The Severity of God

While preaching through Genesis, I came upon a scene in chapter thirty-eight which reminded me of what I understand to be the severity of God. This is a side of God many know nothing about, and only a few preachers will preach about.

Er and Onan, sons of Judah, grandsons of Jacob, were slain by the Lord. We are not told much about their wickedness, but both did evil in God's sight and He killed them (Genesis 38:6-10). What a shock it must have been to Tamar, Er's wife, and the rest of their family and friends. Here today⎯gone today. No doubt, these survivors wondered who would be next.

I do not think the deaths of Er and Onan were so-called mercy killings. Nor, do I believe God unjustly took their lives. I believe it was life's payday for them. They simply collected their wages for living a sinful life (Romans 6:23a).

I base this opinion on the sovereignty of God and the testimony of Scripture. The Bible speaks of a way that seems right to man, but its end is death (Proverbs 14:12; 16:25). It also speaks of those who are often reproved or admonished but stubbornly refuse to repent and are suddenly destroyed ". . . and that without remedy" (Proverbs 29:1).

Some would say, "But we live in the day of grace!" implying that the severity of God would never be exercised against anyone in this day. But, I would answer, God does not change (Malachi 3:6). And, we also have an incident recorded for us in the New Testament--a scene which I believe can only be an act of divine judgment--in which the severity of God falls upon a man and his wife and they pay for their deceit with their lives (Acts 5:1-11).

My father, Joseph Elza ("Elzie") Yandell, told of an incident that seemed to be a modern-day illustration of the severity of God. Papa had been preaching nightly beneath a brush arbor in eastern Oklahoma. A brush arbor was a crude temporary meeting place that consisted of little more than an awning of wood, tree limbs, and brush. It had no exterior walls, but it did offer a little shelter beneath which were fashioned some crude wooden benches on which the congregation sat.

Each service was preceded by a grove prayer meeting in which the Christian men and women of that community were praying for those who were unsaved. Attendance at the "revival" was growing nightly. Many were receiving Christ as Savior.

On a Thursday night, a family that was not known for attending church came in a wagon pulled by a team of mules. The woman and her children made their way under the arbor to look for a seat. Seats were scarce, so some men stood and offered them a place to sit.

The woman was so caught up in the service that she appeared as though she was in a trance. She sat with rapt attention, seemingly hungry for the words that were being spoken. The family returned the next night, and the next. On the third night of their attendance (Saturday) the woman went forward to the altar to repent of her sins and receive Jesus Christ as her Savior. Her husband had not, on any night, come under the arbor, but witnesses said he had come close enough to see his wife go to the altar.

On Sunday night the family returned again for the fourth time. As always, Papa preached with much fervor. When the invitation was given, the woman again came to the altar. This time she was praying for her husband. He had not received her conversion very well. So she asked Papa and all the Christians there to pray for her husband. They did.

Papa stood to continue to invitation. Sensing the leadership of the Holy Spirit, he went to the woman's husband to give him a personal invitation to come and receive Christ as Savior. Witnesses reported the man was less than kind in his response to Papa's entreaty.

"Preacher, you got my woman up there and made a fool out of her and you are not going to make a fool out of me!"

"My dear sir," Papa replied, "I will be praying for you." Then he returned to the altar to pray for the man.

Soon Papa's prayer was interrupted by a man tapping him on the shoulder. "Brother Yandell," he said, "the man you was talking with has fallen to the ground⎯slain in the spirit!"

Papa rushed to the man. He was dead.

Some said he died of a heart attack. Others said his death was caused by some kind of a chemical upset in his body. Papa believed it was divine judgment⎯the severity of God had fallen upon him (Romans 11:22).

No one knows for sure what happened. But they knew one thing⎯he died without a Savior.

Father, Your power is both a comfort and a terror to us, for our lives⎯both here and in eternity⎯are in Your hands. Give us mercy, Lord, not justice. For we deserve Your wrath, but we rejoice in Your grace, proud to be a fool for you.

The Midnight Witness

While serving as pastor of a church in Oklahoma City, I was contacted by Brother Gilbert, a personal friend and pastor of a church in Duncan, Oklahoma. He invited me to serve as their evangelist for a one-week revival meeting.

I would have no daytime duties other than to pray and study in preparation for the evening services, he said. Gilbert offered to provide accommodations for me at his home, the church, or a local motel. He also said that if I preferred I could commute to the services from my home in Oklahoma City, or, he joked, I could even take all four options. After some prayer, I opted to commute to each service from my home. This would allow me to have more alone time for prayer and study in my own office where I kept my tools (books) within arm's reach.

The revival meeting began on Monday night. I was surprised at the attendance. Over 100 people gathered for that service, expecting God to do a work in their midst. They weren't disappointed. When the invitation to come forward was given, three adults came forward to receive Jesus Christ as Savior. Several more would follow during the week. Christians came, too, in good numbers, to pray for family and friends who didn't know Christ.

By Friday night the pastor and people were talking about continuing the meeting into the next week or as long as interest prevailed. Papa, a highly effective evangelist in his day, used to call that kind of meeting an "open end" revival, meaning it would go on as long as God continued to pour out His blessings upon it.

By week's end, the church had requested that I stay over and preach the following week. I agreed to return on Sunday night, explaining my desire to preach at my home church on Sunday morning. They agreed.

The next week, revival fires continued to burn brightly. We closed the meeting on Saturday night of the second week and enjoyed a social hour following the service. It was a celebration time with the new Christians who had received Christ during the fourteen nights of the meeting.

Finally, I headed for home. Sunday was coming. I looked at my watch. It was a little past 11:00 p.m. I decided to use the drive time to pray and seek God's leading for the Sunday message at my own church. My body was tired, more so than I realized. It had been a blessed week, but a very hard week on me physically and emotionally. My commute was over 100 miles per night. During the day I had prayed and studied for the night service and extended pastoral care to my own flock. I was drained, but I refused to complain. Instead, I gave thanks to God for the opportunity to serve, for the people who had been saved during the meeting, and for the very generous honorarium the church had given me.

Nevertheless, my body was tired and needing sleep. Only a few more miles and I'll be home. That was the last thought I remember before drifting off to sleep. The thud of the tires leaving the pavement jolted me awake. I struggled with the wheel to turn the car back onto the road. Somehow, by the grace of God, I managed to correct it and avoid an accident. "Thank You, Lord," I whispered, and promised myself I would stop at the next coffee shop to get awake.

The coffee shop came much sooner than I expected. The close call had left me so wide-awake, I even considered driving on. At that moment I felt like I could drive forever. But I remembered my promise and pulled into the parking lot. Getting out of my car, I looked at my watch and noticed it was nearly midnight. I entered the coffee shop and looked around. Four people were sitting in a round booth.

"Sit where you want," the waitress called out. I selected a booth several feet from where the others sat. I had my Bible with me and was about to review my plans for the morning message when one of the men in the round booth began swearing⎯taking God's name in vain. He continued talking loudly, repeating his oaths. One of the ladies who sat with him tried to quiet him down, but he turned on her and blasted her with vulgarity. "I'll talk as loud as I want and any way I want!" he declared. Then he proved his point by continuing on with his diatribe.

I quickly grew restless and decided to finish my coffee and leave. That's when I felt an inner nudge. I knew that feeling. It was the Holy Spirit and He wanted me to witness to the man.

Who, me? But I just stopped to wake up, not to witness! I argued silently.
But aren't you already awake after that little incident back down the road? I had to admit I was.

Weren't you the one who thought you could drive forever back then? Well, yes, I guess I did.

After all, were all those things that happened just a coincidence? Okay, okay! Maybe I was here for this very purpose. Although I didn't realize it, maybe I did stop to speak to someone about Christ instead of just to wake up.

I prayed again, asking God to show me how to go about it, if He was indeed the One behind all this.

My coffee cup was empty and the group in the booth was leaving. I paid for my coffee and followed them out the door into the parking lot.

"Excuse me! Excuse me, please," I said.

They all stopped and turned to face me.

"I overheard you speaking of my Father tonight. I'm not sure which one of you spoke of Him and I am curious as to how well you know Him."

A puzzled expression crept across their faces. Then one of them spoke.

"I don't believe I know you," he said. "Who are you? And who is your father?"

"God is my Father⎯my heavenly Father," I replied. "You spoke freely and often of Him tonight. You even asked Him to damn several things, which as you probably know, He is certainly capable of doing. Do you know Him?"

The man who spoke was now left alone with me in the parking lot. His friends had walked onto their car. Finally, he spoke again.

"Thank you for stopping me," he said, to my surprise. "I do know your Father. I once knew Him very well. I was a Christian for many years, and served on a church board. Then the devil got into our home. My wife left me. I blamed God for my troubles and walked out on Him."

