A Lot of Ministry

Parking lot fellowship was the best.  People lingered, lounged on the hoods or trunks of their cars, or opened the car door and sat with their feet on the pavement.  The evening church services were so wonderful that nobody was ready to go home quite yet.  Maybe it was just being outdoors, but there was an atmosphere that made people comfortable. We took time to chat and get to know each other.  We were relaxed and apt to open up a little bit and share things that were of a more personal nature.  A lot of ministry took place on the lot.   

Kids took advantage of their parents’ lollygagging to enjoy more play time with their friends.  Teenagers clumped together in a clump to do teenager stuff.  The women talked of fears, loves and struggles.  Men walked and talked — speaking encouragement into each others’ lives.

As the sun began to set, we said our goodbyes and piled into our cars for the trip home.  It sure had been nice — kind of like sitting and swinging on my granny’s porch after a big meal.  We had partaken of the Bread of Life, savored the Living Water of His presence, and chowed down on the milk, honey and meat of His word.  It was hard to break the physical bond because of the spiritual bond that had formed among us.  

We were God’s children basking in the afterglow of His radiance, swapping tales of His lovingkindness, and dreaming of a city whose builder and maker is God.

Sometimes we took the parking lot home with us.  One night I invited several families and even a visitor or two to come over after church for a bite to eat, forgetting that was exactly what they would find in my kitchen — just a bite — until the drive home.

“Well, Jesus fed a whole bunch of people with 5 loaves and 2 fishes,” I thought.  “It’ll work out.”

Everyone was quite buoyant as they came in my house.  We gathered in the kitchen still excited about the move of God in our services that day.  While they talked and laughed, I placed before them a half loaf of bread, a half jar of peanut butter, a full jar of grape jelly, half a bag of Oreos and water to drink all around.   I passed out some knives and napkins, and you know what?  They were so intent on sharing what God had done in their lives, they never even noticed what or if they were eating or that they were fixing it themselves!

“A simple meal with love is better than a feast where there is hatred.”  — Proverbs 15:17

Day Care

The Day Care Center rocked my world a lot.  It was difficult when the children and teachers first moved in to the basement of the church.  There was a lot more work and a lot more noise. 

One day I heard a loud rumble — I mean a LOUD RUMBLE — and my upstairs office began to shake.

“Those Day Care kids,” I muttered.  “They must be trying to tunnel out!”

I was shocked to learn later that it was an earthquake on the New Madrid Fault Line in West Tennessee that shook all the way to Chattanooga.

Then there was the frozen meat guy.  He called from a pay phone on the side of the road in Soddy-Daisy, Tennessee.  It was the middle of July.

“Ma’am, I’ve got a load of frozen meat in the trunk of my car that you need for your Day Care.  If you’re gonna be there for awhile, I’ll bring it over.”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, I’ll give you a good price.  You can just cut me a check.”

“Wait a minute.  We didn’t order any meat, and I can’t authorize payment.”

“Well, what am I gonna do with all this meat?  It’s hot out here!”

“I’ll bet it is, but that’s not really my problem now, is it?”

That’s when the phone lines turned blue with all the words he was shouting through them.  Before I came to know Jesus, I was familiar with most of those words, but now they seemed like a foreign language.  So I gently placed the phone back in its cradle and prayed he wouldn’t drive over to the church with the not-so-frozen meat.

It brought to mind a conversation I had recently had with a friend of mine who said that I didn’t know what it was like in the real world.  I lived in an isolated church bubble where everything was sweetness and light.  And I laughed to myself.

It didn’t matter which city you were in or even which day care.  The kids who were the most entertaining(translation: in trouble a lot) were Kayla and Adam, four-year-olds with wit, intelligence and an uncanny knack for getting caught.

Even today, years later, when I’m at the mall or in the supermarket, I hear mothers with raised voices calling, “Kayla, get down from there!” or “Adam, put that back RIGHT NOW!”

Kayla was a brown-eyed beauty with golden brown curls.  One day Miss Lynn noticed her in the bathroom with newsletter unfolded.  She was studying it intently.

“Kayla, what are you doing?”

“I’m reading the paper, Miss Lynn!”

“OK,” she replied with a chuckle.  “I wonder if she knows it’s upside down.”

Frequently as I passed through the day care, Adam was in “Time Out.”  I would get really close to him and whisper in his ear, “Jesus loves you.”  He always gave me a smile and seemed relieved that somebody was on his side.

Several of our teachers were from Grundy County — an area of small mountain communities with a reputation for “rough” living.  I loved to go downstairs for lunch with the ladies while the children were napping.  They told me hair-raising stories filled with adventure and danger, and they were all true.

Our cook was particularly knowledgeable about the area and the people.  She once remarked, “After he got so beat up, they took him to the hospital.  Well, you couldn’t really call it a hospital.  They didn’t even treat gunshot wounds!”

These ladies had been to town and seen the elephant.  They were the ones God sent to love the children with a special compassion and tenderness that city-folk didn’t quite understand.

