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September 12, 2024September 11, 2024

Downstream Drama

The Board cast a unanimous vote. Sometimes such things happen.

The searing heat of Oklahoma’s mid-summer had eased and our annual volunteer-sponsored canoe float down the Illinois River was behind us. It had been a popular event (literally) navigated in the very heart of Cherokee country over past years. Our friend, Les, of Cornerstone Church had rounded up his latest band of water-lovers once again to help facilitate the day-long attraction. Water levels had risen higher than usual this season and fast-paced currents demanded extra vigilance. No one guessed what a close brush we would have with disaster.

A couple hours in, a chorus of sharp cries broke through the relative calm of easy laughter amidst frollicking splash wars of students and new friends The cries of alarm sounded from a place just downstream,

“Quick! Somebody, please hurry. It’s Sai and Rao”, a voice was shouting. “They are in trouble!”

The canoe transporting the pair of South Asia friends had instantly capsized within a narrowed passageway of especially rough waves. As it flipped, throwing the college students to the churning waters, the canoe spun sideways, now pinning the young men against a large downed tree trunk that had long obstructed a portion of the river’s pathway.

The force of the oncoming river pressed strong against the vessel which, in turn, pushed the flailing young men beneath the water again and again. Neither of the two, we later learned, were skilled swimmers. And, like bobbing floats yanked repeatedly downward by powerful arms, the canoers could barely steal a gulp of air in those rare and brief moments breaking through the surface.

Lunging headlong through the torrent, several swimmers reached them. Heaving the capsized vessel up and off the two in abrupt rhythms of Hurculean thrusts, the rescuers freed the men at last. Relief!

(Note: Counted among those volunteers showing up Summer after Summer were two young ladies yet in their teens – Tara and Elizabeth. Float ventures down the Illinois, along with other special outings, fueled their mission vision. Both these women, in time, would plunge into the rigorous work of literacy development, making their presence and skills known in areas of the world void of adequate service in this field. Elizabeth and Tara would each offer up years of service – right into the present – serving full time in linguistics vocations. Advancing literacy and Bible translation, stretching to remote regions of the earth.)

Meanwhile, following a certain drama-filled August Saturday, our ministry’s Board of Directors came easily to their unanimous and unchallenged consensus.

Canoe excursions suspended, till further notice.

September 5, 2024September 4, 2024

Barometric Pleasure

Retired television personality Don Woods stood there smiling, relaxed before the mic.

“Back in my earlier days as a TV weatherman”, he began, “our radar technology was nothing like we enjoy today.”

Among our Thursday luncheon guest speakers over the years, we managed to garner an occasional sampling of hometown celebrities. Don fit the bill.

For decades Don had garnered an impressive viewer following, largely due to the presence of his adorable stick cartoon character – Gusty. Every evening as the cameras rolled Don would offer up the coming days’ forecasts while simultaneously sketching an action scene featuring Gusty – wind, ice storm, lightning, sunshine. Gusty’s actions reflected the nature of whatever conditions might lie ahead. We hoped too, for the benefit of our students (nearly none of whom had heard of an Oklahoma twister), that Don’s talk could include a cautionary element, given our spot in the heart of Tornado Alley.

Picking up on his radar theme, Don Woods went on,

“One morning in the dead of winter I arrived at my office to be greeted by my boss, the KTUL station manager. “’Don’”, he said, ‘we just got a call from one of our viewers. Says he has a request,” ‘Would you please have your weatherman come out to my house and shovel the six inches of ‘partly cloudy’ off my driveway!’”

For our students coming from regions of the world where snow never fell, the account required a little explaining.

Along with being a popular meteorologist, Don was a follower of Jesus. He had brought to the luncheon a collection of small, illustrated gospel booklets of his own creation. Fittingly, the illustrations featured images of his little sidekick Gusty.

August 29, 2024August 28, 2024

Curious Coincidence

Home from the whirlwind prayer journey and recovered from a jet lag episode worthy of a Guinness Book entry, I answered our kitchen phone.

“Hi Jerry, and welcome back to the States!” The party on the line with warm Pennsylvania voice was primed to offer intriguing news.

She and her husband had committed to pray for our team in far-off China throughout our just-completed two-week prayer-walking venture. During that fortnite, they received a surprise phone call from the adult son of a Chinese friend from long ago. The father was a former international student befriended by the American family those years before.

