Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. – Psalm 23:4a

“Sticks and stone may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” I’m sure when I was hearing that “true-ism” as a child, the adults who taught it to me believed it wise and profound. But the truth was, words could and did hurt – they hurt a lot!

Unflattering nicknames assaulted my self-worth when I was a preadolescent at the country club pool, where we “privileged” kids spent most of the summer. (Funny, I didn’t always feel that privileged…) Those nicknames launched me into a decades-old battle with body image and a 12-year eating disorder.

When we grow into adults, especially as Christians, there is an expectation of a certain amount of maturity. That expectation includes the hope that what malicious people say about us will run off our backs like rain off a duck. Sadly, this isn’t always the case. Even at the tender age of 71, I still have to remind myself almost daily of the humbling of words a former pastor of mine:

“You won’t worry so much about what other people think of you, once you realize how seldom they do.”

I think I was in my thirties when it had come to my attention that I had been the subject of some serious gossip. Although outwardly my reaction was, “Who cares what they think? I know I haven’t done anything wrong.” But inwardly, I was bothered by the talk, maybe because having people think I was guilty of some gross sin would damage my witness, but no doubt also because I just didn’t want people to think I was anything besides the pure, righteous woman I fancied myself to be. Sometime during that season, I had a profound dream that I remember to this day:

I was in a place that was very unfamiliar to me in my waking life. It was a dark, noisy, smoky, crowded bar, and I was trying to leave. There were numerous people packed together between me and the door, and I wondered how I would ever get out of there. This was definitely not an environment I felt comfortable in!

At one point a fight broke out. Some strong-looking, drunken men started throwing punches, and I was sure I would be hit and injured, maybe even knocked out. I must have said a hasty prayer, because I felt the presence of God. When I opened my eyes, I saw a bright spot in that dark place. It was a soft glow, lighting a narrow path from me to the door. I took a step, bracing myself for whatever blows would land on me.

But as I took one cautious step after another on that bright path, I experienced an unexpected peace. Although the fighting around me continued, there seemed to be an invisible shield between the violent men and me. Fists that flew my way stopped abruptly, inches from my face, as though hitting a glass barrier, and I walked on, untouched.

Maybe words can’t hurt us. They certainly can’t harm us, unless we allow them to. Although I was strengthened by the obvious message of that dream, in order to live it out I needed to remind myself continuously to stay on the narrow path (Matthew 7:13), walk in the light (I John 1:7), and have faith in the Lord – that faith being my invisible shield (Ephesians 6:16).

When David set out to kill Goliath, he declined the King’s offer of armor. Shielded only by his faith, unlike others who had fled the giant, he ran confidently toward him. And as we all know, he swiftly won the battle. As a warrior, he no doubt spent much of his life “walking through the valley of the shadow of death.” But even as civilians living thousands of years later, we can look to the God-inspired words he wrote and take comfort and courage from them.

Prayer: Lord, thank You for giving us everything we need to protect us from the world’s attacks. Thank You for Your patience with us, as we repeatedly let ourselves be distracted by the empty threats and accusations of the enemy. Help us keep our eyes on You and our feet on the narrow path, in Jesus’ name. Amen

“And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all …” – Mark 16:17, 18a

It was fall, 1991, and my usual “cold season” had started already. In those days I was still struggling to keep my immune system strong, but year after year, when autumn came, with it came a steady stream of colds that lasted until spring.

That night I had a particularly horrible bout. I had all the symptoms – runny nose, raw throat, congestion, cough, headache, fever, yadda-yadda-yadda…

I was desperate to get some sleep. So, like any normal red-blooded American, I took drugs. Specifically, a “multi-symptom” liquid containing every imaginable cold medicine, plus alcohol. I never drank, but that night I just wanted to be knocked out and escape the misery for a while.

The escape lasted for about four hours, and at 3:00 A. M. I was wide awake, all the symptoms having come back with a vengeance.

