The Playhouse
It began as a hum and then as I continued getting ready for church, the words began forming in my mind: "I am so happy in Christ today, That I go singing along my way. Yes, I'm so happy to know and say, 'Jesus included me too.'"
I smiled to myself as I found it hard to believe that the old hymn made its appearance again after learning it decades ago. It dated back to my childhood years at Philadelphia Baptist Church on the second pew on the left side. Seating toward the front of churches is rarely a sought-after section, but I knew that special place was our family's spot. Thank you, Daddy and Mother for taking me to that place every Sunday where I learned the joy of being included.
One of my favorite hymns as a child was: "I Am Resolved." The verses flowed freely, but Mr. Buck, our church song leader, would make a slow song move faster and a fast song wear roller skates. I loved that!
The chorus was even better than the verse because the bass singers chimed in deep unison, "hasten so glad and free-e." I would realize later to Whom I would hasten, but I still learned the words and in later years appreciated the true meaning. Thank you, Mr. Buck, for causing my foot to pat in rhythm to a song that pointed me to the worthiest of resolves.
Christmas carols were a large part of December for me. I always thought most of them were written for voices with opera ranges, but I still sang them with gusto. "Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; Hail the incarnate Deity" wasn't a clear picture of what the birth of the Christ-child meant, but my young mind still logged it away for the time I would understand and be amazed. Thank you, carol writers, for adding Christmas music to our hymnals.
One teenage summer I wrestled with a long illness and spent a lot of time confined to the couch or bed. I will always remember the early morning when I woke with the song, "There Is A Balm In Gilead," playing in my mind. "There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole" brought supernatural strength to my physical and mental condition. Thank you, Daddy, for seeing that I learned hymns that held medicinal value for mind and body.
There were so many nights after leaving Mother in the nursing home that I cried out to God for a remedy for her situation. Some nights I couldn't pray, but I could sing, "Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him; how I've proved Him o'er and o'er." Thank you, Mother and Daddy, for bringing me up in an environment that schooled me in doctrine put to music.
"To God be the glory, great things He hath done!" " I once was lost but now am found!"
Friday, November 15, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
The Playhouse
There are things to be learned on a vacation. I've learned some of those this week while on vacation with friends, Phil and Susan. We arrived in Sedona, Arizona with expectations of sightseeing drives taking us to the Grand Canyon and hiking some of the breathtaking trails around the red rocks of Sedona. The weather met us on our arrival with 70 plus temps and 20% humidity. What a reception!
I unpacked my hiking shoes and dressed for our first hike. We hit the trail headed to a picturesque stream surrounded by river rocks and enclosed by a towering mountain range. The trail made a quick descent and the uneven rocky path kept me watchful of unsure footing. The cottonwood trees with their shimmering golden leaves were a sign that we were nearing water. Suddenly I heard a strange sound at my feet and looked down to kick away what I thought felt like a stick or rock hung in my sole. I was shocked to see the bottom layer of my hiking shoes flapping loosely from my shoe. Othel turned around and said, "What's that?"
"My shoe," I answered as I tried to keep pace. He stopped and bent down to examine my "talking" shoe. I assured him a little glue would fix it good as new after I finished the hike. We both were puzzled that this brand of shoe would have that problem.
Undaunted, I continued the hike but with a flip-flop noise with each step. Before we reached the stream, I had another blow-out! My other shoe let go of its bottom layer of sole. Now they were singing a duet. Othel stopped again and examined my other shoe. "These things look rotten under this sole," he said. "Glue won't help this problem. I'll pull the soles off and you can finish the hike, but we'll get you new shoes before another hike."
I agreed as I looked closer. He gave the soles a yank, and they tore loose easily. I felt like I was wearing lace-up moccasins. I navigated the hike to the stream, made some pictures and headed back to our vehicle.
I learned that checkups are important for vacation attire. Just because my shoes still looked great from the outside, a closer look would have exposed the problem.
