forgive sin – he’s a blasphemer!”

Jesus, turning to look at them, said indignantly, “Why are you thinking those thoughts? It is equally easy for me to forgive sin or to make this man walk. And to prove this,” he said to the Pharisees, “and so you’ll know God has given me this authority on earth,” he spoke firmly to Reuben, lying on the mat in front of him, “I tell you, get up, take your mat and go home.”

The four friends, crowded around the opening in the roof, held their breath as they watched what would happen. The crowd was absolutely silent. No one said a word. The religious experts sat with narrowed eyes, their arms crossed. Outside in the street, some children were shouting to each other at play. Inside, in the crowded room, with its heat and odor, it seemed the whole universe came to a stand-still.

Then, a split second later, Reuben opened his eyes. The first one he saw was the happy face of Jesus—such a wonderful face— strong, manly, yet filled with love, forgiveness, acceptance, and restoration. The paralytic smiled back, as wellness flooded his body.

Jesus reached down and gave him his hand. Reuben took it and sat up—the first time in ten years. His legs were still shriveled and emaciated, but Jesus pulled him to his feet. Reuben took a tentative step, as the crowd pushed back to make room. He began walking slowly, wobbling a bit at first, in a tight circle. Someone reached out to steady him, as someone else pulled the mat out of the way. Jesus grinned and gave a thumbs-up to the happy, weeping faces above him in the opening.

With excitement, joy, shouts, and applause increasing by the second, the people made way for Reuben to pass through their midst, carrying his mat on his shoulder. Behind him were the discomfited, embarrassed religious leaders, a rejoicing crowd, and a smiling, joyous Jesus.

Ahead of Reuben was a blessed, new, forgiven, restored life and his four, faithful, happy friends with whom to enjoy it.

                                    ***********************

How often we need “four friends,” whose faith and steadfastness will carry us in prayer when we are weak, have lost hope, and can’t-see-the-forest-for-the-trees. Perhaps it will take these saints time—praying and believing—to remove the “tiles and roofing materials” of unbelief and dullness to make an opening.

When I can’t take myself to Jesus, this is when I need the Body of Christ—beloved sisters and brothers—to open the roof, lower me into His Presence and watch for miracles. Thank you.

Thanksgiving Daily, Not Just November

I had a reality check the other day. You know, those moments when suddenly what you thought was a really bad situation you were able to view from another—more positive—angle.

As I have “matured” my post-polio issues have multiplied and become complicated by a number of factors. I woke up the other day and it seemed like every single part of my body hurt—all the way to my eyelashes. I moaned and groaned, complaining to the Lord that according to Schisler Family genetics, I’m probably going to live a Very Long Time (my Aunt Helene just turned 98!), enduring a pain-filled extended life. Discouragement, depression, dismalness—all the “D” words—put me into a sorry state.

.

Then yesterday I happened to read Joni Eareckson Tada’s blog, describing her present condition, 50 years after her swimming accident that left her a quadriplegic. This dear woman of God, who has influenced so many people through her testimony, can’t even scratch her own nose, feed herself—much less take care of her own bodily needs. Joni wrote:

"Every single morning when I wake up I need Jesus so badly; I just can't tolerate the thought of another day as a quadriplegic with someone else giving me a bed bath and exercising my legs and toileting routines— it all just seems too overwhelming.” Her next thought is to pray, "Jesus, I need you. I can't do this. I cannot do quadriplegia but I can do all things through you."

I was so convicted. “Lord, I just need to shut up, suck it up, straighten up, give up the complaints and BE THANKFUL, for heaven’s sake. Nowhere even close to Joni’s challenges, I am blessed beyond belief. (And by the way, my pain levels are greatly reduced today. Sometimes it's the weather, circadian rhythms, cycles of the moon, NASA launches, government idiocies--I dunno. Some days are just like that!)

Thanksgiving isn’t just a one-day holiday. It’s a daily event— a life-long attitude. Today I am truly thankful.

BIG PARTY IN HEAVEN!

There's gonna be a big party in heaven -- Dad, Jack Schisler, is turning 100 on Sep 11. Here's the Face Book announcement and a FREE download offer of the book in 3 languages!

VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT! In honor of my dad, Jack R. Schisler’s 100^th BD (which he’s celebrating in heaven!) I’m offering for 2 days only—Sep 10 and 11—a FREE Kindle digital version of the book A Man After God’s Own Heart—the Jack Schisler Story! Available in English, Spanish, or Portuguese!

UN ANUNCIO MUY IMPORTANTE! En honor al cumple de 100 años de Papi, Jack Schisler (que él está festejando en el cielo!) estoy ofreciendo por solo 2 días—el 10 y 11 de Septiembre—GRATIS en Amazon Kindle el libro en forma digital La Historia de Jack Schisler, un Hombre Conforme al Corazón de Dios.

AVISO MUITO IMPORTANTE! Em homenagem a meu pai, aniversário

100 de Jack R. Schisler (que ele vai estar comemorando no paraíso)—estou oferecendo por 2 dias somente — Set 10 e 11 —uma versão digital gratuito a Vida de Jack Schisler—un Homem Segundo ó Coração de Deus! Olhe para esse título en Amazon.

Fruit That Remains

Something to think about: We may never know during our time on this earth what continuing impact our lives have had -- here's an example of that:

For several years I have maintained a website, www.jackschislerstory.com, which has a photo slideshow, testimonies about the book: A Man after God's Own Heart-the Jack Schisler Story, and information on how to purchase it, available in English, Spanish, and Portuguese, print form as well as digital.

In January, 2015, I received a message through the website from a young man in Indonesia:

Darma Sola Fide, a school teacher, lives near Balai Sepuak where we were in Borneo. He is actually a Dayak, and said his great uncle was Guru Lombok, the Dayak leader that worked very closely with Dad and Mom-- Jack and Marian. He only remembered his relatives speaking of missionaries, Arthur Mouw and Jack Schisler, but knew very little about the history, being only in his late twenties.

                                              (Lombok, Marta, Marian and Jack--1950)

In doing an internet search of the name he remembered, Darma found my website, and was fascinated to see his own Uncle Lombok and Aunt Marta in those old photos. Though his English is limited, he was able to explain that the Bible school that Arthur Mouw and Jack had started there in Balai Sepuak is continuing to this day, though it was relocated to another town. The church at Ebenezer (Eben) continues in the exact spot, though it has been rebuilt four times, and is now a modern building. (Jack with Dayak pastor; first church building--1950; second, modern one--2015)

He shared his findings, including the photos, with the Dayaks there and found two elderly men who had only been children at the time, but who remembered my father. Darma also told me how there are churches, schools, health clinics, and thousands of Christians in the Belitang area of Borneo. “My people don’t know how the gospel came to us, and we need to know this history,” he said. “We need to hear this story.” The incredible thing is that he has access to internet and has an iPhone, which we find unbelievable, given the fact that in our time there was no electricity or roads—very little connection to the outside world, other than river-travel.