I thought, I know I’m probably not supposed to do this, but at this point I don’t care. I took a second dose and was knocked out for a few more hours.

A few days later, the monster had subsided a bit, but in the meantime, I had noticed something else unusual. Suspicious and a bit apprehensive, I bought a home pregnancy test kit.

It was October 31, and pulling the kit out of the bag, I said to Marty, “Well, honey, it’s Halloween. You wanna do something really scary?” He turned an appropriate, ghostly pale.

As you can probably guess (Why else would I be telling this story?), the result was positive. Just to make sure, I showed the stick to Marty and asked if he saw a pink line. He said he did.

“So, does that mean we’re having a girl?” asked my adorably oblivious husband.

Later, I had a thought that turned my joy into anxiety: I had taken all those drugs and alcohol the other night, when unbeknownst to me, I was already pregnant! Though it wasn’t yet the size of a kidney bean, I had already potentially poisoned my baby! Of course, I wouldn’t know whether that knock-out medicine had done any harm for a long time. How would I survive not knowing something that important for nearly nine months?!

About a week later, I was at my children’s school, making apple pies for a fundraiser with a group of other moms. Denise, a woman I was vaguely acquainted with approached me.

“Annie …” She seemed hesitant to continue, maybe trying to put what she had to say into words. “Is … anything going on in your life right now?”

“Well,” I said, smiling, still in awe of my situation, “I just learned I’m pregnant again.” Then curious, I wanted to know, “Why do you ask?”

“Last week, the Lord woke me up in the middle of the night and told me to pray for you.”

I let that statement sink in, then felt compelled to ask, “Do you remember what night?” She thought a moment.

“It was Tuesday,” she said, “at about 3:00 in the morning.”

About the time I was gulping down my second dose of “poison.”

“And you prayed for me?” She smiled and nodded.

“Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say. (And thank YOU, I added silently.)

From that moment, I decided I was not going to spend nine months stressing out over whether this baby was going to be something it shouldn’t be because I did something wrong. I turned my child over to the One who created her in the first place, knowing that He’d had her all along.

Later I was to stand up to a doctor who warned me that at my age there was a greater chance of having a child with Down’s Syndrome. He wanted to give me a test to determine if this were the case with my baby.

“So … if the test comes out positive, what can we do about it?” I asked. I knew what the “answer” would be for some women, but he knew that was not an option for me.

“Well,” he said hesitantly, “you prepare yourself for it.”

“I’ll prepare myself now,” I said. “And if the baby’s normal, it’ll be a pleasant surprise.” There was something else I needed to say that I felt needed saying. I had done a little research, read some statistics. “What are the chances that I would have a Down’s Syndrome child at my age, anyway?”

“For 40-year-old women, about one percent,” he confirmed what I had read. At 38, I wasn’t concerned.

“I’ve read that the test carries a risk of miscarriage. Is that true?”

“A slight risk,” he answered.

“So, let me get this straight … You’re asking me to take a test and risk miscarriage, because there’s a one percent chance of something I can’t do anything about anyway?!”

The doctor put up his hands in surrender. “Oh stop it!” he scolded.

(No, you stop it, I grumbled silently.)

Flash Forward: I did not have the test. Kelly did not have Down’s Syndrome. That doctor did not deliver her. In fact, I delivered her (Duh.), with the help of a different doctor.

And the Lord delivered me from the poison of fear, with the help of a lady named Denise.

Prayer: Father, thank You so much for speaking to Denise, for her obedience, and for prompting her to tell me about it. Thank You for Your patience with us, as You tell us again and again not to worry and we do it anyway! Help us to trust You more and reserve our emotional energies for what You’ve called us to do for Your kingdom, in Jesus’ name. Amen.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.” Isaiah 43:2

Three years into our marriage, Marty and I moved to the little vacation town of Onekama, where we had met, where we were married, and where we had numerous friends … in the summer.

That first fall, as one by one the families we knew headed back to their winter homes, I had just one friend who was a full-time Onekama resident: Georgine.

