Let Freedom Ring

In the last century, perhaps the greatest symbol of people’s passion for freedom was the partitioning of East Germany after the communist takeover.

Because of the amount of land taken out of private hands and forced into collective control and the repression of private trade in the German Democratic Republic (as East Germany was called in 1958) thousands of refugees fled to the west.  In 1959, 144,000 fled.  But when the forced collective went from 45% to 85%, the number of refugees rose to 199,000 in 1960.  The first seven months of 1961, 207,000 left Eastern Germany including a huge number of the Nation’s brightest minds – doctors, dentists, engineers, and teachers.

By 1961 it is estimated 2.7 million had left since the German Democratic Republic had been established in 1949.  In June of 1961 alone, 30,000 refugees fled.  On August 13, 1961, a Sunday morning, under the communist leadership of Erich Honecker, the GDR began to block off Eastern Berlin with paving stones, barricades, and barbed wire.  Railway and subway services to West Berlin were halted, even for the 60,000 or so commuters who worked in West Berlin.  In a few days the barricades began to be replaced by a concrete wall. 

One year after the first barricades went up, a young 18-year-old man named Peter Fechter was the first of more than a hundred to be shot and killed while trying to escape.  The higher the wall was built, the more guards stationed to watch, the wider the “death area” behind the wall, the deeper the trench to stop vehicles, the more attempts there were to escape.  In Berlin, the wall stretched 107 kilometers, but many escaped by tunneling under the wall. Before the houses were evacuated that bordered the wall, many leaped from the windows of buildings into nets or to the pavement.  Soon the windows of buildings were bricked shut; next the houses were demolished.  Patrol trucks, watch dogs, watchtowers, bunkers and trenches were added to the border area.  Then, behind the wall, a second wall was constructed.  Yet people continued to escape.

The Berlin Wall

Two families secretly bought small amounts of nylon cloth, enough to eventually sew together a hot air balloon.  They waited until midnight then drove to a deserted field and launched their balloon; it remained aloft for 23 minutes before the burner died, but that was long enough to carry four adults and four children to their freedom.  Back in East Germany, the sale of nylon was restricted and there was a ban on the sale of rope and twine. 

No one knows exactly how many people escaped in the twenty-eight years the Berlin Wall stood.  The wall became a symbol of all obstructions to freedom instead of stopping the free flow of people and ideas, it provided a tangible object that epitomized the barriers which the human spirit felt challenged to conquer.

Brandenburg Gate

It was a sentence from President Kennedy’s speech when visiting Berlin in June of 1962 that gave words to the struggle for freedom.  Throwing out the speech given him by speechwriters, Kennedy wrote a new one while riding through the streets of West Berlin where between one and two million Germans roared and cheered for four hours.  At checkpoint Charlie he climbed alone up to the viewing stand.  Suddenly, in a far-off window in an Eastern side apartment three women appeared waving handkerchiefs – a dangerous and risky gesture.  Kennedy, realizing their risk, stood in tribute to those three.  Then he squared his shoulders and began the speech that let the world know how deeply innate is the conquering spirit that longs for freedom, the speech ending with the historic words: “Ich bin ein Berliner.”  He was saying that we were all are Berliners at heart because we all long to be free.

Twenty-five years later Ronald Reagan stood at the Brandenburg Gate of the Berlin Wall in the midst of a cold war that felt like the whole world was walking a tight-rope of fear and anxiety. While West Berlin prepared to celebrate the 750th anniversary of the founding of Berlin, and East Berlin demonstrated against a wall that had stood for a quarter century, Reagan delivered some lines that had been opposed by most of the American diplomats but had been insisted on by President Reagan.

General Secretary Gorbachev, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization, come
here to this gate.  Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate.  Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.

Two years later the wall was torn down by the people who wanted freedom.

Down through history, dictators and philosophies have attempted to enslave the human spirit.  Blood has flowed like a river in the fight to regain human dignity.  The Magna Carta, The Bill of Rights, The Declaration of Independence, and the Emancipation Proclamation have taken their place with other great instruments of liberation that bear testimony to the human passion for freedom.  The official seals of governments have burned onto these documents that have deeply affected our own way of life.

But never has there been a document of freedom with the power to alter the course of history and change human lives like the declaration that bears the bloodstained brand of a cross.  And this seal is burned, not on a piece of paper, but on the very soul of every spirit enslaved by sin.  The document reads as a simple invitation:  “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.”

Prison bars, heavy chains, dungeons, concentration camps and shackles:  none of these can hold a candle to the bondage of the human soul devised by the father of lies.  But no release, no emancipation, no pardon can bring freedom like the freedom bought at Calvary.  That is freedom, indeed!  Let freedom ring!

Deep within, the heart has always known that there is freedom
Somehow breathed into the very soul of life.
The prisoner, the powerless, the slave have always known it;
There’s just something that keeps reaching for the sky.

Even life begins because a baby fights for freedom,
And songs we love to sing have freedom’s theme;
Some have walked through fire and flood to find a place of freedom,
And some faced hell itself for freedom’s dream.

Let freedom ring wherever minds know what it means to be in chains.
Let freedom ring wherever hearts know pain.
Let freedom echo through the lonely streets where prisons have no key –

We can be free and we can sing,
“Let freedom ring!”

God built freedom into every fiber of creation,
And He meant for us to all be free and whole;
But when my Lord brought freedom with the blood of His redemption,
His cross stamped “pardoned” on my very soul!

I’ll sing it out with every breath and let the whole world hear it –
This hallelujah anthem of the free!
Iron bars and heavy chains can never hold us captive;
The Son has made us free and free indeed!

Let freedom ring down through the ages from a Hill called Calvary!
Let freedom ring wherever hearts know pain.
Let freedom echo through the lonely streets where prisons have no key --
We can be free and we can sing:
“Let freedom ring!

Lyric: Gloria Gaither; Music: Bill Gaither
© Gaither Music Company 1982

Strangers in Our Own Land

Does not your heart often say: “I can’t get used to this world.  It breaks my heart; it makes me sick; it makes me restless; I don’t belong”?