Since that initial contact with Darma, we have continued to correspond, including exchanging photos, some which I am including here.

My siblings and I have marveled at this connection—after 60-plus years; being able to catch a glimpse of “fruit that remains.” We so wish that our dad and mom, over there with Jesus, could have lived to see this, but perhaps God has allowed them to have a small peek from heaven at the harvest that continues after these many decades.

A further event to rejoice over: As a result of my brother, Ken’s contacts, there is someone who has been at work translating the book, A Man after God’s Own Heart—the Jack Schisler Story into Bahasa Indonesian—the fourth language. We believe it can be of great benefit to make this important history of missions and revival available to the Indonesian people, and particularly the Dayaks of West Borneo.

My thoughts regarding this is that "he who goes forth weeping, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him." There are surely many tears shed during the planting of precious seed, but just as surely there will be a harvest--even if we don't live to see it.

She Walks Funny But She's Nice

During one of our seasons of living in Lima on furlough, Danny, who was around age five, was taking swim lessons that a friend arranged. She picked him up and brought him back most of the time, but once was unable to, so I went to get him. Danny excitedly wanted to introduce me to his swim instructor and took me around to the backyard swimming pool. He cheerfully announced, “This is my mom—she walks funny but she’s nice!” I’ve often thought that might have been a good book title!

On another note, in 1985—in the intense heat and humidity of a Paraguayan summer, following a period of discouragement from the many demands on my limited strength and mobility, I went to prayer and felt the Lord say:

“My child, rest in the Lord—I am your faith, I am all that you need. The enemy would rob you of my blessings by bringing discouragement. Resist him; praise me even in these difficult times for you. I know what I am doing. Someday you’ll understand. There are hosts in the heavenlies watching, observing you, and many here are viewing your life. You are a testimony to my work in you—and many are strengthened by your life.”

I pray and trust that has continued to be what people have seen – God's grace and sustaining power in keeping me going and giving me joy.

AARRRGGGHHH! Here I am again, after a LONG hiatus which included a trip to Paraguay and a host of other things which I won't bore you by listing here.

So I'm back to cogitating on this whole subject of writing, which becomes increasingly complex as I gain understanding through my connection with Jerry Jenkins Writers Guild. It has been wonderfully informative, but at the same time, rather disheartening. Jerry strongly discourages all of us "blooming authors" for the most part to avoid self-publishing. He says good writing is the key to getting published by traditional publishing companies. Then, of course, one has to build a platform or a tribe (gain followers), get shorter articles published first in magazines or other people's blogs, and build up one's own blog with a host of followers. I say, "Good luck with THAT." OK, I'm supposed to focus on ONE thing first, so I guess I'll do that with this feeble, futile, fumbling attempt at blogging. No, scratch all that! Gotta stay positive.

By the way, I'm still plugging away at my memoir, which might have the title, "The Crystal Bell of God's Protection" or something like that. I'll keep everyone posted...

Here's another one of my journal entries from long ago (from the date, I probably was the new mother of Baby Danny):

1974

"Lord, here I am in this cluttered room called 'daily life'—so many busy, though good things to do and in the midst of it all, a door—the entrance into your Presence. There you are, waiting for me, but the door is small and in the clutter, I pass by, always thinking 'I’ll go in' but continually distracted by the duties in this room. Beyond the door there is Peace, Quiet, Rest, Communion with You—just by turning the knob, opening the door, and entering. I can close it again on everything else, and just experience the  blessedness of an hour with you. There’s no need to ask you to help me enter—the door is there. All I need to do is open it. You’re waiting for me.

You are asking for an obedient heart—give me that kind of heart, Lord. I can’t promise you obedience if you don’t do it. I can’t live a life of faith if you don’t plant faith within me; I place absolutely no confidence in myself. It is only your grace that will bring me through. Increase that spark until I become a white-hot flame that can’t be quenched. Draw me above the realm of enjoying your blessings, to the place of enjoying YOU.

Lord, your promise is like a great mountain before me. Yet every time I climb the next hill I find there are yet more hills between me and the mountain. Someday I will reach it, in your time and way. There are no short-cuts. You are taking me from faith to faith—the hills yet to be climbed."

Forty plus years later, it's still true. If anything, there are more distractions than ever. Now, no longer a mommy of a tiny baby, I'm a grandma. Still needing to open that door. He always waits...

Maintaining a blog is the next challenge!

Maintaining a meaningful, engaging, powerful blog is my latest challenge. It's been several weeks since I last posted something (only had 5 readers on that one!) I thought the tag lines were good, but apparently not too many others thought so! :(

I’ve finally figured out the problem: I’m “full-time everything” – a full-time wife, housekeeper, grandma, piano teacher, volunteer for our mission organization, and wannabe author. There are not enough hours in the day and I’m stuck with the 15 or so waking hours I have.

Anyway, moving to another topic, I've been reading over past journals, going all the way back to the 70s. Many of the entries are drivel, but there have been some significant communications I've had with God--usually during moments of crisis, discouragement, or pain. And sometimes I demonstrate a down-right bad attitude.

Here's an interesting one:

Nov. 12, ‘84

At end of rope again – manifested rebellion towards the Lord—threw Bible against wall. Was dumb-struck at what I had just done. Resulted in deep breaking and repentance. The Lord spoke (I even sensed Him smiling): “I’m not surprised.” Long conversation with Him, brought rest and inner healing. I was drawn to Psalm 13 NIV

For the director of music. A psalm of David.

1 How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?
2 How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
    and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
    How long will my enemy triumph over me?

3 Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
    Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
4 and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
    and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

5 But I trust in your unfailing love;
    my heart rejoices in your salvation.
6 I will sing the Lord’s praise,
    for he has been good to me.

I'm glad the Lord isn't shocked by my attitudes. He still loves me, forgives me, and is ALWAYS good to me. Sometimes He has to let me see the stuff that’s buried deep down. It isn’t pretty, but being brought to the surface allows Him to deal with it.

The bottom line is that I can trust in His unfailing love and rejoice in His salvation.

Servant of All

Good Friday, a day when evil set itself to conquer, but instead, the Ultimate Triumph of all history was set in motion. A day of suffering, darkness, and horror--Jesus' followers thought it was the end. Instead it was just the Beginning.

Here's how I imagined that last gathering of our Lord with his floundering, failing, fumbling friends:

Smoking oil lamps created flickering shadows on the walls, and the very air in the room seemed dark and brooding. The men’s faces looked older in the dusky light, their increasingly somber mood making their features more pronounced. 

