Humbled in Honduras

Our mission team spent a week or so every year working in various locales in the country of Honduras. We built new and rehabbed old buildings, using mostly low quality cinder blocks and whatever wood we could get our hands on.

Many of the team members were skilled carpenters or bricklayers. I was not counted amongst that group, serving as a “go-fer,” fetching supplies for the more skilled laborers on the team. The days were long and arduous, but the rewards were often uplifting. None more so than a particular afternoon in the fall of 1997...

We began that day shooing away the dozen or so area children that had gathered around as we unloaded our tools and supplies for the day’s labor. Their little eyes were drawn to our backpacks, knowing they often concealed sugary treats that their impoverishment would not afford. But the children's presence in the work site was unsafe, so we always promised them something at the end of the day in exchange for them staying out of the way. Diligently, they would stand watch a safe distance away for hours to receive that prized piece of candy.

On this day, our task was to make much needed improvements to a one-room, cinder block church. The rectangular, dirt-floored building had two window openings on each side, and a large opening for the doorway. But without a proper door or window enclosures, the church had no protection from the frequent tropical winds and rains, not to mention vandals who often pilfered anything of value.

Because only half of our team was sent to work on the little church, I was pressed into the service of more skilled labor, helping build frames for the window shutters and door openings. Each frame was then anchored to the cinder blocks of the church, a rather daunting task given the low quality of the material.

Working on anchoring the door frame, I grew more and more annoyed at my inabilities to properly secure it. Compounding my frustration was having to move out of the way of women from the village. For some odd reason, the women had decided this was the most advantageous time to gather in the front of the church, albeit through the very doorway in which I worked. I grumbled to myself at the passing of each barefooted-villager, but tried not to let my aggravation show.

As drops of sweat poured down upon the dirt floor, I plodded onward at the task that totally consumed me. The more I tried to get the doorframe adequately attached, the more transparent my lack of carpentry skills became. Pridefully, I resisted asking for assistance, not wanting to expose my incompetence. All the while, I continued to have to scooch and crawl out the way of the steady flow of the village women. At the height of my frustration, I was brought back to reality by a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"What is it?!?"

My head whirled around to see one of my co-workers standing over me, his eyes moist with tears. A peaceful calm had fallen over the church. Looking around, I saw all my coworkers standing and gazing toward front of the church.

Slowly raising myself up from my agitated state, I stood to see those ladies of the village, now kneeling in unison at their dirt altar. They prayed and they wept in thanksgiving for the laborers the Lord had sent to their simple, but cherished church. Bowing my head, my indignant frustration was now awash in quiet humility as tears intermingled with sweat.

Suddenly the task seemed less daunting, but the reward so magnified.

“For of Him and through Him and to Him are all things, to whom be glory forever. Amen.”
Romans 11:36 (NKJV)

Sergio's Stand

---

We sat out on a dirt street of Masaya, Nicaragua. Sergio had relented to talk with me, but not inside his house. He squirmed back and forth in one of the white plastic chairs he’d carried from inside as I shared the Gospel. His wife, Marta, sat off to the side, quietly listening and watching her husband’s reaction to the Good News. What she witnessed, no one could’ve predicted. 

Sergio leaned forward in apparent interest as I explained to him man’s dilemma: that we’re all sinners and our sin has separated us from God...but God has provided the remedy. Through Jesus’ death on the Cross, we’ve been offered payment for our sin, an incredible gift if only we’d reach out and take it. Many that I’ve spoken with over the years acquiesce at that point, realizing that they indeed need forgiveness and salvation...but not Sergio.

His powerful shoulders thrust back in his chair, as his dark eyes turned skyward. Sergio’s nostrils flared slightly and the muscles in his jaws tightened, his teeth clenching stubbornly. I sensed this was a journey that Sergio had been on previously, perhaps many times, but had never completed.

I leaned forward to speak to him softly, hoping to cool the rage that was building inside the man. Just then, God gave me a thought...

“Sergio, I’m going to tell you something that I’ve told no one else in Nicaragua. I didn’t really want to come here. I wanted to stay home, but my wife prayed about this trip and told me she felt God was wanting me to come. Sergio, I believe God sent me to talk to you, that you’ve run from Him long enough.”

My gentle touch on back of his clenched fist was like a spark hitting a powder keg, and the fury he’d been holding back erupted. Sergio forcefully raised himself up, momentarily standing over me. Knocking back the chair, Sergio whirled about and stormed into his house without saying a word.

The distant squeals of children playing penetrated the awkward silence of the situation. Sergio retreated into the confines of his darkness, a silhouetted figure pacing back and forth like a caged animal. 

“Dear Lord, stay after him,” I whispered, as I sat watching a man under the conviction only the Holy Spirit can administer. 

“You have pricked his heart of stone, I believe,” Marta said of her husband. 

“No, not me, but I do believe God has...”

We sat a while longer. Occasionally, the pacing would cease, as Sergio glared out at me from his lair. Respecting the boundaries that he’d initially set, I resisted the urge to go in after him. After a few minutes more, I reluctantly said my goodbyes to Marta. It certainly wasn’t the ending I had desired for our visit.

I began a dejected trudge down that dusty road – so close...so very close.

There was no reason to turn around, but I did. His thick forearms crossed in defiance, there stood Sergio in the middle of the street, gazing my direction. Our eyes locked briefly. I invited him with one hand to come forward. At that point, the head that had once been reared back in pride, slowly bowed in brokenness. As Sergio put one foot in front of the other, his shoulders slumped and he began sobbing in repentance. 

“You listened to your wife and came to Nicaragua to see me. I need to listen to mine, and come to God.”

Brushing away a tear or two of my own, Sergio’s words reminded me how prideful I had been by resisting God’s will about Nicaragua. We knelt together in the dirt as Sergio called upon the name of the Lord, and received his salvation.

Addressing the church on the last night of the crusade, I asked for a show of hands from those present who’d given their hearts to Jesus during the week. All over the room, hands shot upward, as God had moved mightily throughout the crusade...but one man stood up.

No, a mere raising of the hand was not enough for Sergio. He wanted to stand in front of his community as a new man, now overflowing with the pride of the Gospel within him.

“But God forbid that I should boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ...”
Galatians 6:14 

Blue Flowers

At seven, she dwelt in the depths of the Great Depression. With five older brothers and two younger sisters, Juanita had been born into hopeless despair. Her father had deserted the family, succumbing to the blistering drought, insects, and hot winds that ravaged their Kansas farmland.

