In difficulty

It was like sweeping water to direct the shy young children onto the platform but the young mother was trying, holding a pre-schooler’s hand while pressing her hand gently against the back of a hesitant little girl.

Once before the crowd, little Julia covered her mouth with her hands while Esther waved at her grandmother. Two little boys bounced shoulder to shoulder as they surveyed the audience. They'd be glad when this difficulty was over.

As the music burst from the little blue CD player on the front pew, the leaders began singing softly, hoping to lure the children into following.

Off to the side, almost hidden by the pew itself, sat the pastor. He was leaning forward, his short square body keeping rhythm with the music.

In spite of a disability, Eduardo found a way to travel 15 miles to this village every Friday where he spent the weekend with his people. Because he couldn’t work, his family lived on his wife’s income. That didn’t include money for transportation.

He, his wife, and two daughters lived in a tiny apartment with little furniture.They slept in hammocks that, during the day hung from large hooks on one wall. At least making the bed was fast.

God provided ways for Eduardo to travel. Eduardo was in town every weekend to counsel, encourage, visit, pray, and conduct two services on Sundays.

Eduardo’s difficulties were only cobwebs to be pushed aside as he poured out what was in his heart: the love and grace of his Lord. He was no victim of circumstance, but an ambassador.

As the children stumbled over the songs that Sunday evening, nervous before the crowd, Eduardo didn’t scowl because they faltered. He understood difficulties. Instead, from the wellspring of his heart, he leaned forward in love and sang to them.

Graduating

It seemed like the iPod of my era, when I unwrapped that little plastic transistor radio at Christmas. Suddenly, I could listen to my own music. I even had an earplug for privacy. The radio is long gone but the memories are still clear.

Memories were cascading yesterday as we celebrated the life and legacy of our dear Wilma. She graduated to heaven on Sunday, drifting away in her sleep. It was the way we all wanted her to go, if she had to leave us.

Wilma had three specific directions for her funeral. She instructed our pastor, in her soft Oklahoma drawl, these things:

• "Keep it short, Kelly."
• "Don't have one of those open mikes where people come up and say stuff about me."
• "And don't put any hootch in the punch."

And now, a little like spiritual orphans, we step onward.

But Wilma's instructions fascinated me.

First, keep it short. Wilma seldom missed a gathering. She loved people and would have watched our embraces and tears with a prayer and a pat on the back. But she didn't want us to linger in the grief we were feeling.

Because this life wasn't about her. That's what her second direction meant. She didn't want us to idolize her. Our pastor called her an arrow, pointing to her blessed Savior. She was a humble servant. Our memories of her ought not to puff her up, but to direct us to God.

Regarding her third instruction, trust me: there was no danger of hooch in the punch. But she reminded us all to lighten up. Life with the Lord is joyous and a frequent laugh makes the days more, well, Wilma-like. Wilma laughed a lot.

Gifts aren't ours forever. But they can make our lives so much richer and stronger.

We'll spend years discovering the treasures that Wilma, our gift from God, has buried in our memories.

Wilma's gift

Russ sang beautiful songs of praise for Wilma, adding rich guitar notes as they worshiped God together. But as I pressed the doorbell for my visit, I had brought nothing. I wanted to encourage and comfort, but afraid my words would be flat in a house of grief.

If you've followed my posts on our dear Wilma, you know that her days are short. But there was no grief as I made my way back to her bedroom.

There I found Wilma propped up in bed, hooked up to an oxygen tube but bright-eyed and alert.

I gave her a delicate hug and sat down beside the bed. “We have to pray for her,” Wilma told me. She nodded her head at Kathi, her housemate and caretaker. “She has to go to the doctor to see about her bad back. We have to pray that he can get that fixed for her.”

And so my visit started with both of us holding hands and praying for Kathi.

‘Whew,” said Wilma in her soft southern drawl. “Wasn’t that good?”

She reached out and took my hand. I had held the hand of elderly saint before, but none had ever stroked my hand and then exclaimed, “You have beautiful hands! Look at those long fingers.”

She looked at her own hand. “Look at all these wrinkles,” she said. “That picture your sister got of my hands was something, wasn’t it?”

My sister, a professional photographer, had captured a classic photo a few years ago of Wilma’s hands laid over an open Bible. The crinkled pages and the furrows of her hands had formed a rich message of commitment and determination.