The evening had started out well enough, with friendly sort of conversation and banter among them, as the disciples took their places around the table. Yet, each of them got quieter as they noticed Jesus, sitting at the head of the table, His face pale, eyes looking down at His hands clasped in front of Him. Was He ill? They had never known Him to be sick, but something seemed amiss. No one wanted to ask Jesus what was wrong, and thus, one by one they fell silent. Casual conversation felt awkward, ill-timed.

A servant came in and set out the Passover meal in front of Jesus—a flat circle of unleavened bread, an unadorned wood flagon of wine.

Suddenly, instead of beginning the Passover ritual, Jesus stood resolutely to His feet and went to the corner, where a washbasin stood, removing his outer garment as he went.  There was something vulnerable in His appearance as He carried the basin back to the table. Stooping, their Sovereign Lord, King of all kings—began to wash their feet, the lowly task of a slave.

 His strong, muscular arms glistened with drops of water; his tanned, callous hands were capable, yet gentle, as He knelt before them by turn.

Each man seemed to react differently to Jesus' actions: The first bowed his head, tears beginning to flow; one turned pale and put his hands over his face; others looked embarrassed, awkward, humbled; Judas seemed annoyed—his face flushed red.  John leaned forward, and putting his arms around Jesus' neck and shoulders, wept against Jesus chest. 

Peter— bold, brash, outspoken Peter—shrank back in aversion. "You shall never wash my feet!" He seemed to always want to outguess, outsmart, outdo anyone else, even Christ his Messiah. 

"If I don't wash you, you won't have anything to do with me." Jesus was very blunt in his response. Unless Peter could accept this simple act of humility—the Highest King washing the dusty feet of his friends—he could not move to the next level of relationship. "Then wash ALL of me!" Peter blurted out.

Jesus went on to describe the "trap" he had set for them. "I have set for you an example that you should do as I have done for you." If He, as Supreme Creator God could wash their feet, His servants could do no less than serve each other.

I wonder if it occurred to any of the disciples to step in and take Jesus’ place as foot-washer, washing each other’s feet. What would have happened if one of them offered to wash Jesus’ own feet?

They didn’t seem to GET IT right then. Somewhere, in the backs of their minds was this lingering fixation that Jesus would soon take His earthly throne, throw out the Romans, and THEY, His humble, yet worthy followers would have immediate positions of importance. Foot-washing didn’t fit into the picture they held firmly in their minds: Jesus, seated on a royal throne, the davidic kingdom restored; his faithful friends lolling on splendidly elegant cushions nearby, ready to participate in messianic decision-making, while slaves served refreshments on silver trays. If they played their cards right and manipulated people and circumstances, they could rise to the top of the heap.

These men that Jesus had chosen—for reasons known only to Him—had even engaged in an argument at the Last Supper table over who would be the greatest—perhaps Prime Minister or Grand Vizier?  Maybe Viceroy? Certainly an Ambassadorship would be fitting; or how about Assistant-Messiah?

It’s not difficult to imagine Jesus rolling His eyes and sighing as He explained that this was not the Kingdom way. “He, who would be great among you, let him be servant of all. Didn’t you boys pay attention when I washed your feet?”

Jesus saw into the looming future. After His death and resurrection He would send the Holy Spirit to guide His disciples and those countless ones who would follow Him, down through the centuries—into all truth. Without His Spirit to indwell, enable, impart into, and anoint them, they were—and we are— incapable and unwilling to grasp these concepts He was trying to teach.

The Messiah could also foresee the persecution and martyrdom that awaited a number of these His friends. They would learn. The Holy Spirit would come. And servant-hood and humility would be acquired through the fires of testing.

Like the old song, “If you want to be great in God’s Kingdom, learn to be the servant of all…”

There is no other way.

A Goodly Heritage

I've been thinking a great deal about what kind of heritage I'll leave behind (not that I'm planning on "popping off"--to quote my Grandma Cole--any time soon.) We attended a funeral recently for an 89 year old lady, who left a great heritage for her family. In the remarks made by family members, they all acknowledged she "wasn't perfect" but loved the Lord and loved her family.

Genesis 18:19, the Lord said in regards to Abraham: "Indeed, I've made myself known to him in order that he may encourage his sons and his household that is born after him to keep the way of the LORD, and to do what is right and just, so that the LORD may bring about for Abraham what he has promised." 

Abraham was not perfect, either, but he "encouraged his household to keep the way of the Lord" by his own obedience and faithfulness.This was the heritage he left for his family and for all of us down through history.

My own dad and mom set the bar high. They lived in private what they preached publicly--modeling in their own lives what they taught us by principle and precept. Seeing Mom reading the Word, hearing Dad pray, observing them put God and others first; themselves and their own needs last, had a lasting impact on us.

The following quote is the end of Chapter One of my memoir, after the episode of my illness: "Though there would be countless battles ahead, Dad and Mom had weathered a major crisis, this testing by fire in which the enemy attacked them at their most vulnerable place.  By God’s grace they came through, undeterred from their call. The kingdom of darkness in Indonesia and beyond would be shaken by their sacrificial obedience and faithfulness."

I would like that to be the heritage I leave for my own family: simple obedience to the Lord and faithfulness in everything I put my hand to. In spite of my fumbling failures, by His grace, I will.

Writing a Memoir Is Hard!

I've discovered that writing a personal memoir is exceedingly difficult. Does one catalogue the sequence of events, or pick out the most important? How can one create dialogue and drama in historical circumstances from 50-plus years ago? Is it possible to re-imagine the emotional settings and memories? Will anyone want to read this?

The advice that Jerry Jenkins gave me when I asked him about writing a memoir was: 

"Good memoirs are not hard to sell, Connie. Look for the transferable, universal principles; leave out the boring parts; grab the reader by the throat from the first line and never let go; write what would keep you reading and hope there are thousands like you out there."

So here's the continuation of the previous section of the memoir. I hope it "keeps you reading!"

...In their [my parents] own words, “In a daze we made little Connie ready.  She was quite lively and smiled as sweet as ever—like a little doll in her white dress with a touch of blue. She almost looked ready for heaven to us and it truly seemed as though we were taking her to her funeral as we went to that hospital.  Sensing something was wrong, Connie kept hugging her sister Cathy, as though this comforted her somehow.”

As the word spread through the mission headquarters, many people rallied to pray, both of the missionary group as well as nationals.  Mom and Dad, on their way to the hospital by taxi with me, were in a state of shock, disbelief and numbness. 