Georgine and I had been in the chorus for a musical in Manistee the summer before. We had carpooled to rehearsals and had got to know each other while driving to and from the theater.

But now Georgine was battling cancer in a hospital in Grand Rapids. I wanted to visit my friend and sing some songs with her, in the hopes that some music would cheer her up. This is how one day I found myself taking a road trip with Georgine’s mom.

Even before being a mother myself, I knew that “when Baby Bear hurts, Mama Bear hurts.” So, that day as we took the three-hour journey, I let Mama Bear pour out her hurt in a detailed account of her daughter’s ordeal.

Chemotherapy had been a nightmare. The first chemo shot had resulted in hours of uncontrollable vomiting and “dry heaves.” Mama Bear wept, recalling how she had watched helplessly as her daughter had suffered, seemingly to the point of dying – or wanting to. That day we were making a point of getting to the hospital early, in hopes of having a good visit before the dreaded second shot.

But when we arrived Georgine was in tears.

“I tried to tell them to wait, but they wouldn’t! They insisted on giving me that stupid shot!” she sobbed in frustration. Her mother was visibly upset, and I was wondering how soon the ordeal was going to start.

Glancing down, I saw a large glass bottle by the bed with a clear, pink liquid dripping into it from a tube; apparently, Georgine’s lungs were filled with fluid. I averted my eyes from the unpleasant sight and back to my friend and tried to smile as I greeted her. Georgine seemed both glad to see me and apologetic that I had come all that way just to witness her distress.

But so far, the worst thing happening was the anticipation of a looming trauma. I got out my guitar and asked Georgine if she’d like a song; she said she would. Her mother stood by her, seemingly holding her breath, and I determined that we were just going to make the most of our visit for as long as we could.

As I began to sing, I saw a slight smile on Georgine’s face as she closed her eyes and took in the music. Before I knew it, I saw her lips moving, and soon a soft soprano voice joined mine.

As I kept playing, we sang “Amazing Grace,” “This Little Light of Mine,” and other old, familiar hymns and vacation Bible school songs we knew. Georgine’s voice got stronger, and from the corner of my eye I noticed the fluid was flowing more steadily into the glass jar. I realized that the more loudly Georgine sang, the more her lungs would pump it out, and the more it was cleared away, the stronger her singing grew, pushing out even more.

It was practically gushing by the time Georgine was singing “O Holy Night.” It wasn’t even close to Christmas, but according to Georgine’s mom, she’d sung that solo every Christmas Eve at her church, so I’d decided I wanted to hear it for myself.

At one point, I realized some members of the hospital staff had gathered in the doorway to listen. We could sense the presence of God, and His light seemed to envelop all of us.

I don’t remember exactly how long we stayed, but it was a long visit, and by the time we left, everyone’s spirits were up. Georgine never had any reaction to “that stupid shot,” and Mama Bear was definitely happier and more relaxed as we drove back to Onekama.

When our friends are sick, we pray for their healing. Sometimes those prayers get answered the way we want to see them answered. Other times, not so much. But the child of God is never abandoned, and even when we “walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” we know we’re not alone. Georgine went to be with her Savior a few weeks after that visit. Although many people were disappointed, there was no doubt that the Lord had been with her throughout the journey. Even along the dark road she was on, He gave her occasional bursts of light, glimpses of heaven, right up to the moment she received her ultimate healing. That day at the hospital I was privileged to witness one of those bright spots, a kind of “rest stop” in the race. As we worshiped our Savior and Friend and just basked in His presence for a little while, we could look forward to the day we’ll be with Him forever.

Prayer: Lord, this life can be very hard, as You well know. Thank You for not being a distant, unconcerned god. Thank You, not only for what You suffered for us, but for being with us in our own trials, reminding us in so many ways, that even though the road is hard, we’re not walking it alone. Thank You for Georgine and all the “cloud of witnesses” who have made that journey and are cheering us on as we still struggle toward the finish line. Help us to finish well, in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. – Psalm 90:12

Time is precious, and my need to prioritize continues. Lately the Lord seems to be “helping” me in a very humbling way, a way characteristic of people my age and older.