Mid-week we headed for the Grand Canyon. The trip was scenic in all directions but carried us to high elevations and narrow, winding roads. Susan and I told the men that the height of the drive and the possibility of going over the edge and never being found among the rocks and dense trees was a possibility that was unnerving. They assured us that the drive was safe and that we shouldn't look over the edges until we got off the mountain.
With sweaty palms and extra braking from the back seat, we arrived at our destination. On the way back after a day of hiking the canyon's rim and being awed by its beauty, I made a discovery. Even though we traveled the same "treacherous" route back to our hotel, Susan and I never made a comment about the danger of the winding roads. Why? It was dark and the headlights of our car always shown straight ahead, and we weren't able to see the deep precipices on the sides. What we didn't see couldn't alarm us.
There were even deeper lessons for me spiritually: (1) The outside of my shoes may have looked great but the inside was rotten. Our hearts are much more important to God than our outward appearance, and He's able to see everything others might never see. I need regular heart exams.
(2) There are a vast number of fearful things in our world, and they can turn me into a frightened, crippled disciple if I focus on those things. However, if I keep my focus on the light that God's Word shines onto my path and follow that light, He will lead me to my destination in a way that will bring glory to the Lord.
I may be growing old in years, but God continues to teach me - even on vacations.
There are things to be learned on a vacation. I've learned some of those this week while on vacation with friends, Phil and Susan. We arrived in Sedona, Arizona with expectations of sightseeing drives taking us to the Grand Canyon and hiking some of the breathtaking trails around the red rocks of Sedona. The weather met us on our arrival with 70 plus temps and 20% humidity. What a reception!
I unpacked my hiking shoes and dressed for our first hike. We hit the trail headed to a picturesque stream surrounded by river rocks and enclosed by a towering mountain range. The trail made a quick descent and the uneven rocky path kept me watchful of unsure footing. The cottonwood trees with their shimmering golden leaves were a sign that we were nearing water. Suddenly I heard a strange sound at my feet and looked down to kick away what I thought felt like a stick or rock hung in my sole. I was shocked to see the bottom layer of my hiking shoes flapping loosely from my shoe. Othel turned around and said, "What's that?"
"My shoe," I answered as I tried to keep pace. He stopped and bent down to examine my "talking" shoe. I assured him a little glue would fix it good as new after I finished the hike. We both were puzzled that this brand of shoe would have that problem.
Undaunted, I continued the hike but with a flip-flop noise with each step. Before we reached the stream, I had another blow-out! My other shoe let go of its bottom layer of sole. Now they were singing a duet. Othel stopped again and examined my other shoe. "These things look rotten under this sole," he said. "Glue won't help this problem. I'll pull the soles off and you can finish the hike, but we'll get you new shoes before another hike."
I agreed as I looked closer. He gave the soles a yank, and they tore loose easily. I felt like I was wearing lace-up moccasins. I navigated the hike to the stream, made some pictures and headed back to our vehicle.
I learned that checkups are important for vacation attire. Just because my shoes still looked great from the outside, a closer look would have exposed the problem.
Mid-week we headed for the Grand Canyon. The trip was scenic in all directions but carried us to high elevations and narrow, winding roads. Susan and I told the men that the height of the drive and the possibility of going over the edge and never being found among the rocks and dense trees was a possibility that was unnerving. They assured us that the drive was safe and that we shouldn't look over the edges until we got off the mountain.
With sweaty palms and extra braking from the back seat, we arrived at our destination. On the way back after a day of hiking the canyon's rim and being awed by its beauty, I made a discovery. Even though we traveled the same "treacherous" route back to our hotel, Susan and I never made a comment about the danger of the winding roads. Why? It was dark and the headlights of our car always shown straight ahead, and we weren't able to see the deep precipices on the sides. What we didn't see couldn't alarm us.
There were even deeper lessons for me spiritually: (1) The outside of my shoes may have looked great but the inside was rotten. Our hearts are much more important to God than our outward appearance, and He's able to see everything others might never see. I need regular heart exams.
(2) There are a vast number of fearful things in our world, and they can turn me into a frightened, crippled disciple if I focus on those things. However, if I keep my focus on the light that God's Word shines onto my path and follow that light, He will lead me to my destination in a way that will bring glory to the Lord.
