I stepped to the edge of the scaffolding ready to fly down to the floor of the water tank and get some more paint. The paint was a heavy, gooey sealant and my paint tray ran out quickly. It smelled so strong that we were working in shifts to come out for fresh air. But I must have been in long enough that I was beginning to hallucinate. It was an exhilarating feeling to think of how I would glide down and land right by the paint can. But as I held onto the scaffolding I somehow realized that I wasn’t safe flying, that I needed to climb down. Then I came to my senses a bit more and decided to climb out of the tank before I lost all sense of reality. I called for help and the ground crew came up top and climbed in to pull out the other two. They had been in longer than me and were pretty far gone. When they got them out on top of the tank I told the rescuers to hold them down and not let go. Otherwise they would try to fly off the tank.
That was the biggest event of the summer at Prescott Pines Camp that year. After the scare was over we would sit around and talk about the desire to fly, and the emotions of power and freedom that it evoked. I wondered why it was that so many people dream of flying, and why flying is such a common sensation when hallucinating. Is the desire to fly symbolic of man’s desire for freedom, or is it a foreshadowing of something real, yet to come.
In the Bible there are a few accounts of people moving in the sense that we call transporting. Enoch and Elijah were caught up to be with the Lord, similar to how Christians will be caught up at the Rapture. Then there is the unique account of Phillip being transported by the Spirit after talking to an Ethiopian eunuch about Jesus (Acts 8:39). And I am sure that when we leave this life and enter the heavenly eternal we will be free from the limitations of time and space, and transporting about will be common. But flying is different.
The Wright brothers pursued the desire of flying. For over a hundred years now man has been able to fly, but artificially. It began with the exhilarating desire to escape the confines of two feet firmly planted on the ground. But flying has become quite utilitarian for most, a means of getting from one city to another in less time. There are a few, though, like my good friend Tex, for whom flying is still a thrill.
I remember reading a book when I was young, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. It was forbidden by our church leaders, which made it all the more exciting to read. It really made me think about the freedom we have in the Spirit, a freedom too seldom realized. Joseph Bayley wrote a similar story, a brilliant parable about a Christian who could fly. He went to a school for flying and was told to quit flying around and showing off. Everyone at the school studied aerodynamics, but no one flew. He finally gave up flying, too, and walked.
When I get to heaven I look forward to flying. Not just transporting. I want to enjoy the view, and be thrilled by the power and dynamic of gliding, swooping, diving, taking off, and landing. I wonder if that is not prophetically alluded to by the prophet Isaiah, an eternal reward for waiting upon the Lord.
“They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” (Isaiah 40:31) The first phrase might also be translated, “Those who hope in the Lord will exchange their strength…” Teach me Lord, to wait and to hope.
I fear that those in an eternity apart from knowing and loving God will not enjoy the freedom of flying, but rather an eternity of being bound by the restraints of time and space, and by the chains of selfish desires never relinquished. Heaven and hell – eternal freedom or eternal bondage.
High Flight by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds...and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of...wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
December 30, 2009
December 25, 2009
Jamal's Story
The city was buzzing. People were running about, all over town. Preparations were being completed for the holy day. In just a short time it would be sundown and everyone would settle in to their homes for the most sacred feast. Jamal was no exception. His sons, their wives, and their children were gathered in his home to celebrate the Passover with him.
As the Passover meal progressed the visiting and the banter were the most enjoyable event of the year. But then it came time to tell the story of the passover in Egypt. Grandpa Jamal told of the salvation of the sons of Jacob when the death angel passed over the land. Jamal took the cup in his hand and everyone around the table became silent. He held the cup for the longest time as he drew them in close and continued the story.
“Listen my sons, Jamal has a story to tell you that you have never heard before. Four days ago the man Jesus rode into our town on a donkey. Many people think he will set free the Jews from Roman bondage. But the priests and rabbis fear him, desperately, and I am afraid they will try to have him killed. But I must tell you about this man. I must tell you the story of this man, Jesus.”
