“You don’t have to clean our room,” I said to Millie, the cleaning lady who comes once a week to our son’s house where we are living now. “Howard has his papers spread out all over the place and he said to skip it this week,” I explained.
We had come in for a quick bite of lunch and saw she had arrived. “We’re hoarders,” Howard joked, “you have to walk through a path.”
“No, you’re not hoarders,” she assured us with an intent look. “I’ve cleaned for hoarders, and it is quite an experience.” She said that in one house, she doesn’t have to dust, because she can’t find the surfaces of anything, due to things piled high on them.
Getting into her subject, she exclaimed, “I had to clean out a house where we loaded nine dumpsters full of stuff! They finally had us quit because it was becoming too expensive and just auctioned off what was left.”
We move too much to be actual hoarders, but even so, we can fill up a house pretty fast. There is always a tempting garage sale or estate sale with something too great (or cheap) to pass up. However, I think this a widespread affliction of our times, born of ample production, affluence, and the desire for whatever is new on the market. Add to that the tendency of the older generation, who may have grown up in deprivation, to hang on to things, and the problem is intensified. A thriving industry of storage facilities has sprung up all around the country just to hold our excesses.
“I sometimes wish when we die we wouldn’t leave anything for people to dispose of,” I told my husband the other day. After all, what we treasure and hang on to, the next generation may not value at all (except for money!). Their houses are running over, too, unless they are the exception.
I’m afraid my tendency to over-decorate my home has spawned a few minimalists in my family, however. A couple of my kids want very little, if anything on their walls, and accessories are scarce or non-existent, beyond necessities. Now that our children are well-established, it makes gift-giving a challenge. They don’t need anything, and how do I know what they want? I agree with one son who said “Give things that can be used up,” especially when it comes to the little ones. He suggested drawing paper, crayons, color books and the like. (Their toys are taking over the house, too!)
There is one thing that is certain, when we go we will leave it all behind. As one saying goes, “I’ve never seen a U-Haul following a hearse.” Jesus tells us in Matthew 6:19-21, “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon the earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven…for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
A Word Fitly Spoken
“Hi, come on in,” we were greeted by our friend as we entered his wife’s hospital room. We had waited until Howard got home from work to visit the patient, one of our church members, and although it was after dark and frigid out, my husband had insisted we call on her this evening. Following us in the door, though, were several physical therapists and medical workers, so we barely got to say hello before we had to go into the hall, accompanied by her husband.
“I just wanted to read Mary a scripture,” Howard said, “we won’t stay long. It’s out of Isaiah, and I felt the Lord impressed me to encourage her with it,” he said, quoting the reference to the passage.
“That sounds like the scripture my pastor read to me when I got fired from my job,” Bill reflected. Howard knew the job he was referring to, since they had worked there together many years ago, but the incident happened much later.
“They fired you?!!” he exclaimed. Then Bill told the story familiar to us, but Howard must have forgotten that detail. When he drove a truck for a motor freight line, Bill had had a bad accident, due to a damaged roadway, where he narrowly escaped with his life after the truck caught fire. Trapped in the cab, he saw God miraculously allow the windshield to pop out with the little pressure he could apply with his burned hands.
“Yeah, it lasted about four days,” Bill went on, “the lawyer said I could own that trucking company if I wanted to, but I told him all I wanted was my hospital bills paid. I got my job back.”
Presently we were allowed to go back into the room, and Howard began to read from Isaiah 43. Verse 2 says, “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. (3) For I am the Lord thy God…”
Then he read Isaiah 41:10 about being held up by God’s right hand of righteousness. Verse 11 continues, “Behold, all they that were incensed against thee shall be ashamed and confounded: they shall be as nothing; and they that strive with thee shall perish.”
“That’s it! That’s it!” Bill exclaimed, “That’s the one my pastor read to me!”
Then Howard went on to read verse 12: “Thou shalt seek them, and shalt not find them, even them that contended with thee: they that war against thee shall be as nothing, and as a thing of nought.” I had to chime in then that the trucking company no longer exists!