Nancy LeCroy was a pretty blonde country gal.  Raised in Green Pond, Im’ not certain she had ever traveled out of Hamilton County.  Nancy was good at many things, but her forte was definitely taking care of the toddlers.

I went to the Toddler Center one day, and all of them were sleeping like angelic little lambs.  “How do you do it, Nancy?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s in the applesauce,” she said.

I now have a couch in my house that we call the “applesauce couch.”  If you lie down on it, in minutes, you are sleeping like an angelic little lamb!

The day care pre-schoolers knew how to cook.  They knew so much, in fact, that we published their cookbook.  Here are a few excerpts (as told by the children to their teachers):

Ham Meat with Noodles by Matthew

Cook 5 noodles in a pan with 5 pounds of ham for 15 hours.

Then add 10 bottles of ketchup.

Then cook for 15 more hours.

Add 1 cut-up chicken.

Cook 10 more hours.  Put it on a plate and eat it with a fork.

Broccoli, Cheese and Rice by Megan

1 pound broccoli 1 pound milk

1 pound sugar 1 pound cheese

First:  Put it in a pan with 1 pound of water.  Cook on low for 20 minutes.  Add sugar, milk and cheese.  And then she puts little green things in it (I don’t know what), but it’s good.

10 pounds of rice 1 pound water

Second:  Put on stove together for 20 minutes.  Mix with broccoli.  Put it in a big yellow, white and orange bowl and eat.

Hamburgers by Jessica

She takes 10 pounds of hamburger and pats it.  Then she puts it in the oven and burns it.  She takes it out of oven.  Put it on the bun.  Then we eat.

Plento Beans and Rice by Zachary

Put the beans in the pan with a foot of water.  Cook it for a few days.  Then you have plento beans and rice.  Serve with chicken sticks.

Strawberry Soup

She puts soup in the pan and opens the can.  Then she burns her finger, and I eat strawberries, too!

Biscuits by Whitney

Her gets them from the Red Food Store, and her cooks them and puts them in the stove.  Then we say our prayers, and her puts them on our plates, and they burn my fingers.

Toast

Mommy puts bread in the maker and cooks it, then puts butter on it, and I eat it, or I get a spanking.

Burritos by Taylor

You get them out of the freezer ad put them in the microwave for a long time until they are just warm.  Then take them out and put them on the stove while I take a bath.  Then I eat the burritos and get food all over my face, and you have to wash it again.

Bacon by John David

You put it in the pan and sing songs, and I don’t know what else, but it is good.

Spaghetti by Ashley (my personal favorite)

She opens the can.  Then put spaghetti in a pot.   She cooks on warm about 5 minutes.  And then we eat pizza that the man brings.

“Lo, children are an heritage of the Lord: and the fruit of the womb is his reward.”  — Psalm 127:3 (KJV)

“Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’ ” — Matthew 19:14 (NIV)

LA Super

Gary and Shirley moved to Tennessee from Louisiana and then back again.  While they were here, we utilized their unique gifts and talents.  They loved on us Louisiana-style, and we loved on them Tennessee-style. 

Gary liked Sunday School.  When asked to be Sunday School Superintendent, he jumped at the chance.  He set up his headquarters in a tiny upstairs room of the church and began operations.

He mobilized teachers and helpers, ordered curriculum, freshened up the classrooms, held training for teachers and wannabe’s, catered thank-you socials for all Christian Ed workers.  He also stylishly sported an “I ♡ Sunday School” button, which he wore with Louisiana pride!

Sunday mornings started early for Gary.  He checked all the classrooms, distributed attendance books and announcements to the teachers, re-worked scheduling as needed, collected the books, counted the offerings — and then his favorite.  He liked to drop in on a class — from babies to seniors — and just enjoy!

And we enjoyed his visits!  Gary was a large man — ‘way over six feet tall and just a tad portly.  He had a soft voice with, of course, a laid-back Louisiana drawl.  His smile was as wide as the Bossier City Boardwalk.  When he entered the classroom, everybody was glad to see him — from babies to seniors!  He loved Sunday School, and he taught us to love it, too.

Gary’s wife Shirley was a diminutive strawberry blonde with a penchant for hospitality.  When she was asked what she would like to do at the church, she was very firm in stating that she did nothing except support her husband in whatever he was doing.  That was enough to consume all her time, effort and energy. Well, that didn’t last very long.  

Her heart was broken for the young adults — those just out of high school, and working or in college.  There was no special place in the church for them until she decided to make one.  She started a Sunday School class just for them.   She gathered her little chicks, led them to her feathered nest and became their champion.

She invited them to “hang out” at her house, cooked for them (she is an amazing cook), petted them, encouraged them in love and loss.  She mailed “Care Packages” to the college students during exam time.  She rejoiced at their weddings and prayed for the babies that followed!  Her tenderness reached deep into their hearts.

Gary and Shirley inspired us all to give our best to the Lord — to dig down and dig in.  And they are still at it.  Even though they are back in Louisiana, they are in touch with the Tennessee brethren and graciously opening their home to them.

“Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.” — 2 Timothy 2:15 (KJV)

Fabric

God prepares us for His good service before we even know Him.  He intricately weaves the fabric of our lives so that when we are ready to receive Him, we’ve already finished Boot Camp, or elementary school, or whatever you want to call it.   We’ve learned the ABC’s, memorized the Periodic Table and can write in cursive.  We are ready to embrace situations at which others may recoil simply because we are “used to it.” 

It is the part of our human experience that God elevates to a supernatural, spiritual excellence so that He might be glorified.  We cannot lay claim to any glory.  It is all His.  He patiently forms us in specific and particular ways to be able to participate in His divine nature.  

I was a teenaged Candy Striper.  Delivering flowers, magazines and messages to patients and staff was excellent training for the years of hospital visitation that would follow.  Early on I grew accustomed to the sights, sounds, and medicinal and body fluid smells of that arena.  I was comfortable opening a door into a room full of machines, tubes, and white-coated professionals.  I could enter with a confident breeziness, bringing an air of crisp-linen-dried-in-the-sunshine freshness to patients and family alike. 

Having my Saturday office next to the Morgue acquainted me with the commonness of death.  Watching the hearses pulling out with regularity, I realized the fragility of life.  Being a teenager I didn’t quite identify with death, but I was aware of its presence, its constancy, its secretive nature, its stealth, its mystery, its hold on us.

This was during the time I began to accompany my father on “funeral duty.”  He often represented his company at funerals in several states.  He didn’t like to travel alone, so he asked me to go with him.  Not having any specific assignment, I became a silent observer.  I wore a simple black dress and stood beside my daddy.  I watched and listened, occasionally greeting someone I knew — most often, not knowing anyone.  I learned to nod gently and smile with kindness — offering sympathy in silence, but with sincerity.

Each funeral was different; each funeral was the same.  Families mourn in the same way universally and in very different ways universally – all at the same time.  My father showed such compassion for the families.  He touched them with his concern and caring.

I rarely understood what the minister said.  Whatever it was usually evoked muffled sobs and much heaving of shoulders as people tried to stifle the public expression of the heaviness of their pain – the heavy pain of ultimate loss, the final good-bye.  

I did understand the finality of, “Dust to dust and ashes to ashes,” though.  I was always pensive as Daddy and I got into the car for the drive home.  We would quietly discuss the funeral and the life of the deceased.  It was usually an older man who had lived “a full life,” as they say.  That helped to distance me.  

Since then I have attended many funerals, representing my Lord Jesus Christ.  Some were very young children, who died as the result of abuse or neglect.  One was the teenaged friend of my sons, who died by his own hand.  Some were dear saints who were ushered into Glory with jubilant celebrations and the re-telling of marvelous stories of their faithfulness to the Master.   There were friends, strangers, relatives, brothers and sisters in Christ.

But now I am no longer a silent observer.  I have gone past the nod and smile.  They are the routine, the things that come automatically, the ABCs, the things that were woven into my fabric as an unsaved teenager.   I was “used to” attending funerals.

Now I am able to offer words of comfort or none at all, share a story of a life lived for Jesus, or share the story of Jesus’ life given for us.  I can give hugs of sympathy or a hand to steady.   I can lift up prayers for encouragement and hope.  I can weep with those who weep. 

I am no longer the easy-breezy Candy Striper, but I am still confident when entering a hospital room.  I’m “used to it.”  Now I am an ambassador for Christ.  I am able to pray for the sick and believe God for healing.  I can extend the love of Jesus and His care and concern.

God nurtured me and prepared me and trained me to bring glory to Him when I didn’t even know Him.  Jehovah Jireh.  He looked ahead, saw what I would need, and provided it while I was still far away from Him.  He used that as a foundation for what was to come — just as He uses our lives here on earth as the beginning of eternity with Him.

What has He uniquely equipped you to do?  How has He shaped the experiences of your life to make you comfortable reaching out to others in what would be an uncomfortable situation for someone else? 

Did you realize He was doing it?  Did you think it unfair at the time you were going through it?  Were you puzzled by it?  Did you embrace it?

Or were you like me — completely clueless until you had time to reflect on the amazing and comprehensive mastery of the Master?

What a plan!  How intricate!  What a Savior!  How loving!  What a Father!  How wondrous!

”Everything that goes into a life of pleasing God has been miraculously given to us by getting to know, personally and intimately, the One who invited us to God. The best invitation we ever received! We were also given absolutely terrific promises to pass on to you—your tickets to participation in the life of God after you turned your back on a world corrupted by lust. 

”So don’t lose a minute in building on what you’ve been given, complementing your basic faith with good character, spiritual understanding, alert discipline, passionate patience, reverent wonder, warm friendliness, and generous love, each dimension fitting into and developing the others.”   –2 Peter 1:3-7 (The Message)

Girls At Camp

My daughter loved the Tennessee District Camp.  Her first experience there was when she was eight years old.  She and another girl climbed into the backseat of a plush Cadillac belonging to a retired couple from our church and were whisked away to Camp Ambassador.  It was a three-hour trip, but worth every minute.