“The hours felt like years were compressed into them and time seemed to stand still,” Jack wrote later.  They were still dazed as the doctors examined me again.  Jack and Marian could read the verdict in their faces and the terrible reality began to sink in.  Their own little baby had polio! This fearful, deforming, often fatal disease had been the scourge of the decade.  Every parent of the 1940s knew the symptoms well, as millions, mostly children, had fallen victim to this world-wide epidemic."

...To be continued. I hope.

Zero Degrees?? You've Got to Be Kidding!

This weekend is ridiculously cold here in Western NY (zero degrees, mean temp, tomorrow -- and I mean MEAN.) So, I will stay inside, cuddled in my electric fleece throw ($20 at Walmart--should have bought one years ago) and work on my authorship endeavors.

One of the points Jerry Jenkins has strongly made is the need for Ferocious Self-Editing. This basically involves shredding your manuscript, using it to start your fireplace and going into another line of work, like a Caller at Bingo or something. Not really. He took some poor, benighted soul's first page of a novel and reworked it down from 150 words to some 50. It definitely was enlightening and helpful. One has to be thick-skinned and tenacious to be a writer. Learn proper grammar and punctuation, for heaven's sake (do people on F.B. ever self-edit their postings?)

So here's another snippet from my rough-draft of memoir:

It was all in the category of normal missionary adjustments, with its ups and downs, frustrations, and adventure. Then May 18, 1947 dawned—the muggy, tropical heat already rising in waves—and with it, an encroaching event by which life was measured before and after. Dad and Mom were up, preparing for the day, which mostly involved language study at this point. Neither of them had any premonitions of what was about to take place…

Plucking me, a toddler of 19 months, out of the crib, Mom lovingly began dressing me, but noticed I looked pale and feverish. As she put on my shoes, I winced, as if the action hurt me somehow. Then she set me on the floor and I fell, cutting my tongue badly. Mom noticed right away that my feet and legs didn’t seem to support me. Dad had seen me fall also and they looked at each other with fear mounting in their hearts. What could possibly be wrong with their baby? Dad tried to appear confident but quietly checked the reference for polio in their medical encyclopedia. The clammy hand of dread clutched even tighter as he confirmed the symptoms.

A doctor came and after checking my reflexes, chest, and back, he told them that all indications pointed to polio. He said they must immediately take me to the Catholic hospital in Makassar, where there was a Chinese pediatric specialist.

....to be continued. Maybe.

I'm Supposed to Blog Again!?

Well, after a very long hiatus, I'm back, trying out this blogging thing again. The main reason being that I've joined Jerry Jenkins Writers Guild (which is GREAT, by the way!) and he encourages all of us "wannabe authors" to get our feet wet by blogging, getting published in magazines, periodicals, etc. One of the principal motives as to why I quit long ago was because it seems to be very difficult to build up "followers." But, I'm not going to whine about that -- yet. I'll give it another whirl and see what happens first.

As a way of explanation: I am working on my own memoir--(do I hear quickly departing footsteps as you immediately think of something quite urgent that is calling you away?)

The title will be something like, "The Crystal Bell of God's Protection" and tells mainly the story of how I had polio as a small child and the long road God has brought me along to where I am today.

Here is a short excerpt:

 “In a daze we made little Connie ready.  She was quite lively and smiled as sweet as ever—like a little doll in her white dress with a touch of blue. She almost looked ready for heaven to us and it truly seemed as though we were taking her to her funeral as we went to that hospital…”

Very early in my life God provided a Crystal Bell for me, in His sovereign omniscience, knowing what would be needed to protect and keep me for my planned destiny. I was only a toddler but my heavenly Father could see clearly through the mists of time which shrouded the future. I would not be able to understand this until later."   

So, there you have it -- the first two paragraphs of Chapter One. Stay tuned for more...I hope. 

Four Faithful Friends

 FOUR FAITHFUL FRIENDS

Mark 2:1-12--“When Jesus saw their faith...”

                Reuben lay dozing on his mat in the afternoon heat, generally where one would find him any day or night. Besides the hot, dust-laden breeze, the familiar sounds of village life drifted in through the open doorway: children’s shouts and laughter, a rooster crowing, the braying of a donkey.  Reuben heard but barely heeded.

                It had been ten years since the accident. Falling twenty-five feet off a rock-faced cliff while trying to collect birds’ eggs had been the split-second event that changed his life forever.

                A mere teenager at the time, Reuben had been with four of his friends, who thought it would be great fun to climb up to where falcons had their nests. His companions had teased him a bit about being afraid to mount up to the spot where they could see a very fine hole in the rock with a bird’s nest there. Boys being who they are, from that it turned into a good-natured dare. At that age, who can resist?

                Reuben, a sensitive, tentative fifteen-year old, had resolutely swallowed his fear of heights and proceeded to cautiously climb further up.

                Then it happened. The rock he was clinging to with his bare toes, gave way and crumbled under him. His hands slipped and he plunged to the ground below, narrowly escaping with his life, though his neck was broken and his whole body paralyzed.

                This tragedy marked not only Reuben’s life, but his four friends as well. Their genuine sorrow and guilt over having egged him on, provoking his effort that resulted in permanent injury, weighed heavily on them. Consequently, they dealt with their own consciences by assuming his care—each of them taking turns. Their devotion was unswerving and determined—year after year.

                At first, it went well. Reuben was grateful and showed remarkable resilience. Then, as time crept forward, he sank gradually into deep depression and bitterness. Raging and complaining at life, at his family, at his dedicated friends, and ultimately, at God, became his mood and outlook. Complications developed from his inert, prone position, and he experienced constant pain.

                His friends were not detracted from their mission. They WOULD care for him, all his days, as long as they were able.  Each one became more determined as time went on.

                Marcus, the oldest of the group, was in the marketplace one day, when he saw a crowd of people tightly clustered around a Man. His curiosity stirred, Marcus edged closer. With rough, homespun clothing this person looked like any ordinary Jewish man, but there was something about His face. Marcus was mesmerized.  Was it His quiet dignity?  No, it was more than that. A look of authority, of contained-power?  Of gentleness, of mercy? Yes, it was all that. But more—it was the countenance of a King, a royal Person, clad in unremarkable garb. He learned from a by-stander that this was Jesus of Nazareth, a carpenter.

                This Man was teaching—using common illustrations and stories from the lives, stories, and livelihood of the Jewish people. His words carried force, authority, and spoke straight to one’s heart. Marcus felt something stirring at the deepest level in his own being. For the first time in his life, the strong Jewish foundations he had acquired from the Rabbis, took on new meaning. The Torah wasn’t just a book of laws and regulations.  This Jesus made it alive: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, soul, mind, strength--and thy neighbor as thyself.” He then proceeded to define who our neighbor was:  the downtrodden, the despised--even the Samaritan.

