Slow Me Down, Lord
by Wilferd A. Peterson
Ease the pounding of my heart by quieting my mind. Steady my hurried pace. Give me, in the confusion of my day, the calmness of the everlasting hills. Break the tension of my nerves and muscles. Help me to know the magical, restoring power of sleep.
Teach me to take minute vacations by slowing down to look at a flower, a cloud, to chat with a friend, to pat a dog, to read a few lines from a good book. Remind me that the race is not always to the swift, that there is more to life than increasing speed.
Let me look upward into the branches of the towering oak and know that it grew great and strong because it grew slowly and well.
Lord, slow me down. Inspire me to send my roots deep into the soil of life's enduring values that I may grow toward the stars of my great destiny.
Love Made Visible
by Bob Perks
"Who is responsible for this?" the pastor asked. "I can't believe that no one has taken care of it. I have been getting phone calls for two days. I didn't know what to tell them."
For longer than anyone can remember the old Gospel Church atop the hill in Reddington Valley served as a beacon for those who were lost. Not just spiritually but even as a landmark for giving directions.
"Turn down Main Street and head toward the brightest star in the sky. You can't miss it," a traveler would hear.
You see, on top of the old church steeple was a big bright star. It was all one piece and lighted by a huge light bulb. They actually had placed it up there as part of a Christmas display and never took it down.
But two days ago the bulb burned out.
The entire town was lost without it. It seemed that the locals were all turned about at night. The confusion started when someone passing through happened to stop the mayor to ask for directions.
"I looked up and pointed to the star. It wasn't there. Thinking I was facing the wrong way, I turned around looking for it but couldn't find it," he said. "I think that guy is still riding around town."
Soon the phone started ringing at the old Gospel Church. People wanted to know what happened. The problem was even the Pastor didn't know. That star was just always there. He had no idea who kept it lit or where the light bulbs were. That is, until the phone rang late that afternoon.
"Pastor, I'm hoping you can help us," the man said. "This is Police Chief Robertson. We just got back from the Delaney house. We found old Jim Delaney dead. It seems he's been dead about two days."
"I'm sorry. I must tell you that I'm not familiar with the man," the Pastor said.
"No one seems to be," the Chief replied. "There are no known relatives or friends available."
"Well, if it's a burial service you are looking for, I'd be pleased to do it," said the Pastor.
"That would be great. But there is something else. I'd like for you to come by in about an hour if you can. The house is up the dirt road on Bishop's Hill across the valley from your church."
"I'll be there," he replied.
The Pastor arrived just as Chief Robertson pulled in. "What is it you wanted me to see, Chief?"
"Come inside. I think you'll need this stuff."
As they entered the home you could see stacks of unopened mail along with various books scattered about.
"Over here, Pastor. I believe this is for you."
There on the mantle of the fireplace was a box with a small white envelope attached. It said "From the star keeper to The Gospel Church".
The note inside it read:
To whom it may concern:
Back in 1950 my beautiful wife Mildred became
ill. We could not afford to place her in a home so for
her remaining months on this earth, I took care of
her. Before her illness she attended your church
every Sunday. It was so very frustrating for her
not to be able to, once she got sick. But every
Sunday I would position her on the front porch so
that she could see the church across the valley.
It was that Christmas someone placed a star
on the steeple. Every night Mildred would say her
prayers while gazing out at that star. I had just
pushed her chair over to the window that night.
She was barely able to breathe. As I pulled the
shade up I heard her quietly say, "The star. The
star is gone." As I turned around she slumped
over with one last sigh. The star indeed was not
lit that night.
After her burial I approached the Pastor and
made a deal with him. I agreed to keep the star lit
for as long as I am alive as a memorial to my wife.
So many people had loved that image during the
holidays that he agreed to it.
I am near my journey's end. The church can
sell my property and all I own in exchange for a
favor. I have provided enough light bulbs in this
box to keep the star lit a few more years. The
key to the church door is inside this envelope.
Please find someone who can take on the task
of keeping the star lit after my death. I loved
my wife so very much. I want that star to serve
as an example of what love can be.
You can say you love someone, but it's not
until you show it, that love is made visible.
--Jim Delaney
"When did you say he died, Chief?"
"Two days ago according to the coroner."
"That's when the star burned out, Chief."