Her mother went callously about the business of scratching out an existence on the remnants of useable land she and the older sons toiled over. Juanita helped as well, up before the sunrise gathering eggs and toting water from the well. In the dimness of the kitchen, her mother began a breakfast of cornmeal mush and biscuits. The sole exchange between mother and daughter was a slight nod as she took the pail from her and poured the water into the tin basin on the table.

"Go git ready for school, Skeeter"

Juanita drew warmth from the nickname, passing through the dingy sheets hanging in the doorway that led to the backroom of the house. Often she would pretend to be a princess readying for the ball, while slipping on her faded, handmade blue-flowered dress...

At seventeen, she’d grown bitter at the depths of her poverty. Juanita managed to finish high school, despite the taunting she endured from classmates who looked upon her as a poor, dirty outcast from the farm. Her mother watched through empty eyes as her daughter slowly packed a grip one night and walked out with nary a departing word. Juanita never turned back, and the threadbare relationship she held with her mother grew even thinner.

But the world proved to be harsher than she had imagined. Juanita skipped from one nickel and dime job to another, often sobbing herself to sleep in her one-room flat, as insects and rodents scurried about. Perhaps she’d judged her mother too harshly, but she clung to her prideful determination to carve out a life on her own. She drifted off to sleep, gazing emptily at the shabby blue-flowered wallpaper...

At twenty-seven, Juanita’s husband found more regular railroad work in Missouri. The young family was allowed to ride on the back platform of a caboose to their new hometown. Juanita allowed herself a slight smile of hope, perched atop suitcases and other belongings with her two older children. She tightly clutched her newborn, as the brisk autumn air blew through Juanita’s blue-flowered scarf...

At thirty-seven, her life nearly ended as a careless driver ran a stop sign, while browsing through photographs he just picked up at the drugstore. Juanita lay dazed on the floorboard of the family station wagon, unable to move a shattered knee. As paramedics eased her gurney into the back of an ambulance, Juanita took great solace at the little voices from the curb.

"We’re ok, momma. We love you!"

Juanita turned to see her children, standing together along the curbside. She whispered a prayer of thanks and slowly faded into unconsciousness as the attendants warmed her with a soft, blue-flowered blanket...

At fifty-seven, she wiped away a tear, sitting alone in the back of the limousine that had carried the family to her mother’s graveside services. Though she’d spent the last few years dutifully caring for her elderly mother, Juanita still felt the anguished twinge of a relationship so torn by the times. She softly dabbed at her eyes and gazed out at the blue-flowered arrangement sitting beside her mother’s grave...

At seventy-seven, she stood over an open casket, saying goodbye to a man with whom she had found true romance. Gazing at the only man she’d ever loved, Juanita gently reached in and touched the hands that had held hers for nearly 60 years. She softly murmured a few parting words, turned away, and reached in her handbag for a blue-flowered kerchief...

At eight-seven, her life's song in its final stanzas, Juanita’s days are taken up by caregivers and the routine of assisted living. Although many memories have been robbed by the evil wretches of dementia, her eyes still twinkle when she sees her baby boy come for a visit.

 We sit eating ice cream, watching the old black and white westerns that she loves, until she’s ready for her afternoon nap. Helping her into her bed, I wonder how many more times I’ll get to tuck her in, like she must have done for me so many years ago. I kiss her gently on the cheek, pulling the blue-flowered quilt over her shoulders...

Beth's Affliction

Beth was a vivacious young girl. Together, we shared the warmth and love of our parents’ home. She grew into a bright, beautiful young woman, with an ambitiousness beyond any of our peers. She both intimidated and captured the eye of many a young man. As her older brother, I saw no suitor worthy of her attention. But she had no need for my overseeing, as Beth exuded confidence and grace...until the affliction.

For the first few weeks, I knew nothing of her nemesis. She and Mother often whispered in the dark corners of the house, sheltering some sort of secret. Beth often sobbed endlessly and trembled with fear. Father seemed unattached and distant. I awoke early one day to find him in a quiet moment of contemplation.

“What is burdening you so, Father?” He drew in a large volume of the cool morning air, then slowly exhaled.

“Beth...she has some sort of illness. It’s a woman issue. Her – her bleeding has not stopped as it should and she’s remains unclean...unclean.”

Father’s voice trailed off in despair, his massive, calloused hands cradling his head.
We sat in silence for a few moments.“Doctors, they must know something, Father.”

“She’s been to three already. No answers.”

Thus, my dear sister’s long journey began. We helplessly witnessed our beautiful vision of vitality slowly deteriorate into a picture of ashen gauntness. Through hushed tones, our community assumed it was Beth’s own sin, or possibly a family offense, that had brought about her situation. We were often the target of a scornful sneer.

A shelter for the unclean had been designated beyond our locality. Leaders from the temple insisted that Beth be sent there, deeming her no longer fit to be in our vicinity. I faithfully made trips to this dark, stench-filled area. At first it was a frightening experience, but I grew accustomed to it, delivering rations and fresh linens to my beloved sister.

Twelve long years passed, with Beth’s situation unchanged. Father died a broken man, having failed to return his beautiful daughter back to her loving home. We pursued any glimmer of hope that we could for Beth, desperately seeking out the services of others who were revealed to be charlatans and frauds. They rid her of nothing but our money, often subjecting her to humiliating treatments and worsening her condition.

One afternoon as I was returning from the marketplace, a large throng approached. They were following a man walking beside one of the rulers of the synagogue. It was unusual to see a ruler out walking with the commoners. I asked one of the crowd what the commotion was about.

“Jairus’ daughter is dying! He’s pleaded with this great teacher to heal her.”

I’d heard talk of a new teacher in our area. Even Beth had spoken of him, as someone had shared the teacher’s words and deeds with her. She held great hope that this man was from God and could somehow remedy her situation. I feared those hopes would once again be dashed.

Racing ahead of the crowd, I climbed atop a small porch to get a better look at this man walking with Jairus. His appearance was unremarkable, with well-worn sandals and a tasseled robe that was rather tattered and frayed. The crowd swarmed around them as they continued their determined walk.

Suddenly the teacher whirled about as though something had struck him from behind...