Camp was everything she hoped it would be and more.  Her favorite part was the evening service.  She loved going to the altar to pray.  Little children just soak up the Spirit and come to Jesus like, well, like little children.

The following years of Kid’s Camp were equally thrilling for her.  She made friends with children from all over Tennessee.  She met pastors, children’s workers and district officials.  Then it was time for Youth Camp.  Her time there was amazing, too.  In one service a missionary to Mexico spoke.

“Just a few years ago I was sitting where you are,” she began.  “I was a teenager at this very Youth Camp.  God may be calling you to the mission field tonight.”

Youth Camp added layers of experience for those who were called to ministry.  There was an additional week teens could attend for music, preaching and other endeavors.  My daughter had been selected for the District Youth Choir, so that was the week they rehearsed before going on tour. 

They traveled to Canada one year and were featured on TV.  They moved west through Tennessee, Arkansas and Oklahoma another time.  They really enjoyed the trip south to perform at Disneyworld.

They stayed in the homes of church members and were fed by the host families and churches.  My daughter enjoyed looking through the family picture albums wherever she went.  She was fascinated by the history in those books and the stories that went with them.  I think it gave her great insight into the lives of Christian families — their struggles, their losses, their celebrations, and their love for the Lord.  It also nurtured her fondness for scrapbooking.  She learned the importance of recording family memories.

Every Thanksgiving for five years the Youth Choir sang at the District Youth Convention – and was even invited back to sing when my daughter was married and pregnant with her first child!

During high school and college she served as counselor for Kid’s Camp and Youth Camp.  She worked on staff one summer and received a small scholarship for Bible college.  That was the time she met the snake.

While cleaning the showers in the boys’ dorm, she picked up a mat and got the surprise of her young life.  It was a snake.  She ran outside and snagged one of the campers.

“Want to see a snake?”  she asked.

“Yeah!” was his ear reply.

She led him inside and lifted the mat.

“Wow!  That a snake alright.”

“Are you going to kill it?”

“Heck, no!” he answered as he ran back outside.

She followed him out and noticed there were two youth pastors coming up the hill.

“Want to see a snake?” she asked.

“Yeah!” was their eager reply.

She led them inside and lifted the mat.

They began to whoop and holler.  “Let’s catch him!”

And that’s how you get rid of a snake!

She met lots of people all from all over Tennessee including pastors and evangelists who encouraged her Christian growth and campers who are now grown up and pastor churches which support her family on the mission field.

Years later when she and her husband were applying for ministerial credentials, they were ushered into a roomful of distinguished men of God.  The Executive Presbyter lightened the somber tone of the room by blurting out, “I know you!”  

He pointed at my daughter and gave way to a huge smile.

“I know you!  I remember you from Kid’s Camp!”

She and her husband relaxed, realizing that God had placed them among distinguished  friends.

This was to be the first of many such occasions for my son-in-law.  As itinerating missionaries ten years later, similar scenes were played out in churches and at conferences all over the state.

“Do you know everybody in the Tennessee District?”

“Yep,” she replied.  “Just about.”

And she did know a lot of people – many of them  because of her years at Camp Ambassador.

Now as Jacob went on his way, the angels of God met him. Jacob said when he saw them, “This is God’s camp.” So he named that place Mahanaim. — Genesis 32:1-2

Boys At Camp

“You can’t make me go!”  my son protested.

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t!”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.  You can’t force us to go,” chimed in his younger brother.

“Yes, I can.  And, yes, I will.  And, yes, you are going to camp.” 

“That’s not fair!”  they whined.

“End of discussion.”

It was a church camp situated in a picturesque rural setting in Middle Tennessee.  400 teenagers would spend five days without a phone, television or video games – a scant sacrifice when you consider what they would receive in exchange.

They would participate in swimming, sports, games and other fun activities in the hot sun.  They would meet kids from all over the state of Tennessee, a few from other states and some from foreign countries.  They had the opportunity to make life-long friends. 

They would run all day and spend the evenings in church.  They would be fueled by the down-home country cooking of volunteer mothers. The campers would be embarrassed as their postcards from home were read out loud to the whole assembly.  

We parents prided ourselves on composing just the right sentiments to be presented at the public mail call.  It was our duty to spice up what could have been a dull, uninteresting note from home.

No, I wasn’t the mother who reminded her Junior that he left his “blankey” at home.  And no, I didn’t ask little Jimmy if he had had any incidents, you know, overnight, in the bunk.

My sons weren’t babies or bed-wetters, so I decided to take another tack.  I wrote things like, “No messages from you-know-who,” or “Hugs and kisses from Mom and the other girl in your life.”   I failed to mention that the other girl was his younger sister.

The best part of camp, though, was the evening services.  After a day of sunshine, wacky games and exhausting team competitions, the teens hurried back to their cabins to bathe and change clothes.  They re-assembled in the cafeteria for some more scrumptious camp chow before going to service.

After worship, led by some of the most talented Spirit-filled musicians and singers in the world, their young hearts and minds were treated to the anointed ministries of pastors, evangelists, missionaries, and fellowship leaders.