May we never get used to it!  May we never get numb to the atrocities, the injustices, the greed and the violence.  Of such a culture, the prophet Micah said, “Arise and depart, for this is not your rest. There remains therefore a rest for the people of God,” and this is not it! This culture is destructive, says Micah. (Micah 2:10)

No, this is not our home. This is not the place to come in by the fire and rest. Don’t get cozy with it. Our only rest here is in the Ark.  Only in Jesus will our spirits be at rest.  But in the world is the flood, the storm, the raging winds. 

But God is in the process of redeeming what is fallen and setting right what Satan is intent on destroying. We are to be obedient to anything God is doing, but we should never be at rest in the world. 

“It’s only temporary” should be the way we feel about any provisions of earth: homes, land, cars, promotions, (demotions), accomplishments....  Our permanence is internal—and eternal. We can only be at rest in Him until we rest with Him.

Meanwhile, we must love with abandonment, hope with fervor, and invest our energies in things that last forever! Let’s live like we’ve got nothing to lose! Indeed, losing (by this world’s value structure) is the very way to win in God’s economy. 

Not So Simple Questions

I’m always intrigued by the questions Jesus asked.  They sound simple but almost never are. Some seem to have such obvious answers they almost seem not worth the asking.

If we think our kids were inquisitive, what must Mary and Joseph have thought?  We know that when Jesus got lost at twelve years old, they found him in the temple “confounding” the PhD’s in theology and scripture by his questions. And he never stopped asking questions that “confound”.  As simple as they seem, his questions tell the story of his ministry on earth.

--Who touched me?

--Who is my mother?  Who are my brothers?

--How much bread and fish do you have?

--Do you see these great buildings?

--Who do you say that I am?

--Can you not watch with me for one hour?

--Do you put a lighted candle under a basket?

--How long do I have to put up with you?

--Can you drink the cup that I am going to drink?

The story of the pool of Bethesda and its surroundings provoke the most interesting question and instruction Jesus ever asked, and they reverberate to this day to our 21st Century ears.

The man Jesus singled out was there among scores of other disabled people, crowded under the porches held up by five huge pillars surrounding the pool. The expectation was that for whatever reason (angels? spirits? wind?) the water in the pool would ripple as if stirred by some force.  The first person to get into the water while it was “troubled” would be healed.  The obvious problem was that if one were blind, deaf, crippled, or too weak to get up, it would be nearly impossible to get to the pool at all, let alone first, unless there was a 24/7 helper.

The man Jesus zeroed in on was paralyzed and had been waiting by the pool for thirty-seven years. What a mess he must have been by the time Jesus showed up!  It was at this moment that Jesus asked either a stupid or very profound question:  “Do you want to be well?”

The man’s bewildered answer was that he had no one to help him get to the pool before someone else did or the pool quieted down.  Jesus’s solution was simple.  “Get up!  Pick up your mat and walk.”

The question Jesus asked gets to the bottom of our own universal problem.  Do we really want to be well and start behaving like a well person with no excuses and no one to blame? Or are we so addicted to our illnesses that they have become our comfort zone?

But that is not the end of the story that still echoes down across the generations.  The now walking man goes to the temple, as was the law, to have his healing verified by the righteous authorities there. But the righteous weren’t excited for this 38-year invalid, nor did they share his rejoicing for the beauty of his fresh ability to walk. No, it was the Sabbath, and they came down on him for “working on the Sabbath” by carrying around his mat on his way home as Jesus had commanded.

Okay.  Let’s just stop there.  That gives legalism the ugly connotation it deserves.  And if the poor guy had known who healed him, they’d have gone after Jesus, too, for healing on the Sabbath.

So let’s go on.  The man had no idea who Jesus was so wasn’t able to out him to the legalists.  But later on Jesus found the man at the temple and said an even stranger thing than the original question: “See, you’re well again.  Now stop sinning or something worse will happen to you.”

How could a cripple, lying on his mat for thirty-eight years, have been sinning, according to most people’s definition?   He didn’t drink or smoke or hurt anybody.  He didn’t carouse or go with wild women.  He didn’t rob anyone on the road or beat up his wife.

Oh, but no one saw (except Jesus) what had been going on in his mind--maybe all of the above and more. Hatred, anger, resentment, lust, avarice, greed....  These don’t need legs.  But given legs, there was no telling where this man’s mind might have taken him.  Jesus knew that, too. 

Then the man went and told everyone it was Jesus.  Yes, only Jesus....

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Father of the Rain

Father of the rain,
make me clean and help me not to duck for shelter
but to embrace the cleansing.

Help me to love Your rain in all its forms:

the mist that comes almost imperceptibly
bringing such gentle moisture to shriveled cells
that even the most fragile are not damaged
but irrigated and enlivened.

the fog, even more gentle than the mist,
enfolding the dry spirit
in a thick comforter of refreshment.

the steady rain that sets in during the night
and continues all day,
soaking everything to the very taproots.

the deluge that continues to wash away accumulations of debris,
that overflows the dams men have constructed
that reroute the streams on their way to the sea.

And, Lord, help me to even embrace the storms
that shake me from my attachments,
that bend and test me;
they make me realize I am at Your mercy.

It was Your mercy that placed me here in the first place,
and it is by Your mercy that I survive.
Rain on me, Lord.

Come, sweet rain.

Listening to the River

Lord, it is so easy to take things into our own hands,
get ahead of Your timing, mess things up.

How impatient I am!
How arrogant sometimes--
thinking I can bring about justice,
hoping I can precipitate heart change,
believing that I can hasten the coming of Your kingdom
in the souls of other people.

Let me learn from the river, Lord.
Day by day,
year by year,
decade by decade it flows to the sea.

No matter what men do to try to change its course
to accommodate and facilitate their self-serving purposes,
the river persistently, consistently responds
to the magnet of the great waters.
It seeks its own destination from a source deep
in the bedrock of the planet.

For a while men and engineering genius
can reroute the river--
but rise the high floods,
descend the drought years,
the river from its deep source re-carves its path
to the sea, to the arms of the embracing sea.

And in its pure and unquenchable thirst for the sea,
its current carves through any obstacle in its path.
Mountains are dissected; plains are traversed,
valleys are created.

In the natural course of its mission, the river serves.
It carries rich soil to the riverbed farmlands.
It makes a way of transportation across flat stretches of prairie.
It irrigates strips of food-producing and life-sustaining land
in the midst of the desert.