By now his eyes were filled with tears and his voice cracked with emotion. I asked him to acknowledge his sins to God and return to Him, right then and there. Unfortunately, he refused. But he did promise he would do so on Sunday, in his old home church. I could only hope he would keep his promise.

We prayed together before going our separate ways. He joined his friends. I returned to my car and headed for home. My midnight witness was finished. Sunday was coming.

Father, sometimes when we least expect it, You call. In the most unlikely of circumstances, through the people we would least imagine, we sometimes hear Your voice. Tune our ears to hear and our hearts to respond to You.

Christy Is Missing!

I was still working on the last bite of my late lunch when I heard a car sliding to a stop in front of the parsonage. I reached the door in time to see a cloud of dust billowing up from our gravel parking lot and a woman racing toward our front porch in what appeared to me to be an advanced state of hysteria. She was yelling, but I could not understand a word she was saying.

We met at the top of the steps. I took her by the shoulders⎯holding her until she quieted down. When she gained control of her emotions I released my grip. She struggled to speak, but finally blurted out the words: "Christy is missing!"

I was taken aback. Did I know someone named Christy? No one came to mind.

"Who is Christy?" I said, "And who are you?"

"I am Mary," she said, with desperation still in her voice. "I live on the east side of Tulsa. Christy is a little girl living at the end of the new road the county has opened up. She is a little past three years of age."

"I was on that road," she continued, "looking for property that my husband and me might be able to buy, when I saw the woman racing toward me waving her arms for me to stop. I could see she was crying, so I stopped. She told me her little girl, Christy, was missing. She asked me if I would please go for help. I remembered passing this church on my way to look for property and it was the only place I could think of to go for help. On my way here, I panicked."

I asked if authorities had been notified. Mary didn't know. Could she lead me to where she met the lady who told her the little girl was missing? She said she could.

I followed her in my car, thinking as we went that there was nothing in my past that prepared me for search and rescue. Or was there? Down the halls of my memory I could hear echoes of my parents cautioning me about the dangers of snakes, stock ponds, rushing streams, and low clouds covering the mountaintops. Would these be a starting place to look for Christy? Perhaps.

I had traveled the road we were on. Just a few months back I was on this road, doing community visitation. I had even stopped at some of the houses. But I could not recall seeing a pond or swimming pool. No rushing streams or snakes, either. And, today, I could see there were no low clouds covering the hilltops. However, I knew there were hundreds of acres of unfriendly scrub oaks, briars, tall grass, and wild animals.

As we drove, I was surprised at how fast the area was building up. Several families had purchased five-acre tracts, built homes, and were in the process of landscaping their yards.

Mary's brake lights came on. I braked, straining to see why she was stopping. Then I noticed the house, almost completely hidden by trees. This must be the place⎯the end of the road. As I parked, I saw a huge pile of reddish dirt. A shudder ran through my body when I realized this family had dug a pond or swimming pool.

I feared the worst as I hurried toward the pile of dirt. A lady came rushing toward me identifying herself as Christy's mother. Without slackening my pace I asked what was behind the massive pile of dirt.

"A pond," she replied.

I broke into a run, only to be stopped in my tracks when she called out, "There is no water in the pond! We finished it last week and it hasn't rained since we dug it," she explained.

Approaching cars halted our conversation with her husband's vehicle leading the way. Workers from the plant where he was employed followed him. The whole plant had shut down. Business as usual could wait. Christy was missing and finding her was the priority. Only one person remained at the plant to answer the phones. Strangers calling the plant on business were told of the crisis. Soon even some of them arrived to join in the search.

The employees of the plant weren't the only ones who were coming. Sirens could be heard in the distance and momentarily sheriff's cars began arriving, followed by an ambulance and medical team. Trucks and trailers carrying horses were next. Finally, a real search and rescue team came, trained and equipped to comb the hundreds of acres for Christy who had now been missing for more than three hours.

A massive search and rescue was about to be launched. A helicopter, equipped with powerful searchlights, was ordered to stand by as plans were made to search through the night, if necessary.

Professionals, trained in search and rescue for just such an occasion, led the search. Almost a hundred people like myself, untrained but willing to help, formed a line with only a few feet between us. We walked through the underbrush as best we could, calling Christy's name, waiting momentarily for her to respond, and then repeating the call again and again. "Christy! Christy!" The little girl's name rang out across the field, even when most of those calling her could not be seen for the brush.

Finally, the word came, Christy had been found! She was approximately four miles from home. Somehow she had made it through the brush-choked field and found her way to a small clearing at the top of a hill. It was there that a mounted member of the search and rescue team found her.

The search was over just a little before dark. It ended with the joyous return of a little girl who was bruised, scratched, and very, very tired. So tired, in fact, she went to sleep even while people were talking and celebrating her rescue.

Driving home that evening I thought of the effort that had been made to find Christy. For the sake of a missing little girl, people left families, jobs, and businesses. They paid whatever cost was necessary to find her. It was the most Christ-like thing most of the rescuers had ever done.

Just a reminder.

Lord, thank You for seeking us when we wandered far from You. Thank You most of all for finding us and bringing us back home.

From Alcohol to Alleluia

"My husband wanted me to call you and ask if you would pray for a man that is a drunk and has been for 12 years."

Her words were still occupying first place in my thoughts as I parked in front of their house in the flats, a somewhat run-down neighborhood in the southeast part of Oklahoma City. She was sitting on the front porch—unkempt, embarrassed, worried, and hurting—both physically and emotionally.

My heart went out to this woman as soon as I noticed she had only one foot. The other had been amputated about midway to her knee. I saw no aids for getting around—no wheelchair, walker, or even a crutch. As I approached the gate I tried to imagine what Christ would do if He were in my shoes. As I fumbled with the gate latch she said, "Please, don't come in."

I introduced myself as the pastor and she interrupted me. "I know. I called you. My husband wanted me to call, but he is not her now, so please don't come in. Just leave."

When I turned to walk away I heard a loud noise coming from inside the small house. It sounded like something, or someone, had fallen. Very slurred speech followed the noise, "Is that the preacher?"

The figure of a man appeared in the open doorway. He was trying to steady himself by holding onto the door but was slowly sinking down to the floor. Finally, he looked at me from his sprawled position, and muttered a garbled request for prayer.

This was my first meeting with Omer King. A wave of anger mixed with compassion washed over me. I was angry at the liquor industry and all their pretty, enticing advertisements. Yet, I felt compassion for Omer—one of millions who had been deceived and destroyed by alcohol.

Mrs. King sat crying. Shame and embarrassment were etched on her face. "I am sorry I lied to you," she choked. "Please forgive me for lying to you—I didn't want you to see him like this." Her predicament and honesty touched me deeply.

Omer raised his head to look at me and once again slurred a request for prayer. Both of his eyes were red and the right one was turned permanently away from the left, twitching slightly. I looked him in the eye, as best I could, and refused to pray for him. I only promised to come back at another time.

Amazingly, my words seemed to spark something in Omer. Rising to his feet, he stumbled through the doorway onto the porch. As I turned to walk away, I heard him say, "My old Daddy was a Free Will Baptist preacher, and he would pray for anyone, at any time, under any condition!"

Continuing to walk toward the car, I realized that I heard and understood every word he spoke. (To this day, I still wonder if God cleared up his voice so I would truly hear what he said.) Momentarily thinking I had been too hasty in telling him I would not pray for him, I stopped. I turned back just in time to see him slump down on the floor, closing his eyes in a drunken slumber.

I kept my promise. I was at Omer's house at just past 7:00 a.m. the next day—about the time Mrs. King said Omer usually came home from working the night shift. I was there waiting and wondering, not knowing what to expect. I sat in my car, thumbing through my Bible still searching for the right passage of Scripture to use in praying for a drunken man. I wish I could say I was praying, but my only thoughts were of the previous day's scene.

This time, though, the setting had changed. Mrs. King was not in her chair. How did she get into the house? Visions of her crawling into her home flashed through my mind.

Just then, my thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a uniformed man walking toward my car, head down, as though he was deep in thought. The man wore the uniform of a security guard, complete with a gun. Though I could not see his face, there was something about him that caused me to think I had seen him before.

Having turned my eyes back to my Bible, I was surprised to hear someone speak. "Good morning." I lifted my eyes to see Omer King standing beside my car. He was smiling, his left eye looking straight at me, his right eye looking north and twitching slightly.

"Get out and come in," Omer said. "I knew you would be here waiting for me."

I followed Omer to the porch where we sat down on the steps. Neither of us said a word. The silence between us grew until both of us were uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke.

"I don't know where to begin. I'm a drunk—have been for 12 years. Oh, I drank before then, but I have been drunk—I mean drunk—every day for the past 12 years. I guess there is no hope for me. I've prayed many times, but God never answered my prayers. Does He care about me? Has he given up on me?"

I turned to look at him. Tears dripped off his face and fell to the step beneath his feet. I wanted to say something, but what? My thoughts turned to the promise Jesus gave his servants. "Take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall speak" (Matthew 10:19b).