“Over thirty years ago I was helping my father, my uncle and my brothers to shepherd a large flock outside of Bethlehem. We were gathered about the fire telling stories. About the time my uncle quieted us to say the prayers we were overwhelmed with light in the sky above us. An angel came down from the light and came near and spoke to us. He said to us, “Tonight, in the city of David, Bethlehem, a savior is born, he is Christ the Lord. Go look for him, and do not hesitate to bow before him in worship. This will be a sign for you, to help you know the babe. You will find him wrapped in cloths and lying in a feed manger, in a stable.” That angel slowly withdrew from us and a host of angels joined him and they all spoke in anthem, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom God’s favor rests.”
“They all were anxious to go in to Bethlehem, that very night, to look for the babe. I was the youngest, only fourteen, barely old enough for my father to trust me to watch the herd while they were gone. This much of the story I have already told you. And I have told it to others. In fact, our doctor over in Jericho, Luke, wrote the story down when I told him a few years ago. But this part I have never told anyone. I am afraid that the priests and the teachers would scoff at me. But you must hear it, and you must understand.”
“After my father and brothers left me I sat alone, wondering and marveling. I could not make sense of it. A savior? Worship a baby? The Christ, born in a stable? Then the angel came back. He was dressed in the clothes of a shepherd, this time. But I knew it was him. I knew his face, and I knew his voice. He told me what my father and my brothers were finding. Then he said to me, “This baby is God’s Son, the promised Messiah, Immanuel, spoken by the prophet Isaiah. One day he will come to Zion, he will enter Jerusalem, and he will free his people. But he will not lift a sword. As swords come against him, he will not even speak a word. He will give his life, like one of these lambs, slaughtered for sacrifice. By his death he will redeem. Freedom will be for all people. Most will reject Him, though. They will not recognize the Messiah. They will choose to remain under the law of Moses, forever trying to please God by their own righteousness. They will never know the peace and grace that this baby boy, the Messiah, comes to give.” Then the angel walked away. When my father returned he told me what they had found, and it was just as the angel had told me.”
“I have heard this man Jesus talk, and he does claim to be God’s Son. The preacher, John, out at the Jordan was about to baptize Jesus, and I was there. John said of him, “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” Then a voice from heaven said, “This is my son, whom I love.”
“So I am convinced, I am sure, that Jesus is the Messiah. You must believe my story, and you must believe about Jesus, no matter what anyone else says in the next few days. Messiah was born that night, and we have seen him. He is our Savior.”
Jamal ended his story. He took a sip from the cup. He passed it around the table. One by one, they all took a sip. Then they all bowed in worship. Jamal led them in a prayer of praise for God’s salvation, “This Jesus, may he conquer sin and death, for each of us at this table, and for all who will believe. Amen."
As the Passover meal progressed the visiting and the banter were the most enjoyable event of the year. But then it came time to tell the story of the passover in Egypt. Grandpa Jamal told of the salvation of the sons of Jacob when the death angel passed over the land. Jamal took the cup in his hand and everyone around the table became silent. He held the cup for the longest time as he drew them in close and continued the story.
“Listen my sons, Jamal has a story to tell you that you have never heard before. Four days ago the man Jesus rode into our town on a donkey. Many people think he will set free the Jews from Roman bondage. But the priests and rabbis fear him, desperately, and I am afraid they will try to have him killed. But I must tell you about this man. I must tell you the story of this man, Jesus.”
“Over thirty years ago I was helping my father, my uncle and my brothers to shepherd a large flock outside of Bethlehem. We were gathered about the fire telling stories. About the time my uncle quieted us to say the prayers we were overwhelmed with light in the sky above us. An angel came down from the light and came near and spoke to us. He said to us, “Tonight, in the city of David, Bethlehem, a savior is born, he is Christ the Lord. Go look for him, and do not hesitate to bow before him in worship. This will be a sign for you, to help you know the babe. You will find him wrapped in cloths and lying in a feed manger, in a stable.” That angel slowly withdrew from us and a host of angels joined him and they all spoke in anthem, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom God’s favor rests.”
