Shaken Together, Running Over

I’ve told the story before.  Stop me if you’ve already heard it.

It is the story of a Yankee spinster who left her family behind in Pennsylvania and made her way to the southern hills of Oklahoma and Arkansas, with a detour through Chicago.  

I suppose the road to the hills actually was the detour.  Chicago was in the master-plan.  But, the road should have led from there to China instead of Oklahoma.

Oklahoma and Arkansas are a long way from China. When one is aiming for the Orient, the back roads of the central U.S. might seem like a disappointment.

Failure even.

Perhaps I should just tell the story.  I’ll try to keep it short—or not.  Probably not.  

Miss Peggy was called to be a missionary to China.  She just knew it.  She even knew what to do about it.  In Chicago, a little Bible school called Moody Bible Institute had been started about thirty years before by the great evangelist, Dwight L. Moody.  They would give her the training she needed.  

She started there.  China would be the next stop.  

Only it wasn’t.

Political unrest had already begun in that country, with the result being that no mission organization would allow a single woman to go there by herself.  She didn’t know what to do.  She was called to go to China.  Called.

A young man in her class at the Bible Institute heard of her dilemma and asked to meet with her.  In that fateful meeting, he explained that he had been called to minister to the rural communities in Northwest Arkansas and Eastern Oklahoma.  But, having heard that she was being forced to abandon her plans, he wondered if there might not be another solution.

The mission boards were still sending single men to China.  Perhaps, he could go in her place.  There was one stipulation though.  She would have to take his place in rural Oklahoma and Arkansas.

It wasn’t what she wanted, but it made sense.  She agreed and headed for the hills when her classes at the institute were completed.  For sixty years, she faithfully taught Bible classes to the children in rural schools throughout the region.  

Sixty years.  She was allowed to travel to the schools and given a classroom to teach children who wanted to learn Bible verses and listen to her stories.  Flannelgraphs were manipulated, and mimeographed papers were handed out to the eager students.  The ones who memorized the most Scripture verses were the envy of the other kids, because Miss Peggy awarded them little New Testaments of their very own.

Sixty years, she was faithful to her task.  Can you imagine the number of children who heard the Gospel story from her lips.  Can you imagine the spiritual legacy?

I said she was faithful for sixty years.  And, so she was.  But, for every one of those sixty years, she mourned for her beloved China and her calling.  

She was called to China!  

Because of her great love for the Chinese people, she made an effort to meet and befriend all of the Chinese folks who came within her reach over the years.  To that end, she contacted the local university in our little town regularly to inquire of new students from that great country.  They were happy to arrange for the sweet old lady to meet the newcomers, whenever there were any.

Sam and his wife had left China under a cloud, his father having been arrested for preaching the gospel in a land where it was forbidden.  His father died in prison and there was a fear that Sam might suffer the same fate.  So, they came to the United States under a student visa and made their way to this little town of ten thousand and the Christian university here.

Miss Peggy wasn’t long in befriending Sam and his family.  When I say befriending, I mean they spent hours together, talking of China and the secret Church, along with many mealtimes spent discussing the Lord they all loved, and His great care for all His children.  

By this time, Miss Peggy was nearly blind from the disease of macular degeneration, and had lost much of her hearing.  Still, her love for China, and this Chinese family in particular, drove her to ignore any hardships caused by the additional activity.

It would be an understatement of huge proportion to say she was not prepared for what happened one Sunday afternoon after they had shared a meal at Sam’s house.  

Somehow, as they sat drinking tea and relaxing, the discussion turned to his family in China and he took out the family Bible, written in Chinese.  Reading the names from the front of the big book, he spoke with love and respect of several who had already gone to be with the Lord.

Suddenly, Miss Peggy jumped as if an electrical current had gone through her.

“Stop!  Go back and read that again!”

Sam looked up with a quizzical expression, but did as he was bid.  Reading the name and Scripture verse the person had inserted into the record on the page, he explained that this American missionary had been instrumental in bringing his father to faith in God and also had encouraged him to enter the ministry.  Then he stopped speaking and looked at the little elderly lady again.

The look of shock on Miss Peggy’s face was almost comical.  Mouth open and unseeing eyes like saucers, she raised her hands to her face and the tears began to fall.

It was the very man who had traded places with her!  The very man.  And here, right in front of her, were the products of that transaction.