After what seemed like an hour of silence, I heard myself saying, "Omer, I remember reading some Scriptures in the Old Testament about the thoughts God had toward some other people. I'd like to share them with you . . . if I can only find them. They might help."

After a quick search I located Jeremiah 29:11-13. I read the words to him: "For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not evil, to give you an expected end. Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart."

After a long pause, I spoke. "Omer, you guessed there was no hope for you. And you want to know if God cares about you, and if He has given up on you. Well, according to these Scriptures, you guessed wrong. There is hope for you. God does care about you, and He hasn't given up on you. He is just a prayer away and He is waiting for you to get serious in your praying."

Omer got serious. He broke down. His tears and words flowed together in a prayer of deep repentance and faith toward God. Omer "prayed through"—through years of rebellion and drunkenness.

The spiritual transition was swift—Omer moved from darkness to light, from Satan's control to the Savior's control, from alcohol to alleluia, from the old life to the new. In a matter of moments he was "in Christ." Old things passed away and all things became new (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Omer looked at me. We both knew a miracle had taken place. He had been "born again" (John 3:3). "I must tell my wife!" he said eagerly.

At that moment we heard a joyful noise of laughter and weeping—praise and prayer—coming from inside the house. We entered through the door to find Mrs. King sitting on the floor rejoicing. Her crawl to the front porch had ended when she heard Omer praying. She prayed and waited. When the prayer ending and she heard us rejoicing, she joined in. It was a day she had longed to see.

As spiritual "babes in Christ," the King's first need was love and acceptance. Who would love and care for these spiritual babies? Was there a social agency somewhere? Would I, their pastor? I drove away with mixed emotions. I rejoiced that Omer and Mrs. King had been born again, but I resisted doing the nursery work of caring for these spiritual newborns. (It's only human to rejoice at births and still resist the rearing, you know.)

I did the natural thing. I consulted with my fleshly feelings. I didn't feel like I had the time or the energy to do the spiritual nursery work. I really felt like I should give myself to study and prayer. Someone else should take care of them—after all, I was the pastor. Why should I have to do this sort of stuff?

About then I remembered the words of my father, a preacher for over 60 years. "I learned a long time ago not to consult the flesh when it comes to serving God," he said. Those words prompted me to ask God to help me learn that lesson. My feelings began to ebb. I volunteered for "nursery" work. I knew then that love was not a feeling, but a choice. I had chosen to love and care for Omer and his wife even if I was the only person who did. (Thankfully, I wasn't.)

I realized later that the choice I made was very much like the choice my Heavenly Father made in eternity past. Before the beginning of time, He chose to love the world and give His only Son so that whoever believes in him would not perish but have everlasting life (John 3:16). This same God can and will teach all of us how to love and receive love if we will allow Him (1 John 4:8b).

Now that I had volunteered for nursery work, where should I begin? I determined to stop by Omer's home the next day (Saturday) and offer them a ride to church. When I did so, Omer quickly accepted my offer. Mrs. King, however, declined. She said she had no way to get around. I assured her that I understood.

I drove away from their home anticipating the next day. It would be Omer's first time in church since his father's death nearly 20 years prior. It would also be his first time in church as a Christian. I could hardly wait!

The detective, Bill, and I drove separate cars to Mrs. King's house. I waited for Bill as he talked with his dispatcher. We walked slowly toward the front door of a small white house located on a quiet street in a nice neighborhood. The house was little, but it looked warm, cozy, and inviting. I could not keep from thinking that this was definitely a move up from where Omer and Mrs. King lived in the flats.

Light leaked around the edges of the drawn drapes and I wondered if Mrs. King was still up, or if she slept with a nightlight. Everything was so quiet and peaceful. I regretted having to interrupt the tranquility with bad news. Once again I realized that pastors are no always the bearers of good news.

I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Almost immediately Mrs. King responded.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"The pastor," I replied.

I could hear a shuffling sound as Mrs. King moved from the bed to her wheelchair—quite an accomplishment for a woman who had by then lost both legs to disease. I then heard her making her way to the door, the rattle of the door chain, followed by the clicking sound of the door locks. I prayed for words to tell her about Omer.

Mrs. King opened the door and looked beyond me at the detective. She rolled her wheelchair back as we entered the living room. Pointing to a couch, she invited us to sit down. As we sat down, I introduced Bill.

Mrs. King turned her chair to face me. Our eyes met.

"Pastor, which one of my boys is it this time?" (She had two sons and both were alcoholics.) I could say nothing. Her eyes filled with tears and she cried, "Oh, my God . . . not Omer! Please . . . not Omer!"

I was still searching for the right words when she spoke again.

"It is Omer, isn't it? Pastor, is he hurt? Is he dead?"

I nodded. Grief overwhelmed her. I felt I should say something, but I could think of nothing to say. I stood, put my arms around her shoulders, and we cried together.

Bill excused himself and left, saying something about finishing the paperwork later. I learned there are times when tears and touch are needed more than words.

Mrs. King calmed somewhat and we began to talk. We relived her last evening with Omer. It had been a joyful time. She had prepared the evening meal and packed snacks for Omer to take to work. Earlier that day Omer had picked up a picture of the two if them from the studio. It was their first time to have a picture made by a professional photographer and it was an excellent photo of them both. This picture would now be her most cherished possession.

Mrs. King spoke, "Pastor, tell me what you know about Omer's death."

"Omer arrived early for his night shift," I began. "He visited with the guard he was relieving. As his starting time drew near he excused himself for his prayer time. When he didn't return to begin his shift the guard he was relieving when looking for him. The guard found him at his favorite place for prayer. He was between the boilers and the wall. He was still in a kneeling position, leaning against the wall.

Mrs. King was silent for a long while before saying, "Pastor, I can't live without Omer."

"Can't, or don't want to live without him?" I asked.

"I don’t want to live without him," she replied.

This feeling of despair would intensify. I was frightened by what I heard and troubled by the look in Mrs. King's eyes.

Mrs. King did not want to live without Omer. She wanted to die. And she wondered why God didn't take her instead of him.

As I listened to her recount her physical condition and dependency on others, I knew living and dying were not new thoughts to her. I encouraged her to talk. She told of feelings of uselessness and how she had no one and nothing for which to live. She even told how on various occasions she had contemplated taking her own life. Only the fear of botching the attempt and the terror of standing before God in judgment prevented her from committing suicide.

Finally, she stopped talking and fixed her eyes on the floor. I could see her sinking into a pattern of bad thoughts. I waited several minutes before asking her to tell me more.

"Tell me about some of your good times," I asked.

Her thoughts began to change and as she raised her eyes to meet mine I could see a smile stretching her lips and her eyes sparkling in a dance of joy. Her hands slowly rose from her lap to form a cone. The dread had passed, at least for the present. She shifted slightly in her chair and I could see the results of her recollection of good times and thinking good thoughts.

Again, I encouraged her to talk—asking her to tell me about the things she remembered at that very moment. As I suspected, at the very moment she was thinking about Omer's conversion to Christ and her own spiritual renewal and the joyful times the two of them had together. The last nine months had been sheer bliss. For the first time in many years she had felt loved and appreciated—like a real wife. Then she added, "Now, Omer is dead."

"Omer is very much alive," I countered. "Only the body in which he lived for a time has died. Omer is enjoying that abundant life which Christ came to give to all who receive Him as Savior."

I went on to explain that life is more than body. Our bodies may be healthy or diseased, old or young, able or disabled. They may serve us well or not at all, but they are like a tent—a temporary dwelling place—until God moves us into the one He has prepared for us. Our bodies, though fashioned by God in our mother's womb and a marvelous work, wonderfully made, are still just flesh and blood. They were never intended to be our permanent dwelling place and they will never enter heaven.

Even though we may abuse and pollute them, when we turn to God in repentance and faith in Jesus Christ they can become (and do become) the temple of God. Imagine, God living in our tent with us! Incredible! (See 1 Corinthians 3:16, 17; 6:19, 20.) Whether our bodies be young or old, weak or strong, whole are partial, God still lives within us. Our disabilities and weaknesses, though a bother to us, are opportunities for God to give us grace sufficient to meet our need and demonstrate His power (2 Corinthians 12:9).

In reality, we all live in perishing bodies—some in more advanced stages than others. Eventually, in God's timing and plan, we will move out of our present body into new one which He has prepared for us. (See 1 Corinthians 15:1-58 and 2 Corinthians 5:1-10.) That will be glory! Literally.

Regardless of the shape, size, or condition of our body, life is sacred. Life is a gift from God. We are to live for Him (Colossians 3:17, 23, 24). Though we may think we have nothing, or no one for which to live, we always have HIM—the One who gave us life.