I had to remind the men to let the patient rest when they got lost in reminiscing about former work associates, and whatever happened to this one or that one. We went out into the cold night, warmed by compassion shared, fellowship, and scriptures read that had ministered two-fold to the hearers.
“I just wanted to read Mary a scripture,” Howard said, “we won’t stay long. It’s out of Isaiah, and I felt the Lord impressed me to encourage her with it,” he said, quoting the reference to the passage.
“That sounds like the scripture my pastor read to me when I got fired from my job,” Bill reflected. Howard knew the job he was referring to, since they had worked there together many years ago, but the incident happened much later.
“They fired you?!!” he exclaimed. Then Bill told the story familiar to us, but Howard must have forgotten that detail. When he drove a truck for a motor freight line, Bill had had a bad accident, due to a damaged roadway, where he narrowly escaped with his life after the truck caught fire. Trapped in the cab, he saw God miraculously allow the windshield to pop out with the little pressure he could apply with his burned hands.
“Yeah, it lasted about four days,” Bill went on, “the lawyer said I could own that trucking company if I wanted to, but I told him all I wanted was my hospital bills paid. I got my job back.”
Presently we were allowed to go back into the room, and Howard began to read from Isaiah 43. Verse 2 says, “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. (3) For I am the Lord thy God…”
Then he read Isaiah 41:10 about being held up by God’s right hand of righteousness. Verse 11 continues, “Behold, all they that were incensed against thee shall be ashamed and confounded: they shall be as nothing; and they that strive with thee shall perish.”
“That’s it! That’s it!” Bill exclaimed, “That’s the one my pastor read to me!”
Then Howard went on to read verse 12: “Thou shalt seek them, and shalt not find them, even them that contended with thee: they that war against thee shall be as nothing, and as a thing of nought.” I had to chime in then that the trucking company no longer exists!
I had to remind the men to let the patient rest when they got lost in reminiscing about former work associates, and whatever happened to this one or that one. We went out into the cold night, warmed by compassion shared, fellowship, and scriptures read that had ministered two-fold to the hearers.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out!
There is a story in the Bible about an axe that floated. The user of the axe was very dismayed when the head of the axe flew off into the water. He said to his mentor, Elisha, the prophet, “Alas, master! For it was borrowed.” The man of God threw a stick into the water where the young man indicated the axe head had fallen, “and the iron did swim,” the scripture says in II Kings 6:6.
Well, I think I knew how the young man felt. Recently I asked my granddaughter if I could borrow a Shuttterfly album of pictures she had made of our family Thanksgiving gathering. I wanted to take it to a Bible study and show my friends pictures of our trip to Houston. She said, “Sure,” so I showed off the pictures and returned the album to its space in a drawer.
I wanted to borrow the album again to share with our son and family when we went to visit them in Kansas a few weeks later, but I kept forgetting to ask Allison about it. Then as we were walking out the door, I impulsively grabbed the album and took it along. I was sure she wouldn’t mind. Everyone enjoyed it thoroughly, especially those who had been there and whose pictures were in the booklet.
We had gone several miles toward home when I realized I had left the album! “Mark!” I spoke into the phone, leaving a message, “we accidentally left Allison’s book! Do you think you can send it?” A little later the phone rang with the news that he had found it.
“How far are you?” he asked, thinking we might be able to return for the forgotten item. When I answered that we were almost to the first interstate rest stop, he said he would mail it the very next day before he returned to his home in North Carolina. I eagerly watched the mail for the next few days, expecting it any day. By the third or fourth day, I was beginning to despair, because mail usually comes overnight from such a short distance.
How could I tell my granddaughter I had lost her pictures? Finally, after almost a week had passed, I saw the white mailer in the mailbox. But what’s this? It had been torn open! Had one of the family checked the mail and opened it? There was a book-size slit in the envelope edge, and the book could have easily slipped out. Thank God it was intact. I quickly replaced it in the drawer before Allison missed it.