The pastor looked down for a moment, then looked back up,
"Consider it done, Mr. Delaney," said the Pastor. "Consider it done!"
A Love Story
author unknown
One day, I woke early in the morning to watch the sunrise. Ah the beauty of God's creation is beyond description. As I watched, I praised God for His beautiful work. As I sat there, I felt the Lord's presence with me. He asked me,
"Do you love me?"
I answered, "Of course, God! You are my Lord and Savior!"
Then He asked, "If you were physically handicapped, would you still love me?"
I was perplexed. I looked down upon my arms, legs and the rest of my body and wondered how many things I wouldn't be able to do, the things that I took for granted.
And I answered, "It would be tough Lord, but I would still love You."
Then the Lord said, "If you were blind, would you still love my creation?"
How could I love something without being able to see it? Then I thought of all the blind people in the world and how many of them still loved God and His creation. So I answered, "Its hard to think of it, but I would still love you."
The Lord then asked me, "If you were deaf, would you still listen to my word?"
How could I listen to anything being deaf? Then I understood. Listening to God's Word is
not merely using our ears, but our hearts. I answered, "It would be tough, but I would still listen to Your word."
The Lord then asked, "If you were mute, would you still praise My Name?"
How could I praise without a voice? Then it occurred to me: God wants us to sing from our very heart and soul. It never matters what we sound like. And praising God is not always with a song, but when we are persecuted, we give God praise with our words of thanks. So I answered, "Though I could not physically sing, I would still praise Your Name.
And the Lord asked, "Do you really love Me?"
With courage and a strong conviction, I answered boldly, "Yes Lord! I love You because You are the one and true God!"
I thought I had answered well, but God asked, "Then why do you sin?"
I answered, "Because I am only human. I am not perfect."
"Then why in times of peace do you stray the furthest? Why only in times of trouble do you pray the earnest?"
No answers. Only tears.
The Lord continued:
"Why only sing at fellowships and retreats?
Why seek Me only in times of worship?
Why ask things so selfishly?
Why ask things so unfaithfully?"
The tears continued to roll down my cheeks.
"Why are you ashamed of Me?
Why are you not spreading the good news?
Why in times of persecution, you cry to others when I offer My shoulder to cry on?
Why make excuses when I give you opportunities to serve in My Name?"
I tried to answer, but there was no answer to give.
"You are blessed with life. I made you not to throw this gift away. I have blessed you with talents to serve Me, but you continue to turn away. I have revealed My Word to you, but you do not gain in knowledge. I have spoken to you but your ears were closed. I have shown My blessings to you, but your eyes were turned away. I have sent you servants, but you sat idly by as they were pushed away. I have heard your prayers and I have answered them all."
"Do you truly love me ?"
I could not answer. How could I? I was embarrassed beyond belief. I had no excuse. What could I say to this? When my heart had cried out and the tears had flowed, I said,
"Please forgive me Lord. I am unworthy to be Your child."
The Lord answered, "That is My Grace, My child."
I asked, "Then why do you continue to forgive me? Why do You love me so?"
The Lord answered,
"Because you are My creation. You are my child.
I will never abandon you.
When you cry, I will have compassion and cry with you.
When you shout with joy, I will laugh with you.
When you are down, I will encourage you.
When you fall, I will raise you up.
When you are tired, I will carry you.
I will be with you till the end of days, and I will love you forever."
Never had I cried so hard before. How could I have been so cold? How could I have hurt God as I had done? I asked God "How much do You love me?"
The Lord stretched out His arms, and I saw His nail-pierced hands. I bowed down at the feet of Christ, my Savior. And for the first time, I truly prayed.
Love Your Enemy
author unknown
"There is a saying, 'Love your friends and hate your enemies.' But I say love your enemies! Pray for
those who persecute you!" Matthew 5:43,44.
During the American revolutionary War a man named Wildman, of Ephrata, Pennsylvania, earned a bad
reputation for his verbal abuse of Peter Miller, Pastor of the Dunker church in the same town.
Subsequently Wildman enlisted in the continentals Army. While he was still in the service he was
arrested as being a spy. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced to be hanged.
Miller heard about the sentence. His heart was touched. He walked 60 miles to Philadelphia to intercede
on Wildman's behalf. When he made his plea before General George Washington, the general replied, "I
am sorry, but I cannot grant your request to spare your friend's life."