                Tear slid, unbidden, down Marcus’ face. Something very deep within had been stirred and changed. The teaching concluded and he turned quickly. “I must tell the others,” he muttered to himself.

                Finding his three friends, Marcus gathered them at his home and related the story of his encounter with Jesus. “You must come with me to hear Him. Never a man spoke as this man does!” he urged them.

                The four companions, knit closely by their circumstances, made their way to the town square the next day--a Sabbath. They saw Jesus, surrounded by his followers, sitting under an olive tree. Jesus turned and smiled at the four. “Welcome, friends,” he said, cheerfully, and gestured for them to draw near. As the crowd continued to gather, Jesus began to teach. His words about the hypocrisy of Pharisees and religious leaders were strong and painfully direct; but He spoke gently to the common people, warning them to be on their guard against such practices. “The greatest among you will be your servant. For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.”

                The four friends looked at each other and nodded with agreement. This man’s teaching was right on! And he wasn’t afraid to confront the religious hierarchy--this took real courage.  Some of his words made one uncomfortable, as if looking in a mirror and seeing oneself as one truly looked on the inside.  Yet, when Jesus’ dark, brilliant eyes met yours, you felt he accepted you and forgave the penitent, repenting heart.

                Marcus and his companions were mesmerized, unable to tear themselves away.  Nearby, a cluster of Pharisees and scribes stood, their arms folded, at times whispering among themselves. Marcus heard one of them say with a sneer, “I wonder if this man dares to perform one of his so-called miracles on the Sabbath!” Jesus turned and looked directly and sternly at the Pharisee, then deliberately spoke to a man with a withered hand, “Stand up, my friend, and come close. Stretch out your hand!” When he did, his hand became completely normal--exactly as his other hand.

                The crowd was delighted and cheers went up on all sides, as once again, Jesus had bested and humiliated the religious gentry.  Marcus turned and grinned at his friends: “Round one--Jesus wins; Religious leaders--zero!” Then, it was as if they all had the same thought, as their eyes widened and they all seemed to speak to each other at once.

                “Reuben! We must bring him to Jesus!”

                Arriving at Reuben’s home, they found his aged mother bending over him, sponging his face with cool water. “He’s ill -- a fever has taken hold of him.” She spoke in terse tones to the men.  “It is indeed the worst I have seen him.”

                Reuben, moaning and mumbling incoherently, seemed unaware of his surroundings.  His head, the only appendage he could move, tossed from side to side.

                “We must take him to Jesus--now! Marcus said urgently. They carried him on his pallet and headed back to the marketplace. Arriving, they found Jesus and his disciples had gone; but a woman, sweeping in front of her doorway, said they had been invited to one of the Pharisee’s homes--“down that street, in front of the synagogue,” she told them.

                When they reached the house, they found it filled to overflowing with people, crammed in every corner, hallway, and room, and stretching out into the street. It would be impossible even for a man, alone, to get through the crowd, much less four men carrying a stretcher.

                One of the friends pointed to the flat roof-top and the stairs leading to the top along the side of the house.  “Quick!” he said, “We must try that way!”

                A young boy had followed them up. “Tell us--which room is Jesus in?” Marcus asked. “This main room, right under here,” the lad answered. The men began to dig with some tools the boy brought them. Roofs in Palestine were made of reeds, overspread with mud, and it wasn’t too difficult to make an opening.

                In the room below, Jesus had been preaching, but then people began commenting, as dirt and chunks of dried mud began to fall on them. Soon, they could see the men’s hands, then their determined faces, as they created an opening. The home-owner had begun remonstrating when he saw the action they were taking, but Marcus called down, “Do not worry--we are honorable men, and we will repair the damage!”

                Jesus chuckled as he saw what they were about to do. “A fortunate man is this, to have four friends with such faith!” Soon, the pallet began descending, as the men lowered their gravely ill companion down to Jesus.

                He gazed at the feverish, pain-ridden man, and saw deep into his sin-sick soul--the bitterness, the rage, the resentment against his circumstances. “Son, your sins are forgiven,” Jesus spoke gently.

                The teachers of the law, seated nearby, thought to themselves, “Who does this upstart think he is! Only God can forgive sin -- he’s a blasphemer!”

                Jesus, turning to look at them, said indignantly, “Why are you thinking those thoughts? It’s equally easy for me to forgive sin or to make this man walk. And to prove this,” he said to the Pharisees, “and so you’ll know God has given me this authority on earth,” he spoke firmly to Reuben, lying on the mat in front of him, “I tell you, get up, take your mat and go home.”

                The four friends, crowded around the opening in the roof, held their breath as they watched what would happen. The crowd was absolutely silent. No one said a word. Outside in the street, some children were shouting to each other at play. Inside, in the crowded room, with its heat and odor, it seemed the whole universe came to a stand-still.

                Then, a split second later, Reuben opened his eyes. The first one he saw was the happy face of Jesus--such a wonderful face-- strong, manly, yet filled with love, forgiveness, acceptance, and restoration. The paralytic smiled back, as wellness flooded his body.

                Jesus reached down and gave him his hand. Reuben took it and sat up--the first time in ten years. His legs were still shriveled and emaciated, but Jesus pulled him to his feet. Reuben took a tentative step, as the crowd pushed back to make room. He began walking slowly, wobbling a bit at first, in a tight circle. Someone reached out to steady him, as someone else pulled the mat out of the way. Jesus grinned and gave a thumbs-up at the happy, weeping faces above him in the opening.

                With excitement, joy, shouts, and applause increasing by the second, the people made way for Reuben to pass through their midst, carrying his mat on his shoulder. Behind him were the discomfited, embarrassed religious leaders, a rejoicing crowd, and a smiling, joyous Jesus.

                Ahead of Reuben was a blessed, new, forgiven, restored life and his four, faithful, happy friends with whom to enjoy it.

                                                ******************************************

                 How often we need “four friends”--people whose faith and steadfastness will carry us in prayer, when we are weak, have lost hope, and can’t-see-the-forest-for-the-trees.

                Sometimes I can’t take myself to Jesus. This is when I need the Body of Christ--beloved sisters and brothers--to lift me into His Presence and believe for miracles. Thank you for this.

Servant of All

Smoking oil lamps created flickering shadows on the walls, and the very air in the room seemed dark and brooding. The men’s faces looked older in the dusky light, their increasingly somber mood making their features more pronounced.

The evening had started out well enough, with friendly sort of conversation and banter among them, as the disciples took their places around the table. Yet, each of them got quieter as they noticed Jesus, sitting at the head of the table, His face pale, eyes looking down at His hands clasped in front of Him. Was He ill? They had never known Him to be sick, but something seemed amiss. No one wanted to ask Jesus what was wrong, and thus, one by one they fell silent. Casual conversation felt awkward, ill- timed.