That evening, my son uncharacteristically asked, “Anything interesting in the mail today?” He knows! I thought. He must have opened the mail! But I just gave a non-committal, no, and changed the subject.
A few days later, Mark stopped by for a visit. Greg took the album from the drawer and told the children, “Go show this to Uncle Mark.” Mark was examining the book when he said, “I think I’ve seen this before. Mimi brought this to Wichita and I mailed it back after she forgot it! I see it got here okay.”
“Allison didn’t even know it was gone,” I admitted sheepishly. She smiled quizzically and shrugged, while I breathed a sigh of relief. For “Alas, it was borrowed!” (And the only thing swimming was my head!)
Well, I think I knew how the young man felt. Recently I asked my granddaughter if I could borrow a Shuttterfly album of pictures she had made of our family Thanksgiving gathering. I wanted to take it to a Bible study and show my friends pictures of our trip to Houston. She said, “Sure,” so I showed off the pictures and returned the album to its space in a drawer.
I wanted to borrow the album again to share with our son and family when we went to visit them in Kansas a few weeks later, but I kept forgetting to ask Allison about it. Then as we were walking out the door, I impulsively grabbed the album and took it along. I was sure she wouldn’t mind. Everyone enjoyed it thoroughly, especially those who had been there and whose pictures were in the booklet.
We had gone several miles toward home when I realized I had left the album! “Mark!” I spoke into the phone, leaving a message, “we accidentally left Allison’s book! Do you think you can send it?” A little later the phone rang with the news that he had found it.
“How far are you?” he asked, thinking we might be able to return for the forgotten item. When I answered that we were almost to the first interstate rest stop, he said he would mail it the very next day before he returned to his home in North Carolina. I eagerly watched the mail for the next few days, expecting it any day. By the third or fourth day, I was beginning to despair, because mail usually comes overnight from such a short distance.
How could I tell my granddaughter I had lost her pictures? Finally, after almost a week had passed, I saw the white mailer in the mailbox. But what’s this? It had been torn open! Had one of the family checked the mail and opened it? There was a book-size slit in the envelope edge, and the book could have easily slipped out. Thank God it was intact. I quickly replaced it in the drawer before Allison missed it.
That evening, my son uncharacteristically asked, “Anything interesting in the mail today?” He knows! I thought. He must have opened the mail! But I just gave a non-committal, no, and changed the subject.
A few days later, Mark stopped by for a visit. Greg took the album from the drawer and told the children, “Go show this to Uncle Mark.” Mark was examining the book when he said, “I think I’ve seen this before. Mimi brought this to Wichita and I mailed it back after she forgot it! I see it got here okay.”
“Allison didn’t even know it was gone,” I admitted sheepishly. She smiled quizzically and shrugged, while I breathed a sigh of relief. For “Alas, it was borrowed!” (And the only thing swimming was my head!)
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Friends are Friends Forever
“Every cloud has a silver lining,” I remarked to my husband as we drove home yesterday from the funeral services of a dear friend held at a Wichita church. Despite the pall of sorrow and sad good-byes that hung over the gathering, time and again our spirits were lifted when we bumped into people we had known when we were part of that church more than 15 years ago.
“Pastor Howard!” we would hear, then, turning we would see a familiar face. Changed a little, the older ones (we were Seniors/Singles pastors) with a few more wrinkles and grey hair, but recognizable, especially by their smiles, voices and warm greetings. (I’m sure we had changed, too!) The first person we met while going in the front door was the daughter of the pastors we’d had as teenagers in Oklahoma. We had known her and her husband at this church, too, where by that time we were all senior citizens.
Many of our remaining “seniors” group were now in their eighties; a little frail, maybe using a cane or walker, but their spirits were still young and enthusiastic, recalling memories of our days together. “Those were some good times back then,” a faithful former deacon reminisced, shaking his head. The church had experienced many changes in the recent past, but several assured us that things were getting better again.
Those we remembered as young married couples now had married children of their own, introducing a young woman on their arm or a man by their side as the child we used to know. “I wonder where so-and-so was,” I remarked to Howard later, as I missed this or that one, then realized sadly that they had probably passed on.
