Paying the price

A friend sent this.
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There once was a man named George Thomas, pastor in a small New England town. One Easter Sunday morning he came to the Church carrying a rusty, bent old bird cage, and set it by the pulpit. Eyebrows were raised and, as if in response, Pastor Thomas began to speak....

"I was walking through town yesterday when I saw a young boy coming toward me swinging this bird cage. On the bottom of the cage were three little wild birds, shivering with cold and fright. I stopped the lad and asked, "What do you have there, son?"

"Just some old birds," came the reply.

"What are you going to do with them?" I asked.

"Take 'em home and have fun with 'em," he answered. "I'm gonna tease 'em and pull out their feathers to make 'em fight. I'm gonna have a real good time."

“But you'll get tired of those birds sooner or later. What will you do then?"

"Oh, I got some cats," said the little boy. "They like birds. I'll take 'em to them."

The pastor was silent for a moment. "How much do you want for those birds, son?"

“Huh??!!! Why, you don't want them birds, mister. They're just plain old field birds. They don't sing. They ain't even pretty!"

"How much?" the pastor asked again.

The boy sized up the pastor as if he were crazy and said, "$10?"

The pastor reached in his pocket and took out a ten dollar bill. He placed it in the boy's hand. In a flash, the boy was gone.

The pastor picked up the cage and gently carried it to the end of the alley where there was a tree and a grassy spot. Setting the cage down, he opened the door, and by softly tapping the bars persuaded the birds out, setting them free.

Well, that explained the empty bird cage on the pulpit, and then the pastor began to tell this story:

One day Satan and Jesus were having a conversation. Satan had just come from the Garden of Eden, and he was gloating and boasting. "Yes, sir, I just caught a world full of people down there. Set me a trap, used bait I knew they couldn't resist. Got 'em all!"

"What are you going to do with them?" Jesus asked.

Satan replied, "Oh, I'm gonna have fun! I'm gonna teach them how to marry and divorce each other, how to hate and abuse each other, how to drink and smoke and curse. I'm gonna teach them how to invent guns and bombs and kill each other. I'm really gonna have fun!"

"And what will you do when you are done with them?" Jesus asked.

"Oh, I'll kill 'em," Satan declared proudly.

"How much do you want for them?" Jesus asked.

“Oh, you don't want those people. They ain't no good. Why, you'll take them and they'll just hate you. They'll spit on you, curse you and kill you. You don't want those people!!"

“How much? He asked again.

Satan looked at Jesus and sneered, "All your blood, tears and your life."

Jesus said, "DONE!" Then He paid the price.

The pastor picked up the cage and walked from the pulpit.

A blessed Resurrection Day to everyone.

He is risen!

Happy Resurrection Day, everyone!

Here's my WND column for this weekend entitled "Keep Your Eyes on the Prize."

So what's the significance of an empty tomb? Consider these words:

At the age of 64, after studying world religions, Sir Lionel Luckhoo became a Christian. Addressing audiences worldwide, including presidents, kings, parliaments, cabinets, bar associations, and the United Nations, Sir Lionel Luckhoo stated: "The bones of Muhammad are in Medina, the bones of Confucius are in Shantung, the cremated bones of Buddha are in Nepal. Thousands pay pilgrimages to worship at their tombs which contain their bones. But in Jerusalem there is a cave cut into the rock. This is the tomb of Jesus. It is empty! Yes, empty! Because he is risen! He died, physically and historically. He arose from the dead, and now sits at the right hand of God."

A blessed Resurrection Day to everyone.

Seeing my soul

When I was a little girl, I had definite ideas of what a soul looked like. I was convinced it was like a pearly-white opalescent bubble about two inches across that resided someplace in the body, probably near the esophagus or something. Despite its fragile appearance, it had to be tough… tough enough to handle all the iniquities people do during the course of their life. Yet it was also supposed to be a thing of indescribable unearthly beauty.

Funny to peek into the imagination of a child, isn’t it?

Fast forward a few decades. A couple of weeks ago, I saw a random comment on an article in which the commenter was discussing the end of the world. I glanced with disinterest through the comment until one line arrested my vision and stopped me in my tracks. The line read, “All the populations of the world will be able to see their souls for a period of time...”

Whoa.

I don’t remember the context of this line, but the notion is scary. What would it be like, to see my soul? To actually see it? To see, in graphic detail, all the ugly horrible thoughts and actions I’ve had and done? All the forgotten misdeeds and nasty thoughts and snarky moments? I have a strong feeling my soul wouldn’t be pearly and opalescent.

I like to pretend I’m a pretty decent person – I haven’t robbed any jewelry stores lately – but it’s a human characteristic to ignore the bad stuff about ourselves and just remember the good. We all have thoughts, words, and deeds that are damning, but we’ll go merrily through life pretending that the things “done and left undone” don’t matter in the overall scheme of things. We’re all pretty decent people in our own eyes, right? It’s not like we’ve robbed any jewelry stores, right?

But everything is recorded on our soul. Every little transgression, every witchy thought or piece of gossip that escapes our lips, every person we ignore because we don’t want to be bothered, every insult we lob at our spouse or kids, every piece of gum wrapper we toss aside instead of using a trash can – everything, no matter how large or small – are recorded on that pure, pearly bubble. There’s no hiding from it. And that opalescent bubble gets dirtier and dirtier.