We may think our body to be useless and worthless to ourselves and others. Think again. Your body is your temporary home—your home away from home. And there is no body which God would not be pleased to live in and use for His glory. It is our privilege to invite Him in and to present our body to Him as a dwelling place (Romans 12:1, 2).

Omer's body was abused and weakened by alcohol. But when given the opportunity, God moved in and only eternity will reveal the full impact Omer made on his friends, relatives, and church family. Omer's memorial service was attended by one of the largest crowds the church ever had for such an occasion. He lived just nine months after his conversion. He was saved just in the nick of time.

Mrs. King's body was weakened and mutilated by disease. But, when given the opportunity, God moved in and used her to touch her alcoholic son. Heaven only knows the extent of her impact on others. She only lived a few months after Omer's home-going. Today, they are both in heaven and I am looking forward to seeing them when my time comes.

Remember Omer's two brothers who had given up on him and forbad him to call them or come near their places? They will get to see and talk with him again. They and their families were all saved shortly after Omer left for heaven.

Remember Mrs. King's two alcoholic sons? I heard from one of them about a year after Mrs. King left for heaven. The one I heard from had been saved, delivered from alcohol, and on his way to haven. I don't know about the other, but I think maybe he also has turned to God. The burden to pray for him was lifted from my heart many years ago.

How God used Omer and Mrs. King to bring their loved ones and others to Christ? Well, that's a story for another time.


Lord, You do Your work in unexpected ways. You bring triumph out of tragedy and glory out of gloom. Tune my heart to praise you in all things, for You work all things to Your good, even when we don't immediately see it. That which is good in Your sight is good for me. Amen.

The Bag Lady Is My Sister

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares" (Hebrews 13:2).

She was crossing SE 15th Street in Oklahoma City. It wasn't my first time to see her. She was a common sight on South Robinson, a light industrial section of the city. The area was mostly run down rentals in those days, but there was a small park and a few well-kept homes. As always, she was pulling her red wagon and looking for treasures she could collect.

Today was different from other times when I had seen her. She was only a few city blocks from our church, coming from an area called "the flats" ("uptowners" called it the slum). Her Western Flyer wagon was filled—piled high above the small sideboards—with treasures she had picked up off the streets and out of garbage cans.

I continued slowing my car and finally brought it to a complete stop as she struggled to keep her cargo from tumbling into the street. She made it to the curb, but when she lifted the front of the wagon to the top of the curb, her treasures suddenly tumbled off into the street.

Help her!

Who? Me? Why should I?

I eased my car over to the curb and parked—still wondering about the thoughts that came rushing into my mind. Finally, I exited the car and went back to help.

She was bent over at the waist—legs straight as a fence post—picking up her lost treasures.

"Good afternoon. May I help you?" I asked.

Without straightening up, she turned her head to see who was speaking. When she smiled I saw one lonely yellowish tooth. Her skin was dark and wrinkled from overexposure to the Oklahoma weather, but it complemented her twinkling blue eyes.

Her eyes that told me I could help as she continued to retrieve her treasures. Together, we loaded her wagon with the fallen items. She never straightened up until the job was done.

When she stretched to her full height she was still a small woman—well under five feet tall. For the first time she looked me over. Her gaze passed from my carefully groomed hair, to my blue suit, down to my shined shoes. I waited for her comment, wondering if I would pass her inspection.

"You must be a preacher," she said. "Only a preacher would wear clothes like yours on a hot day like this."

I smiled, slightly amused by her observation. My thoughts whirled.

How would she know about preachers? She's a "bag lady!" Why don't I just wish her a good day and get on with my church visitation? Or, could talking to this bag lady actually be part of my church visitation?

A verse of Scripture came to mind: "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and keep himself unspotted from the world" (James 1:27). Now I was even more confused.

What is God trying to tell me? Or, is He trying to tell me anything? Is this bag lady a widow? Is she fatherless? Did she grow up as an orphan? How would Christ respond to this little woman who scoured the streets and garbage cans for her livelihood?

I introduced myself and handed her one of my business cards. She looked the card over and reached for a string tied around her neck. As she tugged at the string she remarked, "I've got another card. One from the sheriff." When she pulled the string free from her clothing I was surprised to see a small sack dangling at the end of it. She carefully removed two safety pins and pulled out the other card. It really was a personalized card from the county sheriff.

"The sheriff told me to call him if I ever needed him," she commented. "He said anytime day or night was okay."

I watched her place my card with the sheriff's card as she turned away from me. She pulled her blouse out at the neck, dropping the little sack down inside her clothing. This little bag lady was intriguing. I had to know more about her. In a strange sort of way I even felt a sense of kindred. Is she a Christian? I wondered.

"I would like to be friends with you," said. "I pastor the Central Avenue church, which is only about three or four blocks from where we are. It's the red brick building with the lighted church sign out front."

The bag lady seemed to be smiling as she drifted down memory lane. Not knowing what she was thinking, I waited for her response.

"I went to a red brick church one time. They had donuts and soup sometime." She paused momentarily, then continued. "They moved away. I don't know where. Then another church came. I went one time—no one would talk to me. I didn't go back. They moved away and someone tore the church down. Now there is no church."

"What is your name?" I inquired.

"Taylor," she replied.

I sensed a budding friendship. We were warming up to each other and talking was becoming easier for both of us.

"Do you go to church now?" I asked.

"No," she replied.

"Would you like to come to our church? We would love to have you, and we will come and get you if you need transportation."

"Yes, if I can bring my wagon. I will walk."

I recalled the words of Jesus when He came to his disciples walking upon a stormy sea, "It is I; be not afraid" (John 6:20). Is Jesus saying to me that He is dwelling in this bag lady and I am not to be afraid? A warm feeling washed over me. Is this bag lady actually my sister in Christ?

"Sure," I answered, "you may bring your wagon. I will be looking forward to seeing you soon."

With that I continued on my way, visiting others. But I could not keep the bag lady out of my mind. Will she really come to church? Where will she park her wagon? Will she bring it inside the church—perhaps down the aisle? Will she park it in someone's favorite parking space? What's the rest of her name? Where is her family—if she has one? One thing was certain; she was mysterious.

As the weeks passed I continued thinking about my encounter with the bag lady . . . and her, shall we say, odorous body. The smell that surrounded her seemed to be a mixture of sweat, armpits, and . . . well, other aromas. It made me wonder if this scent was unique to bag ladies and other people who slept on the streets, in alleys, parks, or under bridges. I smiled to myself thinking about her odor mingling with that of the colognes and perfumes worn by the people that attended our church. Nevertheless I was getting excited just imagining the difference she would make in our Sunday evening service . . . if she came.

A few days later, the people were coming in for the Sunday evening service. The parking lot was filling up, but the bag lady had not arrived. I was greeting people when I noticed our song leader and pianist making their way to the front of the church. Glancing at my watch, it was still five minutes until starting time.

I was moving toward the front when I sensed that others were coming in. Turning toward the back doors, I saw Mrs. Taylor, without her wagon, making her way down the center aisle. (I later learned she had parked her wagon outside.) The ushers had already greeted her warmly and now stood watching her slowly walk down the aisle. I went to meet her. Not knowing how to introduce her to others, I greeted her warmly and asked if she were Miss or Mrs. Taylor.

"My husband left when my Jimmy was born," she replied. "I don't know where he is and I don't care. I hope I never see him again."

I asked where she would like to sit. She chose the second row from the front—where Mrs. Peters always sat. Sister Peters was a sweet elderly lady, a full-sized woman, with a humble spirit and a heart full of love. She gladly turned a bit to allow Mrs. Taylor to take a seat.

Mrs. Taylor squeezed by Sister Peters and continued standing, gazing at the baptistery.

"That's a pretty picture on the back wall of the baptistery, isn't it?" I remarked.

"I was dunk one time," she commented, her eyes still fixed on the baptistery.

I had my answer. I would introduce her as my sister in the Lord and discover the details of her spiritual life later.

I walked to the pulpit to begin the service. The song leader was in his place, grinning so big his eyes were just slits. The pianist, leaning slightly to the left to look around the piano light, gave me a large smile. I turned to face the audience. The ushers, standing at their place at the entrance of the room, were smiling too. Even the congregation seemed unusually happy, with only a few exceptions. The ones who weren't smiling had their eyes fixed on the bag lady.

Ignoring the frowns, I greeted the congregation enthusiastically. "Tonight we have a very special blessing. I am privileged and honored to introduce to you my new friend and sister in the Lord. Please welcome Sister Taylor!"

The bag lady's eyes lit up. She stood, waving a wrinkled handkerchief at the people. She turned her head from side to side; she flashed the same smile I'd first seen on the street, exposing that same lonely yellowish tooth for all to see. Instantly, Sister Taylor won the hearts of that Sunday night congregation.