A servant came in and set out the Passover meal in front of Jesus—a flat circle of unleavened bread, an unadorned wood flagon of wine.

Suddenly, instead of beginning the Passover ritual, Jesus stood to His feet and went to the corner, where a washbasin stood, removing his outer garment as he went. There was something vulnerable in His appearance as He carried the basin back to the table. Stooping down, their Sovereign Lord—King of all kings, began to wash their feet—the lowly task of a slave.

His strong, muscular arms glistened with drops of water; his tanned, callous hands were capable, yet gentle, as He knelt before them by turn.

Each man seemed to react differently to Jesus' actions: The first bowed his head, tears beginning to flow; one turned pale and put his hands over his face; others looked embarrassed, awkward, humbled; Judas seemed annoyed—his face flushed red. John leaned forward, and putting his arms around Jesus' neck and shoulders, wept against Jesus chest.

Peter— bold, brash, outspoken Peter—shrank back in aversion. "You shall never wash my feet!" He seemed to always want to outguess, outsmart, outdo anyone else—even Christ his Messiah.

"If I don't wash you, you won't have anything to do with me." Jesus was very blunt in his response. Unless Peter could accept this simple act of humility—the Highest King washing the dusty feet of his friends—he could not move to the next level of relationship. "Then wash ALL of me!" Peter blurted out.

Jesus went on to describe the "trap" he had set for them. "I have set for you an example that you should do as I have done for you." If He, as Supreme Creator God could wash their feet, His servants could do no less than serve each other.

I wonder if it occurred to any of the disciples to step in and take Jesus’ place as foot-washer, washing each other’s feet. What would have happened if one of them offered to wash Jesus’ own feet?

They didn’t seem to GET IT right then. Somewhere, in the backs of their minds was this lingering fixation that Jesus would soon take His earthly throne, throw out the Romans, and THEY, His humble, yet worthy followers would have immediate positions of importance. Foot-washing didn’t fit into the picture they held firmly in their minds of Jesus, seated on a royal throne, the Davidic kingdom restored; his faithful friends lolling on splendidly elegant cushions nearby, ready to participate in messianic decision-making, while slaves served refreshments on silver trays. If they played their cards right and manipulated people and circumstances, they could rise to the top of the heap.

These men that Jesus had chosen—for reasons known only to Him—had even engaged in an argument at the Last Supper table over who would be the greatest—perhaps Prime Minister or Grand Vizier? Maybe Viceroy? Certainly an Ambassadorship would be fitting; or how about Assistant-Messiah?

It’s not difficult to imagine Jesus rolling His eyes and sighing as He explained that this was not the Kingdom way. “He, who would be great among you, let him be servant of all. Didn’t you boys pay attention when I washed your feet?”

Jesus saw into the looming future: After His death and resurrection He would send the Holy Spirit to guide His disciples and those countless ones who would follow Him, down through the centuries—into all truth. Without His Spirit to indwell, enable, impart into, and anoint them, they were—and we are— incapable and unwilling to grasp these concepts He was trying to teach.

The Messiah could also foresee the persecution and martyrdom that awaited a number of these His friends. They would learn. The Holy Spirit would come. And servant-hood and humility would be acquired through the fires of testing.

Like the old song, “If you want to be great in God’s Kingdom, learn to be the servant of all…”

There is no other way.

Connie Vellekoop
March, 2012

In Him is No Darkness at All

True confession: to this day, I— a mature, grown woman, reasonably well-balanced, and of sound mind—retain a secret, residual apprehension of the dark. This is a carry-over from my childhood and though I recognize that all children experience a certain amount of fear of the dark, mine was an inordinately deep-rooted, brain-numbing, heart-thudding terror.

There are logical reasons: my earliest childhood was spent in the jungle. Night-fall in a tropical rain-forest happens quickly—the sun just drops, seemingly, out of sight—and there it is—darkest of night. There are no lights from civilization to brighten the sky; the moonless gloom below the forest canopy is a place of mystery: nameless sounds, rustlings, sibilant whisperings, grunts and hoots. Directly outside the warm lights of our home lay a vast ocean of secretive blackness. I would no more set foot out there than face a caged lion.

One time Daddy was carrying me from our house up over the hill to the Bible school chapel for the evening service. The family had already gone ahead. My loving, but unaware father remembered something he needed to get, so midway up the rise he sat me on a stump and went back to the house. There I was, age five or six, alone and oh so fearful in the darkness.

Overhead I saw the splendid effulgence of a star-lit tropical sky. Though amazed by the spectacular clarity of each orb, my attention focused inexorably on the blackness around about me. What WAS that movement in the undergrowth? I sat, my shoulders hunched, and my heart thumping in my ears, mute with fear.

A soft breeze ruffled my hair and brought the redolence of the rain forest scents: moldy leaves, an exotic fragrance of a hidden flower; the wood smoke from the Dayak village’s cooking fires. I was hardly aware of these distractions.

Daddy could not have taken more than three or four minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. He returned and no child could have been more relieved than I was. I don't recall if I said anything to him—probably not—my relief was too great.

My strong, handsome father was my hero—then, as always. But he had abandoned me once, very early in my life, which resulted in the second reason for my fear of the dark. I don’t even have conscious memories of that season, as I was only a toddler. Dad and Mom had to leave me in the hospital, not being allowed to stay because of the contagion of the polio virus with which I was afflicted.

Daddy, who should have been my protector, my hero—walked out the door and left me there, screaming. I could not have known my parents’ own agony. Their grief is told elsewhere in my writing.

Then the nightmares began—the conscious part that I do remember.

The usual pattern in my dreams consisted of Daddy walking out of my dark room, and I, seeing his silhouette in the lighted hallway. I would call to him, but he would keep going, seeming to ignore my cries. And something lurked in my room, an evil creature that looked like a giant turtle, and I would be frozen with fear.

Thankfully, the nightmares dwindled and disappeared over the years. I never told anyone about them, but probably a psychologist would point to those episodes as part of my ongoing unease. To this day, I prefer to sleep with a nightlight, or some form of light shining somewhere, especially if Harry is away.

Light is an incredible aspect of creation. God spoke it into being even before creating the sun, moon and stars. It is an intrinsic facet of His very Being—“God is light.” Light is made brighter where there is absolute blackness. A candle can be seen on a dark, clear night for miles—how much more the blazing resplendence of God’s Light and Glory, illuminating the deplorable darkness of this sinful world.

The Apostle John, in his first letter, writes about walking in the light as God is in the light. This calls to mind the times in Borneo where our family would walk a trail at night, and I would be riding on Daddy’s back. The lantern or flashlights we carried would create a circle of light which, if we walked in that, there was security and safety. Beyond the circle was the utter blackness of the jungle.

