Doctrine in Hymns

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!"

                                  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.

                                      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

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

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'!

                                       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

                                               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.

All About Boxes

The Playhouse
>
>   Boxes!  They've been a big part of my life in our moving process.  Friends have saved and shared their empty cardboard boxes so we could transport our "treasures" in them.  I'm indebted to them and their boxes.  I'm even more indebted to the inventor of the cardboard box - the efficient lightweight, recyclable container that saves me from carrying our items by the armloads.  We've packed everything transportable in the handy carriers.  Long-live the #1 aid for moving!
>   I've discovered that our lives are surrounded by boxes - and they all hold necessities, valuables, or treasures.  There are shoe boxes in my closet, jewelry boxes on the shelf, and a toy box in the loft.  There are little boxes for nails and tacks, medium size boxes for flatware, crackers and cereal, and mega boxes for lamps and larger valuables.
>   I recall the first treasure given to me in a little box.  It reiterated the truth of :  "If it comes in a little black, velvet box, I'll love it."  Othel and I were at Delta State and  infected with the love bug.  It was late afternoon on a road in Shelby, MS when he stopped the car and handed me the little black box.  What a treasure rested inside its velvet walls!
>   In our sorting and packing our thirty-eight years of accumulations, I've found more than one medium size box holding personal treasures:  original Mother's Day cards with personal notes from Tahya and Eli, plaster hand prints,  school day pictures with snaggle-toothed smiles and uneven bangs, ribbons from talent shows and art work from not-so-promising young artists.  Cardboard boxes can definitely hold treasures.
>   Last week a large wooden box - beautifully embellished rolled past me at the funeral home.  I thought to myself - another box - and holding the most valuable treasure - the body of a loved one.  This "box" would be the final earthly resting place for this child of God and would leave family and friends to be placed in a nearby cemetery.  The sadness of the separation was heavy, and then a new meaning suddenly flashed through the gloom.  Cemeteries are where we bury our treasures!  Surely God must see acres of buried treasure instead of the cold, gray marble on cemetery plots.  According to His promise, one day there will be a trumpet blast, and all those boxes of treasures will be emptied as the dead in Christ rise in glorified bodies.
>   That will mean the end of a lot of things - and boxes will be one of them.  There won't be any more moves.

The Wait of Dialysis

The Playhouse

When my daddy was diagnosed with a disease that began attacking his organs, his kidneys were the first to fall victim. Since the kidneys function as the filtering systems to remove body impurities, it didn’t take long for the decline in Daddy’s health. His coloring turned an ashen gray, and his breathing was laborious as he drifted into a deep sleep.

For him dialysis was his only hope for survival. When the emergency decision was made, Daddy was linked to an artificial kidney that extended his life an additional five years.

However, life was never the same for him or his family. Three times a week at the same time every week, he checked into the dialysis unit where a needle was inserted into his arm. For the next four to five hours, his mechanical kidney flushed impurities and excess fluids from his body.

The dialysis days were always long - often marked with nausea, painful cramps and always the motionless hours that the needle, wires, tubes, and machine dictated. Did Daddy ever want to skip a day? Did he wrestle with the thoughts of refusing dialysis? Yes on both, but as difficult as dialysis days were, they were still life-sustaining. No dialysis would mean no life.

There’s a verse in John 15 that’s filled with contemplation: “I am the vine, you are the branches. If any man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit. Apart from me, you can do nothing.” As I’ve meditated on this verse, it’s reminded me of my dialysis experiences with Daddy. It was imperative that he be hooked up to the purifier in order for him to have life. As a believer, I can be renewed spiritually by staying attached to the Vine. Praying, reading and meditating on His Word are keys to this spiritual cleansing and power - of being attached to the Vine.

Here’s where the problem begins. The world’s hectic schedule screams for my attention and programs me to “race mode.” It’s busy, busy, busy with much of it “good” busy. Isn’t packing and sorting for our move a necessary good? This busy dilemma challenges me to a few short Bible verse reads and a “give me this” and “please bless this” abbreviated prayer time. The result is obvious - no real abiding or attachment to the Vine.