We stood and prayed, then I went to my chair and the singing began. I looked at the hymnal, but my heart wasn't singing. Somehow I sensed something different about the bag lady. What was it? My thoughts drifted back to the moment I greeted her in the center aisle. I had shaken her hand and placed my left hand on her shoulder as I directed her to the pews. What's missing? Then it hit me. The scent! I had not ever noticed the odor that was once so offensive to my super-sensitive nose.

I immediately joined the congregation in singing, The Old Time Religion. When we got to the second verse, we sang of how the old time religion "Makes me love everybody." I knew then why I hadn't noticed the odor.

After the service, I waited my turn to talk with Sister Taylor. In our short conversation I discovered that her "Jimmy" was now a grown man, living with a family of his own in Stockton, California. He stayed in touch with his mother, as best he could, encouraging her to call him collect, since she could neither read nor write. But she never did.

On more than just a few occasions, Jimmy would contact the office of the county sheriff asking them to find his mother. The sheriff took the first call personally. That explained why she had his personalized business card. At other times, it was a deputy that would check on her.

There were other questions I wanted to ask, but Sister Taylor had to leave. I watched as she pulled her red wagon down the sidewalk toward SE 15th Street. I saw two large red reflectors on the back of her wagon and felt a little better about her safety as she walked in the dark. One question did concern me—where will she sleep tonight? I thought about following her, but then it occurred to me that even a bag lady wouldn't want to be stalked, no matter what the reason.

I watched as she disappeared into the darkness, then I walked the half-block my home. A Sunday night snack, the recliner, and even the late newscast, did little to divert my thoughts from Sister Taylor. Mentally, I could not release her until I prayed for her and made plans to locate her on Monday morning.

Monday morning I drove to the area where I thought another red brick church once stood. I arrived in the area a little past 8 a.m. The neighborhood was undergoing some great change. Many buildings were completely demolished, making way for a new freeway bypass and the accompanying new commercial business that would cater to travelers.

Led by the Holy Spirit, I believe, I stopped at one well-kept house. An elderly couple greeted me at the door and with a warm welcome invited me in for coffee. Being eager for conversation about the area, I accepted.

This dear couple was eager for a visit as well, and they enjoyed talking about their home. All of their eight children grew up and attended school in that area. (The old school was now being used for some kind of social work.) They had bought the lot on which they built their house when the area first opened for development. They had lived in their dream home for years and had no intention to leave it. They planned to just leave for heaven from that very spot, just as soon as the Good Lord said it was time for them to go.

The old couple told me about the red brick church. They were once members of that congregation. They called it "The Old-time Methodist." They even had fond memories of a social time with donuts before the Sunday service and unforgettable soup suppers on Wednesday night.

They voted against the church relocating to the northwest part of Oklahoma City. When the move was made anyway, they could no longer attend, so they began going to Capitol Hill Baptist, just across the river, with friends who gave them a ride.

By now my heart was beating faster with excitement and my throat was dry. I had to ask about Sister Taylor. Did they know her, and if so, what did they know? Smiling at each other, they began their story about their acquaintance with Sister Taylor.

"Now that lady was some lady!" he said. "She had been on the streets for many years. People that tried to talk with her found her hard to understand. Her talk was more like mumbling and made little sense. She had Indian blood in her veins."

"Tell him about her coming to church," his wife interjected.

"Well," he began, "that was something else. It was on a Mother's Day when in walked this bag lady with a fine young couple from California. The funny thing was that no one recognized her in a new dress with her hair all done up nice. She even wore a corsage of three red roses. The young man introduced her as his mother, saying, 'We are the Taylor's.' She continued coming once in a while, as long as the church was there. She only came on a Sunday morning or a Wednesday night—I guess it was when she was short on food. We still see her on the streets. That's about all I can tell you."

I thanked them for their hospitality and good coffee, and started my drive back toward the church. My new friends had told me much about Sister Taylor and, perhaps unknown to them, had confirmed the things she had told me. Still, I was eager to discover more details of her life—especially her spiritual life.

On my way back to the church, I spotted Sister Taylor's red wagon at the side of a popular workingman's restaurant. This place only served breakfast and lunch. They specialized in homemade yeast rolls—all you could eat with butter, honey, or jelly. They always kept the hot bread on your table until you finished your meal, whether it was breakfast or lunch . . . my kind of place.

I had a thought. Maybe I could buy Sister Taylor lunch. I pulled into the parking lot and made my way to the restaurant entrance. Stepping inside, I looked for Sister Taylor. Someone called out to me, "Sit wherever you like!" I chose a table facing the front door, with a view into the kitchen area and back door.

To my surprise, when the backdoor opened I saw Sister Taylor headed outside. At that very moment, the waitress brought hot rolls to my table. I ordered a plate lunch, a popular vegetable plate, and excused myself, telling the waitress that I would be right back.

Rushing outside, I saw Sister Taylor pulling her wagon across the parking lot. I called to her. She was surprised to see me, and even more surprised when I invited her to lunch. She refused the invitation, however, explaining that she had already had lunch. She said she ate with the man and woman who owned the restaurant. I would learn later that she often ate with them in what they called their "private dining room"—a section of the kitchen with a table and chairs for four.

I returned to my lunch, enjoying it a bit more knowing that Sister Taylor also had a good lunch. I was excited at the prospect of having a bag lady call me, "Pastor." It would be the first, and perhaps only, time I would be a pastor to a bag lady.

I remembered the words Jesus spoke, "For ye have the poor always with you" (Matthew 26:11a). Why would I think of these words as this particular time? What are His plans for me? Are there other bag ladies or homeless people that I will pastor? I wondered about the spiritual life of other people in similar circumstances. How many are my sisters and brothers in Christ? Do they have pastors? Is there a caring church to love and lead them?

One thing God seemed to settle in my mind—they are not all addicts. Some homeless people have found, for various reasons, their niche in society. In the days ahead, God would teach me, as a pastor to a bag lady, that I must respect her as a person and love and minister to her as He would, for I am His ambassador (2 Corinthians 5:20).

My pastoral relationship to Sister Taylor might be described as "different." There were no home visits, discipleship studies, or socializing. No spoken expressions of endearment—just acts of kindness and warm greetings, genuine respect for each other, and Christian love—a relationship that demanded no payback from each other. Refreshing!

As time passed, my relationship to Sister Taylor was producing change in me. I came to the place where I actually had a great admiration for her. She faced every day with a simple trust in God—trusting Him for daily bread. She would do her part—scouring the garbage cans and streets, and God would do His part. She would graciously accept gifts of food, money, and clothes from various sources as His provision for her needs. Just as God can change a sinner into a saint, He can also change trash into treasures. I saw it, not on one occasion, but many.

I never heard Sister Taylor complain about her lot in life. She lived it without blaming others. She was comfortable in who she was and in what she did. I never tried to move her from her comfort zone, believing it would have been a disaster for her. Instead, I prayed for wisdom to enter her world, not as one superior to the other, but as equals in the eyes of God.

I wanted to show a genuine interest in what she was interested in, and to show appreciation for her skills and accomplishments. I wanted to exchange encouragements with her. I wanted to be a pastor and friend to her. To do this, I would have to deal with ingrained concepts and prejudice toward certain classes of people.

Weeks turned into months. The amount of time escapes me, but I knew my pastoral duties at that church were coming to an end. One day, the ringing of my office phone interrupted my thoughts.

The caller, a woman, inquired, "Are you Pastor Yandell and do you know a Ms. Taylor?" I answered yes. She introduced herself saying, "I'm the lead nurse on the east wing of the first floor of the County Hospital. Ms. Taylor was hit by a car last Friday evening and was brought to the hospital with bruises and a bump on the head. She apparently received no serious injuries, but we kept her through the weekend for observation. Pastor, we would like for you to come for a visit with her and to evaluate her condition. After you have completed your visit, we want to meet with you for your evaluation of her and to ask you for more information about her."

I went immediately to the hospital and was met by a team of three nurses. They thanked me for coming and hoped I did not think they were being silly by calling me in for an evaluation. It seemed to them that Sister Taylor's conversation was not making sense that morning.

Sister Taylor had asked for her stuff. When they brought her clothes to her, she looked for the little sack she wore around her neck. Retrieving my card, she insisted on them calling me.

When I walked into her room, Sister Taylor was sitting on the side of the bed, fully clothed and ready to go home. (I still didn't know where home was.) After visiting with her, I concluded that she was acting normal and returned for my meeting with the nurses. I could add no new information, and they had made all the arrangements for her to go home.

Shortly after the hospital incident I moved to California. I've thought of her several times, and when I do questions fill my mind. You know, questions like you are having about her right now.

She came to the last service I had at the church. We parted with, "I'll see you later." I watched as she disappeared into the darkness, pulling her little red wagon with the large red reflectors, and wondered when and where we would meet again. Heaven? That would be excellent!

I have one regret. I did not tell her of the contribution she made to my life and the impact she made on my ministry. At the time, it didn't seem necessary. If she only knew . . .