Since reading that line, the image of seeing my soul has haunted me. It’s a frightening thought. After all, what is my life but a pile of filthy rags? If I had the ability to pluck that pearly opalescent bubble out of my chest right now and look at it, how tarnished and dirty would it be? Far from being a pure and spotless thing, it would be ugly and stained with my many transgressions. In short, it wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

But then I remembered something. Maybe my soul isn't terribly ugly. I remembered that every time I earnestly seek forgiveness, that ugly tarnished bubble is wiped clean and pure once more. Again and again and again. Whenever I ask, that gift is freely given. Wow. It’s like ultra strong Formula 409 – it wipes off the grease and scrubs off the stains and makes things shiny.

After all, what would our bodies be like if we never took a bath? At the end of a week we’d be pretty stinky. By the end of a month, no one would want to be in the same room with us. What would we be like if we hadn’t bathed in a year, or ten years, or for our whole life? Ewwww.

That’s how I see our souls. If we don’t “bathe” our souls in the blood of the lamb, they get dirtier and dirtier, dusty and tarnished, filthy and ugly. If we don’t “bathe” them for a week, they’re pretty stinky. By the end of a month, those pearly bubbles would be greasy and rank. By the end of a year, or ten years, or a lifetime, they’d be horrifically ugly, blackened with filth, and frankly revolting.

But that good ol’ celestial Formula 409 works every time. One squirt – one sincere and heartfelt prayer – and that opalescent bubble can shine forth once more, clean and bright.

Psalm 32:1 -- Blessed is the one whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered.

Who is heaven for?

About a week ago, I saw an article about a former porn star who had given up her sordid life and become a born-again Christian. Here was a woman (only 26 yrs old) who had reached rock bottom: raped at 14, drugs, prostitution, stripper, porn star, several suicide attempts... and then, through the outreach of a church whose specialty is rescuing such people, found God. Very heart-warming, very positive.

Of the hundreds of comments that followed the article, the vast majority were upbeat and encouraging. But one woman's comment stood out for its horrible, graphic language. I've edited out the bad stuff, but the gist of the comment is as follows:

"You have sold your soul and your body to Devil. There is no 'going back' to innocence for the ones who have lost their souls forever. Keep [doing porn]. You are good at it. You 'accepted' God but will God accept you? HEAVEN is for DECENT GIRLS who respect themselves, not for [expletive] like you."

Believe me, the comment was way, way worse (and longer) than the sanitized version above. And it's from a woman, too.

I can't imagine why this woman thought she had to spout such hate and vitriol, but one thing I know: her definition of who is worthy of heaven surely differs from mine. Jesus willingly associated with the lowest of the low in order to change their lives. He still does, today.

But some people are blind to His works and words. I'm saddened that this idiot thought it was necessary to launch such a poison bomb at a woman who is doing her best to clean up her life. Someone needs to review the 8th chapter of John.

If heaven were only for perfect people, it would be a very, very lonely place.

Just thought I'd get this off my chest.

Eyes on the prize

This past Sunday in church, the gospel text was Luke 9:57-62, summarized as “The cost of following Jesus.” In the concluding line of this text, Jesus says, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.”

Despite the fact that biblical references to agriculture always interest me, I never gave much thought to this particular verse until the pastor explained it.

This particular pastor was a visiting pastor who originally hailed from the hills of Tennessee. As such, he knew a lot of old-time farmers who grew up plowing with horses or mules. In talking with these veteran farmers, he learned that when plowing with animals, they tend to plow where you look. If your attention is drawn to the left, you unconsciously direct your mules or horses to the left. If your attention is drawn to the right, you plow to the right.

“So how,” asked the pastor of one of these farmers, “do you plow in a straight line?”

“You fix your eyes on a distant spot in front of you and don’t look to the side. As long as you stare straight ahead, you’ll plow a straight line.”

And this, the pastor explained, is what the parable means. If you allow your attention to be diverted from the cross in front of you, you won’t plow your life toward that cross. You’ll be distracted by the diversions of this world. You’ll diverge to the left or to the right, anywhere but straight ahead.

I’ve been thinking about this since Sunday because it makes such good sense. When I allow myself to wander away from the cross, I’ll say [w]itchy things, or make snarks, or gossip, or indulge in vices, otherwise behave in ways that are unbecoming to a Christian woman.

Every sin to which mankind falls prey can be attributed to taking our eyes off the prize. Some people never see the prize and don’t know the wonder that can come from attaining it. Some people think the “prize” is so distant that they don’t have to worry about it now. Or maybe they think the prize is a mirage and isn’t really there. Or maybe they think that hey, a little side trip here and there off the straight furrow is no big deal; they can always straighten up later. Some people can; but others sink into habits or vices that are hard to escape, and others make such big mistakes that it changes their life (for the bad) forever.

It’s so much simpler, in the end, to fix our eyes on the prize and plow a straight line. Don’t take your hand off the plow or we may find ourselves not fit for service in the Kingdom of God.

Just some philosophical musings on a hot and humid summer day.

Coffee with Jesus

My husband was sent this cartoon on Facebook and he passed it on to me. It's supposed to be all one panel, but I split it up so the words are more legible.

Christmas Eve at the gas station

Sniff honnnnkkkk.....

Get some tissue, this is a good one. A friend sent it.
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Christmas Eve at the Gas Station

The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He hadn't been anywhere in years since his wife had passed away. It was just another day to him. He didn't hate Christmas, just couldn't find a reason to celebrate. He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling for the last hour and wondering what it was all about when the door opened and a homeless man stepped through.