I told her that her willingness to be photographed was a gift to many people.

“It takes a long time to get your hands that wrinkled,” she told me.

“That’s the point,” I said. “Those wrinkles speak of the commitment to the Word that you have. It takes a long time to show that kind of commitment.”

I could see she was tiring. I prayed for her strength, for God’s comfort, for her caretakers, for joy in the coming days. She sighed contentedly as I gave her a goodbye hug.

Wilma is sailing with joy and peace into God’s presence, looking forward to her graduation. Her sweet love for her Savior and her love for others had soaked me with joy. I had gone to bring cheer to Wilma. But she had a final gift for me instead.

Black irises

Edna has to bring her magnifying glass to every Bible study but she hasn't missed a meeting in over a year. During the weekly discussion, she holds her Bible closely to her face, the magnifier mashed against her nose, and follows along, her shoulders bowed over the book.

She doesn't say much during the studies so I was surprised when she asked if we could all sit for a moment while she brought something to show us. A couple of minutes later, she rolled her walker back into the room with a flower vase in hand.

"Have any of you ever seen a black iris?" she asked. We hadn't but we all crowded in close to see the flowers. "They just cut these down," she said excitedly, pointing to the back of the property where the gardener had been cleaning out some debris.

Edna had rescued the irises from the trash pile. But she has that kind of heart. Earlier this spring, she'd planted a few petunias into an empty flower pot in the courtyard. And she'd secured a spot for a geranium when another pot sat empty.

Edna is 92 years old and shuffles with the help of her walker. But she hauled pitchers of waters out to the courtyard daily to tend to the seeds she'd planted.

"I've had flowers my whole life," she explained to the group, grinning broadly.

Jesus reminded his disciples that the flowers don't work or worry, yet they are clothed in beauty. Edna was God's hand to the rare irises last week and I think that she, too, is clothed in God's beauty.

Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.

Luke 12:27

Update on Weston

I've been praying for Weston Brewer and following his progress for over a year now. He was a 12-year-old boy from Myrtle Beach, SC who was accidentally shot in the head by his father. Although the family was told he wouldn't survive, he not only survived but is now going through therapy to learn to walk. Here's a video update:

Conference

Paul had to pull a small suitcase around on wheels because he had brought his entire manuscript for editors to read. Marie passed out bookmarks to everyone she met, because her book will launch in a couple of months. Jeff discussed the intricacies of fantasy writing while warning that fantasy doesn’t sell well in the Christian market.

My days at the Colorado Christian Writers’ Conference in Estes Park were a kaleidoscope of images and words. I asked God to give me interesting contacts during our meal times and his answers were fascinating. I met a book editor, a couple of authors whose books will be featured here at some point, and many new friends.

Several ministries were highlighted – and I’ll be featuring those in a weekly column for awhile.

Writers can set sidetracked onto the craft of our latest novel or how to meet a magazine’s deadlines. But we were reminded that we, as followers of Jesus, write for him.

In Habakkuk, the prophet declared, “I will climb up into my watchtower now and wait to see what the LORD will say to me and how he will answer my complaint.” (Hab 2:1)

Each of us gets to do that, to climb our watchtower and wait for the Lord.

But here’s the kicker. God gave Habakkuk this instruction: "Write my answer in large, clear letters on a tablet, so that a runner can read it and tell everyone else.” (Hab 2:2)

If you write, let it be God’s answer. If you read, be the runner who tells others what God has written.

Either way, be waiting and watching for God’s words.

About Weston

Just a couple of days after Christmas, in that afterglow of vacation and gifts, Weston Brewer was accidentally shot in the head. This 12-year-old boy who loved fishing, baseball and hanging out with his buddies was suddenly plunged into a coma with doctors predicting his death within 24 hours.

But the doctors weren’t praying like his family and friends were.

When the ventilator tube came out, Weston kept breathing. He survived 24 hours and 48 hours and then a week. Three weeks after Christmas, Weston emerged from the coma. Before long, he was chewing on popsicles and discussing the Super Bowl with his father. (He wants the Giants to win but figures the Patriots will take it.)

His family and friends are praying for full recovery now.