Fish thrive in its cool moving waters.
Birds and wildlife grow fat along its banks.
But all these things are only results,
never for the river's own purpose.
The driving force is just the simple and powerful pull of the sea.

Lord, I want to seek You.
Let the passion of my life be to lose myself in You.
Let the deep desire that springs from the bedrock of my being
be to flow to You.

Keep me unaware of any result
except the deep peace of knowing
that part of my spirit has already reached
its destination and is at rest in You.

May the journey of my life cut its way through any obstacle
for the insatiable hunger to empty myself
into the great sea of Yourself.

You--the Source.
You--the destination.
Whatever else may happen today, let it only and always
be the natural result of a river, flowing to the sea.

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Second Mother

She was born the fifth of ten children in a log cabin on the edge of a small Indiana town in an section called “can hill”.  The “hill” was made by the cans and other things people discarded there.  Eventually, the dump was covered with dirt and abandoned, making it cheap land for those who couldn’t afford more appealing real estate.

Eventually, the family was able to move to Inisdale where Lela grew up next to the little white United Brethren church, and even as little as Burl and Addie Hartwell had, Lela would see them take out a loan on their tiny house more than once to keep open the doors of that church. In 1934 it would be in that church she would marry George Gaither.

George and Lela’s 50th Anniversary

Together Lela and George had four children, one of whom would be still born, a heartbreaking event that would forever hollow out a tender space in Lela’s heart for all children.

I came to know her when I fell in love with her oldest son while I was still a college junior.  He was teaching English at the Alexandria High School where I was called to substitute for a French teacher who was out for six weeks for cancer surgery; we met in the school hallway.  As we began to develop a relationship, Bill invited me to the farmhouse where he grew up and still lived. 

I don’t remember exactly what they were doing that Saturday, but Lela welcomed me and insisted I stay for dinner before Bill took me back to the college.  I’m pretty sure we had beef roast and the green beans she had canned the summer before, followed by a pie from the cherries she had also “put up” for the winter.

Little did I know then that Lela would become a second mother to me and a grandmother to our three children, the first of whom was born in the little house across the driveway that we rented from George and Lela and where Bill and I began our married life. 

That first year I learned that George had a huge garden which produced such a bounty that many a summer day I spent with Lela at the picnic table under the red maples breaking beans, shelling peas, peeling peaches, or pitting cherries for her to can.  By summer’s end the shelves in the basement of their house would be filled with Ball jars full of provisions for winter. And all summer Bill and I would “pick our supper” from that amazing garden.

Lela making egg noodles

The second December in our little rented house, Suzanne was born.  She immediately became a magnet that drew Bill’s parents and grandparents. George would pop in often to get Suzanne and walk her around the yard or take her for rides on the tractor with him as he worked the field or mowed the grass.

Suzanne was a colicky baby, and I can’t tell you how many times I called Lela at 2:00 am to take a shift rocking her after I had exhausted all the tricks I knew to get her to stop crying.  Lela would come across the driveway in the dark, meet me at our kitchen door, and take Suzanne in her soft arms. Ten minutes in the rocker, and Lela would have that baby quieted and fast asleep.

Lela and Amy

Lela was a lover—a lover of children, the cool breeze in the maple trees, and her George.  She found joy in “fixin’” a great meal, canning beautiful vegetables and fruits, listening to her three kids sing around the piano, and watching the sun rise over the misty fields and meadows behind their house.  She never saw a child she couldn’t love, a bouquet of flowers that wasn’t beautiful, or a neighbor that wasn’t welcome. She gave each of her children a love for music, an appreciation of each day’s blessings, a joy in simple things, and a tender heart.

Lela’s last Christmas

She spent her life “being there”, a gift philosophers tell us is one of the greatest gifts of all.  And although at the end, memory loss robbed her of some details of recent events, she was very present that last Christmas Eve. So that we could all come together at George’s and her house as we always had, her granddaughter Becky had learned from her how to make all of her best dishes; we girls decorated her house and Christmas tree the way she always had with multicolored lights and foil icicles. The great-grandbabies Jesse, Will, and Lee were piled on her lap on the couch draped with the soft hand-crocheted throw she loved to cover them with for naptime. 

Four generations: Suzanne, Gloria, Amy and Lela with Suzanne’s baby, Will (the first great-grand baby)

We all opened presents, then her Gaither Trio--Bill, Danny, and Mary Ann--gathered around (with her grandson Benjy playing the guitar) to sing all her favorite songs. 

By the fire at Thanksgiving

After we all helped clean up the food and gift wrappings, we went to our separate homes, while George helped her into her flannel gown and got her to bed.  Little did we know that two days later we would be together again to plan her funeral which would be at the little white United Brethren Church that had been such a part of her life.

Bill would welcome those who also chose to “be there” to celebrate her life. We would all sing “The Unclouded Day” and “Does Jesus Care?”.  In their own ways the grandchildren would pay tribute to her for being there for each of them.  Her Danny would sing (as only he could) “It Is Well with My Soul.” And Benjy would play and sing “Hold to God’s Unchanging Hand”.  We all knew that she was, indeed, doing just that. And that she was the one thanking her Jesus for “being there” all her life long.

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I Have Seen the Children

While our children were small, Bill and I traveled only on weekends so that we could be normal parents during the week. Often, we took one of our children with us so we could give the child who seemed to need it most our undivided attention for the whole weekend. The other two stayed home with my parents. Later, after Suzanne reached junior-high school, we chose to stay home most weekends and take two or three tours a year that would last about two weeks. These times seemed very long to us, but this arrangement allowed us to be home for our kids' ball games, concerts, and other activities.

During one such tour in the fall of 1981, I made an entry in my journal that, later on, inspired a song. This is the entry:

October 1— On the road: I find I have to put my mind in some special kind of neutral to stay away this long. Long absence throws off all my natural chemistry.

The concerts have been excellent, but it is hard to keep enough of my heart here to be complete between concerts. It becomes a circus existence: get up, eat breakfast, read, take a bath, go to early supper, sound check, get ready, do the concert, talk to people, get into the bus, drive all night, and start again.

Interspersed are some lovely moments with the troupe, and often there are wonderful times with Bill, but constant travel takes on an aura of fantasy like riding a glider, looking for a safe and solid place to land. I've even taken up embroidery! I'd rather write, but the bus is too bumpy, and my creative energies are drained by the intense exertion of the concerts and the dulling boredom of endless miles.