Instead of throwing the man out, Old George told the man to come and sit by the heater and warm up. "Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude," said the stranger. "I see you're busy, I'll just go."

"Not without something hot in your belly," George said. He turned and opened a wide mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger. "It ain't much, but it's hot and tasty. Stew. Made it myself. When you're done, there's coffee and it's fresh."

Just at that moment he heard the "ding" of the driveway bell. "Excuse me, be right back," George said. There in the driveway was an old '53 Chevy. Steam was rolling out of the front. The driver was panicked. "Mister, can you help me!" said the driver, with a deep Spanish accent. "My wife is with child and my car is broken." George opened the hood. It was bad. The block looked cracked from the cold, the car was dead.

"You ain't going in this thing," George said as he turned away.

"But mister, please help ..." The door of the office closed behind George as he went inside. He went to the office wall and got the keys to his old truck, and went back outside. He walked around the building, opened the garage, started the truck and drove it around to where the couple was waiting. "Here, take my truck," he said. "She ain't the best thing you ever looked at, but she runs real good."

George helped put the woman in the truck and watched as it sped off into the night. He turned and walked back inside the office. "Glad I gave 'em the truck, their tires were shot too. That 'ol truck has brand new tires." George thought he was talking to the stranger, but the man had gone. The Thermos was on the desk, empty, with a used coffee cup beside it. "Well, at least he got something in his belly," George thought.

George went back outside to see if the old Chevy would start. It cranked slowly, but it started. He pulled it into the garage where the truck had been. He thought he would tinker with it for something to do. Christmas Eve meant no customers. He discovered that the block hadn't cracked, it was just the bottom hose on the radiator. "Well, shoot, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put a new one on. "Those tires ain't gonna get 'em through the winter either." He took the snow treads off of his wife's old Lincoln. They were like new and he wasn't going to drive the car anyway.

As he was working, he heard shots being fired. He ran outside. Beside a police car an officer lay on the cold ground. Bleeding from the left shoulder, the officer moaned, "Please help me."

George helped the officer inside as he remembered the training he had received in the Army as a medic. He knew the wound needed attention. "Pressure to stop the bleeding," he thought. The uniform company had been there that morning and had left clean shop towels. He used those and duct tape to bind the wound. "Hey, they say duct tape can fix anythin'," he said, trying to make the policeman feel at ease.

"Something for pain," George thought. All he had was the pills he used for his back. "These ought to work." He put some water in a cup and gave the policeman the pills. "You hang in there, I'm going to get you an ambulance."

The phone was dead. "Maybe I can get one of your buddies on that there talk box out in your car." He went out only to find that a bullet had gone into the dashboard destroying the two way radio. He went back in to find the policeman sitting up. "Thanks," said the officer. "You could have left me there. The guy that shot me is still in the area." George sat down beside him, "I would never leave an injured man in the Army and I ain't gonna leave you." George pulled back the bandage to check for bleeding. "Looks worse than what it is. Bullet passed right through 'ya. Good thing it missed the important stuff though. I think with time you’re gonna be right as rain."

George got up and poured a cup of coffee. "How do you take it?" he asked.

"None for me," said the officer.

"Oh, yer gonna drink this. Best in the city. Too bad I ain't got no donuts." The officer laughed and winced at the same time.

The front door of the office flew open. In burst a young man with a gun. "Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man yelled. His hand was shaking and George could tell that he had never done anything like this before.

"That's the guy that shot me!" exclaimed the officer.

"Son, why are you doing this?" asked George, "You need to put the cannon away. Somebody else might get hurt."

The young man was confused. "Shut up old man, or I'll shoot you, too. Now give me the cash!"

The cop was reaching for his gun. "Put that thing away," George said to the cop. "We got one too many in here now." He turned his attention to the young man. "Son, it's Christmas Eve. If you need money, well then, here. It ain't much but it's all I got. Now put that pea shooter away."

George pulled $150 out of his pocket and handed it to the young man, reaching for the barrel of the gun at the same time. The young man released his grip on the gun, fell to his knees and began to cry. "I'm not very good at this am I? All I wanted was to buy something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job, my rent is due, my car got repossessed last week."

George handed the gun to the cop. "Son, we all get in a bit of a squeeze now and then. The road gets hard sometimes, but we make it through the best we can."

He got the young man to his feet, and sat him down on a chair across from the cop. "Sometimes we do stupid things." George handed the young man a cup of coffee. "Bein' stupid is one of the things that makes us human. Comin' in here with a gun ain't the answer. Now sit there and get warm and we'll sort this thing out."

The young man had stopped crying. He looked over to the cop. "Sorry I shot you. It just went off. I'm sorry officer."

"Shut up and drink your coffee," the cop said.

George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car and an ambulance skidded to a halt. Two cops came through the door, guns drawn. "Chuck! You okay?" one of the cops asked the wounded officer.

"Not bad for a guy who took a bullet. How did you find me?"

"GPS locator in the car. Best thing since sliced bread. Who did this?" the other cop asked as he approached the young man.

Chuck answered him, "I don't know. The guy ran off into the dark. Just dropped his gun and ran." George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other.

"That guy work here?" the wounded cop continued.

"Yep," George said, "just hired him this morning. Boy lost his job."