Father, You know better than anyone that some of Your children have little of this world's goods. But, You also know that many of the rest of us fail to value and appreciate what is truly important. Thank You for using people like Sister Taylor to correct our perspectives.

When Life Turns Tragic

A quadriplegic! Bobby is a quadriplegic? I couldn't believe it. What went wrong?

I remembered Bobby as an oversized 14-year-old boy. His father and mother were devoted Christians. Bobby's dad was a hard-working minister who worked during the week as a carpenter and ministered in small churches on Sundays. Bobby's parents spoke often of how God had blessed them both materially and spiritually. Now Bobby was paralyzed.

As my parents told me of Bobby's accident, I tried to mentally catch up. During my tour of duty in the U.S. Navy, a lot of changes had taken place. Bobby had grown from the awkward kid I knew to a tall and handsome young man. At just 15 years of age, he said God had called him to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. His plans included graduating from high school and going on to Bible college in preparation for a lifetime of service for God.

On a certain Sunday, Bobby's father asked him to speak in his stead at the small church he was pastoring. (An unusual, but not unheard of opportunity in the small churches of that day.) Bobby's message was powerful and he was an instant hit with the church family—especially the youth.

A family of the church invited Bobby and all the teens from the church to their home for lunch. It was a fun time and by the time lunch was over the kids had arranged a swimming party for the afternoon. Bobby agreed to go, but only as a spectator, because he had not brought clothes for swimming. However, someone came up with a pair of jeans Bobby could wear and he consented to join them after all.

When they arrived at the old swimming hole, the kids made a mad rush for the water; everyone was scrambling to be the first one in. Bobby—a tall, lean, athletic type—dove into the water first. Tragically, the water wasn't deep enough for diving and he struck his head, breaking his neck. In an instant, the handsome young man became a quadriplegic. He would never recover from the accident.

My parents told me that Bobby wanted to see me. I lived 200 miles away, but sent word by my folks that I would come to see him in the near future. Within a few weeks, I made the long drive to see Bobby. All I had been told about Bobby did not prepare me for this visit. It was my first time to visit a paralyzed individual. I was fearful of saying or doing the wrong thing, thinking I might add to the mental and emotional pain he was suffering. The drive passed quickly and I was soon parked in front of his house . . . cold feet and all.

Bobby's mother invited me into the house and immediately took me to his room. He greeted me with a booming voice, as though he was trying to compensate for his condition. I walked to the side of his hospital bed knowing he could not shake hands and wondering what my next move should be. He seemed to sense my awkwardness, saying with a smile, "I'll meet you part way." He lifted his right hand a little and I cupped it in mine. We both knew it was more than a mere meeting of the hands, it was a meeting of the hearts. Though I was a few years older than Bobby and we had not spent much time together, we were close in spirit.

The afternoon passed before either of us was ready to end our visit. I had a 200-mile drive to make and felt I should be getting on the road. I stood and asked that the two of us pray for one another. He said, First, I want to tell you something. I think it is the real reason why I wanted, and needed, to talk with you."

I listened as Bobby told me of the Sunday he preached, and the afternoon swimming party—much of what my parents had already told me. Then he went on to tell me about his injury and what it had done to him as a person.

It had been two very long years for him. Just 24 months ago he was a young man of vigor and vitality. Then, he weighed around 200 pounds. Now, he weighed only 120. He had only a slight mobility in his right arm and hand. His eyes filled with tears as he said, "I'm helpless."

Like most young people, Bobby wanted his space. He resented parental control and strained against their reins. On one occasion, he had even threatened them with, "Just wait until I'm 18. Things are gonna change then—I'm moving out." But, that was before his life took a tragic turn. In an instant, he had gone from pushing his parents for his freedom to do as he pleased to a complete and irreversible dependence upon them. Now he could do nothing for himself. He confessed that he had even considered suicide, but realized he could not even take his own life without their help, or that of someone else.

Bobby turned his eyes toward me and waited for my response. I tried to prepare myself for the worst possible question he could ask of me. Momentarily, my imagination went wild. I braced for a question he could never ask. I was needlessly fearful and worried over a situation that would never develop. (A lot like you may be feeling as you read these words.)

Bobby went on to tell of experiencing overwhelming boredom. His physical condition brought on mental weariness. He felt sorry for himself. He told of growing tired of hearing the Scriptures read and the praying of prayers that seemed to offer him only a false hope and fake optimism. His number of visitors had dwindled and those who kept coming were uninteresting—parroting meaningless phrases and words.

In his desperate fight to cope with boredom, Bobby asked for a television and cigarettes. His parents purchased a small television and mounted it on the wall for his viewing. His dad gave him a pack of Camelä cigarettes. These diversions helped with his boredom for a while, but the television also led him to his greatest delusion and disappointment.

Every week, Bobby watched the programs of televangelists and so-called "faith healers." He became enamored with the faith healers and watched as people threw crutches away to run across the stage. He heard some testify of excruciating pain that suddenly went away during the prayer and touch of the healer's hand.

Others were wheeled across the platform in wheelchairs. At the healer's command they would abandon their chairs—running down the platform steps into the aisles among the congregation. Week after week Bobby watched the shows. Slowly, he began to believe in the faith healers. His favorite one told a touching story of his own healing when he was just a young boy and of God calling him to a healing ministry for others. Bobby was impressed.

In time, the so-called faith healer announced he was coming to Dallas, Texas (approximately 150 miles from where Bobby lived) for a one-week healing crusade. He urged the sick, crippled, and paralyzed to come for healing. Citing the story of the friends who removed the roof of a house in order to get a paralyzed man to Jesus, the faith healer called on friends and families to do the same for their loved ones. He emphasized that the citywide campaign would only be for one week and urged people to come early.

Bobby wanted to go. He was desperate. He would go! By ambulance and plane.

Bobby's parents made arrangements to take him to the healing campaign. They hired an ambulance to transport him to the airport, chartered a small plane to fly him to Dallas, and arranged for another ambulance to take him to the location of the crusade. The cost was astronomical for a poor family, but they were doing whatever was necessary, just as the healer said.

When the family reached the crusade site they stood in awe. A large tent had been erected. Seating thousands, this tent would house the services. Smaller tents flanked the large one. In these smaller tents hundreds of people were being processed. Each sought a place in the healing lines that would form and move across the platform in front of the healer.

Bobby was placed in one of the small tents to be processed. A man came to fill out a registration card, recording Bobby's name, address, the type and length of his illness, and the status of his medical treatment. After completing the card, the man left saying someone would be in to see him.

No one came.

Bobby's place in the healing line never materialized, either. Neither the healer, nor one of his associates, ever came to see Bobby. His parents tried to ask questions and get someone to help Bobby, but their efforts were to no avail. The only prayers ever prayed for Bobby at that crusade were those of his father and mother who shared in his letdown. The family returned home, disillusioned and disappointed in so-called faith healers, but stronger and much wiser in the true faith and love of God.

Bobby's story was about over, but he wasn't quite finished.

"I know you have a long drive home and need to be on your way," he said, "but I want you to know that I am not bitter, nor do I blame God for my condition. I did a very stupid thing and my error has caused this [paralysis]. God has not left me. I sense his presence every day and night. Someday He will come for me and then I will be whole, in a body He has prepared for me. I will be with Him forever."

Bobby broke the somber mood with laughter. "I should have known that faith healer was a fake. He never healed anyone in the hospitals, malls, markets, or homes. Only on a platform under lights and before the TV cameras." At that we both laughed.

I had planned to see Bobby again, but before I did I received a call saying Bobby's Lord had come for him. Bobby was finally at home, a quadriplegic no more. His tragedy had been turned to triumph.

Father, deliver us from faith in men, but infuse us with faith in You. Let us learn to trust You for healing or for hope, as it glorifies You.

Time Counts

Do you remember your early experiences in learning to tell time? I can remember some of mine. Some of the first⎯if not the first⎯were at home, with my father as the teacher.

The ticking of an old Big Bend pocket watch fascinated me. Papa would hold it close to my ear, urging me to listen, while he recited a little rhyme: "Tick, tock, tick, tock, the mouse ran up the clock." He would never complete the rhyme, nor would he allow me to hold the watch. He called it his very valuable timepiece, emphasizing that it was not a toy for kids to play with. I got the point.

Mama used the old alarm clock⎯a Waltman, I think⎯to help me learn to tell time. Her emphasis was on the hands of the clock. She would ask me to tell her where the big hand was and then where they little hand was positioned. Then she would tell me the time of day, thus beginning to teach me to tell time. One day I would have my own alarm clock and "valuable timepiece." But learning the value of time would come later.