“I am serving in government and am now in your state leading a delegation of other officials from my province”, began the caller.

“I have a request, please. May I bring our group of twenty to learn something of your American religion? May we gather somewhere so that somebody of your choosing* may share with our delegation on the topic of Christianity?”

“Certainly, of course”, came the reply.

My PA friend’s mind raced. She and her husband had been praying intently for the precious people of this young man’s homeland – and specifically for the very province he and his accompanying cadre represented.

The visit was made and a culturally-clear presentation on the story of creation, redemption and of life lived in Jesus given. Printed resources in their language, including a Bible for each of the twenty, were presented to an enthusiastic, grateful company of visitors.

It happened that the presenter was son to missionary neighbors of ours in outback Africa of the early 1970s.*

“God, this deep, deep wisdom? It’s way over our heads. We’ll never figure it out.” Romans 11:33 Msg Bible

August 22, 2024August 21, 2024

Street Beat

One of the most astonishing episodes of my life happened in 1995, stemming from a phone call from New York’s Lake Ontario region.

“Hi there Jerry, this is David Spencer. Would you like to go to China?”

David’s grandfather had long ago pioneered the mission agency through which we had served in Africa through our younger years. David was in pursuit of friends to pull together a low-profile short-term prayer team.

From the early 1970s a phenomenon (tagged later on as ‘Prayer Walking’) had been evolving, expanding its reach year after year. No single group or organization or church had a corner on this partnering-with=God practice. Prayer-walkers – hundreds, then later on thousands of small bands of intercessors donning all manner of footwear – had been taking to the streets all across broad sectors of the globe. Missiologists, evangelists and church planters took note, sensing that a burgeoning prayer movement was clearly afoot. The work of a sovereign, compassionate, pursuing God.

By the 1990s bands of such purposeful intercessors (Jesus-followers directing their praying outward toward the needs of others) had lined up at airline ticket counters. It was as though the world’s nations, many of them hosts to entire people groups still uninformed of the existence of Jesus, had seized the hearts of these travelling travailers.

Our prayer-journeying team (of Canadian and American heritage) numbered twenty and rangwd in age from 19 years to 81.

From our Hong Kong Port of Entry where orientation sessions were taken in through the fog of jet lag, we navigated thousands of miles by train, plane and automobile, by country bus and the occasional rickshaw. Add to this the mile on mile prayer-walking stints along strategic venues of five ‘gateway cities’, the occupants of one such urban center numbering sixteen million strong. Indeed, no town whose sidewalks welcomed the touch of our collective shoe leather boasted populations of less than three million.

An eye-opening, soul-stirring adventure of a lifetime.

Soon, I would take in a piece of news from a Pennsylvania farming community set to catapult my mind to jaw-dropping wonder. Leaving me happily puzzling in the general direction of the heavens,

What manner of God are you?

August 15, 2024August 14, 2024

Aha Moment

“When we laugh, our brains release feel-good chemicals that enhance attention, memory, and creativity*”

International students coming in from across the globe, many of them sporting proper names that are both tongue-twisting and truly foreign to the Western ear, elect to adopt names common to North America. From early on Xianghui, aka ‘Paul’, together with his wife and two young sons, endeared themselves to the community. One memorable scene in the life of this electrical engineering student featured a common garden vegetable. It happened on a Thursday at mid-day.

For the weekly FIL (Free International Lunch) for which my wife had pulled together a cadre of Rock Star kitchen volunteers, we rolled out a special feature. Christening it the “English Slang Expression of the Week”, the skit-based treat soon captured the attention of student diners frequenting the downstairs buffet every seventh day.

This Thursday I conscripted our friend Paul to lend his talents in unveiling the day’s idiomatic treasure. Tossing him an unpeeled potato, I signaled to the long sofa with its vinyl black cover resting just inside the room’s entrance.

“Once the students are settled in with their plates of food, just stretch out over there,” I coached Paul who happily complied.

At the key moment, taking up a mic, I directed a sharp glance to Paul who lay there stretched out facing the ceiling – repeatedly tossing the veggie upwards and catching it. “Hey, there, Paul!”

The students all turned his way.

“What is it you are doing over there?!”, I asked in mock surprise.

Paul’s response was perfect, “Oh. . . not much of anything, Jerry. . . just being a Couch Potato!”

It was in such moments that a line from the ministry’s official Mission Statement easily sprang to mind.

