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.