“They all were anxious to go in to Bethlehem, that very night, to look for the babe. I was the youngest, only fourteen, barely old enough for my father to trust me to watch the herd while they were gone. This much of the story I have already told you. And I have told it to others. In fact, our doctor over in Jericho, Luke, wrote the story down when I told him a few years ago. But this part I have never told anyone. I am afraid that the priests and the teachers would scoff at me. But you must hear it, and you must understand.”
“After my father and brothers left me I sat alone, wondering and marveling. I could not make sense of it. A savior? Worship a baby? The Christ, born in a stable? Then the angel came back. He was dressed in the clothes of a shepherd, this time. But I knew it was him. I knew his face, and I knew his voice. He told me what my father and my brothers were finding. Then he said to me, “This baby is God’s Son, the promised Messiah, Immanuel, spoken by the prophet Isaiah. One day he will come to Zion, he will enter Jerusalem, and he will free his people. But he will not lift a sword. As swords come against him, he will not even speak a word. He will give his life, like one of these lambs, slaughtered for sacrifice. By his death he will redeem. Freedom will be for all people. Most will reject Him, though. They will not recognize the Messiah. They will choose to remain under the law of Moses, forever trying to please God by their own righteousness. They will never know the peace and grace that this baby boy, the Messiah, comes to give.” Then the angel walked away. When my father returned he told me what they had found, and it was just as the angel had told me.”
“I have heard this man Jesus talk, and he does claim to be God’s Son. The preacher, John, out at the Jordan was about to baptize Jesus, and I was there. John said of him, “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” Then a voice from heaven said, “This is my son, whom I love.”
“So I am convinced, I am sure, that Jesus is the Messiah. You must believe my story, and you must believe about Jesus, no matter what anyone else says in the next few days. Messiah was born that night, and we have seen him. He is our Savior.”
Jamal ended his story. He took a sip from the cup. He passed it around the table. One by one, they all took a sip. Then they all bowed in worship. Jamal led them in a prayer of praise for God’s salvation, “This Jesus, may he conquer sin and death, for each of us at this table, and for all who will believe. Amen."
December 18, 2009
One Big, Big Hug
Forty hours of hell. And that’s only what I felt. It was even worse for my son, I’m sure. After all, he was the one in jail, not me. But like the father in the Luke 15 story I was searching, desperately yearning for my son. My emotions were everywhere -- shock, anger , frustration, desperation, resolve, love and forgiveness, hope, and finally grace. The anger and frustration were primarily due to the criminal system. The shock, fear, and hope were directed toward my son.
My son was arrested. He worked at a 24 hour gas station. Not a good situation at all. One night, in the early hours of the morning, a couple under age guys came in and badgered the store clerk to sell them some beer. After an hour, or more, my son caved in and told them he would leave the back door open, so they could go in a get a case of beer. So the two guys did just that. Helped themselves.. They loaded their car full of beer, energy drinks, and pop. It wasn’t hard for the owner to figure out what had happened. There was a camera in the back warehouse, too. My son was fired. He didn’t tell us for a week, but we knew things weren’t right. By the time he finally spilled the beans he already had plans to run off and hide out in the forest. He had his Jeep packed with gear and groceries. One last stop at a friend’s house, on a Sunday afternoon, when suddenly the sheriff cars pulled up, surrounded him, and made their arrest.
He called me that night to tell me. I was frantic -- never been through this before, and didn’t have a clue what to do. But I told him I would stand by him and do all I could. I called a good lawyer the next morning who helped in so many ways. He was at the court house at noon to represent my son at the arraignment. By television he told my son at the jail that his father was seated in the court room with him. What a gesture. I was assured he would be released that evening, and a trial would be pending. I called the jail several times that afternoon to find out when he would be released so that I could pick him up. I kept getting the run around. When finally I went down to the jail to wait for him I found out they had released the prisoners earlier. I made such a scene of disgust and frustration that I was afraid the desk sergeant might come out and arrest me. I just could not understand why the criminal system had to treat every person like a hopeless, worthless criminal and destroy their dignity.
So we started driving all over town looking for him. We found a few other guys released that night, hanging out at the nearby mall. They remembered our son. They said he had boarded a bus. We never found him that night. He had got on a bus that went into Portland, got lost, and had to stay the night at a stranger’s apartment.
