|Thursday, December 07, 2017|
At first it didn’t really sink in that Monday night.
It was the last meal, the last time Diana and I would be with my parents in the home I grew up in. They’d lived there since the sixties. That's a whole lot of memories. I stole away for a moment and took one last walk around.
The Sumac bush was still there, all sprawled out by the front porch. There in the front yard, we kids played sixteen-inch softball, learned the basics of football, and tossed lawn Jarts. Seemed as big as Wrigley Field back then.
Turning toward the east corner, I came to the tall skinny evergreen behind which I shared my first kiss.
The peonies on the side of the house were gone. I remember the summer Mom and I were weeding around them. I seized the moment to fake a concern for snakes in the grass (hardly likely in northern Illinois). Having ratcheted up Mom’s pulse rate, at an opportune moment, I tickled her feet with a long stick—a chuckle neither of us have gotten over.
I ambled through the backyard garden space where one summer I followed up on a resolution to grow a watermelon. Faithfully, I watered the sprawling vine and harvested exactly one small excessively seedy watermelon. Yet it was remarkably sweet.
Meandering around the property I came to the collapsible picnic table Dad made, still latched to the wall. To this day, I’m not quite sure how he designed and built it. How many summer suppers did we eat out there? Eight of us. Together. Meal after meal.
I’m happy that Mom and Dad have a new home. But leaving the old place is sort of strange. Nostalgia aside, it’s a great reminder that ultimately, our home can never be here on earth.
Jesus said to His followers—then and now—“I’m going to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me, that you also may be where I am.”
That’s where our real home is, and always has been. With Jesus. Forever.
|Rules of Civility
|Thursday, November 30, 2017|
Do you have a code of personal conduct? George Washington did. The father of our country wrote down his ideas in a collection known as “110 Rules of Civility.” Among my favorites:
Fascinated with George Washington, nine-year-old Joslynn decided to craft her own Rules for Civility during a recent sleepover at our house. She spoke. I typed. Here are some Josie gems:
It’s fun looking at civility through the eyes of a nine-year-old, though sad that it has nearly become a cultural fossil. But civility matters. To God. To us. It’s the life blood of any society. Is it any wonder, then, that our culture is suffering from issues of the heart? For true civility, the Bible is the ultimate resource.
|Signs in Ghana
|Thursday, November 23, 2017|
It’s the best part of traveling in West Africa: the signs on the local shops. Please note that the term, “shop,” may be a bit generous for much of what we’ve seen in Ghana. Some of them are little more than rickety wooden roadside stalls. But nearly all of them sport a creative (if not pretentious) name of some kind. And a surprising number offer a Christian witness.
Just for our Thursday Thought readers, I jotted down a collection of some of the best. For example, there’s the “Power of Prayer Fast Food Shop.” I wondered who’s the prayer for—the customers eating the food—or the workers serving it?
If the soles on your shoes are worn out, you might consider a visit to the “God is Great Shoemaker Repair” store.
We passed by a number of noteworthy electrical businesses:
Another memorable sign grouping was observed in the beauty and clothing sector. We drove past:
But other skilled workers also showed up in shop signs like:
Some of the shop names puzzled me, such as “By God’s Grace Bar and Catering Service” (how does God’s grace intersect with a serving of whiskey?). And I wondered what exactly is sold in the “Amazing Grace Cold Store.” Also, what is the merchandise selection like at “The Yes of Jesus Mini Mart?” And if they happen to run out of a particular item, do they offer a “no” at the “Yes of Jesus Mini Mart?”
The taxis in Ghana are also typically plastered with names as well. Among some of our favorites:
But the award for the best sign I saw in all of Ghana has to be this:
“Please give your life to Jesus. For He is.”
If you’ve been looking for a sign from God—this is it!
From Ghana, with love,
|Wednesday, November 15, 2017|
Her name is Sandra. She has no mother.
Looking at her, you would not know this about Sandra. She smiles easily. Generously. I met Sandra in West Africa at a Moody Radio Global Partners Training event. She was one of the students attending courses in the Radio Production track that I help teach in Ghana.
One of the best features of a Global Partners Training event is the daily “One on One” time we build into the schedule. Anyone attending can sign up for a timeslot with any of the presenters to talk about anything they like (typically job or ministry related).
One afternoon, Sandra showed up. Now, in our seminars, we give practical assignments that are worked on in class, attempting to apply specific principals from the lecture.
Earlier in the day, students were asked to write copy for a radio advertisement of their choosing. The class was over and we were moving on to other things. Not Sandra.
She wanted to read to me the radio commercial she had written. Curiously, it was about a business she would like to launch that sells locally grown honey. In Sandra’s commercial, she spoke eloquently about the effectiveness of honey to help regulate blood sugar. She told how honey is extremely helpful for anyone facing the challenges of diabetes.
Then Sandra dropped the bomb. Her mother was dead. From diabetes. Sandra was just seventeen when it happened. She has never gotten over it. Given an opportunity to write about any product or service in the world, Sandra chose to focus on the one thing that might have helped her mother. How telling. How touching.
Honestly, I was crushed. Here is a young girl who needs her mom. All of her life is ahead of her. Boys surround her (I noticed this at the conference). She needs the input only a mother can give. So I gave her the only thing a Dad could give: a word of encouragement and a prayer.
I told Sandra that she was going to go far in life, that she had a great smile. I also told her that God had chosen a boy for her who loved Jesus and who would treat her well—and she should settle for nothing less. Then we prayed.
I wished I could have done more. Said more. Prayed more. I wanted to fix the unfixable. It is times like that I am reminded—ministry sometimes hurts. Badly.
Her name is Sandra. She has no mother.
|Thursday, November 09, 2017|
No one would ever mistake it for a mega church.
Not by today’s standards.
If it were a mega church, you’d cruise along a winding, tree-lined asphalt road and be greeted by attendants waving orange batons directing you to a parking slot half a mile from the church doors. Not here in Petersburg.
Take exit 11 off of Kentucky’s I-275 and the cloverleaf turn practically dumps you into the humble parking lot of Bullittsburg Baptist Church. Organized in June, 1794 by Elders John Taylor, Joseph Redding and William Cave, it’s the oldest church in northern Kentucky. By 1797, the young congregation constructed their first meeting place.
If you should ever be in the area, do stop by. And don’t miss the church’s rambling cemetery adjacent to the parking lot. Unable to resist a walk through the old gravestones, I grabbed my camera and ambled across the grass.
Snapping pictures of the granite markers, I tried to imagine just who these people were. Tried to hear them swapping stories of revolutionary war battles like the Siege of Bryan Station or the Battle of Blue Licks.
I tried to envision church services across the centuries. Ponder the ministry they would have had to families devastated by the Civil War. Or World War 1. Or World War 2. What a span!
There’s no gleam to the white brick structure known as Bulliltsburg Baptist Church. Should you attend a Sunday morning service, don’t expect massive video screens or fog machines.
But what you will find, is a long trail of faithful obedience to God and His Word. You will see evidence of 223 years of faithful teaching and preaching and praying….223 years of caring for the neighborhood, praying for the sick, visiting the shut-ins…223 years of being a light in Petersburg, Kentucky.
And if faithfulness in ministry is the measuring stick, maybe—just maybe—Bullitsburg Baptist Church is more mega than most mega churches we know.
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