I would love the miles if there were time to stop and see things, but we're always driven right past the wonders of the world by the tyranny of our schedule. I've been in every state in the Union, yet I've never seen the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Tetons, Glacier National Park, a Black Hills Passion Play, or the islands in Puget Sound.

But I have seen people and the terrains that mold their temperaments and shape their values. I've sensed the demands made on them by the stubborn rocks or the severity of the climate. I've seen the barren deserts that threaten them and the crowded cities that rob them of their uniqueness. I've seen the wide-open spaces that teach them to trust other human beings, and I've seen the congested neighborhoods that teach them to peer at the world through guarded eyes.

I've touched the children from Manhattan to Montana, from San Antonio to Saginaw and I've felt the hope and fear in them. I've watched them reach for me in open affection and shrink from me in distrust. I've seen promises with blond pigtails and black shiny pixies. I've had black and brown, yellow, white, and reddish arms around my neck. With my heart I've learned to understand love in a dozen languages.

I've heard their parents say," Come to us!" They say it from the seclusion of North Dakota. They say it from the anonymity of the Bronx. They say it from the mountain poverty of Kentucky and from the lighted plastic glitter of Las Vegas.

"Come to us!" they say. "Don't forget us."

As if we could.

"Why do you do it?" the glib reporters ask. I find myself looking into their eyes for some clue to the living person inside the professional for only a real person could understand. Otherwise, I don't have the words. I'm sure they'd smile their well-rehearsed, objective, detached smiles and be polite while I say, "It's Jesus; He's come to us and given us life. Now we have to go."

They'd nod politely and think money, glamour, travel, fame, excitement. They'd think it was only a gimmick if I told them that my mother's heart is pulled apart, my body is exhausted, and my brain is in suspension. They wouldn't believe me if I told them it's the Reason bigger than life, the Place wider than here, the Time beyond now, and the unforgettable voices rising over millions of miles and fifteen years of days, joining in a deafening chorus that will not go away: "Come to us don't forget us!"

 ...And I know I have to go because Someone came to me.

Later, after rereading this entry, I wrote the lyric to "I Have Seen the Children." A wonderful friend, award-winning country songwriter Paul Overstreet, set the lyric to music, and Bill and I recorded it on the Welcome Back Home project of the Bill Gaither Trio. It has always served to remind me why we sing, travel, write, and serve and that we must never mistake activity for our true mission in life.

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A Voice Beyond Sound

How many times has this incredible verse spoken itself into my days of desperation?

"Your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, This is the way, walk in it, whenever you turn to the right or whenever you turn to the left."  (Isaiah 30:21)

When I am totally unable to handle a situation and am so bewildered by it that I don't even know how to pray, my prayer becomes simply an opening up to the Spirit of God.

Waiting is never an easy thing to do, but in these situations waiting is all there is to do. In time, there comes a strong impression, stronger than an audible voice, saying "This is what you must do."

With that nudge of illumination comes a courage beyond any human bravery and an empowering to do what God is showing me to do. When I have obeyed, I go back to being the timid person I usually am in my own strength.

It only takes a few of these amazing experiences to develop a fearless trust in God who calls Himself Light.

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De-consecration

I read in a recent issue of Architectural Digest that a church in Detroit has been “de-consecrated” and turned into a Fine Arts Center in a new arts district of the city.  I had never seen that word before, though I hear it’s been happening in other places.

That made me wonder how, exactly, does one “de-consecrate” a place of worship.  Does a community have a de-consecration ceremony in which art enthusiasts actually form a public procession to carry out from a formerly consecrated space, the art, the cross, icons, golden candlesticks, offering plates, hymnals, choir robes, and communion chalices? 

Do the re-constructionists remove the anchors from the altar, the communion table, and the pulpit and join the procession, moving this dedicated furniture out into a newly secularized parking lot to be auctioned off to the highest bidder? 

And once the artifacts of worship have been removed, is there a vacuum to suck out the sacred?  In the de-spiritualizing process, does some holy dust stay floating in the sunbeams streaming through the stained-glass windows to settle on the newly introduced secular art?  Does some of it flow out through the wide-open doors and, in spite of everything, does some righteous residue fall on the children playing in the neighborhood or the homeless sleeping on park benches in the nearby park?

Or do the molecules of breath, breathed over decades of prayer, stay, as do water and matter, only just changing form and remaining forever?  Could the congregants who have dedicated their babies, exchanged wedding vows, confessed their sins and found forgiveness and salvation, sung, rejoiced, and mourned there take a box of consecration with them down the street and release it into some empty storefront space to consecrate into something sacred?

Do the de-consecrated pews that end up on the front porch of some Cracker Barrel still carry the spirit of the holy in the wood that was seasoned by the atmosphere of supplication and praise still whisper “holy, holy, holy” to those who sit there waiting for a table inside?

And that makes me wonder if there are architecturally beautiful buildings that still bear the sign outside but are slowly being “de-consecrated” by the people who still gather there for “church” but are detached from the Lord they once worshipped in that place.

Maybe, on the other hand, it’s time to carry our dedicated pews and communion tables and altars and pulpits to the town green or city squares or prisons or youth centers, and change these pieces of furniture and artifacts and symbols into the actual eucharist and communion, living sermons and places of prayer our Lord intended them to be.

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Then Came the Morning

At first, after a death, there are things to do: arrangements to make, friends bringing condolences to receive, stories to tell. But after the funeral and burial, reality sets in. The sympathizers go back to their work and lives. The flowers lie wilting on the grave. The leftover casseroles are scraped into the garbage disposal. The house is empty.

Bits and fragments associated with the one so recently present begin the long caravan of reminders: a pair of gardening shoes by the back steps, an old wool plaid coat in the hall closet with a wadded-up tissue and a pack of Clove gum in the pocket, a scribbled note in the margins of a favorite book, a roll of half-exposed film still in the camera, a layaway slip with only half of the payments recorded in the pocket of a worn leather wallet. As the days go by, the other reminders lie in ambush: a fragment of a song on a passing car’s radio, an old joke overheard in the grocery store, the smell of a certain kind of fragrance. As Emily Dickinson once wrote, “the sweeping up the heart and putting love away” is the “saddest of all industries enacted upon earth.”