They were instructed in the word of God, challenged by the Holy Spirit, and given lots of time to spend with Jesus at the altar.  Lives were changed.  Hearts were mended.  Souls were saved.  

Cocky, supercilious teenagers melted in a puddle at the foot of the cross.  Hurting, confused teenagers found solace in the arms of Jesus.  Perfectly positioned in a place that was bathed in prayer and filled with spiritual leaders, these teenagers willingly received the salvation offered so freely.

When the church van rolled into the parking lot on Friday, my sons tumbled out with their belongings that reeked of swamp water and other fetid, foul-smelling stuff.  But their faces told the true story.  They were glowing.  They were absolutely glowing.  The stories flooded out of them in torrents.  One of my sons had been named “Camper of the Week,” which meant he got to attend the next year free!

After a quick snack, they fell into a 36-hour camp-induced sleep, rising early on Sunday morning to be the first ones in the Sanctuary … sitting on the front row, Bibles and notebooks in hand, ready to receive all that the Lord offered up. Camp obviously agreed with them.  

A few years later, when my older son was a college student, he overheard a discussion between the pastor and his teenaged son.

“I’m not going.  I hate camp,” he told his father as he stomped away.

My son pulled him aside.  “Ryan, you know this is the most fun you’re gonna have all summer.  Just shut up and go.”

Good advice.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” — Matthew 11:28-30 (NIV)

Spick and Span

Every adult church member should be required to clean the church for at least six months.  It would not only be an effective cost-cutting measure, but also provide a graduate level Christian education from the bottom up.  I know how this works.  I cleaned our church for two-and-a half years.  

For the couple who wanted to get married on Valentine’s Day, it was a romantic dream.  For the cleaning crew, it was a nightmare.  We were in the midst of an ice storm, and the electricity was off.  That meant no lights and no hot water.  It was my job to clean the restrooms a few hours before the wedding.  Did I mention that the last occupants were the day care children?

Ever optimistic, I accepted the challenge and proceeded to accomplish the task.  Armed with a flashlight, candles and assorted cleaning products, I bravely entered the Men’s Room first.  For some reason I thought it would be easier.  I was mistaken.  After scrubbing many dribbles and spurts and scraping unidentifiable wads of unknown substances from most of the surfaces, I held the candlelight high to survey the progress.  

The porcelain shimmered and shone in the dimly lit stalls.  The mirrors twinkled.  The floors were unstickyfied.  The countertops reflected the dancing lights as I waved the candle over them.  It even smelled good in there.  Quite pleased with my achievement, I trooped over to the Ladies’ Room to repeat my success.

It’s not hard to work up a sweat in mid-February in an unheated church if you know what you’re doing.  I obviously did because I had really worked up a sweat.  Cleaning toilets in the dark is hard work – or was it breathing in all those chemicals in a room with no ventilation?  Either way, I pushed on undaunted until the last span was spicked.  

WOW!  That wasn’t so bad after all.  I knew the bride and her parents.  They would be pleased at the transformation and grateful for our diligence despite the difficult circumstances.  The wedding guests would have nothing to complain about here!

Thirty minutes before the ceremony was to begin – miracle of miracles – the electricity came back on.  Dressed in my best bib and tucker, I decided to check out my handiwork. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, the truth was revealed.   My lavatory labor was for naught.  Ew!!  Flying into action (and working up yet another sweat) I gave it a quick freshen up and prayed for the best.  

Cleaning the Sanctuary was always a treat.  I lovingly polished the wood on the pews and prayed over each one that the people who occupied that seat would know the love of God and the peace that only He can give.  And there were always bonuses.

The teenagers (anxious to make a quick exit after the service) would usually leave behind the notes they had penned while pretending to listen to the sermon.  I always knew who liked whom, what who said to whom, and what who’s mother did when she found out about what who said to whom.

The one thing I could never figure out was why there were chicken bones in the hymnal rack.  I guess somebody just couldn’t wait for lunch.

LESSONS LEARNED:

• Never vacuum the straw from the manger after the Christmas pageant; always sweep it up
• Never allow a flower girl to scatter real rose petals on the carpet; artificial ones don’t have the oils that stain
• Nails and tacks should never be used to secure decorations to the church pews; ribbon works just as well and doesn’t leave marks
• Glitter has no place in the church or the floor buffer

As in all things spiritual, I liked to get the kids involved.  I taught them early on to pick up paper and straighten up the offering envelopes.  They all pitched in to help with vacuuming, yard work and whatever else needed to be done at the church.  Like I said, I saw cleaning as a spiritual act and appreciated that they willingly served God in seemingly menial tasks.

Nancy LeCroy was a shining example for us.  She cleaned our church in Chattanooga, and it was always immaculate.

“Nancy,” the pastor told her, “the church looks so nice.  You are doing a great job.”

“Well, Pastor,” she responded, “I just clean it like I’m cleaning it for Jesus.  Then I know it will please you.”

Robin, our Day Care Director, was having a particularly bad day.  She was hostessing the Open House for parents and prospective parents, and the facility was a mess.  There had been a break-in early that morning.  Police swept through the building dusting for fingerprints, spreading mud on the carpet and generally upsetting her routine and interrupting her preparations.