All this time I was sorting out my emotions -- disgust, fear for my son’s well being, and hope that such a dramatic event would bring him up short, get his attention, and change direction in several areas of his life. But most of all I realized how fearful of me he had been through the process, because of how I had been treating him for several years. I tried to make him keep the rules. I chased him down when he was in trouble and he would run away. He avoided me. I yelled and made a scene instead of talking reasonably, gracefully, and fatherly. I tried to make him be righteous the same way I tried to make myself righteous. Keep the rules!!
So finally, Tuesday morning he called his Mom, and she went to pick him up. Carol called me at the office and told me to come up to the house, that my son was home. I couldn’t get there fast enough, it seemed. When we saw each other across the room we just gazed, until the tears began. I walked over and took him in my arms and hugged him for the longest time. No words, no yelling, no lecture. Grace had done a marvelous work in him. But more importantly, it had done a marvelous work in me, too.
“He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it until the day of Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 1:6)
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.” (Washington Irving)
My son was arrested. He worked at a 24 hour gas station. Not a good situation at all. One night, in the early hours of the morning, a couple under age guys came in and badgered the store clerk to sell them some beer. After an hour, or more, my son caved in and told them he would leave the back door open, so they could go in a get a case of beer. So the two guys did just that. Helped themselves.. They loaded their car full of beer, energy drinks, and pop. It wasn’t hard for the owner to figure out what had happened. There was a camera in the back warehouse, too. My son was fired. He didn’t tell us for a week, but we knew things weren’t right. By the time he finally spilled the beans he already had plans to run off and hide out in the forest. He had his Jeep packed with gear and groceries. One last stop at a friend’s house, on a Sunday afternoon, when suddenly the sheriff cars pulled up, surrounded him, and made their arrest.
He called me that night to tell me. I was frantic -- never been through this before, and didn’t have a clue what to do. But I told him I would stand by him and do all I could. I called a good lawyer the next morning who helped in so many ways. He was at the court house at noon to represent my son at the arraignment. By television he told my son at the jail that his father was seated in the court room with him. What a gesture. I was assured he would be released that evening, and a trial would be pending. I called the jail several times that afternoon to find out when he would be released so that I could pick him up. I kept getting the run around. When finally I went down to the jail to wait for him I found out they had released the prisoners earlier. I made such a scene of disgust and frustration that I was afraid the desk sergeant might come out and arrest me. I just could not understand why the criminal system had to treat every person like a hopeless, worthless criminal and destroy their dignity.
So we started driving all over town looking for him. We found a few other guys released that night, hanging out at the nearby mall. They remembered our son. They said he had boarded a bus. We never found him that night. He had got on a bus that went into Portland, got lost, and had to stay the night at a stranger’s apartment.
All this time I was sorting out my emotions -- disgust, fear for my son’s well being, and hope that such a dramatic event would bring him up short, get his attention, and change direction in several areas of his life. But most of all I realized how fearful of me he had been through the process, because of how I had been treating him for several years. I tried to make him keep the rules. I chased him down when he was in trouble and he would run away. He avoided me. I yelled and made a scene instead of talking reasonably, gracefully, and fatherly. I tried to make him be righteous the same way I tried to make myself righteous. Keep the rules!!
So finally, Tuesday morning he called his Mom, and she went to pick him up. Carol called me at the office and told me to come up to the house, that my son was home. I couldn’t get there fast enough, it seemed. When we saw each other across the room we just gazed, until the tears began. I walked over and took him in my arms and hugged him for the longest time. No words, no yelling, no lecture. Grace had done a marvelous work in him. But more importantly, it had done a marvelous work in me, too.
“He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it until the day of Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 1:6)
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.” (Washington Irving)
December 9, 2009
The Worst Birthday Ever
Happy birthday, Carol. July 25, 1980. Where better to celebrate than Havasu City, Arizona. Home of the London Bridge, they say. She’ll never forget that one.