Grieving is a private thing after the public ceremonies surrounding a death are over, and no two ­people do grief alike. Some drop out of sight, avoid human contact. Some are terrified of being alone and surround themselves with ­people. Some treasure a loved one’s possessions; others clean them out and move to a new setting not so laden with memories. Some need to talk again and again through the memories and the emotions that go with them. Others clam up and act as if nothing has happened.

We ­don’t know exactly how those who walked with Jesus processed the public execution of their gentle friend. We do know that one of his friends, a wealthy man named Joseph from a nearby town called Arimathea, went to Pilate and asked to have Jesus’ body released to him after it was taken down from the cross. Joseph was an official of the Jewish Council and had enough status to make the request. We know, too, that Joseph had already purchased the linen shroud and that he wrapped Jesus’ body himself and placed it in his own tomb carved into a rock.

We know that everything had to be finished before sundown that strange surreal night because nothing remotely like work or preparations could be done on the Sabbath. But after sundown, how did these very different personalities deal with the reality of Jesus’ death: There was John, the gentle lover; Peter, the impetuous; Thomas, the cynic; Mary Magdalene, the much forgiven; Luke, the scientific processor; Salome, the doer; young Mark, the observer of detail; and Mary, the over-protective mother of James. Each must have had a unique reaction.

The Sabbath was a day of required rest, but did they wait in silence? Did they meet at each other’s homes and talk it all through? Who first felt rage at the wasteful loss of this man? Who sifted through events for some clue that would make sense of it all, give some logic to this spiral of circumstances? Who of them was in denial, wondering if it had all been a horrible nightmare from which they might awaken any moment?

For the doers, the sunset on that Saturday night released them to get busy. Three of these were Mary Magdalene; Mary, James’ mother; and Salome. Preparing spices gave them a practical way to work out their grief, and preparing Jesus’ body would let them do something to show their deep love for this friend who was now gone. Had any one of them caught His line to the Pharisees about restoring “this temple in three days”? Were any of them secretly wondering if, by some act of the Divine, He would return to them? Which of them felt despair?

One thing is certain: nothing halts the grieving process like a resurrection!

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This Could Be the Dawning

We think about it most during a national crisis. It's then we hear people speculating about the end of the world and which events point to the close of time as we know it.

Bill and I have experienced several such crisis moments. We remember, for instance, the bombing of Hanoi and the escalation of the Vietnam War.

When I was in college, the whole country held its breath during the Cuban Missile Crisis, waiting to see whether nuclear weapons would be deployed (intentionally or by accident) in a moment of intense international pressure.

The Gulf War, because its modern, more destructive means of warfare, we feared, could ignite the oil fields of the Middle East and blow us all to kingdom come, making us speculate about end-times prophecies. We could see how the battle of Armageddon with soldiers on horseback and hand-to-hand combat might actually occur in this war.

More than once in the last several decades, the bombing raids on Lebanon or the terrorist attacks in Syria, the Golan Heights, or Tel Aviv had us scurrying to Daniel and the book of Revelation for details that might match those on the evening news.

Then the next thing we knew, the explosions from terrorist attacks were not somewhere else but in Oklahoma City, New York, or aboard an airliner on which someone we knew could have been scheduled to fly.

Since the end of the twentieth century, the earth itself seems to have become weary. Pollution and the irresponsible use of her resources have stretched this generous planet to its limits. Like a body aging, the earth now inches its way toward the time when, like a spirit escaping the worn-out encasement that held it, those inhabitants who have established homes elsewhere could fly away, leaving this earth to turn to dust and blow away. We can sense it. Soon, like a pod that holds a seed, the planet could explode, break open, and disintegrate having outlived its usefulness.

No wonder denial and despair are epidemic in our culture. For those who have invested everything in the disintegrating things of earth, these are desolate and desperate times. But there is excitement in the air for the people of God. The promise we feel in our bones is like the thrill of the countdown for a launch to the moon! Every world event encourages a letting go of stuff and a laying hold of the hope that is within us. The darker the world gets, the brighter burns the morning light.

We have always been "pilgrims ever wandering, just looking for a place to rest our souls." Our home, our hiding place, has never been the edifices of earth, though while we are here, we have taken up temporary residence in them. No, the Lord Himself has been and will always be our safe hiding place, our rock on which we build a life. If the planets disintegrate, He alone will be our trustworthy home.

As the psalmist said, "Thou art my hiding place and my shield: I hope in thy word... Uphold me according unto thy word, that I may live: and let me not be ashamed of my hope." (Ps. 119:114, 116)

So instead of depression, our lives are filled with an exciting sense of urgency. In the place of despair, our hope burns brighter and will until the need for hope is replaced by the incredible reality of a new day dawning.

We find ourselves standing where we always hoped we might stand--out in the wide open spaces of God's grace and glory, standing tall and shouting our praise.

There's more to come: We continue to shout our praise even when we're hemmed in with troubles, because we know how troubles can develop passionate patience in us, and how that patience in turn forges the tempered steel of virtue, keeping us alert for whatever God will do next. (Romans 5:2-4 The Message)

Yes! And amen.

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Party or Perseverance

Two verses, one from Psalms and another from Matthew tell the Jesus-followers what to expect.  One is a prophecy from the Psalm that is about Christ, and the other from Jesus’s own words to his followers after Palm Sunday and before the celebration of Passover in the upper room. Here they are in part:

From the Jesus Psalm:  Reproach has broken my heart, and I am full of heaviness; I looked for someone to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none. (PSALM 69:20)

From Matt. 21:  ...you will be hated by all nations because of me.  At that time many will turn away from the faith and will betray and hate each other.... but he who stands firm to the end will be saved. (Matt. 21:9)

Still today it is the same. Everyone loves a party. Free food and favor will draw a crowd every time. Everyone tunes in to the gospel of positive thinking, but that attention gets very short if the positive thinking is long term and entails some getting worse before it gets better.

Throw a free picnic and you can't keep an accurate count of the multitudes that show up. But drag those same folks to Gethsemane at night with Calvary in view, and you lose their attention, even if on some grand philosophical plane, they profess to understand. Esteem seems to be generated by being the bold and the beautiful, the wealthy and the powerful.

But lay down the power, become poor, quit being a party animal, and let the tears flow, turn ugly from pain, and you, too, will be able to count your friends on one hand. But oh, what true friends!