“What am I going to do?” she whimpered.  “I wanted everything to be perfect.”

“Candles,” I answered.  After the wedding/bathroom fiasco I had become an authority on the use of low lighting.

“Candles?” she echoed questioningly.

“Candles,” I affirmed.   

The next morning Robin greeted me with, “You were right!  The candles were perfect.  They never even noticed the carpet.”

She created a kind of welcome-to-our-living-room ambiance and gave the parents an opportunity to visit in a low-stress environment – instead of a factual presentation in primary colors.  And she signed up some new kids!  Candlelight and love cover a multitude of sins.

It was almost Easter and Mary, a new Christian, wanted to do something special for Jesus.  She asked the pastor if she could wash the sanctuary windows.  Now Mary was a petite woman, but she had fire and grit.  She liked to do physical labor and proved it by the way she handled the ladder.  The sanctuary windows were two-stories high.  There were nine of them, and she cleaned them inside and out.

When she finished, she asked me why in the world she ever thought she should wash the windows.  She ached from head to toe and was (as we say in the South) “all stove up.”

On Easter Sunday she got her answer.  Sunlight streamed through those windows like never before.  You could feel the radiance of the Resurrection and see the glory of God.  Mary — a willing and obedient servant of God.

My favorite part of cleaning the church were the postage stamp bathrooms upstairs in the children’s education wing.  I always saved them for last.  They were tiny – just big enough for a toilet and a sink.  I couldn’t manage the big mop and bucket in such a small space.  I had to get down on my hands and knees to scrub the floor.  I nosed around the toilet to reach into all the corners.  When I was done, I always felt they were extra-special clean.

And, of course, I would always think about Ghandi’s comment.  It went something like this.  “While you are cleaning the toilet, it seems like the most important job in the world.”  And it was important.  

Then there was the night I found myself looking into the business end of a Smith and Wesson.

It was just before midnight on a Saturday night.  I was late getting to the church because we had been at a social at a nearby gym.  I have tried to reconstruct what happened, but there are gaps in my logic.  Probably just before I arrived, someone had opened an exterior door, pitched in some church supplies and exited the building without attending to the alarm.  When I entered, the alarm had already been set off, the warning phone call had been made and had gone unanswered, so the police were called.

I entered the sanctuary (the one with the nine two-story high windows) and started vacuuming, oblivious to anything but the roar of the machine.  I noticed a flash of light, but thought it was just a passing car.  

Wait a minute.  There are no passing cars in the back of the church.  I looked up and saw a young policeman outside.  The flash of light was his flashlight directed at me.  Beside it was his drawn Smith & Wesson.  And was that a dog by his side?

Not being very quick on the uptake, I waved and smiled.  He never moved.

Then I realized his view of me was obscured by the pews.  He couldn’t see what I was doing.  That’s when I raised my arms, vacuum hose in hand, in surrender.  He was much quicker on the uptake than I was.  He understood immediately.  I opened the door for him and explained my presence.  He was relieved, and so was I.  That is the last time I cleaned the church after dark by myself.

So if there is ever a need at your church, sign up.  Raise your hand.  Volunteer to do the cleaning.  Get in there and get dirty.  Work up a sweat for Jesus.  While you are doing it, it seems like the most important job in the world.  

”And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men; Knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance: for ye serve the Lord Christ.” 

 — Colossians 3:23-24 (KJV)

There’s Within My Heart A Melody

“This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Boom!  Feet on the floor.  Up and at ‘em!  

For years this is how my days began.  I would quote Psalm 118:24, plant my feet on the floor, and get going.  It was a lovely way to start the day.  Quite different from the childhood image I had of my daddy standing at the bottom of the stairs yelling, “Hubba!  Hubba!”

My sons’ room was directly beneath mine, so they knew when they heard the scripture it wouldn’t be long before I called them to get up, too.  They came to expect it … and maybe even dread it a little (at least the getting up part), but they knew they could count on it.

Jesus brought consistency into my life.  I had always been so impulsive and unpredictable.  I reveled in that.  I thought it added to my mystique.  What it really did was add to my reputation as an indecisive scatterbrain.  But once I met the Master, someone I could truly rely on for everything, I wanted to be more like Him.  I became steady and predictable, but never boring.

At the end of my day I relaxed at the piano.  I was the pianist at my church so I practiced long hours because (truth-to-tell) I wasn’t very good.   When the kids were all tucked in bed, I went to the living room and played until ten or eleven o’clock at night.  That’s how much practice I needed.

It was also a time of praise for me.  My singing voice is a little weak.  I can carry a tune and even harmonize, but I’ve always been more of a “doo-wop,” back-up singer.  My times as soloist were disasters — every one of them.  But in my living room late at night I could shout as loud as I wanted, completely uninhibited.

One of the ladies in my church was tone deaf and was embarrassed to sing out loud.  

She felt an overwhelming need to voice her gratitude to God, but knew she might offend others if she were too vocal. So she prayed and asked God about it.