“Who touched me?” (1)

One man looked at him incredulously and said, “Master, the people are crowding and pressing against you.” (2)

“Someone touched me; I know that power has gone out from me.” (3)

In an instant, the crowd retreated from a weeping woman, her head bowed and covered. Through her sobs, she admitted she had sought his healing power, believing he was a true man of God.



The woman lifted her head and I saw my sister’s radiant face, now restored to her former beauty. Through sheer determination and faith, Beth had somehow eluded her confinement and fought her way through the crowd to reach this man...just to touch the back of his garment.

“Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace.” (4)

As we struggled through the crowd to reach one another, Beth paused and looked back, her beautiful eyes following the steps of her Savior...and mine.


1 Luke 8:45 (NIV)
2 Luke 8:45 (NIV)
3 Luke 8:46 (NIV)
4 Luke 8:48 (NIV)

Bottom's Up

The poverty-stricken area of Guayaquil, Ecuador was like nothing I’d ever seen. My mission travels have taken me to areas of the poor that most people will never witness...but this was on another level of impoverishment.

It surpassed comprehension that people actually dwelled in the run-down shanties that had been built over a city garbage dump.

We’d walked the streets all day, sharing the Gospel at some pre-arranged appointments or, occasionally, with folks we just happened to meet. Fatigue was setting in as we came to five young men sitting on a street corner. My initial thought was to just move on. But the pastor of the small church we’d been working with made a straight line for them.

My eyes scanned over the group. Five young street thugs, complete with dyed, spiked hair, gold chains, piercings...what was the use? They greeted my mission partner Mel and me sneeringly, and, though I couldn’t understand their Spanish, the tone dripped with disdain and mockery. I nodded and winked at Mel.

“Your turn,” I chuckled quietly, hopping up to sit on a concrete ledge with the Pastor.

As Mel began to share through our interpreter, I decided to use the time to rest a spell. But, hearing muffled snickers coming from the group, I began praying that Mel, a newcomer in the mission field, would have the courage to continue despite the group’s apparent disdain for his message.

Mel began wearing down as the gang’s resistence started getting the better of him. I couldn’t blame him. After all, I’d bailed out at the beginning. But then, I got an odd feeling – quite literally. It jarred me and I jumped up, out of my comfortable rest. I found I’d sat in a puddle of cold, muddy water, and the seat of my trousers were soaked and stained.

I grumbled at my predicament. But instantly, God flashed an illustration through my mind, and undeniably distinct directions:

“Take a shot.”

I strolled over to the group. Mel had somewhat penetrated their initial barriers and I wanted a crack at them with what God had just laid on my heart...and elsewhere.

“Any of you ever make a mistake? Ever really mess up?”

The group looked at each other reluctantly. These cocky street thugs admitted they indeed had made mistakes in their young lives. They chuckled and nodded in agreement.

“Well, I just screwed up big time,” I confessed as I bent over, pointing my rear end in their direction. The young men burst out in laughter at my situation as I sensed the chill between us beginning to thaw.

“Let me ask you this: any of you ever commit a sin?”

Stillness filled the air as five sets of eyes cast downward. Shoulders, once erect in pride, now drooped in self-awareness.

“Yes, I have plenty of sin in my life, too. In fact, the Bible says we all have sinned. You know fellas, I can take these pants and wash them and that stain will come out. But, while I can get my pants clean, I can’t clean the stain of sin from my heart. Only the Blood of Jesus, shed on the cross, cleans that stain.”

“Take a shot.”

“I’m gonna ask you to do something brave today. I’m gonna ask you, in front of your friends here, to admit you’re a sinner and need Christ in your life, for your salvation.” Four pairs of eyes rose up at me in prideful rejection...but Juan’s remained cast downward.

“Take a shot.”

“I’m gonna ask you to stand up in front of God and your friends and receive Jesus as your Lord and Savior.”

Without hesitation, Juan raised himself up. Suddenly he appeared childlike, his once prideful eyes welling with tears as he stumbled forward in my direction.

I took Juan aside with Mel, and we prayed with him as he asked Christ to forgive his sins and reside in his heart. Mel looked him in the eye and praised his courage.

“Juan, standing up in front of your friends was about the manliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. But there was great irony in the moment as well. You see, Juan had demonstrated that manhood...by becoming like a little child.

...“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.
Matthew 18:3 (ESV)

The Old Soldier Still Marched...

Having procured his merchandise, the old timer shuffled away from the cashier, behind his WalMart cart.  I didn't pay Him much mind as I turned to grab one of the empty carts and he headed my direction.

As the old gentleman neared though, the writing on his hat seized my attention, and I straightened up in a gesture of respect...and reflection. "WWII VETERAN" his hat announced proudly, and I stepped aside quietly out of appreciation for his duty to our country as he slowly made his way toward me.

No doubt my own father’s service in World War II makes me even more appreciative of this fading generation of heroes. I felt a lump 
in my throat as the man passed by, thinking of dad, now gone these past ten years. But I was quickly jolted from my moment of sentiment as the man raised up in a moment of realization that something was amiss in his shopping cart.

Like the proud soldier he once was, the old vet did an about-face
and marched directly back to the cash register. Suddenly those once shuffling feet began to lift, right-left-right, in a straight line that would make Gen. Patton proud. I stood and curiously watched, then meandered over where I could hear what could have riled up the man so. I surmised that he must’ve realized that he been overcharged, or perhaps been short-changed.

I saw him reach down in his cart and pick up his cane and begin waving it at the cashier, though I still wasn’t close enough to hear what he was saying. He was obviously distressed over something, and honestly, I thought I might have to come to the cashier’s rescue...

Proverbs 2:7 tells us:
                   He stores up sound wisdom for the upright;
                   He is a shield to those who walk in integrity,

Integrity might be a dying characteristic in the world we live in today, but I’m thankful when I see integrity put into action, as I did that day in WalMart...

"No, ma’am, I don’t think you did," I heard the old vet say with a strong voice to the cashier, handing her his receipt with one hand, the partially raised cane in the other. 

The young woman's eyes quickly scanned the receipt. Giving it a thorough once over, she looked up from the paper, with a sense of realization of her own...

"Yes sir, you’re right.   I didn’t charge you for your new cane." Then, jokingly she added, "But you coulda just kept going, no one would’ve even known!"

"No, ma’am...I would’ve known," the old veteran replied, "And that just wouldn’t set well with me."