(We exist) “to meet practical needs of international students”

The linguistic “pinch of humor” supplied just the right luncheon seasoning.

August 8, 2024August 7, 2024

Traction

A long Obedience in the same Direction.

Eugene Peterson’s book title strikes a chord in the heart of any who long for a joyous, unmasked walk with the Lord.. Apprenticeship to Jesus, while not for the faint of heart, yields dividends worthy of whatever time, effort and steady believing are called for.

Journeying with my ragamuffin C.R. buddies in the care of Roger’s guidance resulted in my celebrating more than one ’Twelve-step completion day’ event. I had been called upon in each of the nine-month-long treks to go toe-to-toe with an artificial defense mechanism. Denial. Some counselors contend that patterns of denial serve as a means for the brain to justify one’s addictive actions. I resonate. But am amazed at the power of raw honesty when embraced over the long journey of transformation.

Once an esteemed leader who had given many decades in godly service was approached by a young man with a question. He hoped to glean wisdom from the Christian sage regarding the pervasive fight against sexual sin. “Dr. D”, he asked, “could you tell me at what age a man moves beyond having to resist the pull of temptation?”

The minister (now in his eighties) responded with a query of his own, “Young man, once you learn the answer to that question, would you please inform me?”

Professor Willard of USC makes a masterful case in understanding that “grace is for whole life and not just for forgiveness. Grace is God acting in one’s life to accomplish what one cannot or will not do on one’s own. Grace is not opposed to effort, but to earning*”.

Leaning in to embrace and act upon such truths – continuing my pilgrimage in wholeness – brings immense assurance. Praises ever. To the divine father, to Jesus the beloved Son, and his indwelling Spirit.

August 1, 2024

Recovery Road

Week after week our men’s step group gathered.

One by one, unhealthy elements of our lives found their way to the light. These elements (whether imposed by others or self-inflicted) defined the things that could now get brought openly before the Lord and one another.

As with the peeling away of onion skins, our interior selves gradually emerged. Confession – issuing from a humility of heart that only God can bestow – buoyed our confidence in his trustworthiness.

Because of his astounding love for broken persons caught up in vices of sexual impurity (scripture’s listings are long and precise), Christ calls his sons and daughters to identify and renounce our self-justifying games. I was summoned by the Spirit’s drawing to call a spade a spade. Enough with avoidance! As put forward in the lyrics of the old spiritual, “It’s me, it’s me O Lord, standing in the need of prayer”.

Owning and confessing my personal moral wrongs was, I knew, necessary for turning toward and gaining freedom. Victory was in reach, but only through the strength of God’s promised Spirit and Word. This I had come to know. I longed for freedom as much as anything I could long for.

Frankly, I found it easier earlier on to open up about the bad things that had been done to me, than to come clean about my own repeated cycles of willful sinning. The process toward freedom was marked by the proverbial rhythm: “Two steps forward, one step back”. Factored in, was a continued revisiting of our compassionate God, calling out to him in fervent appeal. He did not disappoint. Not ever.

Of the various recovery communities spread across the North American landscape, the Step programs that seem to bear the more promising fruit are those calling for vulnerable, courageous action.

While (mercifully) my particular brokenness had not translated into outright infidelity (though heart iniquity was another matter), there was no side-stepping the element of straight-up confession. Not only before God and my brothers, but in contrition to my dearest and nearest family members – not the least, the precious wife of my youth. The distracting nature of a divided mind had far too many times deprived my family of a focused attentiveness.

STEP 8: We made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.*

July 25, 2024July 24, 2024

Taste For Mischief

Crossbreeding a Chihuahua and Miniature Dachshund brings forth a hybrid.

The Chiweenie pup we named Tamu (Sweetie) became ours to the thrill of and by way of our daughter and husband. On most days Tamu proved herself to be a delightful wee companion. Today was not one of those days.

Not long after the tooth-loss drama preceding my unique but successful speaking experience (thanks to a make-it-yourself false tooth kit), I was called to my wife’s side. Ann and I were navigating the early days of her joint replacement. It naturally fell to me as amateur caregiver to offer up some simple service every little while.

When she called for me on this occasion, I happened to be cradling my make-believe front incisor in my right palm. I was set to reinstall it to its assigned spot at the lower front of my open mouth.

“Coming”, I called, heading her direction while momentarily postponing the tooth-insertion task at hand.