The paramedics came in and loaded Chuck onto the stretcher. The young man leaned over the wounded cop and whispered, "Why?"

Chuck just said, "Merry Christmas boy ... and you too, George, and thanks for everything."

"Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there. That ought to solve some of your problems." George went into the back room and came out with a box. He pulled out a ring box. "Here you go, something for the little woman. I don't think Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy some day."

The young man looked inside to see the biggest diamond ring he ever saw. "I can't take this," said the young man. "It means something to you."

"And now it means something to you," replied George. "I got my memories. That's all I need." George reached into the box again. An airplane, a car and a truck appeared next. They were toys that the oil company had left for him to sell. "Here's something for that little man of yours."

The young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150 that the old man had handed him earlier. "And what are you supposed to buy Christmas dinner with? You keep that too," George said. "Now git home to your family."

The young man turned with tears streaming down his face. "I'll be here in the morning for work, if that job offer is still good."

"Nope. I'm closed Christmas day," George said. "See ya the day after."

George turned around to find that the homeless stranger had returned. "Where'd you come from? I thought you left?"

"I have been here. I have always been here," said the stranger. "You say you don't celebrate Christmas. Why?"

"Well, after my wife passed away, I just couldn't see what all the bother was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a good pine tree. Bakin' cookies like I used to with Martha just wasn't the same by myself and besides I was gettin' a little chubby."

The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do celebrate the holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and warmed me when I was cold and hungry. The woman with child will bear a son and he will become a great doctor. The policeman you helped will go on to save nineteen people from being killed by terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will make you a rich man and not take any for himself. That is the spirit of the season and you keep it as good as any man."

George was taken aback by all this stranger had said. "And how do you know all this?" asked the old man.

"Trust me, George. I have the inside track on this sort of thing. And when your days are done you will be with Martha again."

The stranger moved toward the door. "If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to go home where there is a big celebration planned."

George watched as the old leather jacket and the torn pants that the stranger was wearing turned into a white robe. A golden light began to fill the room. "You see, George ... it's My birthday. Merry Christmas."

George fell to his knees and replied, "Happy Birthday, Lord Jesus."

Where's the piccolo?

Last week, our pastor’s sermon addressed Matthew 25:14-30, the parable of the wealthy landowner who took a trip, and in his absence entrusted his wealth to his servants. The title of our pastor’s sermon, oddly enough, was “Where’s the piccolo?”

The parable is as follows:

For it [the Kingdom of Heaven] will be like a man going on a journey, who called his servants and entrusted to them his property. To one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away.

He who had received the five talents went at once and traded with them, and he made five talents more. So also he who had the two talents made two talents more. But he who had received the one talent went and dug in the ground and hid his master’s money.

Now after a long time the master of those servants came and settled accounts with them. And he who had received the five talents came forward, bringing five talents more, saying, 'Master, you delivered to me five talents; here I have made five talents more.' His master said to him, 'Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.'

And he also who had the two talents came forward, saying, 'Master, you delivered to me two talents; here I have made two talents more.' His master said to him, 'Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.'

He also who had received the one talent came forward, saying, 'Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you scattered no seed, so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.'

But his master answered him, 'You wicked and slothful servant! You knew that I reap where I have not sown and gather where I scattered no seed? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest. So take the talent from him and give it to him who has the ten talents. For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.'

This parable in Matthew has always rather bugged me because I never quite understood it. Why would the wealthy landowner pick on the poor servant who didn’t invest his money but instead merely buried it? Hey, I understand financial restraint.  Frankly that would be my first inclination (bury, not invest). At least the servant didn’t steal the money. He didn’t go drinking or carousing with it. All he did was bury it, keeping it safe and sound for when the master would return. So why was the landowner so ticked off?

Our pastor’s analysis of this parable was so enlightening that I’m copying over portions of his sermon (which I put in italics).

It’s helpful to know that a “talent” was the largest monetary unit of its time. A denarius was a day’s wage for a laborer; and a talent was worth 6000 denarii, or about 16 years’ worth of labor. That was a LOT of money.

Clearly the landowner trusted these servants. He obviously trusted them all to be honest, but he didn’t trust each one to the same degree. Instead, he trusted each one “according to his ability.” The servants had different skills.  At the risk of reading too much into the Greek translation of monetary units, the servants each had different talents.

“Let’s face it,” our pastor said. “There are some people who can handle five talents, others only one. There are some people who have great intellectual capabilities and some who do not. There are some who have the ability to articulate their thoughts, some cannot. There are some who have physical prowess and attractive looks, others have neither. The important thing to remember is that each servant was given something. No one was left without. Each had abilities. You may not be a five-talent person, but you have something to offer. We all do.

“And you know something: I believe there are a whole lot more one and two-talent people in this world than there are five-talent people. Oh, there are some people who seem to have it all. I won’t deny that. But most of us are just one or two talent servants.”

Now, understand the servants didn’t know when the landowner would be returning. It’s not like he could keep them abreast of his travels via Twitter. So the servants knew they had to be constantly on their watch for when their boss would get back.

The “good and faithful” servants doubled their master’s money. But the one-talent guy was called “slothful” and “wicked.” Ouch.

As our pastor put it, “Our Lord may be delayed in his return, but, in the meantime, what are you doing with the talent that has been entrusted to you? Let us be clear on one issue: God expects a return. We better not simply bury that which has been given us and return it when he comes. If we don’t sow anything, how can we expect to reap anything?”