I walked on into the store and smiled to myself, grateful to have witnessed that simple act of integrity...I smiled again as I passed the $7.95 canes on display just beyond the cashier’s line.

Nothing New About New Age

For some time, there has been in our midst a movement commonly known as New Age. It is a conglomeration of several beliefs that have stemmed from mankind’s desire to reach ultimate oneness with the Almighty, circumventing truths espoused by traditional beliefs, namely Christianity. It’s far from harmless, as the movement leads directly away from Christ and to the ultimately destructive belief that salvation is achievable through eclectic means.

According to New Agers, man is divine by nature. Thus, as divine or god-like in nature, one can create his own version of reality. In other words, you can be like God. Further, you have the capacity to be your own god.

Now, New Agers have tolerance for nearly every belief under the sun, with the exception of Christianity. Christians know that we are sinners, saved only by the Blood of Christ shed on the Cross of Calvary. And, as Roman 10:13 plainly states, "whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved." Salvation is gifted through God’s grace and only God’s grace. New Age believers can’t tolerate this simple doctrine because they refuse to see themselves as sinners in need of a Savior. What’s ironic about New Age thinking is there’s nothing "new" about it at all. It’s a deception that has its roots in the beginning.

In the garden of Eden, Satan tempted Eve with the forbidden fruit with these words:

" For God knows that in the day you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and
you will be like God, knowing good and evil."

Genesis 3:5 - (emphasis mine)

You will be like God, the serpent said. And here we are, so many centuries later with a "new"
movement that proclaims...you will be like God.

Lest you think this cult movement isn’t gaining traction, last week in Portland, Oregon an evangelical Christian organization came under fire from a group of organized parents called Protect Portland Children. They speak out against the evangelical group’s message and influence parents not to allow their children to attend its events. The message they found so offensive? Each person is a sinner in need of the Savior. Protect Portland’s Children uses a poster of a sweet looking, pig-tailed girl holding up a sign stating, "I am not a sinner."

Let’s face it, if we’re not sinners, we have no need for a Savior...we can save ourselves...you will be like God.  New Age thinking reminds one of another passage of scripture, from Ecclesiastes 1: 9...

"...there is nothing new under the sun."

(emphasis mine)

Noah's Moment

Over the past few years, on mission trips in several countries, and in our own country, I've seen people come to Christ in a variety of ways. They’re often wrapped in emotion or thoughtful reflection. Many have been under conviction and they're submitting to what they know to be a Truth, that "Christ died for our sins, according to the Scriptures … he was buried. . . . The third day he rose again from the dead, according to the Scriptures . . . and he appeared (1 Cor. 15:3-6)". By that and only that are we delivered from our sin, as "He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him. (2 Cor. 5:21)."

That is the Gospel, pure and true. But out of the hundreds of people that I've witnessed receive Jesus, perhaps none have struck me as profoundly as a young man in our church's Vacation Bible School program last week. His innocence and simple words reflected his young age. But they also served as a template for every lost sinner needing to come to Christ.

I sat down with eight-year-old Noah in our empty sanctuary, after his mother had relayed some of the questions that he’d been asking concerning salvation. She was of the mind that he was ready to come to know Jesus as his Lord and Savior. No truer words has a mother ever spoken of her child. With the permission of his parents, I’d like to share my conversation with Noah:

"Hey Noah, how’s it going?"

"Pretty good."

Earlier in the week, Noah had his appendix removed at a local hospital, so I used that as a sort of ice breaker:

"So, you’ve had a pretty busy week, huh? Having to go to the hospital and everything?"

"Yeah. It wasn’t too fun, but it’s ok now."

Noah smiled a bit, but for the most part, he maintained a seriousness that contradicted his young age. I wasn’t sure if he was intimidated by the moment or perhaps uncomfortable speaking one-on-one with an adult that he wasn’t that familiar with, so I nosed forward carefully...

"So, what else’s been going on in your life, Noah," I asked, hoping to draw him out a bit more. His immediate response will stay with me forever...

‘Well, I know you’re a pastor or something..."

I started to correct him that I fell more on the side of a something, but Noah was starting to roll...

"...and I’ve been wanting to talk to somebody about getting saved."

"What about getting saved, Noah?"

"I need to."

"Really? Why do you need to get saved?"

At that point, eight-year-old Noah looked me dead in the eye and stated his situation:

"Cause I got sin in my life, and Jesus died for sin. So I need to become a Christian so my sins are paid for...but I don’t know how to do that"

Noah’s attitude demonstrated a near-desperate situation of turmoil churning inside him. But it’s a situation that all without Christ are in, but many don’t comprehend. My own Pastor said recently, "The problem lost people have is, they don’t know they’re lost. It’s up to us to show them..." Undoubtedly, through his parents, his Sunday school teachers, and others, Noah had correctly accessed his situation and wanted to rectify it, and rectify it now...

After receiving the salvation through Christ that he’d desperately sought, Noah called his mom into the room and announced with a great deal of pride and relief, "I’m a Christian now, mom." They shared the kind of embrace that only a mother and child can experience. The moment was accentuated with a mother’s joyful tears. I just may have wiped away a couple myself...

I’m thankful to a loving God that gave His only begotten Son to die for my sins. I’m thankful for the opportunities I’ve had to share this Truth with people all over the world...none more so than Noah.   

Our Ride Home

That 5x7 card taped in the ticket booth window told us all we needed to know. The time was written boldly with a black marker, easily read by passing parents dropping off their kids for a night of movie magic. My dad was always quick to declare the time written on the card out loud, for all to hear.

“10:35, okay, I’ll be here to pick you up at 10:35!”

With that, I’d hop out of the car, joining my friends, who were acting out similar scenarios in their own family sedans and station wagons. We’d all fall in line for our tickets, making one last mental note of the time posted in the window. Up close, you could see the card completely, with the words “Show Ends” written in small letters just above the large time filling up the majority of the card.

You see, that card served as our insurance of keeping in good graces with our folks. My dad was going to be lined up with other parents on Main Street, between Second and First Streets, to pick me up at the time announced on that card...and I’d better be standing outside that Fox Theater.

Now, it really wouldn’t have been a problem at all, and it wasn’t, on the nights we actually stayed for the movies. But those nights that we got adventurous and took off for, say, the roller rink four blocks over and two blocks up, or down to Boone’s for some curly fries and a Cherry Coke...those were the nights that the time written on that card was so vital to our well being.