A square, glass-topped coffee table sits at the center of our living room. It is an elevated surface I had never witnessed our young Chiweenie visiting. Depositing the homemade denture atop the table, I pivoted and, in short order, filled my wife’s request. Seconds later I was blurting the command, “Tamu, give me that tooth!”

Too late.

Though the enamel-like article didn’t find its way to her throat, the damage to the small denture was done.

To my surprise, this mini-crisis (as with the genuine-tooth’s exit of the previous week) would enjoy a silver lining. To the credit of breakthroughs in plastics research, the properties comprising my artificial, homemade, fashion-it-yourself tooth, gave promise that my full-toothed smile might see another day.

Tamu would surrender her would-be morsel. The traumatized denture would, under my care – including some aggressive sanitizing measures – enjoy a reasonably impressive remake.

Now. To find that dentist.

July 18, 2024July 17, 2024

Sweet Tooth

NOTE to Reader. My apologies for last Thursday’s missed entry. A medical matter (referenced below) factored in. Also, a few of my posts for the moment are offering up a bit of nonfiction levity, a momentary diversion of sorts. Thanks. Cheers!

You know something is amiss when you spy your Chiweenie puppy savoring your new false denture.

We had only acquired little Tamu (a name hijacked from the Swahili word for ‘sweet’) in February.

Ann and I could not have envisioned the odd string of happenings leading up to my terse command in the moment (uttered with a slight lisp), “Tamu, Give me that tooth!”

It started a couple days leading up to my wife’s surgical procedure last week – a joint replacement. Sparing my readers any unnecessary detail, it’s enough to say my standing as spouse to a ‘hip’ lady is affirmed. Ann’s post-op recovery is, thankfully, progressing well.

Meanwhile.

I had been earlier scheduled to offer up a public address for an event – a meaningful occasion before a modest-size gathering of good folks. Then came the surprise just a handful of days out.

A single tooth – lower incisor stationed right at the front of the mouth – quickly gave way during an evening meal. This tooth of mine had been jiggling about for several days, and now there it was, poised unceremoniously atop my dining fork. What to do?

Google has a way of yielding up surprising finds. Still, a do-it-yourself tooth-building kit? Surely not. . .

I Googled.

When the Amazon delivery fellow showed up 18 hours later bearing a TempTooth (i.e. ‘temporary tooth’) parcel, I stepped into self-assigned Orthodontist mode.

While short on sophistication, the hastened experiment – to my wonderment – redeemed the moment. A gathered, attentive audience the following day was spared enduring forty minutes of puzzled distraction (What’s with the guy’s snaggletooth, is he short a dentist?)

Enter Tamu.

July 3, 2024July 17, 2024

Froggy’s Fateful Fourth

The Kevin Costner ‘Dancing With Wolves’ title sparks memories from my childhood days on our family’s acreage north of Okmulgee. My LIMP memoir* features a tweaked label, ‘Dancing With Snakes’. The pages capture a bladder-triggering moment when an unsuspecting serpent concealed in tall, meadowland grass suddenly spiraled its body straight up my blue-jeaned leg.

Meanwhile, at this Fourth of July season, I call up a different encounter – one mildly competing in terms of drama with that of the pastureland jig.

I was ten, and our family was enjoying an Independence Day outing at a modest cabin on the banks of the Neosho River. . .

“Come here you. Now stay put, little froggy.”

I was fishing with a simple cane pole and line, and had run out of worms when the frog risked hopping into view.

Threading it to my hook, I cast the line and waited for a fish to attack my new bait. I lingered a minute or two. Nothing.

Drawing the pole back, I retrieved the line and lay it and the pole down. The frog continued stirring.

“I’ll be back, frog.”, I called as I moved out of the clearing and headed for a potty break.

On my return I puzzled at the scene before me,

“Where’s the hook, the sinker? Where’s the frog?”

The far end of the fishing line no longer rested above the ground. It had vanished into a hole some feet away.

Raising the cane pole, I felt resistance. Hoisting it higher, I let out a short gasp. From the hole in the ground rose the sinker —and, to my wonderment, a snake – busy swallowing my frog. (a bad day to be a frog, laboring to free itself from both a fish hook and a highly focused snake).

While the hopping amphibian never made it to another sunrise, the snakes’ day likewise failed to end well. Armed with a couple decent-size sticks, my brother and I stepped up to our self-assigned task.

Here’s hoping for you a very special weekend. With gratitude for Liberty. And for you, my reader.