"My two favorite Sunday School teachers of all time were Pastor Howard and Pastor Mark (our son who had served at the church at a later date),” stated one (to us)“young” person. When she found out we are working in a church in Newkirk, near the Kansas line, she vowed she would come to visit a service.
“I need a haircut!” I heard Howard exclaim as a familiar figure who used to be his barber approached. “I slept in your trailer!” he announced to another couple. When I asked him about it, he said, “Don’t you remember when I had to take a turn guarding the “Festival of Lights” over night one Christmas?” I guess I had forgotten.
It was almost as if we had never been away, the gap of time was so easily closed by our reunion. “Just think how many wonderful people we have met in our lifetime,” Howard mused on the ride home, “And we probably wouldn’t have met them if we hadn’t been in church,” he concluded. I agreed. The best friends of our life, the ones we still keep in touch with across the country, are those of “like precious faith,” the ones with whom we had sweet fellowship at church.
“Pastor Howard!” we would hear, then, turning we would see a familiar face. Changed a little, the older ones (we were Seniors/Singles pastors) with a few more wrinkles and grey hair, but recognizable, especially by their smiles, voices and warm greetings. (I’m sure we had changed, too!) The first person we met while going in the front door was the daughter of the pastors we’d had as teenagers in Oklahoma. We had known her and her husband at this church, too, where by that time we were all senior citizens.
Many of our remaining “seniors” group were now in their eighties; a little frail, maybe using a cane or walker, but their spirits were still young and enthusiastic, recalling memories of our days together. “Those were some good times back then,” a faithful former deacon reminisced, shaking his head. The church had experienced many changes in the recent past, but several assured us that things were getting better again.
Those we remembered as young married couples now had married children of their own, introducing a young woman on their arm or a man by their side as the child we used to know. “I wonder where so-and-so was,” I remarked to Howard later, as I missed this or that one, then realized sadly that they had probably passed on.
"My two favorite Sunday School teachers of all time were Pastor Howard and Pastor Mark (our son who had served at the church at a later date),” stated one (to us)“young” person. When she found out we are working in a church in Newkirk, near the Kansas line, she vowed she would come to visit a service.
“I need a haircut!” I heard Howard exclaim as a familiar figure who used to be his barber approached. “I slept in your trailer!” he announced to another couple. When I asked him about it, he said, “Don’t you remember when I had to take a turn guarding the “Festival of Lights” over night one Christmas?” I guess I had forgotten.
It was almost as if we had never been away, the gap of time was so easily closed by our reunion. “Just think how many wonderful people we have met in our lifetime,” Howard mused on the ride home, “And we probably wouldn’t have met them if we hadn’t been in church,” he concluded. I agreed. The best friends of our life, the ones we still keep in touch with across the country, are those of “like precious faith,” the ones with whom we had sweet fellowship at church.
Life's Race
“A time to be born, a time to die,” Ecclesiastes 3:2. This came home to us anew when our great-grandson was born yesterday on the same day we would be attending the funeral of a departed saint, Sandy, the mother-in-law of our son, Mark. While baby Landon’s race is just beginning with his first wide-eyed wonderment of the world, our friend’s earthly journey is complete. However, her eternity is just beginning, where she is no doubt in wide-eyed wonder of her new surroundings. Just as the precious infant has no idea of what marvels, sights and mysteries the world holds, the Bible says ,“But as it is written, Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him,” I Corinthians 2:9.
From all accounts of those paying tribute to Sandy at her home going, including maybe hundreds of Facebook postings I saw, hers was a life well lived, full of God’s love expressed toward her fellowman. Judging from the upwards of a thousand people who came to honor her yesterday, they felt the same way. No matter how low or lofty their estate, there was always room for one more in the very large heart of this gracious lady. The downcast, the lonely, or the unfortunate found a special welcome there, for her life was the reflection of Christ and his teachings lived out.