The Bible isn’t as clear as that little card in the window of my hometown theater was...there’s no posted time when Christ shall return for His church. But in Luke’s Gospel we are warned:

“But take heed to yourselves, lest your hearts be weighed down with carousing, drunkenness, and cares of this life, and that Day come on you unexpectedly.” (Luke 21:34, NKJV)

I suppose if there were a time and date posted for the Lord’s return, the human nature of many would simply put off living a Godly life for Christ until such time came to pass. But I don’t think that’s why God hasn’t revealed more on the subject.

I believe the Father wants in us a constant abidance, a steady readiness, simply out of love for Him. In the Bible, expressions of love on God’s part are usually followed by an action. For instance, John 3:16 tells us that because God so loved the world, He gave. We are to follow God’s example. For instance, after His resurrection, Jesus asks Peter if he loved Him. After Peter states adamantly his love for Christ, Jesus tells him to feed His sheep. Love, followed by action.

Our lives are to be lived out in reflection of the great love God has shone down upon us. We can’t possibly repay the amount of love that we’ve received. But, we can stay in God’s walk for our lives, better than I stayed in that movie theater of my youth, and stay ready for the Savior to come pick us up.

Short End of the Stick

"Oh, man, here he goes again, with that cockamamie pleading he does every Sunday,” Greg leaned over and whispered to his wife. Carla’s brow creased with concerned annoyance as she shot a glance at her husband of 29 years.

Pastor Burns continued with his urgent plea of invitation. Greg’s eyes rolled upward, as his lips moved with the Pastor’s familiar lines...

“Repent of your sin.”

“Ask Jesus into your heart!”

“Don’t wait! Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Today is the day of Salvation!”

There was a day when that last song was a real struggle for Greg. Oftentimes, he’d slipped out of the sanctuary, excusing himself to use the restroom, or something, anything, to avoid the unexplainable pressure he’d felt. But, over the years, he’d learned to overcome the Pastor’s coercing, using the same resistance he would apply to annoying salesmen.

Oh, he was no atheist, mind you. But he’d always tried to keep God in perspective. Carla and his now grown children had all succumbed to the convincing of the Pastor, and he never interfered with their spirituality, as long as it didn’t cause conflicts with his life. He’d regularly brought the family to church. Heck, he even helped take up the offering and such, whenever called upon.

Greg’s mind drifted toward his new fiery red convertible sitting out the church parking lot. Man, did he love that thing. Stick shift in hand, Greg felt a power surge his middle-aged life had been lacking...and the attention it brought from the female population was an option the salesman hadn’t mentioned. Maybe that brunette in accounting would finally turn her pretty head his way when he passed by...

“We’ll sing one more verse, one last chance to give your heart to Christ.

 Won’t you surrender to Him today?”

Pastor Burns’ final plea jerked Greg back out his bucket seat. His knuckles had whitened, gripping the back of the pew, mentally shifting from second to third gear. Just then, he noticed Bernard Myers, slowly heading up the aisle, tears streaming down his face.

"Oh, geez. This’ll slow the procedure," Greg grimaced

 to himself. "Myers has always been a little
 weak in the knees."

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Martha Myers weeping uncontrollably as her husband embraced Pastor Burns.   Greg’s feet shuffled back and forth. An old familiar twinge bit into his chest.                                      

Turning away from the proceedings, he gazed out into the parking lot. He thought he’d heard some rumbling earlier in the service. Probably from that old pipe organ the church had treasured for
 years, but maybe it was thunder...

“I need to go check and make sure the top’s up,” Greg blurted out to Carla. “Meet you in the car.”

Carla's eyes followed as her husband scurried to get out of the pew, practically knocking over dear, old Opal Whitney sitting in her customary seat at the end. He nearly bolted out the back of the sanctuary, almost as if the place was on fire.

Carla took her place in line to congratulate her new brother in Christ, Bernard Myers. The line inched along slowly. While she knew Greg would be impatiently waiting, this was such a precious moment for Bernard and her good friend and coworker, Martha. She'd prayed with Martha many times in the nurse’s lounge for this moment. It would be worth whatever squawk Greg would put up...

“See you next Sunday,” Carla shouted joyously at Millie Carpenter as she lifted the handle on the passenger side door. But Greg hadn’t unlocked the door, so she pecked on the window a couple of times to get his attention.

Getting no response, Carla leaned over and started to rap on the window again. She stopped and screeched out loud.

“What is it, Carla??” Millie called out.

Staring into the car, Carla saw her husband of 29 years slumped over the wheel of his pride and joy. Those piercing blue eyes that once had captured her heart, were now transfixed in a stare - a lifeless stare that she’d seen all too often at work.

People began racing all about, shouting, screaming for help, but Carla stood frozen, hypnotized by the situation. Her eyes darted, capturing mental images...the tinge of gray at Greg’s temples that she’d previously somehow looked past, a slight paunch that she’d never really seen, and several brown age spots on the back of his right hand...a hand still firmly gripping the stick shift of his fiery red convertible.

Phil Robertson...

Interesting how someone as seemingly harmless as Duck Dynasty star Phil Robertson can get people so riled up. He says a few words of his personal beliefs in GQ magazine and a fire of controversy is ignited. Funny, I thought GQ concerned itself mostly with sideburn length, cufflinks, and lapel width, but, then again, I must profess to not having picked up an issue in recent memory...or longer.

Enough has certainly been written or said about Robertson’s views, and I’ve read and heard much of it. Robertson spoke coarsely and crudely, that much can’t be denied. My pastor spoke in defense of Robertson yesterday in church, but chose not to use Phil’s raw illustrations in doing so.

As Christians, we can all use a reminder that sin is still sin, no matter what our society accepts and oftentimes legislates. The Bible clearly points out that lust, greed, murder, lying, adultery, and, yes, homosexuality, are all sinful behaviors. In his GQ interview, Phil Robertson named several of these, but it was his anti-gay comments that brought down so much controversy upon him. Why? Because our society has decided once again ignore the teachings of scripture in view of popular opinion.  As long as enough people have a leaning in whatever direction, any behavior can be rationalized.   Those that hold to scriptural truths are considered backward and out of touch.  That's a part of the process, to shout down those that still call sin sin....Phil Robertson the latest case in point. 