We had been on a canoe trip down the Colorado River for four days, starting at Bullhead City. We had about twenty high school students, one bus, 115 degree weather, and brutal sunburn to watch out for. We had fun splashing and swimming our way down the river, 15 miles a day. The first two days we were absorbed with watching for a child that we were told was missing, and presumed drowned in the river. Every little piece of wood, every trash floating in the river we would row up close and frightfully inspect. Now that was a trip!
Each night I would hitch a ride back to our starting point to retrieve the bus, and that way we were able to shuttle our way down the river. The third day, though, was disaster. The bus blew a rod out the side of the engine. It was done. And we were nearly 200 miles from Tucson. We had the bus towed to a storage yard to deal with later, and called the church to recruit a driver to bring out another bus to pick us up on our last day. Somehow we continued our shuttle and finished our trip.
When we got to Havasu City, our destination, we turned our canoes over to the outfitter, and went to find a nice cool McDonalds to sit and wait for the bus. Carol and I took turns waiting out on the highway to flag down the bus. (Remember, this was pre-future -- no cell phones.) We expected it to arrive about 6:00 PM. That’s when I told them we would be ready and waiting. But it didn’t come, and didn’t come. The driver they recruited was one of the school drivers, and there wasn’t a lot of love between the school staff and the church programs, even though they were “one in spirit and entity”. She waited till after work to depart Tucson, and must have been oblivious to our plight. The kids started getting restless and I had to stay with them to keep them happy. So Carol ended up sitting out on the highway, almost till midnight, in the brutal heat – hot, dirty, sweaty, and exhausted.
When we finally got settled in for the trip home, Carol leaned over to me and said, “Do you know what today is?” I had forgotten. Totally forgotten. She told me, “it is the worst birthday ever.” Every year now she asks me, “Remember Havasu City, my worst birthday ever?” I’m never sure if it’s a statement, though, or a question. At least now we can look back and laugh together. Just a bit.
“This is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24)
We had been on a canoe trip down the Colorado River for four days, starting at Bullhead City. We had about twenty high school students, one bus, 115 degree weather, and brutal sunburn to watch out for. We had fun splashing and swimming our way down the river, 15 miles a day. The first two days we were absorbed with watching for a child that we were told was missing, and presumed drowned in the river. Every little piece of wood, every trash floating in the river we would row up close and frightfully inspect. Now that was a trip!
Each night I would hitch a ride back to our starting point to retrieve the bus, and that way we were able to shuttle our way down the river. The third day, though, was disaster. The bus blew a rod out the side of the engine. It was done. And we were nearly 200 miles from Tucson. We had the bus towed to a storage yard to deal with later, and called the church to recruit a driver to bring out another bus to pick us up on our last day. Somehow we continued our shuttle and finished our trip.
When we got to Havasu City, our destination, we turned our canoes over to the outfitter, and went to find a nice cool McDonalds to sit and wait for the bus. Carol and I took turns waiting out on the highway to flag down the bus. (Remember, this was pre-future -- no cell phones.) We expected it to arrive about 6:00 PM. That’s when I told them we would be ready and waiting. But it didn’t come, and didn’t come. The driver they recruited was one of the school drivers, and there wasn’t a lot of love between the school staff and the church programs, even though they were “one in spirit and entity”. She waited till after work to depart Tucson, and must have been oblivious to our plight. The kids started getting restless and I had to stay with them to keep them happy. So Carol ended up sitting out on the highway, almost till midnight, in the brutal heat – hot, dirty, sweaty, and exhausted.
When we finally got settled in for the trip home, Carol leaned over to me and said, “Do you know what today is?” I had forgotten. Totally forgotten. She told me, “it is the worst birthday ever.” Every year now she asks me, “Remember Havasu City, my worst birthday ever?” I’m never sure if it’s a statement, though, or a question. At least now we can look back and laugh together. Just a bit.
“This is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24)
December 3, 2009
My Precious
My precious, tormented little girl. What have I done to her? Only twelve years old – this cute, vivacious, young, red-headed daughter of mine. She cut her wrists. So tormented that she would think of trying to end her life.
The police car drove up in front of the house and I walked out to see what he wanted. He told me that he had my daughter in the car. He had picked her up down at the grade school, a few blocks away, where some other kids had found her bleeding and cutting her wrists. She was safe, the wounds were not serious, he said, but he was taking her to the hospital.