As the impact of their discovery hit them, there were more folks than the old missionary crying.  Imagine!  Out of the millions of people in China—out of the multiple countries this family could have fled to—out of the thousands of schools they could have attended—they came to the one place they needed to be.

William-Adolphe_Bouguereau_(1825-1905)_-_Thirst_(1886)I can’t imagine a more fulfilling moment in the ninety-four years the dear saint lived on this earth.  In that moment, she realized that her life’s ambition, the one thing she had ever desired more than anything else, had been achieved.

She had given it up to take a detour to the backwoods of Oklahoma and Arkansas.  Sixty years, she had served faithfully, keeping a bargain she had made under duress.  Thousands already, had benefited from her service.  Now, in her last days on earth, she realized that her deepest desires had been fulfilled.  

She was called to China!

Talk about a pay off!

And the Teacher told His followers, give and you will receive it back—more than your cup can hold—sifted and blended, it will run over into your lap and onto the floor.  (Luke 6:38)

Life doesn’t always go the way we’ve planned.  Oddly enough, it seldom goes the way we’ve planned.

The road leads to places we never dreamed of.  

We walk it anyway.

The years take away our physical strength and abilities.  We keep moving ahead.

The pay-off lies up there.  Ahead.  Beyond the hills, past the valleys, through the flooded streams.

And, after all the toil and hardship, we find that God gives good gifts.  

Always.

Even after sixty years of waiting.

 

 

 

Winners never quit and quitters never win.
(Vince Lombardi ~ American football coach ~ 1913-1970) 

 

Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him…Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
(James 1: 12, 17 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

 
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

“How many times a day do you sweep your kitchen floor?”

The question was asked, ostensibly as a query in an informal poll, by my funny friend on her Facebook page the other day.  And, by funny, I mean funny ha-ha, not funny weird.  Well, maybe funny weird a little, but mostly funny ha-ha.

The question triggered a thought (again) that has been bothering me for many years.   Maybe bothering isn’t the right word.  I think perhaps the correct term would be frustrating.  Because it certainly is.  Frustrating, I mean.

Why is it that some jobs are never done?  Even when you’ve done them?

Those of my readers who do housework will understand perfectly.  Laundry, dishes, housecleaning, meal preparation–the list is endless.  And repetitious beyond belief.

My own list, though somewhat less imposing, has the same challenge.  Tasks done today must be done again tomorrow.  Or next week.  Or next year.  It matters not.  They must be done again.

And again.

The lawn needs to be mowed?  Yep–I’ll have to do it again next week.  Car needs to be washed?  It’ll rain tomorrow and I’ll have to do it again.  Time to paint the eaves?  What, again?  I just did that ten years ago!

The problem with life is that it’s so daily.

I want to be able to assign the quote to a certain person, but I think it has been spoken aloud so often by now that Anonymous will have to do.  Still, the truth is, we all face the repetition of daily life–today, tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that.

I hate the dailies.  Really.  What’s the point?  They’ll just have to be done again.

LatherRinseRepeat.

We call it drudgery.  Difficult work to do.  Work that must be done repeatedly.  Day after day.

I was amused as I searched for the definition of drudgery.  I noticed a thesaurus listing which equated the word with an idiom Christians use frequently–at least in our discussions of fallen man:

By the sweat of one’s brow.

And the Creator said to His creation, “In drudgery shall you earn the food you will eat, until you return to the dust from which you came.”

Quite the depressing subject, no?  Do you get the idea that I’m not just talking about all the physical, menial tasks I’ve mentioned above? 

I’m not.

thestruggleI want to talk for a minute (maybe a little more than that) about what I’m doing right now. 

At this moment, I’m sitting in a dimly lit room with soft music playing, coffee cup at hand.  No, I’m not all that comfy.  The hard wood chair has a pad where it makes contact with my sitting-down parts.  No place else.  There is no plush rug to sink my feet into.  In fact, my feet have to stay corralled under the wooden desk, sharing the already narrow space with a computer tower.

I do this most nights.  I’m not playing games, not browsing the Interwebs, nor even answering correspondence from friends.

I come and sit here because I have to.  For hours, almost without moving, at times.

I have to.

Writing isn’t something I fell in love with; it isn’t a path to fame and fortune.  It’s not even an activity I chose to do.  Well, in a way, it is. 

I choose to be obedient to the assignment.