In other words, we can’t just let our talents lie fallow. We can’t bury them. We have to DO something with them. Our talents are God- given, and He doesn’t like us to waste His gifts. The faithless – those who refuse to use their gifts – will lose even the gifts they were given because they’re too scared, or weak, or lazy, or other unflattering descriptions to cultivate and use those gifts.

Sounds harsh, but I guess God doesn’t like sloth.

So why didn’t the servant invest his talent? He was scared. He played it safe. “I was afraid,” he said. But that’s not a good enough excuse. As our pastor put it, “If Jesus had played it safe, we would not be sitting here [in church] this morning. God loves you as you are, warts and all. Be yourself, be genuine, be authentic.”

Our pastor related the story of an unattractive housewife who forever sighed over the beauty and singing talent of Hollywood actresses. She fell into a depression because she didn’t have similar gifts of beauty and ability. But then she recalled how she used to be able to make people laugh when she was in high school. At the top of her career in the 1960s, Phyllis Diller made over a million dollars a year. She wasn’t pretty, she couldn’t sing, but she was funny. She had found her gift.

“Well, maybe God is saying something like that to us,” said our pastor. “Maybe when we complain that we wish we had more, if only we were like someone other than ourselves, IF ONLY…He says to us: ‘Use the gifts I have given you. Stop crying about what you don’t have and start concentrating on what you do have.’ For me, however, neither of these reasons gets to the heart of the issue. I think the one-talent man did nothing with his talent because he thought to himself: “Well, my one talent won’t make any difference anyway.”

Then our pastor finished his sermon with these words: “The celebrated 19th century conductor, Sir Michael Costa, was holding a rehearsal. Scores of instruments were playing and a mighty chorus was wailing away. But one of the musicians, thinking his contribution wouldn’t be missed amid all the commotion, stopped playing. Suddenly the great conductor stopped and yelled: “Where’s the piccolo?”

“You see, the sound of that one small instrument was necessary for the proper harmony, and the Master Conductor noticed it immediately. The point: To the Conductor there are no insignificant instruments in an orchestra. Sometimes the smallest and seemingly least important one can make the greatest contribution and, even if it doesn’t seem to make that big a difference to the audience, the conductor knows it right away.

“In the Church, the players and the instruments that make up a congregation are as diverse as the membership – different sizes, shapes, notes, roles to play, talents and willingness to risk oneself. But, like the piccolo player, we often, in our own sovereignty decide that: Our contribution is not significant. I couldn’t possibly make a difference. And so we quit playing. We stop doing that which we have been given to do. We drop out. But what we fail to realize is the Conductor immediately notices. From our perspective, our contribution may be small, but from God’s perspective, it is crucial.”

The other day I was feeling inferior and down-in-the-dumps over my shallow interest in keeping up with NaNoWriMo while others were being saints (and thank you all for your kind words in that regard). But I guess I’m playing my own little tiny piccolo in my own little tiny way. I’m not the celebrated soloist of the performance; but then, that’s not my talent either.

This doesn’t excuse me from helping others with their physical needs, as this saintly woman did.

But it does make me feel better about being a one-talent kind of gal.

May all your prayers be answered

Here's an interesting video link a friend sent.

Don't leave it on the desk

A reader sent this.
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There was a certain Professor of Religion named Dr. Christianson, a studious man who taught at a small college in the western United States.

Dr. Christianson taught the required survey course in Christianity at this particular institution. Every student was required to take this course their freshman year, regardless of his or her major.

Although Dr. Christianson tried hard to communicate the essence of the gospel in his class, he found that most of his students looked upon the course as nothing but required drudgery. Despite his best efforts, most students refused to take Christianity seriously.

This year, Dr. Christianson had a special student named Steve. Steve was only a freshman, but was studying with the intent of going onto seminary for the ministry. Steve was popular, he was well liked, and he was an imposing physical specimen. He was now the starting center on the school football team, and was the best student in the professor's class.

One day Dr. Christianson asked Steve to stay after class so he could talk with him.

"How many push-ups can you do?"

Steve said, "I do about 200 every night."

"200? That's pretty good," Dr. Christianson said. "Do you think you could do 300?"

Steve replied, "I don't know.... I've never done 300 at a time."

"Do you think you could?" asked Dr. Christianson again.

"Well, I can try," said Steve.

"Can you do 300 in sets of 10? I have a class project in mind and I need you to do about 300 push-ups in sets of ten for this to work. Can you do it? I need you to tell me you can do it," said the professor.

Steve said, "Well... I think I can...yeah, I can do it."

Dr. Christianson said, "Good! I need you to do this on Friday. Let me explain what I have in mind."

Friday came and Steve got to class early and sat in the front of the room. When class started, the professor pulled out a big box of donuts. No, these weren't the normal kinds of donuts, they were the extra fancy BIG kind, with cream centers and frosting swirls. Everyone was pretty excited it was Friday, the last class of the day, and they were going to get an early start on the weekend with a party in Dr. Christianson's class.

Dr. Christianson went to the first girl in the first row and asked, "Cynthia, do you want to have one of these donuts?"

Cynthia said, "Yes."

Dr. Christianson then turned to Steve and asked, "Steve, would you do ten push-ups so that Cynthia can have a donut?"

"Sure!" Steve jumped down from his desk to do a quick ten. Then Steve again sat in his desk. Dr. Christianson put a donut on Cynthia's desk.