I may be growing old in years, but God continues to teach me - even on vacations.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
The Playhouse
It's been an on-going saga in my life this year - what to keep and what to discard. The irony in those decisions has been the value placed on the items. It's been easier to part with a large piece of furniture or family antique than it has an old letter or kindergarten art work.
That "box" that most mothers stash in the cabinet or under the bed was full of finger paint drawings, get-well cards from Tahya and Eli, and lots of Mother's Day cards. Call me a nostalgia geek, but even I know I kept way too much "stuff."
Even as I tried to discard I spent too much time re-reading them or strolling down memory lane. I would wrestle with what to do, but the question that always turned me toward the garbage can was this: Who will want to keep these when I'm gone?
I knew the answer. No one! Eli's drawing of our family with its peanut-shaped images on an 11x14 piece of yellowed paper wouldn't bring any real sentiment to his own little ones. I was only saving things for my children to discard.
However, I dug my heels in on a few items. One was Mother's address book. It's a spiral-bound hardback with almost every page covered in names and addresses. One can follow friends and family members' moves by the list of changes. Phone numbers are jotted on the backs of pages and some old friends are (sadly) crossed through.
Last week I was needing a relative's address and instead of googling it I turned to Mother's address book. It caused me to drop on the edge of the bed and read through the names. I lingered - and lingered. It was her handwriting, and I treasured every curve and uniform letter. I remembered her ministry of letter-writing and newspaper-clipping ministry and how many times she had used this catalogue of names. She never painted canvasses like her own mother, but she had mailed so many one-of-a-kind treasures in an envelope.
Someday Mother's address book will be tossed to the garbage, but it will be someone else to do it. For me, it's one small way I can still "touch" what she touched.
Sometimes I open God's Word, and I experience a similar happening. The words I read are God-breathed and God-inspired. No, they're not the original tablets that Moses held or the scrolls like Isaiah carried, but God's Spirit is there. It's a visit with Him each time I read from the Bible's pages. How we should treasure every word and each visit.
Sent from my iPad
It's been an on-going saga in my life this year - what to keep and what to discard. The irony in those decisions has been the value placed on the items. It's been easier to part with a large piece of furniture or family antique than it has an old letter or kindergarten art work.
That "box" that most mothers stash in the cabinet or under the bed was full of finger paint drawings, get-well cards from Tahya and Eli, and lots of Mother's Day cards. Call me a nostalgia geek, but even I know I kept way too much "stuff."
Even as I tried to discard I spent too much time re-reading them or strolling down memory lane. I would wrestle with what to do, but the question that always turned me toward the garbage can was this: Who will want to keep these when I'm gone?
I knew the answer. No one! Eli's drawing of our family with its peanut-shaped images on an 11x14 piece of yellowed paper wouldn't bring any real sentiment to his own little ones. I was only saving things for my children to discard.
However, I dug my heels in on a few items. One was Mother's address book. It's a spiral-bound hardback with almost every page covered in names and addresses. One can follow friends and family members' moves by the list of changes. Phone numbers are jotted on the backs of pages and some old friends are (sadly) crossed through.
Last week I was needing a relative's address and instead of googling it I turned to Mother's address book. It caused me to drop on the edge of the bed and read through the names. I lingered - and lingered. It was her handwriting, and I treasured every curve and uniform letter. I remembered her ministry of letter-writing and newspaper-clipping ministry and how many times she had used this catalogue of names. She never painted canvasses like her own mother, but she had mailed so many one-of-a-kind treasures in an envelope.
Someday Mother's address book will be tossed to the garbage, but it will be someone else to do it. For me, it's one small way I can still "touch" what she touched.
Sometimes I open God's Word, and I experience a similar happening. The words I read are God-breathed and God-inspired. No, they're not the original tablets that Moses held or the scrolls like Isaiah carried, but God's Spirit is there. It's a visit with Him each time I read from the Bible's pages. How we should treasure every word and each visit.