He showed her a picture of what happens when we praise Him.  Our praises go up, up, up and through the blood of Jesus.  By the time they reach the ear of God, they sound like a heavenly chorus, bathed in the sacrifice of His only Son.  From that time on she sang out her praises to God loud and strong, but only in the privacy of her home.  For church God showed her another way.

She learned sign language and began to “sing” in public.  Her hands communicated the lyrics lyrically.  As the music filled her soul, she expressed it with sensitivity and with a very sweet spirit.  It was a joy to “listen” as she worshiped the Lord.

When I was a morose teenager, I called the piano my “crying towel.”  It was an instrument of comfort.  I was able to release all sorts of emotions by striking just the right chord, usually a minor one.  

You could find me pounding out my frustrations by pounding out Chopin’s Polonaise in A.  My mother liked for me to play that particular piece in the summertime while she was ironing.  She said it made chills run up and down her spine and helped her to cool off!

I played a lot of Chopin, preferring the melancholy, doleful compositions over the spirited, livelier ones.  His Nocturne in E-flat major was perfect when I was in my imaginative, poetic mood.  But it was the Prelude in C minor that captured the morose-ness of my teenage years — slow, plodding, funereal.  I could weep and weep over my sad lot in life, but not for long.  It was a very short piece.

When I met Jesus, my taste in music was altered.  I loved the mournful bent of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel and When I Survey the Wondrous Cross and What Wondrous Love Is This.  But I also loved the upbeat and unbridled joyfulness of I Keep Falling in Love with Him and When We All Get to Heaven and I’ll Fly Away.  

I wanted words to sing to Jesus, Lover of My Soul — words that would convey the full range of my gratitude for what He did for me.  And I found lots of them.  There were phrases like:  “Honey in the Rock,”  “He lifted me from the miry clay,” and “free from the snare of the fowler.” Most evenings you could find me “bellering” songs of praise and adoration as I plunked out the melody on my piano.  I could go through an entire hymnbook in short order.  Tears dripping off my chin, I played and sang and lifted up praise to the One who died for me.

There is significant theological depth in the old hymns.  Many a sermon has erupted from the remembrance of a favorite line in a song.  Some people read the hymnal like a psalter.  By simply singing a scripture chorus, memorizing the Word becomes a delightful and enriching adventure, instead of a challenge and a chore.

As a new Christian I explained the Trinity to a cult member by quoting a song as if it were scripture.  After giving her biblical references and my own analogies, I quoted from the hymn Holy, Holy, Holy — the line that says,“God in three persons, blessed Trinity.”    

“Look at this!“ she exclaimed, opening her book of instructions for my inspection.  “It says here that’s exactly what you would say!”

“I know,” I replied gently, “because it’s the truth.”

It is exhilarating to bound out of bed every morning like a soldier in training.  Boots on the ground.  Whether we are generals or buck privates in God’s army doesn’t matter.  We serve at the pleasure of our Commander-in-Chief.   We arise and bless His holy name.

At the end of the day it is so very soothing to enter a place of praise and thanksgiving.  Tears at the ready.  Whether a good day or a not-so-good day, “let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Meditating on His goodness and lovingkindness brings serenity to our souls.

When my son had his second cancer surgery, we were up late one night and had a discussion about nighttime routines.  My mother was a pediatric nurse for many years.  She observed that children who were used to a consistent bedtime routine, such as:  take a bath, get in your pajamas, brush your teeth, listen to a story, say your prayers, hugs and kisses, lights out — those children responded much better in the hospital where they could follow the same pattern, even though it was a different place.  

I told him that when I was a little girl, I fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of a ticking clock.  “So whenever I had to stay overnight in the hospital, I always brought one with me.  The tick-tick-ticking comforted me.”

“Gee, Mom, that’s nice,” he commented.  “You know what I remember?  I remember falling asleep to the sound of my mother playing the piano.”

“Sing to him a new song; play skillfully, and shout for joy.”    — Psalm 33:3 (NIV)

The Orphanage

“We’ll divide the group by age.  You take the older kids.  We’ll take preschool and kindergarten,” our Christian Education director decided.  

That would have been great except that they had three adults and two helpers, and I just had me that day.  I was a bit intimidated by the whole scene. 

The Orphanage was an institution in our community, housed in a very old and very beautiful stone building.  It was several stories high and resembled a stately English country manor, but set in a cramped neighborhood in an older section of an east Tennessee town.

Having changed with the times, it also accommodated working single parents, supplying temporary shelter for all sorts of children from all sorts of backgrounds, and rarely had less than 50 kids at any time — day or night.

The personnel looked forward to the Saturday afternoon visits from members of our church.  They got a bit of a break, and we had the opportunity to share the gospel. There was such a need for Jesus in that place.

Not knowing exactly how to proceed, I gathered the twenty or so disinterested children in a semicircle for a Bible story.  The Lord was specific in leading me to read directly from the Bible.

During the story there was an annoying little boy who stood behind my left shoulder and kept interjecting, “Church?  I’ve been to church.  Altar?  I’ve been to the altar.  Saved?  I’ve been saved.  I’ve been saved seven times.  Every time they ask, I go down and get saved.”