I’ve started forgetting things.

Case in point: Just before the weekend of the Kentucky Derby, Marty and I took a long walk in the late afternoon. Since the weather was hot, I made us a big salad for dinner. We ate together and watched some Derby activities on the local news. (Here in Louisville, Derby is bigger than Christmas.) At some point Marty fell asleep next to me. A little while later, he asked sleepily, “Weren’t you going somewhere tonight?”

I realized, YES! It was Thursday, and I had just missed my church home group. I was momentarily upset with myself. Then I was puzzled, remembering that I had prayed earlier, “Please help me remember what I need to remember, and help me forget what I need to forget.”

So … what happened? Was it somehow more important that I spend that evening with my husband doing mundane things at home? As embarrassing as such blunders are, if I truly trust the Lord, they shouldn’t throw me into a panic. I have to believe that if the Lord had wanted me to go to home group, well … I would have remembered to go!

In my defense, I’d like to point out something that should be obvious once you think about it:

The older one gets, the more experiences we’ve had, the more memories we have, and the more data resides in our brains. This is a good reason for younger people to be more tolerant of their elders’ forgetting things. These kids may forget less than their grandparents, but they have a lot less to forget. (That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.)

In my younger days, I wanted to do anything and everything. I crammed so many activities into my schedule that I was in a constant state of frenzied activity. That is, until I burned out, got sick, and had to cancel a bunch of things until I could recover. Even then, I would invariably jump back into things prematurely, often bringing on a frustrating relapse.

“My brothers, this should not be.” I don’t know anywhere in the gospels where Jesus was described as franticly busy. He knew the Father’s will and did it, with no time wasted on useless activities. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all do that?

As with most important battles, the struggle to know the will of God and do it is waged in the mind. In recent years I’ve come to appreciate the importance of giving my mind over to the Lord early and often. Romans 12:2 is a wonderful verse that describes this commitment:

Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is – his good, pleasing, and perfect will. (Romans 12:2)

I’ve found as I get older it becomes easier to “test and approve” what God’s will is. But there are still times I’m not quite getting it. And that’s where senility come into play. (*eye roll*)

If the Lord has whispered to me that a certain activity, while good, is not the BEST use of my time, and I haven’t heard clearly enough to cancel, I may find, as I did the other night, that it has “slipped my mind.” This concerned me for a while, especially considering my age and already scatterbrained tendencies. But when I have prayed and given my mind to the Lord, including my memory, I should trust Him with it. That means I don’t have to beat myself up for forgetting something. I can assume I was supposed to forget.

I’ve often thought of “what I ought to forget” as including the hurtful and counterproductive, the painful memories, and certain minor issues I tend to turn into major ones. But I’m starting to consider that they also could include lesser things that compete with the most important (not necessarily the most glamorous) duties. If I keep asking the Lord to clear out the mental clutter, I have to trust that He’s doing that. No one said the world would agree with those priorities or admire me for it!

Here’s another obvious observation:

The older we get, the less time we have left. They say life is like a roll of toilet paper; the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes. If my time is short, I don’t want to squander any of it doing what’s not-quite-His-will, then backtracking and doing belatedly what I should have been doing in the first place.

So, young people, the next time an older person forgets something, before you roll your eyes at their stupidity, you might want to consider that that thing you consider so important and unforgettable just might be something God considers a lesser priority. Or just plain silly. Better to use your critical thinking skills determining His plan for your own life and making sure you yourself are on track. In a few blinks of an eye, you’ll be old, too.

By the way, after forgetting my home group, I remembered that after postponing going north “for a few days,” Marty had decided now the trip was so close to the time he usually goes up for the summer, that when he got there, he’d just stay. So, while he usually goes north just a week or two before I do, to get the family summer home opened and functioning, this year it will be a lot longer. Since it hadn’t yet sunk in that we were going to be apart for nearly a month, the Lord allowed home group to slip my mind, so I’d spend the evening with my husband. I’ll have plenty of time to spend with my home group when he’s in Michigan.