"But sir, he's not my friend," explained Miller. "He's my worst enemy."
"You mean you walked 60 miles to plead for the life of your enemy? That puts the matter in a different
light. Your request is granted."
Washington signed a pardon and gave it to Miller, who walked another 15 miles to where Wildman was
awaiting execution. When Wildman saw Miller coming, he sneered to some of his fellow convicts, "There
comes old Pete. He came to see me hanged."
Hardly had Wildman said this than Miller pushed his way through the crowd and handed the condemned man
the pardon. We can imagine Wildman's surprise. Did Wildman have a change of heart, and did he become
Miller's friend? I do not know. But Miller behaved like a Christian.
It is natural to love our friends and dislike those who act unkindly to us, for this is the way the
"natural man" behaves (see 1 Cor, 2: 14). But this is not how the "spiritual man" acts - because
the spirit of Christ, which is in him, enables him to see in every human being, friend or enemy, a
precious soul to be saved.
Lunch with God
by Julie A. Manhan
There once was a little boy who wanted to meet God. He knew it was a long trip to where God lived, so he packed his suitcase with Twinkies and a six-pack of root beer and he started his journey.
When he had gone about three blocks, he met an old woman. She was sitting in the park just staring at some pigeons. The boy sat down next to her and opened his suitcase. He was about to take a drink from his root beer when he noticed that the old lady looked hungry, so he offered her a Twinkie. She gratefully accepted it and smiled at him. Her smile was so pretty that the boy wanted to see it again. So he offered her a root beer. Once again she smiled at him. The boy was delighted!
They sat there all afternoon eating and smiling, but they never said a word.
As it grew dark, the boy realized how tired he was and he got up to leave. But before he had gone more than a few steps, he turned around, ran back to the old woman and gave her a hug. She gave him her biggest smile ever....
When the boy opened the door to his own home a short time later, his mother was surprised by the look of joy on his face. She asked him, "What did you do today that made you so happy?" He replied, "I had lunch with God." But before his mother could respond, he added, "You know what? She's got the most beautiful smile I've ever seen!"
Meanwhile, the old woman, also radiant with joy, returned to her home. Her son was stunned by the look of peace on her face and he asked, "Mother, what did you do today that made you so happy?" She replied, "I ate Twinkies in the park with God." But before her son responded, she added, "You know, he's much younger than I expected."
The Many Faces Of Jesus
by Della R. Westerfield
The classical sound of Mozart symphony #40 in G minor poured out of the radio speakers filling the small quaint room with it's smooth electrifying tones. The orchestra skillfully played their instruments, as the sound of the music seems to invisibly dance in the air. The atmosphere was tranquil and the mood was set for a special project that was at hand. An artist stood before his canvas starring at the blank, white, hemp invisualizing his masterpiece upon it; his precious artistic creation that would soon be hanging in millions of homes, churches and cathedrals throughout the world. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then with a slight satisfying smile he re-opens them again, only for a second to reach for his palette before he resume his solitude. The moon shaped palette rested in his hand, upon it is an array of colors of rich, deep chestnuts, velvety ebony, earthtones, marshmallow white and the many bright colors of spring. With his eyes yet closed, he let the music fill his being, his soul. Slowly he opens his eyes as though his eyelids were stage curtains being drawn upward, then gazing upon the hemp that rest upon the easel, and with a renewed spirit he let out a sigh, for now he was ready to began his creation of Jesus Christ. Gingerly he dip the tip of his paintbrush into one of the rainbow of oil colors that looks like shiny, melted gumdrops laying in tiny bright swirls upon his palette.
After numerous days of long tedious hours of painting, his masterpiece was complete. The artist stood back folding his arms observing his work, a broad grin beamed from his mouth with immense satisfaction of his painting of Jesus. His image of Christ stood on the hemp with long straight locks of golden hair that was the color of wheat, his face was white with a slight overtone of tan, with eyes that were a shade of turquoise, the color of the sea. Upon him was a robe whiter than the purest snow and above his head pouring down was a bright ray of light, skillfully done, giving the illusion that it was seemingly streaming from heaven.