Psalm 139 testifies, "Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me, even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to You.” The Psalmist had indeed experienced the “dark night of the soul”,” and yet the light of God’s presence shone for him even there.

When there are those inevitable seasons of loss, grief, disappointment or abandonment, the darkness does not have to swallow me up. “In Him there is no darkness at all.” I can choose to walk in the Light.

THEY'RE JUST SHEEP

“We all like sheep have gone astray; each of us has turned to his or her own way….” Isaiah 53

Eliakim sat on a rock near his small herd of sheep, idly watching the flock grazing on the scrub grass of the Judean hillside. Hardly a breeze tempered the heat of the afternoon, and there remained a brooding stillness in the torrid air that made any physical exertion an effort.

He pondered once again with tolerant amusement the characteristics of these animals he owned. “We are His people and the sheep of His pasture,” Eliakim thought to himself, as he remembered King David’s song. “Jehovah chose the right animal,” he mused as he noticed a lamb wandering over the ridge. Whistling and calling, Eliakim hurried to bring the creature back to the herd. He had already made the rounds of the grazing area, looking for poisonous weeds. He knew his silly sheep couldn’t tell the difference between good grass and noxious plants.

Keeping a vigilant eye out for predators—those rangy, scrawny wolves or jackals of Palestine that lurked behind rocks and waited for any opportunity to seize one of the vulnerable flock—Eliakim continually scanned the vicinity.

Towering cumulus clouds were building up in the west and Eliakim, a seasoned shepherd, lifted his head and sniffed the air. He knew a storm was forming. The sheep seemed to sense it also and began showing signs of restlessness and unease, lifting their heads and circling nervously into a cluster.

Rising quickly to his feet, Eliakim began calling to the sheep in soothing tones, using their individual names and motioning with his staff. The herd milled around but soon followed their loving, expert shepherd’s voice as he led them to the sheepfold. Opening the rustic gate into the piled-up stone enclosure, Eliakim began counting them as, bleating worriedly, they pushed through. He knew them all so well and patted their heads gently as they passed.

“Come on, old One-Eye,” he rumbled to a ewe who had lost an eye to a thorn bush many years before. “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine….”—here the shepherd stopped and looked quickly about him. “Which one is missing? Eliakim scanned the flock crowded into the sheepfold, casting about for the missing animal. There was one that always stood out from the flock . “Where is Blackie?” Eliakim asked himself. “That numbskull of a sheep has gotten lost again.” With anxiety building in his chest Eliakim glanced at the lowering skies and hurried to close the gate. He began searching the gullies and canyons nearby, whistling and calling the young ram’s name.

The wind intensified by the minute, and the rain began coming down in sheets. Increasingly troubled, the shepherd doggedly continued scouring the rocky terrain, the gale tearing at him with claw-like force. His shouts seemed to be snatched from his lips, disappearing into the storm and drowned out by peals of thunder.

Eliakim had a vivid mental image of Blackie—a mostly black sheep who had a penchant for wandering, but was very special to the shepherd. He remembered the way Blackie would butt his head against the shepherd’s leg, wanting his ears rubbed. The memory made Eliakim even more anxious and concerned.

By now, soaked to the skin, the man struggled to catch his breath and wondered if he would have to give up. Then, the tempest brought the faintest of bleats to his ears—so faint, Eliakim thought it might be wishful imagining.

He turned toward a ravine with steep sides and peered down through the driven rain and mist. There, below him, caught on a thorn bush was Blackie, hopelessly trapped. With the greatest of care, effort, and bother, the long-suffering shepherd made his way down and worked against extreme obstacles to free the benighted animal.

Carrying the dripping ram on his shoulders, Eliakim wended the muddy trail back to the sheep fold, very grateful to have found his lost sheep and looking forward to a warm fire in his hut. Maybe, just maybe Blackie would have learned his lesson…but probably not.
______________________________________________________________________
In a modern setting, the reality of sheep and their characteristics arose as a vivid example: A few months ago, Karl, who pastors a church in California, returned from the morning service feeling considerable discouragement over the spiritual state of the congregants.

Karl went before the Lord that afternoon with the weight of the world on his shoulders and a big question. WHY?

Anyone might assume that God’s answer would be, “You’re not praying enough; there’s sin in your life; you’re a weak leader; why aren’t you fasting more; it’s the devil; it’s YOU—whatever made you think you’re called of God, you useless person…”

But God didn’t say any of that.

Karl felt the gentle response of the Lord: “They’re just sheep.”

What a gloriously freeing three-word-answer—not just for pastors in regards to their flocks—but for any of us. I’m just a stupid, ignorant, prone-to-wander-Lord-I-feel-it, stumbling, fluff-headed, over-fed SHEEP.

It’s the perfect analogy for God to use. One has to wonder how this critter ever survived before its domestication several thousand years ago. A few characteristics will surface if one looks up the topic: “Easily panicked, dumb, vulnerable, follow-the-herd-stampeding, no self-defense—easy prey for predators, perverse, creatures of habit, will eat even poisonous plants, wanderers—easily lost, can’t get up if it falls over, totally dependent on the shepherd for ‘rod and staff’ guidance and care. “

Straying and hopelessly lost, we absolutely need our Shepherd—first, to find us in our lost-ness, and then to guide us in paths of righteousness. I fit the description so precisely. “I’m just a sheep.” God knows that full well and, though He may sigh a few times, He loves me as I am and His patience is endless. “They’re just sheep.” We can all be encouraged by that.

The Glorious Inevitable

The months pass unrelentingly since I was last with him--my beloved 94-year old dad. Each time I say goodbye to him it's with pangs of angst, as I think it could be the last.

He's already outlived most of his peers and friends. I don't want him to outlive his brain function—entering that shadowy, empty place that so many elderly people descend into, but I still hang onto him for dear life. I can't reconcile the memory of my strong, handsome, capable father with the frail, stooped, arthritic person he has become. Yet, I don't want him to go. I need him still. He prays for me like no one else.

I want to touch the warm, papery-thin skin of my papa’s wrinkled face; hold his bent, stiff hands in mine and remember their former strength. I wrote his story, I believe, partly in an attempt to "immortalize" him. But, the day will come when I will have to let him go…….

……Then, slowly, slowly, he'll slip through the meniscus of eternity—that thin layer that separates us from heaven—just a heart-beat away. The old worn-out body will remain behind. As he traverses the valley of the shadow of death, Dad will hear the roar and cheers of a "great cloud of witnesses" on the Other Side who will be waiting to celebrate his arrival. He'll step into the Light, whole and healthy. Jesus will be standing there—the Foremost Greeter—welcoming him with a happy smile, "Well done, good and faithful servant—enter into the joy of your Lord!"