Prayer: Lord, as I get older, may my desire to please You outrank everything else, including my pride. Help me hone in on what really matters. Don’t let lesser things – even good things – drown out Your voice. I give You my mind today, casting down imaginations and every argument that exalts itself against the knowledge of You, taking every thought captive for You.* In Jesus’ name, amen.

*II Corinthians 10:5

[Jesus said] “But so that we may not offend them, go to the lake and throw out your line. Take the first fish you catch; open its mouth, and you will find a four-drachma coin. Take it and give it to them for my tax and yours.” – Matthew 17:27

When I was growing up, there were two things I dreaded about becoming an adult. One was having to wear a girdle. Yes, kids, back in those days, women wore girdles, and they were complicated. The metal clips that connected those pelvic straightjackets to ladies’ stockings struck fear into this bobby-socked kid.

The other source of dread was the thought of paying taxes. Seeing my father spending hours at his desk, filling out form after form, made my little head spin. I could tell he was not having a good time, and I wanted nothing to do with those stacks of paper that had no pictures on conversations on them. (And what good is paper with no pictures or conversations? 😉 ) Even when I became an adult with my own bank account, balancing my checkbook was enough of a challenge, thank you very much.

It’s been said that the vast majority of what we fear never happens, and I’m happy to report that this was the case with me. The advent of pantyhose came just in time to save me from having to wrestle with girdles and clips. And after marrying an engineer with excellent organizational skills (Yes, opposites attract.), I have yet to do taxes. Furthermore, praise God, since our oldest child is a CPA, I am optimistic about the odds I will never have to.

About ten years into our marriage, we hit our first hiccup with the I.R.S. For some reason, they were under the impression that we owed them $7,000 more than we had already paid. As usual, I let Marty handle it, since he was the one with the problem-solving skills. Faith was my forte. Having been provided for (spoiled) all my life, I trusted that my heavenly Daddy would provide this time, too. I did wonder if He was going to “provide” by letting me know it was time for me to get a job, but since I was expecting our second child, and the first child was only two, it seemed like an odd season for that kind of transition.

The answer came sooner than we expected, not through employment for me, but through the job Marty already had, where he had apparently been performing exceptionally well. A day or two after we had received the notice from the I.R.S., Marty was called into the plant manager’s office and told he was receiving a promotion. His salary was not raised much, but the promotion involved his use of a “company car.” My ever-frugal husband said it wouldn’t be necessary; he had just recently purchased a new car. The boss asked how much he had paid for it, and Marty told him (You guessed it) $7,000. He walked out of the office that day with a check for $7,000 to reimburse him for what was henceforth the “company car.”

So, with perfect timing, we were able to “render unto Caesar” and get on with our lives.

Prayer: Lord, thank You for all the years You have provided for us in every way. Thank You for the way You are always bringing back memories that strengthen my faith more the more I relive them and retell them. Thanks for the security of knowing Your love is “from everlasting to everlasting,” that there was never a time You didn’t love us and never will be. May we love and serve You forever, as You deserve, in Jesus’ name, amen.

Then [Jesus] said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” – John 20:27

“He lives! He lives! Christ Jesus lives today!
He walks with me and talks with me along life’s narrow way.
He lives! He lives, salvation to impart.
You ask me how I know He lives?…”

Those of you who grew up with this song are familiar with the final line: after a dramatic pause, (*drumroll*) here comes the earth-shaking answer that will convince every skeptic – “He lives within my heart!”

With all due respect to the songwriter, and acknowledging that having Christ living in one’s heart is an unbelievably awesome experience, nevertheless, I don’t know a single skeptic that would be the slightest bit impressed with that “proof,” no matter how much gusto the singer displayed.

But fear not! The Resurrection of Jesus, the centerpiece of our faith, has ample evidence. In fact, it is the most well documented event in ancient history.