Jesus’s still askes the question he asked when theologians without discernment couldn’t sign up for the requirement that His followers would need to eat and drink His very self, the life force of the Spirit.  “Will you also go away?”  He asked his disciples, knowing that even one of these closest twelve would eventually betray Him to be crucified.  Then Simon Peter answered for us all: “Lord, to whom shall we go.  You have the words of eternal life,”

Eternal is the operative word here. Will we choose long-term commitment to short-term advantage. And can we recognize what is eternal in this moment? Because now is forever. Forever starts here. Party or perseverance.

Now is forever; forever starts here—
My treasure in heaven is what I hold dear.
The things that I value, will show in the mirror—
Now is forever; forever starts here

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Games We Played

Some games are worth repeating. Games I played with my grandmother, my mother played with me, and I played with my children and their children.  Some games were fads or popular for a season.  But some taught us all things that will never lose their value with the changing seasons of life.

I just read that old typewriters like Underwoods, original old record players, Easy Bake Ovens, original Etch-a-Sketches and Chatty Cathy dolls are all valuable on the antique markets.  All are “antiques” because they have been replaced by better options or some new fad. Ah, but the great games!  They only get richer with each new generation who have new stories to add to conversations they trigger.

PICK-UP STICKS--Patience, focus, and skill—how we need those qualities in these times!  While pharma looks for meds to stem the tide of ADHD, I suggest a pot of hot chocolate and a few rounds of pick-up sticks.  Joyfully, the advantage of this game will go to the younger, steadier hand, so laughing at grandma’s less accurate skill will encourage greater comradery.  But the trade-off might be that grandma as more patience for finding just the right angle to flip the stick!

CANDYLAND--This game teaches that skill and cunning aren’t always the way to win.  Sometimes there is no advantage in experience, either.  Life and CANDYLAND teach us that no matter how long we’ve played or how lucky we think the colorful path is that we chose, getting to our goal is just dependent on the card we draw and how we react to the set-backs none of us saw coming.  Sometimes winning is just the joy of not taking ourselves too seriously and playing the game together.

DOMINOES—At first we play this game with children who are learning to count and match.  But gradually the set of dominoes gets bigger with more possibilities, strategies, complications, and objectives.  Gradually, too, we add more players and relationships to the community of players. This is one game Bill and I still play with friends as adults because it challenges our skills to think ahead, strategized, and sometimes get foiled by what we overlooked.  But then, there is always another game!

CHESS—I never learned to play chess but our grandson Liam and others who play it tell me it is the ultimate strategy game—a game that demands more skill the longer they play it.

CARROM—When I was a kid my family had a Carrom Board.  We played this game by thumping the carrom men with our finger or using a stick called a striker. The game was sort of a smaller, more affordable alternative to pool and demanded a similar kind of skill and practice to get the men into the pockets on each corner of the board.  I seem to remember that Carrom was approved by some of the members of our church, while pool was not.  Go figure. Maybe that was a life lesson all its own.

FLINCH—Still to this day there is a box of Flinch cards on the kids’ table in our family room, and we still play a game or two of Flinch when our youngest grandkids come home.  I’m always reminded of playing this game with my grandmother while we listened to The Green Hornet, Judy Canova, and Lum and Abner on her console radio in her living room.  Flinch is a game that teaches its players to count forward and backward by adding to piles of cards on the table that begin with either the numbers one or fifteen, numbers that each player must play first from each hand dealt. The “hands” in this game are just to facilitate playing the cards on the player’s “Flinch pile”; getting rid of the Flinch pile cards is the object of the game.

These days I am getting down to the end of my Flinch pile.  I am not sad about that; it was, after all, always the point of game.  And today I have been dealt a fresh hand to spend on my short-term and long-term objectives.  I have been playing long enough to be as good at counting backward as counting forward.  With each hand I must do both, always keep close watch over the actual goal of the game.

Where have I been?  Where am I going?  What will it take to assess where I’ve been in the light of where I am going?  Most of the conversations I have with our grown children and their grown children are focused on these questions.  Some are better at counting forward.  My experience in counting backward and assessing what was (and was not) most helpful in getting to where I am has come from both winning and losing, and both have been not only helpful but necessary in gaining enough wisdom to walk with confidence into what the rest of the game might hold. And no amount of learning, experience, skill, or persistence will prepare me--or them--for the random surprises life will deal us.  In it all, none of us will be wise enough, accomplished enough, or skillful enough to be enough. Only the Lord and Father of us all can lead us through whatever surprises life has in store until our hand is played, and we are out of dominos.

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Life Expectancy

Cats are famous for having nine lives, but I’ve never read any statistics on the life expectancy of gerbils.  I can only speak from experience, but my guess is it’s much longer that the size of this tiny vertebrate would tend to suggest.

When our kids were growing up, we had a cavalcade of pets, as do most active families.  All told, we had five collies, bowls of fish, a few rescued robin hatchlings, mallard ducks and Canadian geese salvaged from the jaws of foxes and vicious turtles.

More than once our kids acted as surgery assistants while my mother cracked out her needles and threads to sew up the bellies of geese after stuffing their intestines back into their stomach cavities.  A couple of times she used their popsicle sticks as stints for setting broken bird legs. One time Benjy and a friend were fishing for carp with corn as bait, when a hungry swan dove down for the corn and swallowed it—hook, line, and sinker, as they say.  The hook full of corn lodged about halfway down the swan’s graceful neck.  Gasping for air and unable to swallow, the swan gladly let us catch her and take her to the vet.  The vet looked helpless at the prospect of working on a swan and said to Suzanne and me, “It will probably die.”

“Oh, no!”  I said.  “You are going to slit its throat vertically and take out the hook.”  The vet looked at me as if I’d swallowed the hook and said, “I don’t have a surgical assistant this afternoon.” I pointed with my thumb to the two of us and said, “We’ll be your assistants. Give this sweet bird some anesthetic and let’s get started.”

We kept the recovering swan in a big box in the playroom so we could keep watch over her and offer her bread soaked in milk as she was able to swallow. When she breathed, the intake of air whistled through the stitches like a kid who needed to blow his nose.