When we got to the Emergency Room we were in a daze. Who do we ask? What do we do? Where is our daughter? The policeman just watched me as I wandered around. I felt like he was sizing me up as the perpetrator, rather than a concerned Dad. I already felt like a failure of a father, and he made me feel all the worse.
Starting about six months earlier she had started cutting herself, and would tell classmates of her thoughts about suicide. It became such an issue that the Christian School where she attended asked us to withdraw her before the end of the school year. The next year she started attending Junior High at a public school. She gravitated toward some friends of whom I didn’t really approve. And it was one of my harsh confrontations with her over these friends that precipitated the actual suicide attempt.
The hospital admitted her and kept her in the psych ward for a week. We visited and got some advice and counsel on how to help her. Over time she was actually diagnosed to suffer with Borderline Personality Disorder. But more importantly, we were put in contact with a crisis and adolescent counselor with whom the three of us met for quite a long time. He was a Jewish man, very wise and skillful. Our daughter healed slowly, as we became aware of our own needs to change in helping her through some very difficult years.
We made a definite decision to keep our daughter out of school, and teach her at home. Carol enjoyed finding books and curriculum to have her read and study. And then she got interested in horses. As that interest grew and blossomed it gave her an objective to pursue and an outlet to express herself.
Several years later she surprised us. We could tell at the family Christmas get together that she wasn’t quite herself. We walked her out to her car after everyone else had left. She said she had something to tell us. But she kept us on pins and needles for 24 hours, until finally she told us that she had gotten married a few weeks earlier. I guess we had learned not to be shocked or startled. In fact, we were actually able to be happy for her. The next evening we went out to dinner to meet her new husband. They now have two wonderful children. The oldest is another cute, adorable, lively little red headed girl, my precious grand daughter.
“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom… And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus… Fathers, do not embitter your children, or they will become discouraged.” (Colossians 3: 16, 17, 21)
The police car drove up in front of the house and I walked out to see what he wanted. He told me that he had my daughter in the car. He had picked her up down at the grade school, a few blocks away, where some other kids had found her bleeding and cutting her wrists. She was safe, the wounds were not serious, he said, but he was taking her to the hospital.
When we got to the Emergency Room we were in a daze. Who do we ask? What do we do? Where is our daughter? The policeman just watched me as I wandered around. I felt like he was sizing me up as the perpetrator, rather than a concerned Dad. I already felt like a failure of a father, and he made me feel all the worse.
Starting about six months earlier she had started cutting herself, and would tell classmates of her thoughts about suicide. It became such an issue that the Christian School where she attended asked us to withdraw her before the end of the school year. The next year she started attending Junior High at a public school. She gravitated toward some friends of whom I didn’t really approve. And it was one of my harsh confrontations with her over these friends that precipitated the actual suicide attempt.
The hospital admitted her and kept her in the psych ward for a week. We visited and got some advice and counsel on how to help her. Over time she was actually diagnosed to suffer with Borderline Personality Disorder. But more importantly, we were put in contact with a crisis and adolescent counselor with whom the three of us met for quite a long time. He was a Jewish man, very wise and skillful. Our daughter healed slowly, as we became aware of our own needs to change in helping her through some very difficult years.
We made a definite decision to keep our daughter out of school, and teach her at home. Carol enjoyed finding books and curriculum to have her read and study. And then she got interested in horses. As that interest grew and blossomed it gave her an objective to pursue and an outlet to express herself.
Several years later she surprised us. We could tell at the family Christmas get together that she wasn’t quite herself. We walked her out to her car after everyone else had left. She said she had something to tell us. But she kept us on pins and needles for 24 hours, until finally she told us that she had gotten married a few weeks earlier. I guess we had learned not to be shocked or startled. In fact, we were actually able to be happy for her. The next evening we went out to dinner to meet her new husband. They now have two wonderful children. The oldest is another cute, adorable, lively little red headed girl, my precious grand daughter.
“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom… And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus… Fathers, do not embitter your children, or they will become discouraged.” (Colossians 3: 16, 17, 21)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