Let’s look at some of this evidence. What millions celebrate at Easter, roughly 2000 years after Jesus’ crucifixion, was written down by historians who interviewed eyewitnesses, as well as a few eyewitnesses themselves.

Woulda, coulda, shoulda…

With all the enemies the Christian movement had from the beginning, no one was able to refute what these witnesses said. After all, Jesus was seen by over 500 men (and probably women and children, too, though in those days they weren’t counted.) If Jesus hadn’t been raised to life, all His enemies had to do was produce His body and they would have saved themselves the hassle of arresting, imprisoning, torturing, and killing those pesky people who insisted that He was alive.

Yeah, right ...

Here are some theories about what happened that day that turned the world upside down (or right side up, depending on your perspective):

* The disciples stole the body and made up the story that Jesus had risen from the dead. Why in the world would a band of scared-to-death men who fled the Romans want to stir up that much trouble? After Judas hanged himself, the rest of the disciples were willing to face persecution and death – for a hoax? You’d think at least one of them would have caved under torture. After all, who wants to be crucified upside down for a prank?

* Jesus didn’t really die, He just swooned enough to fool the Romans and the doctor that signed His death certificate. Let me get this straight … Jesus survived a Roman scourge (alone tantamount to a death sentence), hanging on the cross for hours, and being buried for three days without food, water, or medical attention, and then healed up enough to roll away a two-ton stone, overcome the armed Roman guards, and declare Himself risen. …ok…

*The women went to the wrong tomb. And so did Peter, John, and the others. In fact, the real tomb of Jesus has yet to be found, but when it is, they’ll find His body in there. …Mmhm…

* The 500-plus people who saw Him alive were all having the same hallucination.

… for 40 days. (Seriously?)

OR…

HE IS RISEN! HE LIVES! Believe it! Enjoy it! If you’re a Christ-follower, you can celebrate His resurrection every day.

And if you’re not a Christ-follower, what’s keeping you?

Prayer: Lord Jesus, we are in awe that You loved us enough to sacrifice Your life to save us from hell. And we are overjoyed that You are alive! Live through us every day. Help us always be prepared to give and answer to everyone who asks us to give a reason for the hope that we have.* Open the eyes of the skeptics see that You are real, You are alive, and You love them. In Your name, amen.

*I Peter 3:15

“The reason the dream was given to Pharaoh in two forms is that the matter has been firmly decided by God, and God will do it soon.” – Genesis 41:32

Last week I shared about going online to get my boarding pass to fly home from Phoenix the next day, only to discover I had been scheduled to fly home that day, and the plane had just taken off …

https://seekingdivineperspective.com/2024/04/27/divine-outcome-from-yet-another-blunder/

Long story short, a very kind agent had helped me get a reservation on the flight I had thought I was on in the first place.

Once the panic had subsided and I had “got a grip,” it occurred to me that although mistakes and blunders seem to be a daily occurrence for me, in God’s plan there are no mistakes … at least no mistakes bigger than He is able to use. I began to wonder what He had planned for my return trip…

After boarding the plane and maneuvering my precious guitar into the overhead bin, I squeezed into the last available seat.

Of course, I had a middle seat. – But zero complaints. I was just grateful to be on my way home – and a little excited, knowing God was at the helm of my life. I was wearing my favorite t-shirt, the one that says, “If being a Christian is boring, you’re doing it wrong,” and that was my attitude that day.

I sat between two men, one of them on his laptop doing business, and the other looking at his phone but open to small talk. We exchanged information about where we were from, where we were going, and recent experiences. When there was a lull in the conversation, he turned toward the window, closed his eyes, and tipped his hat down over half his face to take a nap. Reading the subtle body language (Hey, nothing gets by me.), I assumed that for now the Lord just wanted me to Himself for a while, at least until I saw some evidence to the contrary.