We are all born in our particular set of circumstances, and from the slide show of photographs in the pre-service yesterday, it was evident that Sandy had been nurtured in a loving family from her earliest days…a well-cared-for tot in play clothes posing prettily on a the running board of a car, a back view in poignant silhouette as a vulnerable child with a headful of curls, a solemn, trustful school girl pic, and on to wedding scenes and the fulfilling days beyond. She had a spiritual heritage that was nurtured as well in religious training referred to in her story.
I am grateful the new addition to our extended family has a heritage of faith that he can build on. God used a tragedy in my family when I was a young teen to bring us to the knowledge of salvation. My mother’s ardent prayers for her family have resulted in a host of descendants who are living in the faith learned and passed on from her, from generation to generation.
The torch is being passed yet again to the new little guy whose parents are Christians, his grandfather a minister, as is his great-grandfather Howard, my husband. We can trust the future to Him, for the Bible says there is a time and a season for every purpose under heaven.
From all accounts of those paying tribute to Sandy at her home going, including maybe hundreds of Facebook postings I saw, hers was a life well lived, full of God’s love expressed toward her fellowman. Judging from the upwards of a thousand people who came to honor her yesterday, they felt the same way. No matter how low or lofty their estate, there was always room for one more in the very large heart of this gracious lady. The downcast, the lonely, or the unfortunate found a special welcome there, for her life was the reflection of Christ and his teachings lived out.
We are all born in our particular set of circumstances, and from the slide show of photographs in the pre-service yesterday, it was evident that Sandy had been nurtured in a loving family from her earliest days…a well-cared-for tot in play clothes posing prettily on a the running board of a car, a back view in poignant silhouette as a vulnerable child with a headful of curls, a solemn, trustful school girl pic, and on to wedding scenes and the fulfilling days beyond. She had a spiritual heritage that was nurtured as well in religious training referred to in her story.
I am grateful the new addition to our extended family has a heritage of faith that he can build on. God used a tragedy in my family when I was a young teen to bring us to the knowledge of salvation. My mother’s ardent prayers for her family have resulted in a host of descendants who are living in the faith learned and passed on from her, from generation to generation.
The torch is being passed yet again to the new little guy whose parents are Christians, his grandfather a minister, as is his great-grandfather Howard, my husband. We can trust the future to Him, for the Bible says there is a time and a season for every purpose under heaven.
Friday, January 6, 2012
A Memoir: In Celebration
We didn’t see her often, only at grandchildren’s graduations or special events over the years. The first time was when our son, Mark, and their daughter, Rhonda, were graduating from Bible College nearly 30 years ago. The next year, we were invited, along with all Mark’s siblings, to their house to get acquainted before our firstborns married one another.
That made us in-laws. Rhonda’s dad was a minister, while my husband was a business man. In an unexpected turn of events, Howard became a minister, too, finally submitting to a life-long inner knowing of his destiny. A few years later, he filled a position of Associate Pastor at Rhonda’s dad’s church. We got to know the family better, through associations at church and through our kids.
We also learned the endearing, if sometimes amusing, ways of the pastor’s wife, Sandy, who was also a receptionist at the church. She seemed to know everybody personally and could usually be found with an ear glued to the phone as she listened with genuine interest and unfeigned concern, often bordering on alarm, in her response to the caller. They loved her for that.
At the weekly staff lunches, she always took a ribbing when, true to her Texas roots, she would pull out a tiny bottle of Tabasco sauce, which was a permanent resident of her purse, and liberally adjust the dish to her liking. Full of fun, she planned seasonal staff outings, adding her bright smile and funny stories, while ever playing the consummate hostess, drawing everyone in and becoming the life of the party.
We were at their house last week to visit them and Mark and Rhonda, who were there for the Christmas holidays. Although we had seen the kids at our own Thanksgiving gathering, we didn’t want to miss another opportunity since they live halfway across the country. Sandy made a wonderful feast, pleading her kitchen was too small for help with clean-up afterward, then asked if I wanted to see pictures of the churches they had pastored for the past 50 years.