I know there are many writers who will disagree with me.  I know of several who believe that every word they write is given to them from God.  That’s not the gift I’ve been given.

The gift I have been given is a drive to write, a need to communicate God’s love through the printed words.  The gift came from God.  I have to write.

You want to know my problem with that? 

The words don’t just fall from heaven onto my desk. 

The nights I have plopped down in my hard wooden desk chair and had an entire essay flow like honey from my fingers, I can count on those sticky fingers.

It’s a struggle.  A fight.  On this emotional battlefield, I cry and I scream, all the while wondering if I’ll ever write another lucid sentence.  From many of those battles, I’ve crept silently home, defeated.  I lie in my bed, sleeplessly gazing at the ceiling and promising myself that in the morning I’ll break the news to the Lovely Lady that I’m finished. Washed up.

To my shame, from some of those battles, I have simply turned to my keyboard and slapped out enough letters and symbols to weave together the words which make up another empty and useless essay.  My victims will read it and wonder what the crazy man was getting at this time.  It’s still defeat.

The result is the same as before: no sleep, no rest in my spirit, an overwhelming sense of disappointment at my failure to achieve the purpose.

Funny.  My restless night notwithstanding, the next nights nearly always find me back here.  The hard chair is almost welcoming by now, the soft light calming, the beautiful music helping to keep the resolve in my soul firm and unyielding.  Regardless of the defeats that have come on this battlefield, the gift demands my attendance.

Why do writers write? 

You might as well ask why my friend, Ms. Barb, bakes rolls for her friends.  Or, question why, in my town, Pastor Wayne builds ramps in front of the houses of the lame and the aged.  Inquire about what drove my friends in Houston to adopt a child with lifelong needs, issues which will demand their attention from now until they no longer have the physical or mental strength to fulfill them.

God gives good gifts.  The Teacher said it.  If your child asks for food will you give him/her a rock?  How much more–there can be no question–how much more then, will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to His children?

Good gifts.

There are days when it feels more like a noose around the neck. 

Ask my friends in Houston.  Ask Ms. Barb–okay, don’t ask her.  She’ll never admit it.  Still, I wonder if sometimes, just sometimes, it doesn’t take all she has inside to muster up the energy.

Night after night, I struggle with my stewardship of this gift.  It’s not a word we use much, is it?  Steward.  The word implies servitude–the administration of things which will never completely belong to us. 

It is what we are if we follow Him.  Servants.  Stewards.

By choice.The_Gift

We give back the gift to the Giver.  Only, we have taken the time and made the effort to make the gift, which was appropriate and necessary for us, priceless and beautiful for the King of all Creation.

Drudgery?  Sweat of our brow?  Yes, in a way.  We labor at it, without doubt.

I struggle with tenses and punctuation, fight with malapropisms, wrestling the sentences into order, night after night.  And still, the next morning, I await the emails from the Lovely Lady bearing the bad news.  A comma placed incorrectly, fuzzy antecedents, abused hyphens–all are grist for her mill, and I get a steady diet of them.

It’s hard work

No–these words don’t proceed straight from the mouth and heart of God.  They are filtered through this bumbling and inefficient scribe.  There will always be room for improvement. 

In anticipation of this essay, I shared a couple of thoughts with my online friends earlier this week.  It’s only drudgery if there is no purpose, I suggested to them. 

I have a purpose

So does Ms. Barb.  And Pastor Wayne.  And my friends in Houston.  So does every single one of us who has also been given one or more of those good gifts.  I suspect that includes most of those brave souls who have read thus far in this lengthy piece.

So.  What happens with the gift now? 

Often for a lifetime, and then again, sometimes only for a season, He gives good gifts.  And, when He sees our faithfulness in using that gift, He usually gives bigger gifts.

Bigger jobs, you ask?

Yeah, they’re the same thing.

Life is so daily

He made the days, too.  Gifts as well.  Seven in a week.  Three hundred sixty-five of them in a year’s time.

So we’d have more chances to get better at being faithful stewards.

I’m just wondering how I’m going to find time to write all the thank-you notes for the gifts–what with washing the car, sweeping the floor, painting the trim, and…

 

 

 

 

 

Your talent is God’s gift to you.  What you do with it is your gift back to God.
(Leo Buscaglia ~ American author/motivational speaker ~ 1924-1998)

 

Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.
(1 Corinthians 15:58 ~ NIV)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.