If you’re interested in being a meaningful support person for Weston, follow these directions:

1. Go to www.carepages.com
2. Click "Visit a CarePage"
3. Register (first-time users only)
4. After you've registered, enter exactly: WestonBrewer

You can even check out a YouTube video of Weston.

You know those people who reject God for letting orphans suffer in Africa? If they want to blame God for tormenting those children, do you suppose they thank God for preserving Weston’s life? Maybe not. But we sure can!

Mares like Edsels

Sorrel mares are not selling well right now. In fact, you might use words like “Edsel” and “DeLorean” to describe how they’re going over.

(Translation for you non-horse people: brown female horses are not what horse people are buying right now.)

That was a bit of a problem for us this weekend because we had two of them to sell (the horses, not the horse people) but it set the stage for some great God stories.

Story #1: On Friday, our first sorrel mare managed to be the second horse sold at the auction. When she brought $500, we were a little disappointed until we heard the later bids for similar horses: $250, $200, $125. We were then rejoicing over what a few minutes earlier we were a little subdued over. Perspective is amazing, isn’t it?

Story #2: Saturday morning, we needed to complete the entry for our second sorrel mare who was in a special catalog show. We had the health papers, the testing done, registration papers, but couldn’t find the bill of sale. A call home (and a patient husband who searched and searched) didn’t uncover the vital document. I knew I had seen it and thought it was with my paperwork. We searched the pickup, the tack box, everywhere we could think of. This was getting to be a panic, because we would forfeit our entry fee and go home without a chance.

Then I remembered I had thrown away a piece of paper the evening before. Maybe I had accidentally pitched the bill of sale? I began digging through the trashcans. I didn’t find the crumpled up sheet but I found the photocopy of our first mare’s pedigree in a clear page protector envelope. Guess what was stuck to the back of the pedigree? Yep, the bill of sale. Among other things, we were thankful for delayed trash service.

Story #3: We were seeing a trend as we watched horses enter the ring in the catalog sale. As the sale progressed, sorrel mares were bringing less and less money until a couple got no bids at all. We needed to sell this mare and waited tensely as she went into the ring. No bids. The auctioneer pleaded. No bids. Suddenly, the trainer, who was riding her, dismounted the mare, dropped the reins, walked calmly around her, mounted on the other side, and began swinging a blue lead rope over her head. Instantly a bid rang out. Phew.

Two quick keys to these stories. First, this whole adventure had been one of trust. We had prayed for several weeks about the sale of these mares. We had entered them in this special auction weekend feeling God had directed us to do so. We had chosen to trust him in whatever he did. The prayers were just a little more fervent when the bill of sale was lost and when a bid was needed badly.

Second, we knew who had worked out the difficulties. God got the praise to our trainer, to her fiancé, and to anyone who wanted to hear the story. This was his sale and we saw him do great things.

Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.

Psalms 20:7

Like a monkey moment, really

I’ve been trying to look for “God stories” in my days. I’m not one of those superstitious mystics who think things “just happen.” (I’m also not like a former co-worker who railed against superstitious people who believed in all sorts of good luck charms. “Except salt,” she added. “What’s with salt?” I asked. “Well, when you spill salt, you always throw it over your shoulder,” she said. Silly me.)

Anyway, I think God is always up to something and I am often too dense to see it. So I’m trying to pay attention. One day, I got out of the car and nearly locked the door when a sudden thought hit me: Check on monkey. I did. (Did I mention that all my keys are on a keyring headed up by a stuffed monkey. It’s easy to find in my purse and always there.)

Well, it wasn’t in my purse. I was on my way to an all-day conference in Denver and would have come back my locked car in the dark without my keys.

That was a God moment, because I didn’t know monkey wasn’t in my purse. One of the kids did know but that’s another topic. (He hadn’t whispered anything in my ear anyway.)

I want to tell you about yesterday’s God story, however. It’s more exciting than the monkey story anyway. Our family used to do puppet shows. We’d go to nursing homes, AWANA programs, fairs. But that has faded away over the years and now we have several lockers full of unused puppets. We’re shifting gears as a family from the puppets to a new venture with moviemaking. We need a nice movie camera. So several puppets went on eBay.

I was hoping for $200 for the batch. They were used, after all. But they had crept to $300 by yesterday. (I need to add that these puppets were worth close to $900 new.) When the dust settled, we had received well over $450! We were shocked, astonished, and thankful!

Thank you, Lord!