We went downstairs to the den where she pointed out their humble beginnings in a white-frame building where they had to sleep and live in rooms in back of the church. I saw pictures of Rhonda as a two-year-old cherub, and her sister a babe in her father’s arms. Her mother told of helpful big sister who flushed a diaper down the toilet, flooding the living quarters while Mom had to walk into the church service appearing unflustered as if nothing had happened.
The edifices in the framed photos became ever larger in the small parade of churches in their pastoral history, culminating with the mega-church we had been part of.
We were stunned yesterday, only a week later, to receive a call from Mark, his voice strained and unsteady, that Rhonda’s mom had been found unconscious and was in the hospital. He had already returned to church duties in North Carolina, while Rhonda had stayed on a few days to be with her family. His next call before he caught his flight to join his wife bore the worst possible news. Sandy was not going to make it.
The news was surreal as it soaked in. We had just been to their lovely home filled with her beautiful things, including a wall of full-length wedding portraits of their three daughters and their bridegrooms, one of which was our son.
Her funeral is Monday, but she won’t really be there. Surrounded by beauty we can only imagine, Sandy will already be in her ultimate House of Worship, the one where there are many rooms, where she will be waiting to welcome us Home.
That made us in-laws. Rhonda’s dad was a minister, while my husband was a business man. In an unexpected turn of events, Howard became a minister, too, finally submitting to a life-long inner knowing of his destiny. A few years later, he filled a position of Associate Pastor at Rhonda’s dad’s church. We got to know the family better, through associations at church and through our kids.
We also learned the endearing, if sometimes amusing, ways of the pastor’s wife, Sandy, who was also a receptionist at the church. She seemed to know everybody personally and could usually be found with an ear glued to the phone as she listened with genuine interest and unfeigned concern, often bordering on alarm, in her response to the caller. They loved her for that.
At the weekly staff lunches, she always took a ribbing when, true to her Texas roots, she would pull out a tiny bottle of Tabasco sauce, which was a permanent resident of her purse, and liberally adjust the dish to her liking. Full of fun, she planned seasonal staff outings, adding her bright smile and funny stories, while ever playing the consummate hostess, drawing everyone in and becoming the life of the party.
We were at their house last week to visit them and Mark and Rhonda, who were there for the Christmas holidays. Although we had seen the kids at our own Thanksgiving gathering, we didn’t want to miss another opportunity since they live halfway across the country. Sandy made a wonderful feast, pleading her kitchen was too small for help with clean-up afterward, then asked if I wanted to see pictures of the churches they had pastored for the past 50 years.
We went downstairs to the den where she pointed out their humble beginnings in a white-frame building where they had to sleep and live in rooms in back of the church. I saw pictures of Rhonda as a two-year-old cherub, and her sister a babe in her father’s arms. Her mother told of helpful big sister who flushed a diaper down the toilet, flooding the living quarters while Mom had to walk into the church service appearing unflustered as if nothing had happened.
The edifices in the framed photos became ever larger in the small parade of churches in their pastoral history, culminating with the mega-church we had been part of.
We were stunned yesterday, only a week later, to receive a call from Mark, his voice strained and unsteady, that Rhonda’s mom had been found unconscious and was in the hospital. He had already returned to church duties in North Carolina, while Rhonda had stayed on a few days to be with her family. His next call before he caught his flight to join his wife bore the worst possible news. Sandy was not going to make it.
The news was surreal as it soaked in. We had just been to their lovely home filled with her beautiful things, including a wall of full-length wedding portraits of their three daughters and their bridegrooms, one of which was our son.
Her funeral is Monday, but she won’t really be there. Surrounded by beauty we can only imagine, Sandy will already be in her ultimate House of Worship, the one where there are many rooms, where she will be waiting to welcome us Home.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Hero's Welcome
Our pastors came home yesterday! After a two-month absence of hospitalization and rehab from a car accident, they deserved a hero’s welcome! We were alerted of their long-awaited homecoming a day in advance, and those at church Sunday signed a huge Welcome Home banner waiting in readiness. Plans were quickly made to have as many of the flock as possible lining their driveway, holding posters or other signs of welcome as the two cars carrying them were driven in from their two-hour journey.