Thousands of miles away in another town in an extraordinary room, is an artist listening to classic tunes by Mahalia Jackson. Her powerful voice engulfed the brightly-lit room, ringing out with such dynamics that the artist felt a sweet serenity as though the presents of angels were gliding around him. These soul, stirring spirituals, just to name a couple, "Take My Hand, Precious Lord" and "Move On Up A Little Higher", filled the artist's soul as he swayed to the music. He has painted a similar picture, his painting of Jesus has ebony hair and beard that is thick as sheep wool, and his face is the color of rich mahogany with eyes that are the color of warm chestnuts. Painted upon him is a snow-white robe, also with the ray of light flowing down as though it too was streaming out of heaven. This artist is greatly proud of his masterpiece, he looks upon his canvas painting, with a vast amount of adore and admiration, knowing that it will also hang in thousands of homes, churches and synagogues throughout the world.
Two different artist with two very different paintings of Jesus Christ. Though both paintings were carefully painted with skill and talents that are indeed grand and artistic, neither one have captured the true face of Christ.
Jesus Christ is the color of the morning sun rising in the east, he's the color of the sunset behind the massive mountains, he's the color of spring flowers, and the color of warm autumn leaves. Jesus Christ is the color of a rainbow after the rain, the midnight starry sky and the snowflakes that falls in the winter upon the earth. He's the color of emerald in the summer and the turquoise of the ocean and sea. He's the color of every man, woman, boy and girl of the universe. For Jesus Christ is every color that God has created. Each time you gaze upon this vast world of his majestic creations and see all of his miraculous works, within each creation, you will manifestly behold the true face of Jesus Christ.
Copyright © 2000 by Della R. Westerfield, All rights reserved
Mercy
by Pat Worrell
James 2:12-13 "So speak and so do as those who
will be judged by the law of liberty. For judgment
is without mercy to the one who has shown no mercy.
Mercy triumphs over judgment."
One thing I have noticed lately is that the church is sadly lacking in mercy. I am reminded of Jesus and the Pharisees and I realize that not much has changed. In Jesus' day the Pharisees would have started fights in the pews if they had pews. On more than one occasion they tried to drag Jesus out and kill him.
Today we do things a little differently, we write nasty articles about our brothers in Christ and as we do, we name names. We write books about fellow preachers and drag their names through the mud in the name of the gospel. In Eph. 5:1 we are told to imitate God, instead we imitate the devil. The Pharisees would be proud to watch us.
We write articles about our leaders when anyone can see that they, more than anyone else, need our prayers rather than our criticism. We are not told to talk nasty about men in authority no matter how deserving of that they may be. God tells us in Timothy 2:1-4 "Therefore I exhort first of all that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and giving of thanks be made for all men, for kings and all who are in authority, that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and reverence. For this is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth."
God tells us to pray for each other not to prophesy doom over them, we are told to pray for our country not to condemn it..There is nothing wrong with poking some fun at ourselves and we must hold our teachings and actions up in the light of the Word. We step over the line when we start naming names and dragging each other through the mud. We step over the line when we prophesy things that clearly are not in line with the scriptures. It's time to quit feeding our fleshly desires and let the Holy Spirit draw us back to God's love.
Mercy
How much longer we can continue down this path is anyone's guess, only God know for sure, but until the end, right up to the instant we fly out of here we should, we must, show mercy. Jesus said in Luke 6:37 "Judge not, and you shall not be judged. Condemn not, and you shall not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven." And again in John 3:17 "For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved."
From what I see ninety percent or more of the persecution comes from within the church. It's time we in the body of Christ quit acting like the devil and start acting like Jesus. If He came not to condemn the world, then why do we? If we expect to receive mercy we need first of all to give mercy out. The gospel is the good news. The last thing from Jesus' lips before he arose into heaven was Mark 16:15-18 And He said to them, "Go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature. He who believes and is baptized will be saved; but he who does not believe will be condemned. And these signs will follow those who believe: In My name they will cast out demons; they will speak with new tongues; they will take up serpents; and if they drink anything deadly, it will by no means hurt them; they will lay hands on the sick, and they will recover."
Let's start doing what Jesus told us to do and leave our brothers alone, God will deal with them in due time. The good news of the gospel will save the world, God's mercy will save the world, not our condemnation.