I closed my own eyes and “napped” (prayed silently) until the flight attendants brought us drinks. By this time the other man had put away his laptop and was having a drink and chatting and laughing with his friend across the aisle. When the attendant brought their second round, the man across the aisle nodded toward me and said to his friend, “She’s starting to look worried.” They laughed. I laughed. And we started to talk.

These two men were heading for Kentucky to go turkey hunting with friends for the weekend. They inquired about my guitar, which had apparently grabbed their attention when I got on board. Paul, the man next to me, had taken up guitar recently. But as he was 51 years old, he felt that his late start had been a disadvantage. He’d been encouraging his children to play instead. This led to a long discussion of instruments, children, and (in my case) grandchildren, various musical genres, and blended genres. I told him about the fascinating and extremely entertaining concert my sister and I had attended, an ensemble of seven ukelele players. The most creative piece, to me, had been when they sang the lyrics of a Black Sabbath song to the tune of a French classical piece … on ukeleles … wearing tuxedos. (Who thinks up this stuff?!)

Eventually, we got on the subject of my writing, and Paul seemed sincerely interested. He told me the highly unusual love story of his parents; his father had been a priest and his mother a cloistered nun. With special permission, they had married and had ten children! “You should write about them!” he suggested.

“Maybe you should,” I responded. Paul confessed to me that he had always wanted to be a writer. But with a wife and six kids to support, he’d had to settle for a more practical career. He opened his phone and showed me his one original poem, which he had written in college. I read it.

I read it again.

It was magnificent. I told him he should publish it. And he should write more. He gave an evasive non-answer…

“May I at least post it on my blog?” I persisted, and he said, “Sure.” I gave him my email address, and he sent it from his phone.

Paul then opened another screen containing one name, that of a woman he had met a couple of weeks before on another flight. He said she was a famous sci-fi writer, but since that’s a genre I’m not “into,” I hadn’t heard of her.

“She told me the same thing, that I should write,” he said.

I told him about a class I had taken in biblical interpretation of dreams and prophecies. We had learned that 2 is the number of revelation. I reminded him of the story of Joseph in Genesis, when Pharaoh had had two prophetic dreams. In interpreting them, Joseph had told him, “The reason the dream was given to Pharaoh in two forms is that the matter has been firmly decided by God, and God will do it soon.”

“So, ” I announced smugly, “she said you should write, and I’m confirming it. I guess it’s settled. You’re a writer.”

Paul looked intrigued. “Maybe so …”

Sadly, when I got home, I looked in my emails for Paul’s poem and didn’t find it. I searched the “spam” folder, the “trash” folder … nothing.

So, Paul, if you’re reading this, you’ll have to publish that poem yourself. If not, at least put it in the comments below, so my followers can enjoy it.

(Please.)

And KEEP WRITING.

Prayer: Lord, thank You for directing my life in many ways, some of them crazy, some of them embarrassing and humbling. (Maybe that’s the point?) Inspire Paul to write the things You want him to write. Bless and use his writing. Reward him for the sacrifices he made to provide for his wife and children. Let his future be even more fulfilling than the past. May his home be filled with children, stories, music, laughter, and most of all, faith in You, in Jesus’ name. Amen.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

II Corinthians 12:9

A few days ago, fellow blogger Katie posted on her blog, “Encouragement for You,” (katiesencouragementforyou) a story that I believe epitomizes a perfect testimony. It has self-deprecating humor (the best kind, in my opinion), an entertaining story/parable, good theology, and a promising ending. But enough from me, I’ll let the story speak for itself:

A True Story

PUBLISHED ON April 2, 2024

Along time ago, and far, far away in the land of New York City, three young women decided to have an adventure. 🙂  They were on staff with a Christian organization, and their summer assignment was in Wildwood NJ.  They borrowed a car, and away they drove to New York City.  Actually, I was one of those women. 

New York City was only a couple of hours away–we left early in the morning and drove into the city.  One of the staff gals was from New York City, and she directed us around the city.  However, she was only used to taking the subway, not driving the car in the city.  I actually drove the car.  The other staff gal was from Hawaii.  