Dr. Christianson then went to Joe, the next person, and asked, "Joe, do you want a donut?"

Joe said, "Yes." Dr. Christianson asked, "Steve would you do ten push-ups so Joe can have a donut?"

Steve did ten push-ups, Joe got a donut. And so it went, down the first aisle, Steve did ten push-ups for every person before they got their donut.

Walking down the second aisle, Dr. Christianson came to Scott. Scott was on the basketball team, and in as good condition as Steve. He was very popular and never lacking for female companionship.

When the professor asked, "Scott do you want a donut?"

Scott's reply was, "Well, can I do my own push-ups?"

Dr. Christianson said, "No, Steve has to do them."

Then Scott said, "Well, I don't want one then."

Dr. Christianson shrugged and then turned to Steve and asked, "Steve, would you do ten push-ups so Scott can have a donut he doesn't want?"

With perfect obedience Steve started to do ten push-ups.

Scott said, "HEY! I said I didn't want one!"

Dr. Christianson said, "Look! This is my classroom, my class, my desks, and these are my donuts. Just leave it on the desk if you don't want it." And he put a donut on Scott's desk.

Now by this time, Steve had begun to slow down a little. He just stayed on the floor between sets because it took too much effort to be getting up and down. You could start to see a little perspiration coming out around his brow.

Dr. Christianson started down the third row. Now the students were beginning to get a little angry. Dr. Christianson asked Jenny, "Jenny, do you want a donut?"


Sternly, Jenny said, "No."

Then Dr. Christianson asked Steve, "Steve, would you do ten more push-ups so Jenny can have a donut that she doesn't want?"

Steve did ten. Jenny got a donut.

By now, a growing sense of uneasiness filled the room. The students were beginning to say, "No!" and there were all these uneaten donuts on the desks.

Steve also had to really put forth a lot of extra effort to get these push-ups done for each donut. There began to be a small pool of sweat on the floor beneath his face, his arms and brow were beginning to get red because of the physical effort involved.

Dr. Christianson asked Robert, who was the most vocal unbeliever in the class, to watch Steve do each push up to make sure he did the full ten push-ups in a set because he couldn't bear to watch all of Steve's work for all of those uneaten donuts. He sent Robert over to where Steve was so Robert count the set and watch Steve closely.

Dr. Christianson started down the fourth row. During his class, however, some students from other classes had wandered in and sat down on the steps along the radiators that ran down the sides of the room. When the professor realized this, he did a quick count and saw that now there were 34 students in the room. He started to worry if Steve would be able to make it.

Dr. Christianson went on to the next person and the next and the next. Near the end of that row, Steve was really having a rough time. He was taking a lot more time to complete each set.

Steve asked Dr. Christianson, "Do I have to make my nose touch on each one?"

Dr. Christianson thought for a moment, "Well, they're your push-ups. You are in charge now. You can do them any way that you want." And Dr. Christianson went on.

A few moments later, Jason, a recent transfer student, came to the room and was about to come in when all the students yelled in one voice, "NO! Don't come in! Stay out!"

Jason didn't know what was going on. Steve picked up his head and said, "No, let him come."

Professor Christianson said, "You realize that if Jason comes in you will have to do ten push-ups for him?"

Steve said, "Yes, let him come in. Give him a donut."

Dr. Christianson said, "Okay, Steve, I'll let you get Jason's out of the way right now.
Jason, do you want a donut?"

Jason, new to the room, hardly knew what was going on. "Yes," he said, "give me a donut."

"Steve, will you do ten push-ups so that Jason can have a donut?"

Steve did ten push-ups very slowly and with great effort. Jason, bewildered, was handed a donut and sat down.

Dr Christianson finished the fourth row, and then started on those visitors seated by the heaters. Steve's arms were now shaking with each push-up in a struggle to lift himself against the force of gravity. By this time sweat was profusely dropping off of his face, there was no sound except his heavy breathing; there was not a dry eye in the room.

The very last two students in the room were two young women, both cheerleaders, and very popular. Dr. Christianson went to Linda, the second to last, and asked, "Linda, do you want a doughnut?"

Linda said, very sadly, "No, thank you."

Professor Christianson quietly asked, "Steve, would you do ten push-ups so that Linda can have a donut she doesn't want?"

Grunting from the effort, Steve did ten very slow push-ups for Linda.

Then Dr. Christianson turned to the last girl, Susan. "Susan, do you want a donut?"

Susan, with tears flowing down her face, began to cry. "Dr. Christianson, why can't I help him?"

Dr Christianson, with tears of his own, said, "No, Steve has to do it alone. I have given him this task and he is in charge of seeing that everyone has an opportunity for a donut whether they want it or not. When I decided to have a party this last day of class, I looked at my grade book. Steve here is the only student with a perfect grade. Everyone else has failed a test, skipped class, or offered me inferior work. Steve told me that in football practice when a player messes up, he must do push-ups. I told Steve that none of you could come to my party unless he paid the price by doing your push-ups. He and I made a deal for your sakes."

"Steve, would you do ten push-ups so Susan can have a donut?"

As Steve very slowly finished his last push-up, with the understanding that he had accomplished all that was required of him, having done 350 push-ups, his arms buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor.