But the current wave of support toward the acceptance of the gay agenda merely reflects a path of rebellion toward God that has ushered in abortion, illegality of school prayer, and several other issues in recent years.  Robertson’s opinions would have been welcomed and agreed with forty or fifty years ago. Some would claim that’s how far we’ve progressed, but it’s really an indicator of how far we’ve fallen... and, as our nation turns more and more from the Almighty, we can expect less and less of the blessings we once enjoyed.

Christmas, Trains, Memories

Growing up the child of a railroader, you get used to being flexible about things. Your dad’s in (home) a couple of days, then out (away) for a couple, and that’s the lingo we used...dad was either in or out, and you planned accordingly.


When he was out, and you had an idea when he was supposed to be in, you started listening for the rich sound of a train chugging into town from the south. I’d often hear the whistle, jump on my bike and race for the nearest crossing, about a mile from my house. If I could beat the caboose to the crossing, I’d get the treat of having my father lean out the window atop his conductor’s perch and holler, "Hey o’ buddy, I’m home..." Just typing out that wonderful memory has brought tears to my eyes.



Being flexible often meant Christmas was celebrated sometimes on Christmas eve, Christmas Day, or - worst case scenario for a kid - the day after Christmas, depending on dad’s train schedule. That’s just the way you did it. I remember one Christmas eve about 9:00PM expecting dad’s train to be arriving in the next hour. Mom decided we’d open presents when dad walked in the door, and we anxiously listened for the sound of his old pickup pulling into the drive...

Having spent hours working out in the freezing December cold due to various train breakdowns, an exhausted, dirty, half-frozen father opened the front door to find his family still waiting...at 2:30 in the morning. Setting down his black leather work grip in its customary spot, he sat down amongst us and declared the Christmas celebration was now in session. I didn’t appreciate that gesture on his part nearly like I do now. It’s just the kind of man he was.

If you’ve read many of these writings of mine at all, you’ve gathered the fact that my dad left an indelible mark on my life, and I miss him greatly. This year will mark the tenth Christmas since his passing.

But because that Christmas babe in the manger would later willingly die upon a Roman cross as payment for my sin, I will be reunited with my dad....and I can just hear him now:

"Hey o’ buddy...you’re home."

At That Moment...

It was a pretty routine Saturday morning for me. I’d just finished teaching my Spirituality group at the local drug and alcohol rehab clinic. I was still in the afterglow of hearing a new believer profess her faith in Christ during that session at the clinic. At that moment, as I pulled into the parking lot at the Lowes down the street, I really hadn’t a care in the world.

As I parked my truck, a Lowes employee was helping a woman place a large box into the back of her SUV, directly in front of me. Seeing only the profile of the man, at that moment, I thought it was an old friend of mine that I’d neither seen nor heard from for about a year, due to various circumstances in our lives. At that moment, I was fooled into thinking it actually was my friend, only to realize that it was only a look-a-like, but it made me pause and think about him and, walking into the store, he lingered on my mind at that moment, as I milled through the aisles.

Procuring my purchase, I climbed back in my truck and the cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen and, at that moment, started chuckling to myself. You see, it was the old friend that I thought I’d spotted previously in the parking lot. I answered the phone with the laughter of the perceived coincidence in my voice.

But, at that moment, my laughter quickly dissipated. My friend was at the hospital with his wife in ICU, and in his own words, "It doesn’t look good." He wanted me to pray with him and at that moment, I turned my truck in the direction of the hospital...
In the 33^rd Psalm, verses 13 and 14, we’re told that:

13 The Lord looks from heaven;
He sees all the sons of men.
14 From the place of His dwelling He looks
On all the inhabitants of the earth; (emphasis mine)

Taking this passage quite literally, we can trust that God in His magnificent omnipotency sees every one of us, at all times. He's always at work in our lives. My attention that Saturday morning in the Lowes parking lot was drawn to a man whom I mistook for a friend of mine that hadn’t been in my thoughts for a while. Minutes later, that same friend called me in a time of great need, a crisis period in his life. Was it just coincidental...or was it God’s way of redirecting my mind, my heart at that moment to help my friend through a trying period? 

I firmly believe the latter of course. Today, I’m not sure I could go back to Lowes and pick that employee out of a lineup, but at that moment, God used him to remind me of my friend, a friend who was in desperate need...at that moment.

...The following Saturday morning, I hugged my old friend at his wife’s memorial service. God had taken her home hours after the time we’d spent praying in the hospital. He had the blessed assurance of knowing through his wife’s acceptance of Christ’s death on the cross as payment for her sin, she was with the Lord, at that moment...and forever.   

The Biggest Lie of All?

I’ve come to the conclusion that of all the lies that Satan has perpetrated on mankind, one is particularly successful, and thus, most lethal. I’ve witnessed its evil effect in every country in which I’ve been on mission: Peru, Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, Brazil...On Saturday mornings, I speak at a local drug and alcohol rehab clinic and practically every week, I hear some version of this horrible mistruth, and it gnaws at me that this one simple misconception can do so much harm.

People are walking around, wrapped up in it, like some sort of child’s soft security blanket, making them feel warm and comfortable. They live their lives leaning on a lie that keeps them from facing the reality of the Truth and many, perhaps most, will tragically only find out when it’s too late that Satan has led them astray with a deception that started from their early childhood and escorted them to the grave. Some of you will read this and still not face the reality that you have, too, been led astray...

So, what is this lie, this deceitful infection with a deadly affect? Here it is:

"Good people go to Heaven. Bad people go to Hell."

That’s it. A simple notion that someday when we stand before God, He’ll accept us based on the good life that we’ve led and that only the deserving, evil Adolf Hitlers and Timothy McVeighs of our world end up in the fiery depths of eternal damnation. 

You know, when an atheist stands before God someday, he must have a definite, sinking realization that he was 100% in error in his rejection of the Almighty. That would be an unbelievably horrible feeling. But perhaps even worse is the person who stands with a false sense of security that somehow they’ve earned their way to eternity with the Father. They’ll hear what I believe is one of the most tragic phrases in scriptures, underlined below:

Matthew 7:23 - "And then will I profess unto them, 
I never knew you: depart from me..."

Jesus wasn’t referring to atheists here. Many believe that He was talking about will stand before God thinking that their path to Heaven is clear, by their good deeds. Many have gone through their lives with a "man upstairs" theology. They know about God, even refer to him at times, but they have no real spiritual relationship. They say things like, "the Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise," using some comfortable verbiage to prove that they indeed have beliefs that somehow validate them. Similarly, I often hear people say "we’ll keep you in our thoughts and prayers," and I always hope the latter is truly the case. Their thoughts aren’t on the same plane, unless they are prayers, but I digress.