If Daddy had decided to spend a few minutes on his dialysis machine instead of the long hours, his body would have succumbed much sooner to the poison in his system. It took time for the cleansing and renewal.

Branches don’t produce overnight. It takes steady nourishment from the vine and time. So it’s my choice - a “drive-through” experience or a yielded Mary posture at Christ’s feet. It’s a private choice, but the result is always obvious.

The Playhouse

The Playhouse

God messaged me this past week as I listened and tried to remain sensitive to His presence. It came through the morning news that played as background noise to my getting dressed. Suddenly, I stopped and stepped toward the TV when I heard the name: Dennis Rodman.
There he was complete with face piercing and bleached hair making headline news as the guest of North Korea’s leader Kim Jong Un. What an unlikely duo - Rodman, an eccentric former NBA star, chumming with the leader of a nation that ranks #1 in Christian persecution and intolerance of human rights. Estimates range from 50,000 to 70,000 Christians being held in North Korean prison camps. These camps are usually for lifetime for entire families, and treatment has been described as mimicking Holocaust atrocities.
This news grabbed my attention because of a commitment I made many years ago. I was the leader of a new Sunday School group of single ladies. It was a small group - five - including myself. We were studying prayer, and I challenged them to consider a celebrity that people would think unlikely to be saved. Dennis Rodman won the challenge. I added him to my prayer list and have shared his name with other prayer groups over the years.
I’ve seen Rodman’s name make the news since that commitment, but it’s never been the kind of news for which I have prayed. Still, I know God answers prayer, and since He is outside of time, I realize I must pray persistently for Dennis Rodman to be saved as I remind myself to not grow impatient.
When I saw him laughing with the North Korean leader, I didn’t see a basketball star initiating a friendship with a crazed powerful leader. I saw a future Christian sharing his salvation experience with a leader intent on suppressing and annihilating all Christians in his land. Kim Jong would never give audience to a missionary or evangelistic pastor, but he would be open to this NBA star that he apparently idolizes.
God has told us that His thoughts are not our thoughts, neither are His ways our ways. Could God be preparing this improbable friendship as a means of reaching Kim Jong Un for Christ?
The possibility ignites my curiosity and my reason to remain with my lengthy commitment. For you who pray and believe in answered prayer (there’s a difference), would you join me? Then watch the news with expectancy. Imagine the headlines: Kim Jong Un leads Korea to seek Christ as he and his NBA friend, Dennis Rodman, fast and pray.
Jesus said, “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”
Monday a.m., just before typing this for emailing: Rodman was on the news again, decked out in a coat of green backs and wearing silver in his ears, nose and lip. His image mesmerized me, and I thought of my bold commitment. My faith was actually wavering as I watched his far from humble boasting. Before my faith totally eclipsed, God messaged me again, “Call to me and I will show you great and mighty things that you do not know.”
I’m calling! Will you join me?

The Playhouse

“I didn’t mean for it to work out this way,” Othel said in an apologizing tone as we spotted our seats.

“It’s okay,” I responded, hoping the sound of my voice backed my words. “Just one of those things.” Isn’t that what we say about life’s small glitches?

Othel had gotten information on tickets for Beauty and the Beast coming to the Ole Miss campus - the Disney version - the one that makes every little girl long to be Belle when she grows up. We immediately thought about Shields and Patton. Who better could appreciate the stage adaptation of one of their favorite Disney movies? Othel ordered four tickets early so we’d be sure of seating choices.

A few days later it dawned on me that Camea and CandyLee might be able to make a road trip to join us - if missing classes on Friday could be negotiated. So we extended the invitation and within two hours, classes had been negotiated. They were joining us!

Othel called for two more tickets. “Sorry, all sold out,” was the response on the phone - “except. . .” We could purchase two tickets in an “obstructed view” with one perk. They came at a discount.