Dr. Christianson turned to the room and said, "And so it was that our Savior, Jesus Christ, on the cross, pleaded to the Father, 'Into thy hands I commend my spirit.' With the understanding that He had done everything that was required of Him, He yielded up His life. And like some of those in this room, many of us leave the gift on the desk, uneaten."

Two students helped Steve up off the floor and to a seat, physically exhausted, but wearing a thin smile.

"Well done, good and faithful servant," said the professor, adding, "Not all sermons are preached in words."

Turning to his class, the professor said, "My wish is that you might understand and fully comprehend all the riches of grace and mercy that have been given to you through the sacrifice of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. He spared not His Only Begotten Son, but gave Him up for us all, for the whole Church, now and forever. Whether or not we choose to accept His gift to us, the price has been paid."

"Wouldn't you be foolish and ungrateful to leave it lying on the desk?"

A little clean humor

A reader sent this.
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Jesus and Satan were having an on-going argument about who was better on the computer. They had been going at it for days, and frankly God was tired of hearing all the bickering.

Finally fed up, God said, "THAT'S IT! I have had enough. I am going to set up a test that will run for two hours, and from those results, I will judge who does the better job."

So Satan and Jesus sat down at the keyboards and typed away.

They moused.

They faxed.

They e-mailed.

They e-mailed with attachments.

They downloaded.

They did spreadsheets.

They wrote reports.

They created labels and cards.

They created charts and graphs.

They did some genealogy reports.

They did every job known to man.

Jesus worked with heavenly efficiency and Satan was faster than hell.

Then, ten minutes before their time was up, lightning suddenly flashed across the sky, thunder rolled, rain poured, and of course the power went off.

Satan stared at his blank screen and screamed every curse word known in the underworld.

Jesus just sighed.

Finally the electricity came back on, and each of them restarted their computers. Satan started searching frantically, screaming: "It's gone! It's all GONE! I lost everything when the power went out!"

Meanwhile, Jesus quietly started printing out all of his files from the past two hours of work.

Satan observed this and became irate. "Wait!" he screamed. "That's not fair! He cheated! How come he has all his work and I don't have any?"

God just shrugged and said,

"JESUS SAVES."

Luke 24:1-8

On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them,

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’ ” Then they remembered his words.

What do you need me for?

A reader sent this. I thought it was appropriate for Good Friday, the day we remember Someone who died for our sins.
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If you never felt pain, then how would you know I am a Healer?

If you never had to pray, how would you know I am a Deliverer?

If you never had a trial, how could you call yourself an overcomer?

If you never felt sadness, how would you know that I am a Comforter?

If you never made a mistake, how would you know that I am a Forgiver?

If you knew all, how would you know that I will answer your questions?

If you never were in trouble, how would you know that I will come to your rescue?

If you never were broken, then how would you know that I can make you whole?

If you never had a problem, how would you know that I can solve them?

If you never had any suffering, then how would you know what I went through?

If you never went through the fire, then how would you become pure?

If I gave you all things, how would you appreciate them?

If I never corrected you, how would you know that I love you?

If you had all power, then how would you learn to depend on me?

If your life was perfect, then what would you need me for?

An Easter story

A friend sent this.
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There once was a man named George Thomas, pastor in a small New England town. One Easter Sunday morning he came to the Church carrying a rusty, bent old bird cage, and set it by the pulpit. Eyebrows were raised and, as if in response, Pastor Thomas began to speak....

"I was walking through town yesterday when I saw a young boy coming toward me swinging this bird cage. On the bottom of the cage were three little wild birds, shivering with cold and fright. I stopped the lad and asked, "What do you have there, son?"

"Just some old birds," came the reply.

"What are you going to do with them?" I asked.

"Take 'em home and have fun with 'em," he answered. "I'm gonna tease 'em and pull out their feathers to make 'em fight. I'm gonna have a real good time."

“But you'll get tired of those birds sooner or later. What will you do then?"

"Oh, I got some cats," said the little boy. "They like birds. I'll take 'em to them."

The pastor was silent for a moment. "How much do you want for those birds, son?"

“Huh??!!! Why, you don't want them birds, mister. They're just plain old field birds. They don't sing. They ain't even pretty!"

"How much?" the pastor asked again.

The boy sized up the pastor as if he were crazy and said, "$10?"

The pastor reached in his pocket and took out a ten dollar bill. He placed it in the boy's hand. In a flash, the boy was gone.

The pastor picked up the cage and gently carried it to the end of the alley where there was a tree and a grassy spot. Setting the cage down, he opened the door, and by softly tapping the bars persuaded the birds out, setting them free.

Well, that explained the empty bird cage on the pulpit, and then the pastor began to tell this story:

One day Satan and Jesus were having a conversation. Satan had just come from the Garden of Eden, and he was gloating and boasting. "Yes, sir, I just caught a world full of people down there. Set me a trap, used bait I knew they couldn't resist. Got 'em all!"

"What are you going to do with them?" Jesus asked.

Satan replied, "Oh, I'm gonna have fun! I'm gonna teach them how to marry and divorce each other, how to hate and abuse each other, how to drink and smoke and curse. I'm gonna teach them how to invent guns and bombs and kill each other. I'm really gonna have fun!"

"And what will you do when you are done with them?" Jesus asked.

"Oh, I'll kill 'em," Satan declared proudly.

"How much do you want for them?" Jesus asked.

“Oh, you don't want those people. They ain't no good. Why, you'll take them and they'll just hate you. They'll spit on you, curse you and kill you. You don't want those people!!"