The violent grinding of brakes suddenly screamed, and the harsh creaking of skidding wheels gradually died away as the big car came to a stop. Eddie quickly picked himself up from the dusty pavement where he had been thrown, and looked around wildly.
Agnes! Where was his little sister he had been holding by the hand when they had started to cross the street? The next moment he saw her under the big car that had run them down, her eyes closed, a dark stain slowly spreading on her white face.
With one bound the boy was under the car, trying to lift the child.
"You'd better not try, son," said a man gently. "Someone has gone to telephone for an ambulance."
"She's not...dead, is she, Mister?" Eddie begged in a husky voice.
The man stooped and felt the limp little pulse. "No, my boy," he said slowly.
A policeman came up and cleared the collecting crowd, and carried the Agnes into a nearby drug-store. Eddie's folded coat made a pillow for her head until the ambulance arrived. He was permitted to ride with her to the hospital. Something about the sturdy, shabbily dressed boy, who could not be more than ten years old, and his devotion to his little sister, strangely touched the hearts of the hardened hospital apprentices.
"We have to operate at once," said the surgeon after a brief preliminary examination. "She has internal injuries, and has lost a great deal of blood." He turned to Eddie who, stricken with grief, stood by confused. "Where do you live?"
Eddie told him that their father was dead, and that his mother did day work, he did not know where.
"We can't wait to find her," said the surgeon, "Because by that time it might be too late."
Eddie waited in the sitting-room while the surgeons worked over Agnes. After what seemed an eternity a nurse out.
"Eddie," she said kindly, "Your sister is very bad, and the doctor wants to make a transfusion. Do you know what that is?" Eddie shook his head. "She's lost so much blood she can't live unless someone gives her theirs. Will you do it for her?"
Eddie's pale face grew paler, and he gripped the knobs of the chair so hard that his knuckles turned white. For a moment he hesitated; then swallowing back tears, he nodded his head and stood up.
"That's a good lad," said the nurse.
She patted his head, and led the way to the elevator which took them to the operating room-- a very clean but strange smelling room, with pale green walls and lots of shiny instruments in glass cases. No one spoke to Eddie except the nurse who directed him in a low voice how to prepare for the ordeal. The boy bit his quivering lip and silently obeyed.
"Are you ready?" asked a man covered in green from head to foot, turning from the table that he had been working at. For the first time Eddie noticed who it was lying there so still. Little Agnes! And he was going to make her well.
He stepped forward quickly.
Two hours later the surgeon looked up with a smile into the faces of the young interns and nurses. "It went good," he said, "I think she'll pull through."
After the transfusion Eddie had been told to lie quietly on a cot in the corner of the room. In the excitement of the delicate operation he had been entirely forgotten.
"It was wonderful, Doctor!" exclaimed one of the young interns. "A miracle!" Nothing, he felt in his enthusiastic recognition of the marvels of surgery, could be greater than the miracles of science.
"Well, I'm satisfied," said the surgeon with a smile.
There was a tug at his sleeve, but he didn't notice. In a little while there was another tug, this time a little harder and the surgeon glanced down to see Eddie looking up into his face. "Doctor," he said a brave voice, "When do I die?"
The interns laughed and the great surgeon smiled. "Why, what do you mean, my boy?" he asked kindly.
"I thought...when they took a guy's blood...he died," muttered Eddie.
The smiles faded from the lips of doctors and nurses, and the young intern caught his breath suddenly.
This ragged lad had climbed to the very height of nobility and sacrifice, and showed them a glimpse of the greatest miracle of all--a selfless LOVE! The surgeon motioned the others for silence. "I think after all you will get well, Eddie," he said. "You and little Agnes."
Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life…. John 15:13
The Most Caring Child
author unknown
Love is everything. It is the key to life, and its influences are those that move the world
Ralph Waldo Trine
Author and lecturer Leo once talked about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child. The winner was a four-year-old child whose next-door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there.
When his mother asked him what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, "Nothing, I just helped him cry."
The Mother Bird's Gift
author unknown
An article in National Geographic several years ago provided a penetrating picture of God's wings. After a forest fire in Yellowstone National Park, forest rangers began their trek up a mountain to assess the inferno's damage.