That night Suzanne had invited a friend for a sleep-over, and they slept on the playroom couch hide-a-bed so they could keep check on the swan throughout the night.  At 6:30 am, the Young Life prayer group called the Campaigners came for their hot chocolate, doughnuts, and prayer for their classmates. When they left, Suzanne’s friend said, “This is the craziest house I ever stayed in.  I didn’t sleep a wink, between the whistling swan gasping for air all night and the “campaigners” showing up at the crack of dawn!”

Oh, well.  That was pretty much normal for our house, so I guess if it was sleep the poor girl needed, she might have chosen to have had an overnight with some other friend.

But I digress.  I was talking about pets. One of our most famous pets was a gerbil we called Charlie.  He was fun and happy and a joy to watch as he spun himself around the gerbil Ferris wheel in his cage.  The kids would take him out sometimes to run up and down their arms or play under the covers before putting him in for the night.

One time Benjy had some friends over to shoot rubber band guns in the basement. Suzanne had a bit of a crush on one of the boys and to impress him, swung Charlie around by the tail. She was mortified to find that she had fractured Charlie’s tail right in the middle.  Forever after that Charlie’s tail was a perfect L.

Charlie was no dummy.  He learned to reach his little arms through the bars of his cage and flip open the door latch.  Mostly, when he got out, we would find him and put him safely back where he belonged, but after one escape he was gone longer than usual. We searched high and low (literally!) but no Charlie.  For days we listened at night in the quiet hours, but there were no tell-tale scratchings to give him away.  We searched behind the chairs and couches and in the cupboards and pantries. We didn’t even find his tiny droppings.  Poor Charlie! He must have escaped outside into the cold or died from starvation in some dark closet.

Finally, we just gave up the search and gradually quit talking about him. Charlie was a lost cause that only made us sad when we saw his still little wheel in his deserted cage.  The cage door we left open just in case, and for a while we left food in his feeding trough. but we never awoke to find Charlie had come home on his own.  He was just gone.

At last it was November.  After Thanksgiving I pulled the Christmas decorations out from above the garage ceiling to sort for December.  And in the basement from under the stairway, I drug out the nativities, including the little one made of paper mâché that the children had put up themselves when they were small.

In that box there was what seemed to be shredded packing that I didn’t remember using.  That’s when I heard a familiar scratching way back behind the water heater where the nativity had been.  Sure enough, it was Charlie, alive and...well, at least alive. He had found water where the hose to the washer sometimes dripped from condensation. And for food?  Isn’t paper mâché made with corn starch glue?

I’m just saying, Charlie with his L-shaped tail was alive, and two shepherds, a lamb, and half of the virgin Mary were gone. Charlie was greeted with squeals of joy from the kids, the cage latch was reinforced, and we all—including Charlie—had a very merry Christmas, sure that cats have nothing on gerbils for life expectancy.

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The Stuff Love's Made Of

The Stuff Love’s Made Of

To order full video: Bill Gaither: Some Things I Need to Say
You may also enjoy, Love Songs by the Gaither Vocal Band

To order book with poem: When Did I Start to Love You?

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Curls and Seams

She combed through my wet hair, clean from washing with green Prell shampoo, then parted off narrow vertical portions.  One at a time she wrapped the wet sections around her finger, making curls she then secured vertically with bobby pins.

Gloria at age 4

It was Saturday night—bath night—and the pinned-in-place curls were soft enough to sleep on.  By morning they would be dry, and mother would remove the pins, gently brush out the curls, forming shiny ringlets for church.

After our breakfast of bacon, eggs, and biscuits, she would pull my freshly ironed dress over my hair. I would find clean white sox with lace around the edges tucked into my black patent leather shoes to put on for church. Most of my dresses had a sewn-in sash that mother would tie in a bow in the back. She had made all of my dresses, as well as those of my sister and her own.

She was an expert seamstress, a skill she learned from her mother that equipped her to work before I was born at a designer dress shop in Battle Creek called the Francine Dress Shop where she was part of the designer sewing team.  She also modeled these dresses in style shows and for magazine and newspaper ads for the shop.

My red satin dress

Mother was a stickler for finished seams and sculpting details that made a garment “hang right” as she used to say. And both mother and her mother loved quality fabrics.  One of my favorite dresses when I was around ten years old was made of red satin with a white yoke.  I felt so beautiful when I wore it, and at ten beautiful is important. I didn’t wear this dress to regular church; it was saved for special occasions.

Most of our life revolved around the church, since daddy was the pastor.  Even special occasions were special services like New Year’s Eve watchnight services, area conventions, or performances of the Easter and Christmas plays and programs mother wrote and directed.

From the time I was four years old my parents pastored churches in small towns, churches that were struggling that they nursed into strong, stable congregations. This was a full-time job, and I don’t remember ever hearing the phrase “my day off” from my father’s mouth.  Our phone rang at all hours and on every day in the week with calls from someone who was in trouble, in need, or in a hurry.  We had weddings in our living room, cook-outs in our back yard, and area youth skating parties at the rink just down the road. Our car was the taxi for kids or older people who didn’t have a ride to church.

Like getting my hair set on Saturday night, watching my mother construct fine garments out of good fabrics, or hanging out in the barn where my dad made beautiful things out of wood, I saw my parents take whatever characters a community provided and love the best out of people, then patiently train and encourage them into a strong commitment to the Father of us all.  Some characters were more difficult or complicated than others, but my parents thought everyone had the potential to become more than even they believed they could be.

Some of the toughest old characters were there just the best challenges to my dad.  I watched him take on crusty men who wanted nothing to do with the church and persistently and consistently meet them where they were. Some never came to church but came to respect and embrace what the church stood for.  Others became some of the strongest believers with the most amazing testimonies to what God can do in a life.

Burlington Church when we first went there

We went to the Burlington church when I was four.  I literally grew up with many of the families that became (and are still) a part of that church. One family had children my age.  I remember one Sunday when most of the families were snowed in from a serious blizzard and, for good reason, couldn’t make it to church.  But daddy shoveled out our driveway and went to the church early to shovel off the steps and porch of the church. He turned up the heat while mother put some pine sprigs and holly on the communion table.

“Well, at least we’re here and God’s here!” my dad said.  About the time we decided it would be just us, in drove a big farm tractor with George and Eleanor Funk and their three small children, bundled up to their noses in coats and scarves and hanging on for dear life to the tractor seats.  They lived in the country and probably the farthest from the church.  But, bless their faithful hearts, they were there to worship, snow and all! 