Sent from my iPad
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
The Playhouse
Sent from my iPad
Begin forwarded message:
From: Camille Anding <camilleanding@gmail.com>
Date: September 30, 2013 at 9:41:11 PM CDT
Subject: The Playhouse
The Playhouse
How do you dismantle a house? Since I was a novice I could only watch the professionals, and I wasn't overly excited about that. Room by room they removed the remnants of remaining furniture that had served us well in making a home.
A close inspection of the dining room rug would have revealed a few grease spots from random biscuit crumbs or sticky spots from a drippy Mrs. Butterworth's. Some tears may have dissolved part of the stains, but they would have been tears of laughter around a table adorned with family and friends.
The dining table moved with ease out the back door,but if all the food served from it had weighed it down, moving would have been impossible. My heart pushed back the memories to thank God again that we had eaten bountifully from that table and never pulled away from it with hungry stomachs.
I made an audible sigh when I untied the small brown basket from the upstairs rail. Camea had tied it in place when she was a child and for years every grandchild had played with it, lowering and hoisting messages and toys to each other. Their guardian angels had earned extra merits for never allowing any of the small children to tumble between or over the rails.
The chinning bar that Eli requested in Junior High looked totally isolated in the doorway of his empty room. He had worked hard at muscle building, and every grandchild had followed suit in swinging from its perch. I knew it didn't add value to the bedroom, but I refused to remove it. It had earned its spot.
Saying goodbye to our stone fireplace wasn't easy either. I knew that was the last of firewood-cutting days and stacking the rows of wood in the backyard. I had never complained about bringing in firewood because the warm crackle of a winter fire insulated us from every frosty night on our Etta hill.
The hallway seemed most empty without its display of family pictures. There were school day images with snaggle teeth and crooked bangs, Acteen events, senior pictures of Tahya and Eli, their wedding favorites, and then varieties of the grands. It was our own art gallery displaying images of our treasures. I was amazed at how lonely the walls looked.
As I reminisced over the blessed, full years in our home, I wondered if houses ever received awards. Surely this one had earned one. It had weathered hurricane force winds, storms that bent trees over the driveway but never over the roof, poundings of hail and lashes from driving flash floods.
There had been some internal storms brought on by sickness, heartache - even death, but its walls had stood strong and its foundation unmoved. Would a realtor add value to a home whose walls were layered in prayer and ceilings with praise? Probably not, but we knew the value of a home that God built.
Solomon, the wisest man that ever lived, said, "Unless the LORD builds the house, those who built it labor in vain." Our Etta home stands as testimony to that truth. Its "For Sale" sign should include: God-built.
Sent from my iPad
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
The Playhouse
Things I've learned in our search for a new church home:
1) Large cities have mega churches as well as small ones. They have a lot of both kinds.
2) Man has discovered a variety of ways to worship. It appears some have not read the Manual.
3) Most churches are oblivious to visitors, but the larger churches can't be faulted. It would be a feat to know JUST the members.
4) Weddings and funerals seem to be the only occasions that church attendees wear their dressy clothes.
5) Some churches give a new definition to casual church wear. (I know God looks on the heart, but I doubt if some church goers would wear the same clothing if they were invited to meet a celebrity.)
6) I still appreciate choir robes.
7) Businesses that print hymnals had better be finding another means of income.
8) Pews without hymnal holders are pews that hold a lot less theology.
9) There are a lot of activities listed in the church bulletin/program, and some don't fall under preaching, praying, or missions.
10) An altar of kneeling worshippers blesses me.
11) You can get lost in a mega church and stared at in a small one.
12) Sermons never tend to "run over" in churches with multiple morning services.
13) I still don't know the difference between a choir and a praise team.
14) Be aware that your conversations can be overheard by the people sitting in front of you. Last Sunday I heard where I could buy half price purses.
15) Some preachers study and prepare more than others.
16) Senior adult groups go by a variety of unique names, and they all take road trips.
17) Some churches copy the world in their attempt to attract crowds.
18) There is and never will be a greater message than the Gospel.
19) "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross" can stand on its own as a sermon and doesn't need a modern revamping.
20) What I once thought was plain and basic in my childhood church wasn't'!