“How much? He asked again.

Satan looked at Jesus and sneered, "All your blood, tears and your life."

Jesus said, "DONE!" Then He paid the price.

The pastor picked up the cage and walked from the pulpit.

Chuckle du jour

A reader sent this as a follow-up to my Living in the Real World post.

A social network Christmas

This is pretty cool.

What if Facebook had been around when Jesus was born? Watch this.  [UPDATE: I had an incorrect link, sorry.  Please try it now.]

Letter from Jesus about Christmas

A friend sent this.
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It has come to my attention that many of you are upset that folks are taking My name out of the season.

How I personally feel about this celebration can probably be most easily understood by those of you who have been blessed with children of your own. I don't care what you call the day. If you want to celebrate My birth, just get along and love one another.

Now, having said that, let Me go on. If it bothers you that the town in which you live doesn't allow a scene depicting My birth, then just get rid of a couple of Santas and snowmen and put in a small Nativity scene on your own front lawn. If all My followers did that there wouldn't be any need for such a scene on the town square because there would be many of them all around town.

Stop worrying about the fact that people are calling the tree a “holiday” tree instead of a Christmas tree. It was I who made all trees. You can remember Me anytime you see any tree. Decorate a grape vine if you wish: I actually spoke of that one in a teaching, explaining who I am in relation to you and what each of our tasks was. If you have forgotten that one, look up John 15:1-8.

If you want to give Me a present in remembrance of My birth, here is my wish list. Choose something from it:

1. Instead of writing protest letters objecting to the way My birthday is being celebrated, write letters of love and hope to soldiers away from home. They are terribly afraid and lonely this time of year. I know, they tell Me all the time.

2. Visit someone in a nursing home. You don't have to know them personally. They just need to know that someone cares about them.

3. Instead of writing the President complaining about the wording on the cards his staff sent out this year, why don't you write and tell him that you'll be praying for him and his family this year. Then follow up. It will be nice hearing from you again.

4. Instead of giving your children a lot of gifts you can't afford and they don't need, spend time with them. Tell them the story of My birth, and why I came to live with you down here. Hold them in your arms and remind them that I love them.

5 Pick someone that has hurt you in the past and forgive him or her.

6. Did you know that someone in your town will attempt to take their own life this season because they feel so alone and hopeless? Since you don't know who that person is, try giving everyone you meet a warm smile; it could make the difference.

7. Instead of nit picking about what the retailer in your town calls the holiday, be patient with the people who work there. Give them a warm smile and a kind word. Even if they aren't allowed to wish you a "Merry Christmas" that doesn't keep you from wishing them one. Then stop shopping there on Sunday. If the store didn't make so much money on that day they'd close and let their employees spend the day at home with their families

8. If you really want to make a difference, support a missionary, especially one who takes My love and Good News to those who have never heard My name.

9. There are individuals and whole families in your town who not only will have no "Christmas" tree, but neither will they have any presents to give or receive. If you don't know them, buy some food and a few gifts and give them to the Salvation Army or some other charity which believes in Me and they will make the delivery for you.

10. Finally, if you want to make a statement about your belief in and loyalty to Me, then behave like a Christian. Don't do things in secret that you wouldn't do in My presence. Let people know by your actions that you are one of mine.

Don't forget; I am God and can take care of Myself. Just love Me and do what I have told you to do. I'll take care of all the rest. Check out the list above and get to work; time is short. I'll help you, but the ball is now in your court. And do have a most blessed Christmas with all those whom you love and remember…

I love you.

- Jesus

Away in the Manger

A reader sent this.
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A nativity scene was erected in a church yard. During the night some folks came across this scene. An abandoned dog was looking for a comfortable, protected place to sleep. He chose the manger of baby Jesus. No one had the heart to send him away so he was there all night.

We should all have the good sense of this dog and curl up in Jesus' lap from time to time.

By the way, please note that the dog breed is a “Shepherd.”

"Why did my son have to die?"

 A friend sent this.  I thought it was powerful.
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A mother asked this President: "Why did my son have to die in Iraq?"

A mother asked this President: "Why did my son have to die in Saudi Arabia?"

A mother asked this President: "Why did my son have to die in Kuwait?"

A mother asked this President: "Why did my son have to die in Vietnam?"

A mother asked this President: "Why did my son have to die in Korea?"

A mother asked this President: "Why did my son have to die in Iwo Jima?"

A mother asked this President: "Why did my son have to die on a battlefield in France?"

A mother asked this President: "Why did my son have to die at Gettysburg?"

A mother asked this President: "Why did my son have to die on a frozen field near Valley Forge?"



Then long long ago, a mother asked...

"Heavenly Father, why did my Son have to die on a cross outside of Jerusalem?"

The answer is always the same: "So that others may live and dwell in peace, happiness, and freedom."

If you are not willing to stand BEHIND our troops... please, please feel free to stand IN FRONT of them.

Powerful words

THE ROOM

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at."

Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents Often there were many more cards than expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived.

Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me.

One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards...

But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh

And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room.. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes.

Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room.. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him.. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, and so alive.

The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.
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UPDATE: Several alert readers pointed out this was not written by a 17-year-old named Brian Moore, but rather by Josh Harris, a minister in Marilyn. Either way you cut it, these are indeed powerful words. And I think everyone for allowing me to give proper credit where credit is due.