Then Mom will slip through the ranks—running to embrace him. His parents will be next—so joyful in their reunion. Hanging back, a shade timidly but with glad faces, will be two of Dad's children. They didn't survive their formative season in Mom's womb, but now they're perfect and beautiful, greeting the dad they never met. I imagine Mom turning to pull them towards his embrace.


Dad will see the brown faces of his beloved Dayaks: Semuel, Lombok, Santi, Siga; he’ll catch sight of Hermano Campos, Hermano Mamaní—first converts in Tucumán. What joy to see these—and countless others— fruits of his lifetime of labor.


The list will go on and on: saintly friends and family who will push forward to rejoice in Dad's Homecoming, surrounding him with their delight. Dad will turn from one to another, scarcely able to take it all in. Glorious light, vivid colors, vibrant beauty will fill his sight: brightly colored birds darting about, flowers filling the meadows, angelic voices lifted in God’s praise. Such a party, such laughter, such reveling in the bliss—it will be uncontainable happiness!

So, maybe it won't be as hard to let him go after all. Why tarry on this broken planet? Heaven is waiting.

True Worship or a Spectator Sport?

An interesting, enlightening, and perhaps unsettling, activity for a pastor or church leader would be to stand in the back of a church auditorium and scan the audience during worship. My guess is that in the majority of our churches one would see maybe around one third of the people actively participating in singing, praising, raising their hands, responding and engaging in worship. The others are usually standing there, eyes open, watching what is happening on the stage—perhaps moving their lips along with the song, maybe clapping—but no fervor, passion or fire. Then there are others that are totally unengaged, texting from their cell phones.

Contemporary worship styles can differ greatly from church to church and between cultures or countries, but one thing for sure that everyone would undoubtedly agree on—no matter what differences in setting there may be—is that the focus of worship has to be Jesus. In our doctrine, theology and philosophy most of us would be able to list Scriptural references and even do an in-depth study on it. We sing, “I’m coming back to the heart of worship, and it’s all about You, Jesus.”

However, my great concern in observing and participating in charismatic church and conference worship services in many different places is that it has become mostly a “spectator sport.”

So many songs seem to be “ME” centered—about how I feel; the warm-fuzzies I get when I think about God—and even some songs which are not exactly doctrinally sound. Maybe we need a balance in the use of more God-centered, Scriptural songs that exalt His majesty, His glory; that point to the Cross and the Blood of Jesus.

I’ve wondered for some time now why we don’t hear the “song of the Lord” in our charismatic churches as it used to be. Those of us who have been around for a while remember that beautiful song, where the entire congregation lifted wave after wave of spontaneous, improvised, personal expressions of praise—sometimes a capella. I remember when our "sphere of influence" used to be on the forefront, even leading the way as an example in Pentecostal circles.

God knows that the overwhelming need is for REVIVAL, across the nation and world-wide, and that real worship springs out of this. In our home we pray daily for that fresh wind of the Spirit.

But, the focus in church services so often seems to be on what’s happening on the platform, with what one might call a “concert atmosphere,” rather than leading people into the individual and corporate response of hearts opening to the manifest Presence of the Lord.

I do some teaching of improvisation and playing keyboard for worship. One of my main points that I reiterate to my students is that in order for the focus to be on the Lord, nothing we DO musically, SAY with words, or ALLOW in our physical appearance on the platform should be a distraction to that goal.

I recall a very talented person I heard playing the piano, along with a worship team, who played such “lush,” complex chords that it was a distraction to the over-all purpose. As beautiful and professional the sound may be, the instruments and instrumentalists can, at times, create a diversion from the goal of true worship.

A musically-talented and very contemporary-minded nineteen-year old nephew of mine, observed with unusual insight, that often the words of a song are excellent and appropriate but the chords and musical progressions are that of “rock style” which DRIVES rather than LEADS and FLOWS.

(Neither am I saying that we should have “sloppy,” untaught, or amateurish musicians, nor that we should go back to singing just hymns. I love and appreciate the excellence in the contemporary blend of vocals and instruments such as most churches have today.)

Also, I was at a service recently where the attractive girl leading the songs was dressed in such a way that probably every young male in the congregation was having a difficult time focusing on the Lord. Those who lead worship should always bear in mind that their style of dress must be modest and appropriate.

And I maintain—and I’m sure others share this view—that the decibel level should NOT be a distraction either. It’s undeniably a generational thing (one has to ask if there will be a whole generation of hearing-impaired people?!) and that it is possible that our youth are so accustomed to it that they feel they can’t worship without it.

Yet, worship styles should not be solely youth-oriented. Our mode of worship should be welcoming, inclusive, and encompassing for all. There is an older generation—as well as people with physical and perhaps emotional issues—that are very much a part of the Body, and very much needed to provide balance in the Body.

Many individuals even time their arrival to enter the service midway through, because the loud volume of a driving bass guitar, pounding drums, and pulsing lights not only distract but can create physical and emotional discomfort in the eardrums, head and sight. An example of this is a very dear friend of ours, who is in the ministry, but suffers from bipolar issues (caused by a chemical imbalance) and cannot bear the contemporary hyper-driven style of music. Is our attitude toward these saints, “Just deal with it!”—rather than assuming our responsibility to make some adjustment for them?

Often the issue seems to be with the sound-board people—since they’re the ones that control the decibel level. At a recent event I had to keep my fingers in my ears because the volume was so uncomfortable and strident. But my impression is that often those of us who see it this way are viewed as “hopelessly out-of-touch, out-dated, and out-voted old fogies.”

One has to wonder if pastoral and organizational leadership is involved as it should be in the oversight, input and biblical discipleship on how worship should be done. It seems that often the worship team functions on its own, independently, with few or no limitations or guidelines.

The highest and most profound worship I have ever been a part of was led by an accordionist (yes, really!) and guitarist, with no sound amplification. The entire congregation, young and old, was totally lost in worship, the song of the Lord, brokenness and deep heart response—sometimes for two hours. Lives were being transformed as we worshipped Jesus—with no distractions from our surroundings. No one was just “spectating.”

Perhaps what is needed in our churches is for there to be clear, biblical teaching on “how to worship”—and not taking it for granted that people know how to flow in the “song of the Lord.” The church needs to be taught to move in obedience and faith, rather than emotion. I recall someone quite close to us who thought it was “hypocritical” to respond in worship if one didn’t feel moved upon emotionally.

And maybe the time has come to re-examine our philosophy and culture of worship leading—maybe it’s necessary to emphasize leading more by example, influence and Holy Spirit-flow rather than by hype. A good start might be to just push the volume-control lever down by a few decibels.