Thursday, August 29, 2013
The Playhouse
"Sunday afternoon will work for us. Sure, we're excited about seeing your new place." That was our response to Camea's invitation to check out her newly acquired Clinton address. She thought it had a lot of perks - she was less than a mile from her campus job, the rental house was large with four generous bedrooms, and she would be dividing the rent with three other girls she had known during her college years.
The directions led us down a shady street in a quiet neighborhood. We spotted the Dobbs' van and pulled into the drive. Camea met us at the door apologizing for the scraggly front yard. It was obvious that the owner definitely hadn't competed for the yard of the month sign, but I quickly visualized what a weed-eater and my yellow trimmers could do.
The neighbor's large oak accommodated both yards, and a healthy Bradford pear filled a major section of their rental yard. The walkway pavers needed some adjustments, and the out-of-control azalea by the front door screamed for the pruning shears. I assured Camea that help was on the way. Her yard wouldn't be scraggly for long!
The modest house front camouflaged the spacious interior. We were amazed at the living space - so much that Camea had arranged three separate but roomy seating areas in the den. That room opened into the kitchen that was large enough to serve the MC football team! A rambling island stretched across the center tiles and stopped several feet away from a sturdy ten-seater farm table. The entire back of the kitchen was a wall of windows that looked out on a breezy porch and wandering back yard.
That kitchen was an entertainer's dream. A double oven and acres of cooking space had promises for food and fellowship, but the large floor tiles were the downside. I couldn't get past them to enjoy the variety of amenities. I squatted to look closer - then grabbed a wet sponge. The tiles weren't worn or damaged - they were dirty!
It wasn't my usual Sunday afternoon agenda, but the unsightly floor needed attention. Tahya grabbed another scrubber and followed me. CandyLee saw the real floor color and joined us after she laid aside her guitar. She continued to sing as she scrubbed, bragging on the kitchen's great acoustics.
I heard Othel ask Kevin if they had cable. Camea answered and told them the girls hadn't connected it but might later. Othel stared at the blank screen and helpless remote. A wave of pity crossed his countenance.
I located a sponge mop and gave the tiles a real scrub. Camea couldn't believe it. They had a new floor! I was celebrating the fact that we might have saved them from some rare disease hibernating in the discolored tiles.
As we gathered our things to leave, Camea thanked us again and said she was following us out to run by the grocery. Their new quarters were settled enough to host a party, and she was inviting her youth group to come to their house after church. "They're high school age and are looking for places to go, and I want to disciple as many as possible."
I felt like rinsing the mop and giving my heart a good scrub. My big concern had been a clean kitchen floor for hygiene reasons. CandyLee was reveling in the acoustics, Othel was concerned about their being stranded from the news networks, and her parents were probably considering the safety of the neighborhood. Camea saw their house as a meeting place to steer young people toward Jesus.
As we pulled out of their driveway, I thanked God for Camea's new home and her passion to disciple. Suddenly their scraggly yard was no longer a concern for me; it was my scraggly heart.
Sent from my iPad
"Sunday afternoon will work for us. Sure, we're excited about seeing your new place." That was our response to Camea's invitation to check out her newly acquired Clinton address. She thought it had a lot of perks - she was less than a mile from her campus job, the rental house was large with four generous bedrooms, and she would be dividing the rent with three other girls she had known during her college years.
The directions led us down a shady street in a quiet neighborhood. We spotted the Dobbs' van and pulled into the drive. Camea met us at the door apologizing for the scraggly front yard. It was obvious that the owner definitely hadn't competed for the yard of the month sign, but I quickly visualized what a weed-eater and my yellow trimmers could do.
The neighbor's large oak accommodated both yards, and a healthy Bradford pear filled a major section of their rental yard. The walkway pavers needed some adjustments, and the out-of-control azalea by the front door screamed for the pruning shears. I assured Camea that help was on the way. Her yard wouldn't be scraggly for long!