As we looked for a place to park the car, I noticed this sign that said, “No standing”.   I asked the girl from New York City, “What does that sign mean?”   She said, “I don’t know.”   I said, “Maybe that’s a sign for the ‘hookers’, letting them know they can’t stand on these streets?”  (Yes, as I write these words, I am laughing so hard at my naïve, younger self–who had spent my 13th summer in New Orleans, and so thought I knew all about prostitutes standing on the street.)

We ended up parking underneath one of these signs—as cars don’t stand–they park–at least that is what we reasoned.  We went off to experience New York City for the day.  We went to see if there were any Broadway plays we could get tickets for the day–there weren’t.  So we skipped our way through the city, singing, “New York, New York….”, having the time of our lives.

Hours, and hours later, we went back to our car, and ……it was gone!!   Fortunately the New Yorker staff woman understood the subway system, and knew where cars went, when they were towed.  It was near the time when the parking garage that kept towed cars would be closing, and we found ourselves on the subway traveling to get our car out of being towed. 

We joined the long line of people waiting to pay to get their cars out of the garage.  As we waited we started talking to the people in line with us.  We started talking to them about Jesus, about Him being our Savior, and making it possible for us to have a relationship with God the Father.   One of the people we were talking to, told us that he was a Pastor’s son, but he didn’t believe in sin, and consequences for sin, or a need for anyone to pay for our sins.

We told him the story of our car being towed.  I told him I did not believe I was doing something wrong, but I still had a consequence for what I did wrong–I had to pay the tow.  If I could not pay, I would be in serious trouble.

I told him, he might not “believe” in sin, but he still was going to have a consequence for it, and if he couldn’t pay, he was going to be in serious trouble.

I told him that we were all in serious trouble—that in a sense we were all appearing before the judge to pay the consequences for our sin, only to find out that the judge was our Dad, and while he was a just Judge, he was also a loving Dad.  Therefore, he came down and handed each of us the amount we needed to pay off our fine, as none of us had the amount to pay it off.

That got his attention.   He told us he had heard a lot of sermons, but I was making sense to him.  

I told him that God was just and loving—and had to satisfy both parts of His character.  Jesus’ death on the cross did both things.  “The wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”  Romans 6:23  Instead of what we deserve—God the Son took our death—and our unrighteousness–and He gave us His life–and His righteousness.   It wasn’t a fair exchange, but it was the only exchange that would reveal who God is.

God did pay the penalty for each of us.  He has given the gift of eternal life to each of us.  Yet, He will never force us into a relationship with Him.  We each have a choice of whether to accept His love or reject it.

The man told us that for the first time in his life, he understood the message of the gospel, and that he was going to be re-evaluating what he believed.

We ended up getting our car out of the parking garage, and traveling back to Wildwood.  On the way home, one of the girls said, “Never tell anyone about our car getting towed, ok?”    🙂  Sorry! 🙂 

May you be encouraged!!

I commented:

Oh, Katie, you should ABSOLUTELY tell what happened to you – to as many people as possible! What a great story, and what a reward for your humility, when a lot of people might have stood quietly and gotten their vehicle out as soon as possible and hoped nobody found out about it. (It’s embarrassing how many of my God stories start out with me, doing something dumb.  )

The gospel isn’t about us and our dignity, it’s about God’s grace – which comes out best when we’ve screwed up! No one can accuse you of ulterior motives for what you shared, because it was shared at the expense of your own dignity. You were identifying with that sinner, not talking down to him. What a perfect setup. I bet you were the answer to that young man’s parents’ prayers.

Prayer: Lord, I am amazed at the myriad ways Your plan unfolds in each of our lives, such as when a young girl in the big city messed up on the same day a man messed up who needed to hear the gospel in a way that related to his sin (messing up)! Thank You for this divine perspective, that even when we fall short, You redeem the situation and turn it into a case of amazing grace, in Jesus’ name. Amen.