Some combine a good life that they’ve relied on with some form of religious basis, i.e., they believe in God, maybe even went through some religious activities in their life, like joining a church or getting baptized, neither of which are bad things, mind you, but not the basis of salvation. But many people hang those credentials on their spiritual wall and hope and often believe by combining it with a self-perceived good life, they’ll compile enough brownie points that St. Peter will allow them entrance...

In John 14:6, Jesus said clearly:

"I am the way, the truth, and the way. No one comes to the Father 

except through Me."

You can take that quite literally. Our only hope of salvation is through our repentance and acceptance of God’s grace-filled gift of Christ’s death on Calvary’s Cross for payment of our sins. If you’ve fallen for the damning lie that somehow you can be good enough, then plainly you’re saying Jesus’ death on a cross was not necessary; I can make it to heaven on my own...I plead with you to rethink that. Don’t fall for that lie any longer!


Walking Down the "Romans Road" to Salvation . . . .
                   Because of our sin, we are separated from God.
                   For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.  (Romans 3:23)
                  
                    The Penalty for our sin is death.
                    For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ 
                     our Lord. (Romans 6:23)



The penalty for our sin was paid by Jesus Christ!
But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. (Romans 5:8)

If we repent of our sin, then confess and trust Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior, we will be saved from our sins!
For whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved. (Romans 10:13)

...if you confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved. For with the heart one believes unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.
(Romans 10:9,10)

Belize Bits - Part 2

No doubt you know the story of Jonah - a man who had a calling from God to go to Nineveh and preach repentance. Instead, he flees God and eventually finds himself swallowed by a great fish. From inside the fish, Jonah realizes he must turn to God, and in Jonah 2:1-2a we read:

Then Jonah prayed to the Lord his God from the fish’s belly. 2 And he said:
I cried out to the Lord because of my affliction, And He answered me...
 
In the remote village of San Miguel, Belize we made an unannounced visit to a man named Randy, a neighbor of one of the men of the church we were working with. Randy had recently broken his leg in a motorcycle accident and he sat helplessly on the floor in the back part of his house, his wife Lucia waiting on him hand and foot. Our arrival came as a surprise to Randy, but when it was all said and done, he told us exactly why we’d come by when we did...

A strapping, strong young man in his mid 20's, Randy lived his life fast and loose, and it was a night of alcohol and motorcycling that led to his current state of immobility.

As I began to share the Good News of the Gospel with Randy, Lucia also drew near, standing at her husband’s shoulder, listening intently. I quickly knew that she was very interested in hearing, but Randy was a little harder to read. He stared blankly downward at his broken leg and at no time gave any indication that he was remotely interested or even listening to what I had to say.

As I finished, Randy’s gaze slowly raised from the floor and he looked me directly in the eye. What he said next will stay with me forever...

" I know why you came by here today...God sent you," Randy began. "For years now, my father has been urging me to turn my life over to God, accept Jesus, but I never would. I was sitting here thinking: ‘maybe God had to get me to a place where I had no place to run before I would listen.’  Right before you walked in, I was thinking that my life was out of control, but God finally had me where He wanted me, sitting on this floor, unable to do anything but listen to Him...then you walked into my house."

The magnitude of the moment left me temporarily speechless, as Randy bowed his head in pure, genuine repentance. His eyes welled up with tears as Lucia placed a loving hand on his shoulder. Together, they began a new life as a Christian couple.

Maybe it wasn’t the belly of a fish, but the results were pretty similar: God used whatever it took to bring another one of his children home. Amen

Belize Bits - Part 1

My mission partner Ryan and I paused for just a second and stared at the surreal antiquity before us. The dilapidated wooden structure, with its tin roof, looked like something straight out of the 1880's. The horse tied up in front of the house completed the look. Yet as we walked the streets that morning in Punta Gorda, Belize, this was the house we were drawn toward. 

Approaching with some caution, I looked for signs of movement from within. I imagined briefly being greeted with an old double-barreled shotgun like my great-grandfather’s I had at home in a closet. But the warm smiles emerging from the house quickly alleviated any such thoughts.

Four, six, eight, and more poured out of the structure onto the old front porch, ranging from age two to around seventy. I started sharing the Gospel from the bottom of the porch steps and felt at once that the family was interested in what I was saying. They had some church background, having attended here and there, not unlike many in America.

At the end of my "mini-sermon," I invited those that fully understood the opportunity to accept Christ as their Savior, and six of the older ones did just that. I noticed the oldest of the group, a lady who appeared to be the mother and grandmother of the group, did not respond. I asked her if she had any questions, and her oldest son quickly explained she spoke only Spanish, but he was going to tell her everything I’d said.  I could tell from the look in his eye, he meant exactly what he said...

Like so many in our country, here was a family that basically knew the Gospel: that we’re all sinners, needing to repent, and only through the redemptive blood of Christ shed on Calvary’s Cross can we be forgiven of our sins...they knew all that. But they’d never made it personal. They were what I refer to as head Christians, not heart Christians, having knowledge of, but no relationship with Christ.  Over and over in Belize, I met those in the same condition. Many came to Christ, applying what they already knew to their own lives...but sadly, some chose not to.  

I’ve heard it said that those are the ones that will miss heaven by a foot and a half, the distance from one’s head to one’s heart.
 

CruelTies

The midday sun scorched the humid August air. Twelve-year-old John’s sweat dripped down on the railroad tie at which he’d been flailing away with a man-sized ax. His slender arms and shoulders ached from the hours of chopping the stack of ties his stepfather had hauled home the night before. Not nearly half finished with the task, John allowed himself only a brief respite, then continued hacking away, his stepfather’s parting words that morning etched in his mind. . .

"You have those ties out back busted up for firewood by the time I git home tonight, or I'll beat the hell outta you.” John knew that it was no hollow threat.

His twice-widowed mother, Leona, had met this brute of a man at Murray’s Five and Dime, where she’d been working to support John and his three younger half-sisters. The Depression had been particularly cruel on Leona and the children, and the man provided some security that previously they had not experienced.