The modest house front camouflaged the spacious interior. We were amazed at the living space - so much that Camea had arranged three separate but roomy seating areas in the den. That room opened into the kitchen that was large enough to serve the MC football team! A rambling island stretched across the center tiles and stopped several feet away from a sturdy ten-seater farm table. The entire back of the kitchen was a wall of windows that looked out on a breezy porch and wandering back yard.
That kitchen was an entertainer's dream. A double oven and acres of cooking space had promises for food and fellowship, but the large floor tiles were the downside. I couldn't get past them to enjoy the variety of amenities. I squatted to look closer - then grabbed a wet sponge. The tiles weren't worn or damaged - they were dirty!
It wasn't my usual Sunday afternoon agenda, but the unsightly floor needed attention. Tahya grabbed another scrubber and followed me. CandyLee saw the real floor color and joined us after she laid aside her guitar. She continued to sing as she scrubbed, bragging on the kitchen's great acoustics.
I heard Othel ask Kevin if they had cable. Camea answered and told them the girls hadn't connected it but might later. Othel stared at the blank screen and helpless remote. A wave of pity crossed his countenance.
I located a sponge mop and gave the tiles a real scrub. Camea couldn't believe it. They had a new floor! I was celebrating the fact that we might have saved them from some rare disease hibernating in the discolored tiles.
As we gathered our things to leave, Camea thanked us again and said she was following us out to run by the grocery. Their new quarters were settled enough to host a party, and she was inviting her youth group to come to their house after church. "They're high school age and are looking for places to go, and I want to disciple as many as possible."
I felt like rinsing the mop and giving my heart a good scrub. My big concern had been a clean kitchen floor for hygiene reasons. CandyLee was reveling in the acoustics, Othel was concerned about their being stranded from the news networks, and her parents were probably considering the safety of the neighborhood. Camea saw their house as a meeting place to steer young people toward Jesus.
As we pulled out of their driveway, I thanked God for Camea's new home and her passion to disciple. Suddenly their scraggly yard was no longer a concern for me; it was my scraggly heart.
Sent from my iPad
Monday, August 19, 2013
The Playhouse
The jitters and anxiety of the first days of school have lost most of their steam as the classrooms begin falling into a pattern. Our "little ones" will be filling their minds with new knowledge while most parents keep their fingers crossed that take-home-projects won't come early.
From surface observation it's our expectation that the children enter the classrooms to learn while teachers teach. As a grandparent I have a unique observation point that allows me to see that the roles can be reversed. Even the very young can teach - even with limited skills.
James Wesley, Baby James as his siblings call him, is a year old. Most would call someone so young anything but a teacher, but don't let his age fool you. I'm one of his most admiring students.
He's taught me that a simple smile will open a lot of doors and get a lot of special favors that a frown would never render. I like it that his young eyes haven't been trained to check out labels or fashion. He loves his family just the way we are, and his smiles show his love even if it's infantile.
He makes a variety of sounds but most are non-intelligible Guess that's because he hasn't learned to talk. Still, he's a great communicator, and it's because he's mastered a lot of body language skills.
I've mentioned his smile - that's one of his key "words." When he plants that smile on his countenance it's guaranteed he'll get one in return. He's taught me that smiling is a body language that requires no vocabulary but speaks volumes.
He's not big enough to extend a gentleman's handshake, but he's learned to hug and pat. He's taught me that we all could use a few more hugs and pats. They cost nothing but our time.
He asks for a cup of milk or a snack from the pantry without the first verbal request. His body language kicks in as he leans toward his need. He's smart enough to have learned where to find the source. I need to learn from James Wesley to turn my back to the world's solutions and lean toward my Source and Sustenance.
Our youngest has mastered walking, but his toddler-size steps often collide with his older siblings. When that happens he "calls" for comfort, and his mother is the one he seeks. If her hands are full doing three things at once, he's not deterred. He clings to her legs until she can bend over to pick him up.
He's a great teacher in that, too. The world will always be filled with pain and tears, but until we cling to the true Comforter we find little consolation.
James Wesley simply demonstrates what God's Word verbalizes: A merry heart doeth good like a medicine; Love one another; Draw near to God and He will draw near to you; My soul clings to You.
Forget the Baby James name; it should be Little Professor.
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