One ranger found a bird literally petrified in ashes, perched statuesquely on the ground at the base of a tree. Somewhat sickened by the eerie sight, he knocked over the bird with a stick. When he struck it, three tiny chicks scurried from under their dead mother's wings.
The loving mother, keenly aware of impending disaster, had carried her offspring to the base of the tree and had gathered them under her wings, instinctively knowing that the toxic smoke would rise. She could have flown to safety but had refused to abandon her babies. When the blaze had arrived and the heat had singed her small body, the mother had remained steadfast.
Because she had been willing to die, so those under the cover of her wings would live.
"He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust."
(Psalms 91:4)
The large tree stood perfectly motionless, even though the wind was blowing through its outstretched arms at more than thirty miles per hour. Its tired limbs sagging a bit, stripped of leaves and its bark slowly peeling away near the bottom of the tree, as thousands of insects ate away at the heart of the once beautiful giant.
As I was leaving Canada to head back to the United States, after attending the Heartwarmers Conference, I walked up to the tree when I noticed that someone had driven ten or eleven nails into its trunk. All the way home I thought about that tree and it made me realize something very important about human beings. If only ten small nails could kill such a large beautiful tree, how many nails have we driven into our fellow-man over the years? How many little nails have we unintentionally driven into our children, and our friends causing their leaves to become weathered and their mighty limbs to droop.
The shock for me was when I realized that it was not really the nails that killed the tree at all. It was that big hammer that they chose to use in order to drive the nails in.
Starting today I will still continue to carry a nail or two. It is the hammer that I have chosen to throw away.
Never Say, "I Can't"
author unknown
There is a fable about three frogs. They were hopping along quite near to each other except one was in the grass on the shoulder of the road while the other was hopping along in a deep rut.
"I wish I were over there in the nice grass with you" complained the frog in the road. "Well, why don't you jump out and come over here?" asked the other frog. "I can't. This rut is too deep. I can't jump over the edge" "Pretty soon the frog in the grass was surprised to see the other frog hopping along beside him. "I thought you couldn't jump out of the rut." "Well", said his companion "a big truck came along, and I had to jump
out."
We are much like that at times, not knowing what we can do until we are forced to act. Usually when we say "I can't" we really mean "I've never done it before" Very seldom are we asked to do something which is impossible for us.
One Sunday evening I was helping a group of young people discover and develop any talents they might have for use in the church. During the following week they were to prepare a short talk about something that interested them. The next Sunday they would present it to the group.
After the others left, one boy shyly approached me. "I can't do that. I can't even talk to one person, let alone stand up before en of them all looking at me. Besides, I wouldn't know what to talk about" "What are you most interested in" I asked him. "Well, mostly I'm interested in birds" he replied hesitantly. "I watch them and learn a lot, but I go by myself. I read to find out why they do the things I see them do."
Then he proceeded to tell me how he had watched the distress of a male hummingbird who had returned to find its tiny nest damaged by a cat. The cat had jumped from a railing, trying to reach the nest under the eaves. Though unsuccessful in dislodging it, his claws had torn away some strands from the side of the nest, frightening the tiny babies.
When he paused, I smiled and said, "Clark, do you realize that you have been talking to me for ten minutes, making a very interesting speech? Apparently others think so too, since you have an audience." He had not noticed that several students had caught some of what he was saying and stood listening just behind him.
A good way to bolster our confidence is to remember
Philippians 4:13: "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me"
The Old Fisherman
author unknown
Our house was directly across the street from the clinic entrance of John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. We lived downstairs and rented the upstairs rooms to out patients at the clinic.
One summer evening as I was fixing supper, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see a truly awful looking man. "Why, he's hardly taller than my eight-year-old," I thought as I stared at the stooped, shriveled body. But the appalling thing was his face lopsided from swelling, red and raw. Yet his voice was pleasant as he said, "Good evening. I've come to see if you've a room for just one night. I came for a treatment this morning from the Eastern Shore, and there's no bus till morning."
He told me he'd been hunting for a room since noon but with no success. No one seemed to have a room. "I guess it's my face... I know it looks terrible, but my doctor says with a few more treatments . . ."
For a moment I hesitated, but his next words convinced me: "I could sleep in this rocking chair on the porch. My bus leaves early in the morning." I told him we would find him a bed, but to rest on the porch.