I was soon to learn there was much more to time than just telling the time of day. Papa, like a true preacher man, would make my ears ring with statements I didn't understand⎯nor particularly care about. He would say, often very early in the day, "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven," quoting from Ecclesiastes 3:1. Sometimes he would continue quoting, telling about a time to be born, to die, to plant, to pluck up, to kill, to heal, to break down, to build up, to weep, to laugh, to mourn, to dance, to cast away stones, to gather stones, to embrace, to refrain from embracing, to get, to lose, to keep, to cast away, to rend, to sew, to keep silence, to speak, to love, to hate, a time to make war, and a time for peace (verses 2-8). (Yes, he knew this and many more passages of Scripture by heart.)

It was obvious to me that something was missing. There was no time to play! At that time in my life, playing was my passion. In time, I would have other passions. In more time, I would yield to the call of God on my life. Ministry⎯preaching, evangelizing, and pastoring⎯would become my strongest passion of all. And, in ministry, I would learn even more about time and timing.

In 1952 I received my first invitation to a full-time pastorate. I said yes. But, I did not know what I was saying yes to. Looking back, though, I would do it all over again.

To me, accepting that church meant I would be living in a rent-free parsonage, preaching three times a week⎯twice on Sunday and once on Wednesday night. I would also be my own boss. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted, just because I wanted to. I must have sounded terribly brash to God. Good thing it was just between God and me.

However, as I would soon discover, a full-time pastor meant something quite different to the deacons and the church membership. From them I would hear that the church owned the house I lived in and paid my salary. I was there to look after the church business, minister to the needs of the membership, preach on Sundays, teach on Wednesday nights, contact the absentees, and evangelize in the community. It was quite a tall order for a 23 year-old with no experience as a pastor.

Where would I ever find the time to do all these things? I tried to recall some of my early instruction, but try as I might, I could not remember any of those lessons that addressed the situation I was now facing. In fact, the only thing I could remember about those days that had anything to do with time were the words Papa spoke when he called me in the mornings.

"Get out of that bed!" he would say. "Breakfast is about ready, and besides more people have died in bed than anywhere else!" Somehow that early morning greeting never failed to get me up and going. It was strange, but just remembering those words made me realize a pastor had to get up and get going. Thanks to Papa, I became and early riser. Decades later, the early morning hours are still my best time.

However, just getting up and going would not accomplish my work. I would need some type of schedule and I soon discovered my schedule would need some fine-tuning to keep the day's rhythm. And, to my surprise, a bedridden saint would be an important part of this tune-up.

Sister Smith had been ill for a very long time and confined to her bed for over a year. Her physical condition was no longer on the front burner of our church's ministry. In fact, her name did not appear on the prayer list and she was only mentioned occasionally by some of the women in private conversation. New people did not know of her, even when they heard her name. Even I, the new pastor, had no so much as heard of her before a deacon asked me if I had been to see her.

When I discovered that she lived with her daughter only a short distance from the church I felt terrible. My mind swirled with questions. Why did this deacon wait until now to tell me about this poor lady? How could I face her with the fact that no one told me about her? How could such a thing happen in a church family? Was she forgotten intentionally? Was it out of neglect? How was it that a pastor, her Sunday school teacher, the women's auxiliary⎯seemingly the entire church family⎯could just busy themselves with ministry and miss an opportunity to brighten the day of a bedridden saint?

Monday afternoon I went to see Sister Smith. Stopping in front of her house, I paused for prayer before getting out of my car. I might have delayed exiting the car even longer but I saw a curtain move at the front window and thought someone inside was watching me.

Mentally and emotionally I was struggling with this aspect of ministry. I felt so helpless, not knowing what to say or do for a person who was confined to bed and battling a terminal illness. I was soon to learn that Sister Smith herself would help me in this area.

Remembering that I was representing Jesus Christ⎯making this visit on His behalf⎯I straightened up my walk and put a smile on my face as I walked the few feet from the car to the front door. I knocked on the door and waited.

A gracious lady opened the door, greeting me as "Pastor." How she knew I was a pastor was a mystery to me. (I was reminded again that in a small church situated in a small community, most every move the pastor makes is known and reported.) Opening the door wider, she invited me into the house.

"Mother and I have been expecting you," she said, "ever since Ruth [the deacon's wife] called early this morning. This way please, Mother is in the front bedroom."

I followed, expecting to be scolded⎯and rightly so⎯for not coming sooner. To my surprise, I was greeting most warmly by a bedridden figure, smiling and beckoning me to come closer. I took her extended hand in mine, our eyes met, and I knew she was sincere when she said, "Thank you for coming. I am blessed just to have one of God's preacher boys in my home."
I looked at my watch, remembering the words of my mentor, "Most of the time, a ten minute visit is a sufficient amount of time to spend at the bedside of the ill. A pastor should never wear out his welcome." Time was passing quickly. Another ten minutes and I would be going.
"Sister Smith," I forced myself to say, "would you like for me to read Scripture and have prayer before I go?"

"Go? You just got here. What do you mean, before you go?"

"I don't have much time today," I said, "but I will be back."

My excuses didn't hold water with Sister Smith. Her voice grew firm as she told me to sit down.
"Pastor, you have just as much time as anyone⎯we all have the same amount. God has given us 24 hours a day. Evidently you are not using your time right."

Ouch! This was the first in a series of lessons on the use of time that Sister Smith was to teach me and it was a painful way to begin. Although this bedridden saint did not know she was actually teaching during our visits, I soon learned she had much more to share with me both in word and example.

Sister Smith had my attention. She spoke of the value of time and the importance of "redeeming the time" as Paul had taught (Ephesians 5:16; Colossians 4:5). Outwardly, I nodded my head in agreement. Inwardly, I determined to study those verses for their correct application.

Alone in my office, I began my study. Within the week I had concluded that Sister Smith was on the right track. I certainly could improve the way I used my time. I soon became eager for another visit with Sister Smith. I wanted to know just how a person in her circumstance used her time. Given her physical limitations, how could she redeem the time? Frankly, I didn't think it was possible, but somehow I believed she did. I had to find out.

The day came for my return visit. I prayed before going, asking God for courage to follow through with my planned inquiry. In one sense, it was none of my business. But in another sense, the way she used her time just might be an inspiration to me.

Upon my arrival at Sister Smith's I was greeted first by a young man. He introduced himself as a grandson who came to do Granny's yard. He had the appearance of an industrious young man who used his time wisely. Sure enough, even before I asked, he voluntarily told me of his Granny's teaching on the use of time. He even laid out his plan for the day. I would later discover he followed her teaching closely.

"Nice meeting you, Pastor," he said. "You have a good day and a good visit with Granny. I'll see you around."

With those words he was on his way. I walked toward the house thinking he had just given me a push toward having a good day . . . and it seemed so easy for him to do. Wow!

At the door I was again greeted warmly by the daughter and taken to Sister Smith's room. We exchanged greetings and chatted for a few minutes about the church, the weather, and other such things. All the while, I was thinking about my main reason for coming. Finally, I could not wait any longer.

"Sister Smith," I blurted out abruptly, "I've been thinking about our talk the other day and you telling me I just wasn't using my time right. I would like to know how you use your time. It might help me to improve."

Sister Smith laughed heartily. "Pastor, you are probably thinking that an old, bedridden lady like me has no real life." Still chuckling, she went on, "Well, quite the contrary. I am very much alive. It is only my body that is bedridden, and I gave my body to the Lord many years ago. It belongs to Him and whatever He does with it, or permits to be done to it, I accept. I've learned not to question Him or blame Him for my physical conditions over which I have no control. I just try to remember Paul's experience and try to claim the sufficiency of God's grace, as promised to him." (She was referring to 2 Corinthians 12:1-10; particularly verse 9: "And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.")

A holy hush enveloped the room. I knew I was in the presence of God and that He was pleased with what He heard from His bedridden child. She was right. Sister Smith was God's child, and in His time He would give her a new body suited for her heavenly home.

As Sister Smith continued to speak I learned of her once-active life. She had worked in the local school system, cared for her family, taught Sunday school, and still had time for other church and community projects.

"How did you ever manage to have time to do all of those things and still have a life for yourself?" I asked.

She laughed again. "It was fun," she replied. "Not all of the time . . . there was a sprinkling of times when it wasn't. But to answer your question about a life of my own, I did not live for myself. I lived first for my Lord, my husband, my children, my church, and other people and things came last."

Sister Smith went on to tell me of first giving herself to Christ every morning when she awakened. Then she sought to do His will for the day in the matters awaiting her attention. She daily submitted her "To Do" list to God and asked for His help in arranging and accomplishing the work. She wanted her work to be a service to God and for Him to be glorified. Having done this, she got started and followed through on each task.

I could see she was getting tired, but I couldn't resist asking if she still did these things. She did⎯with some minor changes, of course. When she awakened she first committed herself afresh to the Lord and then prayerfully asked Him to reveal His will for her day. The list she submitted to the Lord had changed somewhat. It now consisted of medications, baths, meals, Scripture readings, prayer times, phone calls, inspirational readings, correspondence, witnessing, and visiting with guests.