“Why don’t we pick up some flowers for them?” I suggested to my husband, since we didn’t get a sign made. We found just what we needed in the floral department of our local supermarket. Then it occurred to me that we needed a “Welcome Home” balloon.
Surveying the selection of Mylar balloons at a store, we saw every kind of greeting except “Welcome Home”. Finally I found one; unfortunately it held a tag that said “We are out of helium”. The friendly assistant said a nearby supermarket would air it up for us. I took two, finding another that would suit our purposes, and sure enough, the cooperative balloon center attendant at the next store was happy to fill them with helium. “Would you like some latex ones, also?” she asked. A bright red balloon and a shiny yellow one were added to our bouquet with trailing ribbons tethered to a heavy clip.
Everything looked great, our balloons bobbing brightly in the breeze beside the banner that was stretched across the walk between two lamp posts. We got the call that they were only a few blocks away, and everyone scurried into position. It was a joyous and tearful welcome for our heroes, who seemed genuinely surprised, if a little overwhelmed. After greetings kept brief so the returnees could get settled, we waved our goodbyes and the welcoming party dispersed, eagerly awaiting our pastors’ soon appearance at church.
I read of another kind of hero the other day, when a friend from our former church wrote on facebook about their involvement with the volunteer fire department in our neighboring community. She said that over the past several weeks, her husband and other volunteers had been called out several times. Not for fires or car accidents, but from a woman whose husband had fallen out of his chair or bed. She wasn’t able to lift him back into bed, so she called the fire department. Sometimes the calls were as late as 2:00 o’clock in the morning, but the men always arose and answered the call of duty.
A few days ago, my friend and her husband visited the home, prepared to ask if the fire department could buy guard rails for the bed to prevent the man’s falls. His wife met them at the door and tearfully embraced them. “Thank you for being there when I needed you most,” she said, “but my husband passed away last night.” Though no banners awaited them, it appeared that once again, these heroes had appeared right on time.
“Why don’t we pick up some flowers for them?” I suggested to my husband, since we didn’t get a sign made. We found just what we needed in the floral department of our local supermarket. Then it occurred to me that we needed a “Welcome Home” balloon.
Surveying the selection of Mylar balloons at a store, we saw every kind of greeting except “Welcome Home”. Finally I found one; unfortunately it held a tag that said “We are out of helium”. The friendly assistant said a nearby supermarket would air it up for us. I took two, finding another that would suit our purposes, and sure enough, the cooperative balloon center attendant at the next store was happy to fill them with helium. “Would you like some latex ones, also?” she asked. A bright red balloon and a shiny yellow one were added to our bouquet with trailing ribbons tethered to a heavy clip.
Everything looked great, our balloons bobbing brightly in the breeze beside the banner that was stretched across the walk between two lamp posts. We got the call that they were only a few blocks away, and everyone scurried into position. It was a joyous and tearful welcome for our heroes, who seemed genuinely surprised, if a little overwhelmed. After greetings kept brief so the returnees could get settled, we waved our goodbyes and the welcoming party dispersed, eagerly awaiting our pastors’ soon appearance at church.
I read of another kind of hero the other day, when a friend from our former church wrote on facebook about their involvement with the volunteer fire department in our neighboring community. She said that over the past several weeks, her husband and other volunteers had been called out several times. Not for fires or car accidents, but from a woman whose husband had fallen out of his chair or bed. She wasn’t able to lift him back into bed, so she called the fire department. Sometimes the calls were as late as 2:00 o’clock in the morning, but the men always arose and answered the call of duty.
A few days ago, my friend and her husband visited the home, prepared to ask if the fire department could buy guard rails for the bed to prevent the man’s falls. His wife met them at the door and tearfully embraced them. “Thank you for being there when I needed you most,” she said, “but my husband passed away last night.” Though no banners awaited them, it appeared that once again, these heroes had appeared right on time.
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