Since we frowned on dropping off our four granddaughters to watch a two and a half hour production while we motored around the Square, Othel purchased the tickets. After a hasty dining experience and a brief stop at the candy shop, we hurried to the theater.

We ushered the girls to their four seats and were delighted to see them center stage on the fourth row. All four girls were sensing the excitement of being together at such a memorable evening but hated we couldn’t sit with them.

Othel and I said we’d see them at intermission and headed for our mystery seats. There they were - smack in the middle of the spacious lower level but immediately behind the control booth - the large, rambling control booth - manned by a wrestler-turned-technician who rolled periodically from left to right and back as he managed his field of switches. I looked at Othel and smiled - thankful our grands could be together for the evening and thankful there weren’t two technicians manning the giant boards.

Together we used our best posture and swayed with the technician to view a partially obstructed stage. The music reached us unobstructed, so I couldn’t complain.

At intermission we joined our girls, and they were swept into a Disney fantasy with the actors. Amid their reporting their “courtside” view, CandyLee and Camea whispered that there were two seats - together- immediately in front of them. Why couldn’t we use them?

Othel was quick to agree. I consented, too, knowing ticket holders seldom arrived that late. When the lights went down for the second act we were seated in great seats - no obstruction - with family in close proximity.

It was too neat - enjoying wonderful seats that we really hadn‘t purchased and moved from a place where our view was obstructed and separated from our family. But due to God’s providence we were “promoted,” seated with family and blessed with panoramic views. Sounds a lot like a mini-version of our salvation experience.

God’s Word is not an ancient manuscript. It comes alive everyday as we open our eyes to see His Hand moving in our lives.

I say to the LORD, “You are my LORD; all the good things I have come from you.” Psa 16:2.

Been Sleeping Too Long

Sleep is one of the many life-mysteries that fascinates me.  Every living human has to have it.  The younger we are - the more we require for optimum growth, rejuvenation, and good health.  Adults can function on less.
 Studies show if we get too little sleep, our bodies' functions are below normal. Surprisingly, if we get too much sleep, we become lazy and mortality rates go up.
 Sometimes I lie down at night, wiggle into my comfort spot and think about the perplexities of sleep.  My eyes are about to close, and I'm going to lie semi-conscious for six to seven hours.  While I'm in that "lah-lah" land, my body goes through cycles of regenerative work of which I'm totally unaware!
 When I see graphs that show we sleep around 30% of our lifetimes, I wonder if I could do with less sleep and more waking time.  If not, the fact challenges me to make the most of the two-thirds of a lifetime that I am awake.
 In that two-thirds portion I've come to some reality checks:
1)  Our nation is asleep - at least that's the only explanation that brings light to our present  condition.
2)  We've grieved over the twenty children massacred in Newtown, but who is grieving over the sixty million exterminated in the womb since legalization of abortion?
3) This year marks year 40 of the Roe vs Wade decision.  Is that a milestone that a nation celebrates, ignores, wails, or repents?
4) Only one generation has passed from children walking and playing unharmed and unsupervised in our towns and communities to children in lock-down lifestyles.
5) My childhood pastimes were Hide-and-seek, Red Rover, and t.v. visits with Captain Kangaroo.  Today's children are exposed to violent video games, R-rated take-home movies, and team sports that consume an entire childhood.
6) Commitment and forgiveness are words fitting less and less into today's vocabularies.
7) Historians recorded ancient Rome's practice of discarding its unwanted or "imperfect" babies on hillsides outside of Rome as a blight on its history.  Our nation leaves the same innocent in garbage dumpsters outside of abortion clinics; and our government subsidizes it.
8) The movement to override God's laws with man's has stepped from subtle to blatant.
9) We're presently living in a culture of death - the death of our liberties, our economy, our two-parent families, our parents' values, morality, absolutes, patriotism, and our churches' influence.
10) God is our only hope!
 My kids will tell me that "The Playhouse" turned political this week.  They may be right, but I'd rather say I'm just waking up from a much too long sleep.

Camille Anding