One of the most touching things she talked about was how irritable she was at times and her attitude toward her caregivers. Her dependence upon others was hard to accept and turn over to the Lord. Relief came when she could honestly pray for herself and her caregivers. She admitted to repenting and apologizing often.

I was especially impressed with her prayer time. She prayed for me and the church, Her caregivers, including her doctor and pharmacist, were also included in her prayers. Her love for her family and missionaries were likewise evidenced in the time she spent interceding for them. It seemed as though no one was left out. And, I learned, there were days when she prayed for the entire day. That day we prayed together before I left.

Sister Smith long ago entered the presence of her Lord. But my visits with her yielded much more than I ever expected and I have incorporated some of her teachings in my own prayer life. I will never forget the bedridden saint who taught me how to use my time, or the emphasis she placed on prayer.

Maybe when I get to heaven I will get to tell her just how she enriched my life and that I passed on to you the things she taught me. On second thought, why don't you just tell her yourself?

Father, time is Your unique gift to Your children, for you live beyond the confines of minutes, hours, and days. Help me to make the most of this gift and to use it in ways that please You and further Your purposes on this earth, until the day when I join you in the eternal now of Your presence.

CAROL IS SLEEPING . . . THREE YEARS AND COUNTING

Charles finished his work shift at 3:00 p.m. His weekend was beginning in the middle of my week. The time off would give Charles a day when he could visit his cousin in another city. He stopped by the parsonage on his way home and invited me to go with him. He wanted me to meet his aunt⎯a woman he described as the most courageous mother he had ever known.

Our visit would be timed to coincide with his cousin's nineteenth birthday. There would not be a birthday cake or party. In fact, his cousin would not respond in any way; nor could she, as far as anyone knew. She had suffered a serious head injury in a car accident three years earlier. The injury had left her comatose.

On the day of our visit, the drive to the home of Charles' aunt gave him less than an hour to prepare his inexperienced 24 year-old pastor for the visit. Try as he might, he could not find the words or the way to explain what I was about to see. Finally, he simply said I would just have to experience it for myself.

It was mid-spring in Oklahoma. A gentle breeze teased the leaves and blooming flowers into a swaying victory dance. Creation was celebrating new life after a long, hard winter. It seemed appropriate. We had come to celebrate a life that was once vibrant and vivacious, filled with laughter and play⎯the dance of youth. But now, that young life was strangely silent and still⎯waiting for a new life and a victory dance of another sort. This was a heart held in the loving hands of God. Only He could and did understand.

In silence, I prayed, giving thanks to God for my health, my youth, and His grace. My prayer ended when Charles slowed the car and pulled over to the curb, stopping in front of his aunt's home.

"Auntie was waiting and watching for us," Charles said with a chuckle as we got out of the car. I turned to see an attractive, motherly woman in her forties coming down the steps to meet us. Charles met her halfway between the car and the porch. They greeted each other warmly. Both had clearly been looking forward to our visit.
"Charles," I heard her say, "I was expecting you to come, even before you called." Turning to me, she explained, "He always comes on Carol's birthday."

Charles introduced me as his pastor and his aunt made me feel as though I was one of the family. I could tell she was the kind of person who always had room for one more in the family circle. "Let's go inside," she suggested, leading the way into the house. "I know you are eager to see Carol."

We entered a spacious, but homey living room. I glanced around. Everything was in its place and it all seemed to say welcome. Immediately, I felt at home.
Pausing inside, Charles' aunt asked if I knew about Carol. "A little," Charles answered. She led us into Carol's room and announced our presence.
"Carol, we have company," she said. "Charles and his pastor have come to see us and help us celebrate your birthday."

Charles greeted Carol and introduced me as his pastor. I spoke to her even though I felt a little awkward. Charles continued talking to Carol.

"Carol, you are just as beautiful as ever. I can hardly believe you are 19 today. It seems like only yesterday that you and I were playing baseball together. That was before I went away to war. You couldn't have been over seven years old, and look at you today. You are now a beautiful young woman of 19!"

Charles and his aunt continued visiting, including Carol in their conversation. I looked, listened, and learned. It was hard for me to fully grasp the moment. Before me was a beautiful young woman who was unconscious, and had been for three years. Yet, her hair and face was picture perfect. She lay sleeping on a three-quarter bed, with a stylish hairdo and fresh makeup on her face. She looked as though she was just resting after a morning trip to the beauty salon.

Our visit lasted about an hour. We told Carol goodbye and walked to the front porch. Charles' aunt asked if she could tell me about Carol and the night that changed her life. We sat down.

"Pastor," she began, "you may think us strange the way we talked to Carol. Her doctors have told us that, though she is in a coma, she may be able to hear some⎯if not all⎯of what is being said in her presence. The doctors cautioned us not to speak negatively or falsely about her condition or any prospect she may have of waking up. They are fine Christians and have told us she is in the hands of God. Should God wake her up, all praise and honor goes to Him. If she doesn't wake up, in time, her body will shut down and she will move to heaven. We are here to care for Carol as though she will wake up at any moment."

"I am a trained beautician," she continued. "I had my own shop at the time Carol was injured. When we brought her home I sold my shop so I could stay with her and care for her. I believe God directed me to beauty college, and I was especially trained to take care of my daughter. I count it a blessed privilege to care for her. Every morning I fix her hair and her face . . . I call it my 'mothering ministry.' I believe it is most pleasing to God. I abound with energy and have never felt the need of being relieved or the need of a vacation. I want to be here when, and if, Carol awakes. I keep my mind stayed on God, and I have peace from Him. Isaiah 26:3 has become real to me."

She shifted positions, and the tone of her voice changed slightly as her eyes lit up with excitement. "Carol was saved at the age of 13, and she has been a very strong witness since her conversion. Christ was her life, and she wanted everyone to know Him, especially the kids she went to school with."

It was about 5:00 p.m. on the night that changed their lives when a group of kids from their church had driven to Oklahoma City for a youth rally. It was Carol's birthday. She was 16 years old. Their plans included stopping at a favorite spot after the rally for ice cream in celebration of her birthday. They would be a little late getting home.

On their way for ice cream, it happened. A young man, intoxicated from a different kind of party, was driving at high speed on a newly opened divided highway. He was on his way to get more drinks for the party when he lost control of his car. The car ran off the pavement, through the center median, and crashed head-on into the vehicle in which Carol was a passenger. The driver was killed. Other kids in the car with Carol suffered minor injuries, but she was seriously hurt.

Charles' aunt paused. Her eyes filled with tears. "Pastor, that poor mother of the boy that was killed," she said. "My heart and prayers are still for her. I attended the graveside funeral with his mother and I'll never forget her words. 'I will never see him again. He died lost. Now he is forever lost. There will never be another party for him.'"

"Pastor, I thank God for my Carol . . . and I believe her witness for Him has been more effective these last three years than in the first three years of her Christian life. She is a silent reflector of the Light of the world. And that light, Jesus Christ, is shining into the sin-darkened hearts of people almost weekly. At first it was a stream of young people coming to see her every week. Then it slowed to just a trickle. Now, not as many, but some still come at various times. All of them know of Carol becoming a Christian before the accident and that God is now using her as a silent witness. I cannot explain it, but as they see her lying peacefully, waiting for God's wake up call, they are impressed with the urgent need of receiving Christ while they are yet conscious lest something like the accident should happen to them."

With that, she seemed to end her testimony. I felt I should comment in some way and said the only thing that came to mind. "It must be a great comfort to you to know Carol was saved before the accident and that God is using her as a silent missionary to witness to others." She nodded. "You are a most remarkable woman and mother," I added. "I can sense God's presence in you even as we talk."
"That's my desire," she said with a smile.

Our visit ended with all three of us praying together. Charles and I returned to Tulsa and I was left alone with my thoughts. Deeply moved, I sensed the Holy Spirit teaching me truths I would need and use in ministering to others.

Of the things I learned, I think foremost was the urgency of having a saving relationship with God while we are capable of hearing and responding to the gospel of Christ. No one is exempted from the accidents or disease that may render us incapable of ever responding to God's grace through faith in Jesus Christ (Ephesians 2:8, 9). The decision to be a Christ-follower is too important to be postponed.
Buoyed by her own relationship with God and the assurance of her daughter's, Carol's mother was not bitter. She did not blame God for the horrible accident that left her daughter in a coma. Instead, she worked on her relationship with God and gave thanks to Him for living in her⎯for He alone knew the depth of both of their pain . . . and yours.

Prayer: Lord, thank You for giving me an occasional glimpse of Your plans and purposes. I confess that a lot of times I don't understand what You are doing, but that doesn't change the fact that You have a plan and it is being carried out in perfect detail. Help me to trust Your wisdom and lift You up in every circumstance of life . . . like Carol and her mother.