I went inside and finished getting supper. When we were ready, I asked the old man if he would join us. "No thank you. I have plenty." And he held up a brown paper bag. When I had finished the dishes, I went out on the porch to talk with him a few minutes.
It didn't take long time to see that this old man had an oversized heart crowded into that tiny body. He told me he fished for a living to support his daughter, her five children, and her husband, who was hopelessly crippled from a back injury. He didn't tell it by way of complaint in fact, every other sentence was preface with thanks to God for a blessing.
He was grateful that no pain accompanied his disease, which was apparently a form of skin cancer. He thanked God for giving him the strength to keep going.
At bedtime, we put a camp cot in the children's room for him. When I got up in the morning, the bed linens were neatly folded and the little man was out on the porch. He refused breakfast, but just before he left for his bus, haltingly, as if asking a great favor, he said, "Could I please come back and stay the next time I have a treatment? I won't put you out a bit. I can sleep fine in a chair." He paused a moment and then added, "Your children made me feel at home. Grownups are bothered by my face, but children don't seem to mind." I told him he was welcome to come again.
And on his next trip he arrived a little after seven in the morning. As a gift, he brought a big fish and a quart of the largest oysters I had ever seen. He said he had shucked them that morning before he left so that they'd be nice and fresh. I knew his bus left at 4:00 a.m. and I wondered what time he had to get up in order to do this for us.
In the years he came to stay overnight with us there was never a time that he did not bring us fish or oysters or vegetables from his garden. Other times we received packages in the mail, always by special delivery; fish and oysters packed in a box of fresh young spinach or kale, every leaf carefully washed. Knowing that he must walk three miles to mail these, and knowing how little money he had made the gifts doubly precious.
When I received these little remembrances, I often thought of a comment our next-door neighbor made after he left that first morning. "Did you keep that awful looking man last night? I turned him away! You can lose roomers by putting up such people!" Maybe we did lose roomers once or twice. But oh! If only they could have known him, perhaps their illnesses would have been easier to bear. I know our family always will be grateful to have known him; from him we learned what it was to accept the bad without complaint and the good with gratitude to God.
Recently I was visiting a friend who has a greenhouse, As she showed me her flowers, we came to the most beautiful one of all, a golden chrysanthemum, bursting with blooms. But to my great surprise, it was growing in an old dented, rusty bucket. I thought to myself, "If this were my plant, I'd put it in the loveliest container I had!" My friend changed my mind. "I ran short of pots," she explained, "and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn't mind starting out in this old pail. It's just for a little while, till I can put it out in the garden."
She must have wondered why I laughed so delightedly, but I was imagining just such a scene in heaven. "Here's an especially beautiful one," God might have said when he came to the soul of the sweet old fisherman. "He won't mind starting in this small body." All this happened long ago-and now, in God's garden, how tall this lovely soul must stand.
The LORD does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart." (1 Samuel 16:7b)
The Photograph
by Kim Lambert
The old man stared at me out of the photograph. Wrinkles lined his forehead, creased his cheeks and
stretched across his neck. Pouches sagged beneath his eyes, eyes that were crowned with straggly gray
eyebrows. His features were not unpleasant. Sparse gray hair, neatly combed, and a clean-shaven face, showed him to be a person concerned still about appearances. One had the impression the old man felt comfortable with himself, with his achievements in life. However, his rather weak chin and small nose, in addition to his medium height, bespoke a man not used to command or to the adulation of others. His face was slightly asymmetric. Both eyes tilted upward with a hint of oriental ancestry, with one -- the left -- a bit more pronounced than the other. Thin lips were parted in a slight smile, lips that perhaps at one time had been full and sensual. A relaxed smile suggested his intention to be harmless and agreeable. While not commonplace, I felt that the features that stared out at me were hardly remarkable. Here was an old man who's passage through time would have created few ripples and certainly no waves. Until, of course, one looked at the eyes.
The eyes were somewhat hooded. They were in marked contrast to the welcoming smile. The brown irises
stared at me with no emotion or feeling in them. They drew me to them and compelled me to peer into their
depths. They challenged me to guess at the mysteries that were concealed behind them. I felt a disparity between what the old man's smile was saying and what his eyes were hiding. I felt myself caught up with the realization that the picture of this old man showed not only a minute slice of time but captured on film the essence of his travels through life. These travels revealed a contradiction. There was the charming visage that was turned outward for all to see, and there was the inward look that was hidden behind those uncommunicative eyes. What were these experiences that he had lived through, secreted and stored? Why did he feel the need to hide himself from the view of others?