Gloria at 14 with Sunday School class she taught Janet Funk right in front of Gloria

What an impression that made on this little eight-year-old!  I have never forgotten the beauty of the Family of God. Just a few weeks ago on our 61st anniversary, we got this text from the woman who was the four-year-old on that tractor that snowy day in Michigan:

Happy Anniversary, Gloria and Bill!  I just want you to know that I am thanking God for both of you...still impacting people with the gospel all over the world!! And, Gloria, you and your family have impacted my life personally for so many years!  I know God is blessing your family.  Have a special celebration of your years together.

Much love,   
Janet  

The Funk family were just some of the great “regular people” who have been giants along my path.  And whether I’m called on to curl hair, make a dress right, shovel off a walk, or plant roses that won’t bloom until after I’ve moved away, I just hope that all I do today will be done right and for the glory of God.

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The Journey Continues

This first month of the New Year, the journey continues.
The star promises that the Messiah is already a reality in this earthen world,
and hints that there are those who have found Him—
some have even embraced Him.

Yet for even those who are wise enough to seek,
this day is a desert day of dust and sand,
plodding and enduring—until the star stops.

Most of us believers—who travel in caravan—visualize as we go where that star-place will be.

We can’t help feeling that the place must be wonderful—
an oasis, a resort, a fine abode fit for a King.

Like those first travelers,
we are way too literally minded
to keep focused on the wonder
of the Incarnate One, Himself—
that He is the wonder.

Will we be disappointed with the destination of this day’s journey
when we find no place spectacular?

Will we, like the poet, miss the glory of the summit
because of bramble distractions?

Lord, today as every day, the hope of finding You on my journey—
that starring promise—
guides and pulls me along the dusty way.

Satisfy my seeking heart with the pleasant reality of Your sweet Self,
resting there in the familiar surroundings of common things.

And, Lord, fill me with gratitude
for Your provisions along my way to You.

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A New Day, a New Year

Lord, on this new day of the New Year I am thankful perhaps most that last year is over and a new page has been turned. I know the moment that marks a new year is in reality no different from any other moment. Each moment gives me a chance to make a better choice, take a bigger risk, avoid a careless word, and embrace a glorious joy.

But sometimes we need a sacrament--a party, an event, a mark on the national calendar--to shake us from our routine. We need a landmark, a finish line, a line in the dust that says, "Here. Here is the place to begin. 

So, I am thankful for this moment. This New Year's Day is a closure to pain, an opening to joy, a celebration of past victories, a funeral for past failures, an open door to exciting and terrifying possibilities, a back-turning on all that would drag us downward. This is a moment. I choose to love it. I will do the hard thing today. I will speak the truth today. I will forgive and offer grace today. I will receive forgiveness and give it today. I will not be cynical today.

I will laugh freely like a child at what I see, at myself, at the sheer loveliness of life. Today I ask for no burning bushes or eruptions of Sinai. I do ask for the eyes to see the bushes already aflame with awesome frozen beauty glistening like diamonds in the air. 

I ask for ears to hear the voice of God in the thunder. I ask for the sensitivity to feel the pulse of the universe when I press my breast against the warm sand on the beach. May I taste the honey on the purple roadside clover and the sweet tender end of the stems of native grasses.

May I thrill to the gentle touch of snow landing on my cheek, laugh when my nostrils send smoke rings of steam into the morning air. Today may be as hard as yesterday, but make me a new woman in the living of it. Tomorrow may be as glorious as my best memory. Make me a new woman to celebrate it. Thank You. That's all I have to pray. Thank You.

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Glimpses of Your Body United

There are glimpses, Lord, of Your Body united
and these glimpses are beautiful.

They let me know that this harmony, health and peace are possible,
and, in spite of other times that shatter this vision,
You will draw us like a magnet to Yourself.
There will be a time
when all the broken and dispersed pieces of Yourself
will come together in beautiful reality.

Lord, sometimes I feel as if I’m living in the valley of dry bones—
surrounded by parched and bleached body parts
disconnected from each other,
unable to perform the simplest function of the living.

But then I hear a voice and a sweet wind brushes my face
like angel wing tips in a dream.
I see a strange movement.
I feel an innate desire for being connected
moving through the bones:
a song sung in harmony,
an embrace between two who thought they had nothing in common,
a move to forgive before forgiveness is requested,
a meltdown of the spirit in some small group studying Your Word.

I feel it then in my own bones—a pull drawing me to the Head of focus.
I sense a warming in the marrow, a kindling of fire.
These times make me dare to trust
that the dislocated body parts will not only adjoin,
they will form the body of a beautiful Bride,
breathless with infatuation,
as she walks with perfect grace toward her Groom.

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My Body Aches

Lord, my body is throbbing from fatigue from all the Christmas preparations.

When I stop to consider the Messiah and His coming, I can't stop my mind.
I keep making mental lists of details, names I want to remember, things I have yet to do and foods I must buy or prepare. But I am not complaining, Lord. I love having a reason to do special things in Your name for people I love. I am grateful that Your coming makes the whole world sing! 

The business of Christmas brakes us all—even those who don't know You for themselves—from the craze of commerce for profit and accomplishment and turns our attention to others. The bell-ringers of the Salvation Army have become as much a part of the joy as Santa at the mall. And although the crèche can no longer be assembled in the city square, more of us are taking time to tell the children why we make the manger and its tiny Occupant such a part of our homes.

I feel the urgency more than ever to make for another generation a celebration that will make this the most important event of the year. This must not become just another day or even just another holiday. We must tell each other and the children that this Babe in a manger was and is the coming together of heaven and earth. But, Lord, help me keep that focus in my own heart.

Help me remember that there is nothing of value that doesn't demand sacrifice and effort. You Yourself came on a quiet night in a small town, but it wasn't the idyllic, effortless night depicted in the windows. There was blood and water and pain. There were insufficient provisions and fear. There were visitors at a time when Mary must have wanted privacy. From then on, You were putting Your own needs as a human being on the back burner for the Big Picture.

So, it is not out of character for Christmas to be wonderful and demanding, a time when fatigue and effort are invested for a few amazing moments of glory. It is for love. All this day, let me remember it is for love. 

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