He simply would not stop.  He just kept buzzing in my ear.  The Lord reminded me that He had called me there to read scripture and that I should ignore the disruptive child for now.  And all the other disruptive children.  Kids were talking, hitting, and bouncing each other off the wall — just for fun.  Despite the chaos, I persisted.

When I finished reading, I closed the Bible and asked a simple question, “What does the blood of Jesus mean to you?”

This one kid Ralph was the oldest, maybe twelve years old, and seemed to be the leader.  All eyes turned to him.

Ralph reared back in his chair, much like the CEO he thought he was, and announced to the room, “Beats the hell outta me!”

“YES!”  I exclaimed loudly.  “That’s exactly what it does!  It beats the devil right out of you!”

Now I had their attention.  Even Ralph listened as we finished the lesson, worked on crafts and all the way through snack time.  After the snacks were served, I had time to speak with each child individually and to teach them a prayer.

“Do you ever feel alone?  Are you ever scared?  Well, I feel alone sometimes, and I get scared.  I really used to get scared at night when the lights were off.  This is the prayer I prayed, and it worked!  It’s just one word.  You can remember it.  

“ ‘Jesus.‘ “  

“That’s it.  Just one word.  One name.  He is the most powerful person ever, and He loves you, and he wants to help you.  Don’t forget.  Just say, ‘Jesus.‘   And if you can’t say it out loud, that’s OK.  Just think it in your mind, and He will hear you.  ‘Jesus.’ “

Afterward I walked through the huge cafeteria interceding for these precious children and begging God to save their souls.

When the orphanage personnel returned, they asked what had happened.  

“They are never this well-behaved.  What did you do?”

“Save me, O God, by your name; vindicate me by your might.

“Hear my prayer, O God; listen to the words of my mouth.

— Psalm 54:1-2

House of Ushers

Numbers running.  All pastors do it.  They go to a meeting or convention, and the conversation goes something like this:

“Hey, Brother Ray!  Good to see you.  Good to see you.  So what are you running now?”

“Well, Brother, we’re holding our own.  Running about 250.  What about you?  What are you running?”

“We’re running about 275.  Down a little from last year this time, but we hope to be running 350 by fall.”

And who are the bag men for all this numbers running?  The ushers, of course.

Now there are ushers, and then there are ushers.  We had an usher who turned in the attendance faithfully every Sunday.  He was a very bright guy who had worked on the lunar module at NASA.  He really knew his numbers.  When he was transferred to another state and an assistant started recording the numbers, we noticed quite a difference in the weekly tally. 

What we later learned was our NASA engineer got his figures by counting the cars in the parking lot and multiplying by 2.5 (the current government statistic for the average number of people in an American household).  Now that was an usher! 

One of our ushers was a proud grandfather.  Brent, his three-year-old grandson, liked to tag along with Grandpa to get the count.  I passed them in the corridor at church one Sunday morning and greeted the little one, “Hi!  What are you doing?”

“Brent count people,” he announced with pride. 

Some churches have female ushers.  Women control most of the wealth in this nation.  It makes sense to have them collect the money in church.

During a minister certification process, a young man (obviously nervous) was asked to name two sacraments of the church.  He simply could not remember communion or baptism.  All rational ability to think had left him.  Hoping to be of help, a kind pastor in the room tried to give him a hint.

“Will the ushers please come forward?”  he intoned.

“Oh!” exclaimed the young man, suddenly animated and relieved.  “Tithes and offerings,” he blurted out.

You can’t just pass the plate anymore.  Although offering plates are still used, there are also wooden-handled velvet pouches that are passed around.  Our church uses woven baskets.  Overly optimistic churches use large buckets (KFC-sized); less optimistic ones use the smaller, plastic paint buckets.  Older congregations have people come to the altar to place their offerings on the pages of an open Bible.  Probably a great idea.  The Bible holds bills and large checks better than little coins.

Some head ushers are very militaristic.  They like order, and they like it to be orderly.  This means you.  They are experts at getting the attention of rowdy teenagers.  They can subtly stop the nod of a nodding parishioner.  In colonial times ushers would thump you on the head with an over-reaching pole if you fell asleep or misbehaved.  Our modern ushers are diligent, but tactful.

They have had to change with the times.  Now they are expected to know where every classroom and teacher are located, service times, nursery rules, and how to use the emergency portable defibrillator.  

They carry — on their persons  — keys to every door in the church, emergency telephone numbers for everything from Poison Control to Homeland Security, in addition to the regular stuff — offering envelopes, visitor welcome packets and breath mints.  

They carry — in their heads — procedures for emergency situations, the combination to the safe, specialized knowledge of the congregation, and where to find practically anybody or anything at any time.  They are good at what they do and take pride in consistently serving the pastor and the church with excellence.  And they are volunteers.

At three little Brent knew just a little bit about what ushers do, but it’s my guess his Grandpa will teach him the other stuff, too.  I hope he learns the defibrillator.  You never know when I might need it.

“For a day in thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.”  — Psalm 84:10