The old man was a stranger, a foreigner, unknown; yet I felt a vague familiarity. Was it the eyes, the smile,
or some empathic connection to what the photo revealed of those secretive experiences? I felt myself wondering what he was like before he was so old. What was he like when he was young and vigorous? What was he like, this old man approaching frailty, when he was in the fullness of his youth and his future was yet to unfold. I became mesmerized by the feeling of wanting to know him better, and I felt the sense of a time warp.
I was magnetized by this old man; almost I could feel the experiences he had lived. I could picture him in
his prime, full of vitality, vigorous with energy, tall and unbent as I was now. I easily could imagine him, at one time, to be possessed, as I was, of a full head of lustrous black hair, and an unlined face with neat dark eyebrows and a forceful out-thrusted chin. I wondered if he had at one time the same zest for life that I possessed, and had he followed the same paths that I traveled.
Were his paths smooth and easily traveled or, like mine, torturous in places, requiring decisions that could
only hurt, that could only bring lines to his face; decisions that caused his eyes to conceal the pain in their depths. Did his thin smile hide the anger and despondency he felt from misunderstandings, misinterpretations, falseness and deceitfulness? Did he, like me, suffer from the absence of children he had not seen in years? And, like me, did he have grandchildren he'd never met? How much of myself was I reading into this picture of the old man? And how much was I interpreting of his pain rather than his pleasure? Did he exult, as I do, with the joy of an extended family, with the close communion between me and my spouse, and several of our children and their partners? I felt that perhaps I should stand back and let the picture speak more clearly for itself.
Yet the sensation persisted that our paths might have crossed; perhaps even our lifelines might be
interconnected. I wondered about the mysteries of hyperspace and holographic regression. I was perplexed by the feeling of knowing this man, of precognition almost. He was a man I think I would have liked to have known. Unprepossessing, yet having had unique experiences. I was intensely curious about what they were. Could his photograph possibly reveal them to me? He was neither commanding nor charismatic, yet a person with whom I might profitably and enjoyably spend some time.
I focused closely on the photo image. As though we were together sitting down reminiscing, I began to think of the course of my own life. That period one can describe only as the unfolding embryonic years of childhood. My school days -- the struggles to retain a sense of self, the surge of pride when victories were achieved, the sweet hot long summer holidays, the many games that we invented, the friendships made and broken. Those were good years, fun years, though spattered with the growing pains of shattered relationships, betrayed trusts and discarded beliefs. Of course, girls were a mystery. They were powerful enigmas, giggling secretly between themselves so that a boy could only wonder what terrible information they had about him. I found they were contradictory and confusing. On the one hand, they wouldn't dare whisper with me in class, yet walking with them through the corridors of school they'd hold my arm closely pressed against their breast. How confusing! How to relate to them?
Ah, yes, and the years that one struggled to fit the role of the male. The army, the schools, the career, the
struggle for status and success. And somewhere in there, marriage and children -- almost an incidental
by-product of The American Dream. So much pain, so much suffering; yet so much joy and satisfaction, so much exaltation and hopes and dreams. I thought about how the future looked so bright in those years. The Kennedy dreams, the world was our oyster, all problems would be solved, all mountains would be climbed. They truly were great years, the years of our dreams.
As I looked at the old man in the photo I wondered whether he, too, had dreams in his youth. Did he, too,
have his Camelot? Did he, too, along with the pain that showed in his eyes, enjoy also the pleasure of boundless joy, of supreme happiness, of life fulfilled?
As I imagined the old man, he too probably had stepping-stones in his life; times when a decision
irretrievably altered the course of the rest of his life. The first one that I remembered was the traditional conflict facing most young men, the one between being a gentle soul or being the guardian and protector of the flock. The army won over being a concert pianist; I volunteered. But I wonder even now all the forces that were at play in that decision. I was puzzled and I looked at the old man for an answer.
My reverie was interrupted by a young cheerful voice saying: "Grandpa, please can I take another picture
of you?"
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