From the onset of the union, the stepfather was amiable, at times almost loving, toward his sisters, but he held some sort of resentment toward John. John had assumed a great deal of responsibility in the family, but any efforts on his part to continue with his role as eldest sibling were met harshly and violently. He’d worn many a bruise or scar from earlier encounters with this man. . .He continued chopping.

Another hour passed. John’s muscles burned with fatigue. The bright redness of his sunburnt neck stung sharply from sweat pouring down his head. His mother watched through the dusty kitchen window, feeling helpless, praying that God would somehow remedy this entrapment in which her son was bound. She dutifully carried John out a cheese sandwich and glass of cool water, for which he stopped only briefly. Their eyes met with mutual despair. The silence of the moment was punctuated by the backfire of Murray’s delivery truck motoring up the road to their house.

Mr. Murray owned another store, in Centerville, about 70 miles to the north, where John’s real father had been raised. His dad had died when John was two years old, from post-surgical complications. John had three uncles and two aunts living in Centerville. They were a loving, closed-knit clan. . .the delivery truck motored to a stop in front of their house.

Leona often had a letter or a package to send up to John’s uncles or aunts with whom she’d tried to stay in contact. Kind, thoughtful Mr. Murray always had his delivery driver stop at her house to see if he could take anything to Centerville for her. . .

“Hey, Miss Leona, got anything going north this afternoon?” the driver hollered, seeing her walking back toward the house.

“No, not today, Herb,” Leona called back weakly, her mind occupied by the cruelty of the situation behind her. But suddenly she stopped, her head turning quickly back toward the sound of the ax...

Psalm 116:1 -

I love the Lord, because He has heard
       My voice and my supplications.

Jesus told us if we only have the faith of a mustard seed, we could move mountains.  God often answers prayers in ways that we least expect, but I believe that He does answer our prayers...

“Wait Herb, I do have something you can take. Can you give me five minutes?”

Running inside, Leona grabbed a tattered grip from the hall closet. She frantically threw in as many clothes and personal items as the old bag would hold. Tears of sorrow and relief streaming down her face, she composed herself as best she could, scribbling out a pleading note of explanation. Her hands trembled as she folded the paper over and tucked it into the top of the grip.

John looked up at his mother walking toward him, carrying the bag. Her tear-stained face was all the explanation he needed. Embracing in silence, save for the sobs of his mother, John looked over her shoulder and saw Herb awkwardly toeing at the ground.

“This is your chance. God has answered my prayer. I love you, son. Now, go.”

Defiantly, John buried the ax into the railroad tie he’d been laboring over. He kissed his mother on the cheek one last time and walked away from his dreadful life. . .

It was the first he’d ever spoken of it. The cancer that ravaged my 82-year-old father’s body had nearly taken its toll. Sitting alone in his hospital room, listening to him unpack the pain of his abusive childhood, I felt my eyes fill with angry tears as I reflected on the cruelty inflicted upon him 70 years prior.  His final words on the subject have stayed with me...

"I’ll never understand what I did to make that man hate me so.”

No doubt, the thoughts of many an abused child.

---

Drawn to a Drip

I could not avoid its incessancy.

Drip, drip, drip, drip.

It was an unusually hectic day. My men and I oversaw the execution of three condemned men. Having carried out dozens before, I’d developed a rather callous indifference to the procedures. Keeping a hardened distance was the only way a man could successfully serve on my squad. Several had tried, but found they were not suited for the task.

I knew the two men on the outer crosses to be common thieves, but that man in between them - I wasn’t sure what his real crime was. Many said he claimed to be some sort of king. My men mocked him earlier as he was whipped and beaten. I draped a purple robe over his bloody back to call attention to his proclaimed royalty, complete with a crown of thorns we’d jammed into his scalp.

We had beaten him so badly he could hardly make it up the hill. Despite people screaming wretched insults and spitting upon him, forward he trudged, his eyes seemingly fixed upon an objective of which only he knew.

Submissively, he fell on the rocky Golgotha ground. I then realized that from the abusive whipping, punching, and slapping to the agonizing walk through the streets to this laying himself down, he had voiced not one objection. No, not even a scornful look our way.

Now, it was always my practice when nailing men to the cross to make no eye contact. Attribute it to insensitivity, if you will, but though I’d hammered through many a man’s hands and feet, that grisly sound of piercing flesh and tendon, accompanied by the agonizing screams could penetrate the most thick-skinned amongst us. But driving the jagged spike through the man’s right hand with my heavy iron mallet, my eyes were drawn toward his. And though he screamed out in pain, that same expression of determination to finish this task remained. The blood gushed forth, and I watched as it ran down his arm.

We erected all three crosses and began the long wait for death to overcome them. Some men die quickly, while others battle death right up to their last gasp. If it carried on too long, we’d simply break their legs, rendering them unable to raise themselves up to breathe. Though seemingly cruel, it was perhaps the most humane act that we performed.

My men were shouting and laughing as they gambled for the man’s clothing. The mob both screamed in hatred and cried out in sorrow. Above all this commotion, I began to hear it...It drew my attention away from the turmoil. That sound began to penetrate my soul. My mind could not elude it.

Drip, drip, drip, drip.

What was it? Where was it coming from? I looked with determination for its source, as if it were calling to me.

Drip, drip, drip, drip. 

And then I saw it. The blood I’d seen running down the man’s arm was now falling off at his elbow, down upon the rocks below.

Drip, drip, drip, drip. 

No matter what I did, I was transfixed at the rhythmic sound of his blood splattering one drop at a time.

Drip, drip, drip, drip.

I heard the man cry out in agony and call out to God. At one point, he did something truly remarkable - he asked God to forgive us. He pleaded that we didn’t know what we were doing...and maybe he was right. He was like no other man I’d ever encountered.

The day grew darker and darker, until it was pitch black as the night. The ground shook violently, knocking me face-down, paralyzed with fear. Never have I witnessed such an event, and yet through it all, I remained drawn to the drops of blood hitting the rocks below.

Drip, drip, drip, drip.

I'm not sure what overcame me exactly. Looking up, I felt an undeniable love from this now dead man hanging limply in front of me. Getting to my feet, I stumbled forward. As I reached the foot of the cross, I blurted out what was churning in my soul, though I didn’t completely understand it all:

“Truly this man was the Son of God." *

The instant I professed what I knew to be the Truth, I heard a drop fall yet again. But this one landed with a softer, more comforting sound. You see, that last drop...fell on me.


* Mark 15:39 (KJV)

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