January 1: A New Year
January 1 Lagniappe: A New Year Scroll down to read Epilogue and Postscript Our wonderful Cajun culture has a unique word. Lagniappe. It means something extra, and goes back to the rural tradition of shop owners giving faithful customers a little something extra as appreciation for their business. Lagniappe. It’s a good word. It’s a New Year. We’ve woke up alive. This is a new day. It’s Lagniappe. It’s a new start A special gift. Lagniappe. Enjoy it. Suck the life out of it. Squeeze out every drop. Enjoy your lagniappe. It’s a New Year. Being a writer, I always equate the first day of a new year with the blank pages in a new journal. As I open the notebook and leaf through its empty pages, the potential for what will be written and recorded there is limitless. Being a journal keeper for nearly forty years has taught me several things. Some of this year’s entries will be sad and painful. Others will be joyous and funny. That is the nature of life. As the world enters this new year, the pages are blank and no human knows what this year holds. Never in my adult life have I seen such uncertainty and concern. From war and confusion in all corners of the world to an economic meltdown that has shaken the confidence of many, we face uncertain days ahead. The year 1939 was much like that . . . especially in Europe. War had commenced with the German invasion of Poland and subsequent involvement of most of the continent’s nations. In England, the days were especially dark. In was in this bleak time at Christmas 1939 that King George VI made his annual Christmas message to the British people. He quoted from a familiar poem by Minnie Haskins entitled “The Gate of the Year.” “I said to the man who stood at the Gate of the Year, “Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.” And he replied, “Go out into the darkness, and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light, and safer than a known way” The King’s appropriate use of this inspiring poem stirred the British people, as it still stirs us over a half-century later. It’s a good poem as we enter a uncertain new year. God is in control. There is no panic in heaven. As long as we hold onto his hand and follow his guidance, we’ll be all right. “ . . .My God shall supply all of your needs according to his riches in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:19 Epilogue Honeysuckle [CI3] You won’t find—or smell—honeysuckle during Christmas season. A new year means there’s at least two months before Southwest Louisiana bursts into spring and greenery. I began this book with a story of a beloved teacher, Eleanor Andrews, and her holiday gift of Christmas jelly. I’ve chosen to close it with a final story about this memorable woman. Quietly, I ease in to the ICU where Mrs. Eleanor Andrews lays surrounded by tubes and monitors. I’m holding a green vase of pink honeysuckle, and its fragrance has followed me down the hallway. It’s difficult to fathom that Mrs. Andrews will probably die during her favorite season of spring. I’d always thought she’d leave us in the dead of winter when the trees were bare and her garden was empty. Her face is covered with an oxygen mask, but it doesn’t hide the smile that’s lit up my life since I was eleven. I lean down close because her voice is very weak. Most of what she says I can’t understand, but I hear one thing clearly. “I’m going home today.” For a moment I think she’s confused and believes she’s going home to Dry Creek. She reads my puzzled face and grasps my arm. “No, I’m going home today.” I understand. She’s going home and looking forward to it. She’s suffered enough. Most of the ones she loves best are already on the other side. She’s ready to go. Nothing, not even her beloved flowers and yard in Dry Creek, can draw her to stay on this earth any longer. I hold her hand, unable and unwilling to let go. I recall a wonderful January evening last year in her home. I brought nine boys, including my three sons, to watch the Division I Football Championship game. The boys, divided in loyalty between Virginia Tech and Oklahoma. . . . And in the midst of all this commotion, sat Mrs. Eleanor Andrews happily puffing away on a cigarette. I’ll never forget the look of pure joy on her face. Her eyes seemed to glow from the enjoyment of being surrounded by young people having a good time. We had such a swell time watching the game together- all eleven of us. You can probably guess who enjoyed it the most- Eleanor Andrews. Looking around on that special January night, I swear I could smell the fragrance of honeysuckle in her living room. Maybe it wasn’t honeysuckle, but the equally sweet aroma of love and friendship. When the game ended each boy came by her chair, leaned down, and gave her a hug. She kissed each one on the chee. The sight of these country boys hugging on her touched me. She had lost two of her three sons to death, but for one precious night, her house was once again full of laughing boys. I was at the end of the hugging line. She pulled me close with a surprisingly strong grip. “You’ll never know how much this meant to me.” I couldn’t speak. On that January night, I was too full for words # # # Once again, at her ICU deathbed, I’m too full for words. I lean down and kiss Mrs. Andrews on the cheek one
The Man in the Hat . . . and Ed and Kat King
His face softened as he extended his hand.
His grip was just as strong as I expected.
I hope mine was too. “Sir, I really mean it. I appreciate what you did for our country.”
“I am Lottie Moon” Week at The Creek
Learn more about Lottie Moon by scrolling down* or visiting her Wikipedia page. You can also learn more and give directly to the Lottie Moon Mission Offering. Hey Friends, December 1-8 is the Week of Prayer among our denomination. It is the time when we Southern Baptists give an offering toward overseas missions. This offering is called the “Lottie Moon Christmas Offering” (LMCO)and goes directly to meet the needs of the nearly 5000 missionaries serving the International Mission Board (IMB). Our organization loves acronyms such as “Give to the IMB’s LMCO.” Rather than quote statistics or use acronyms, we’re going to tell stories this week. Stories of the folks we are training with who are supported by the Lottie Moon offering. I urge you to give to this offering as never before. I beg of our churches to give sacrificially. Sadly, there are young people ready to go serve who cannot because of a lack of financial resources. I view these two things as unacceptable: 1. That people are living and dying without hearing the name of Jesus. 2. There are servants ready to go tell who cannot because of a lack of funding. You can help on this by giving. Give through your church or give directly. I have personally seen how these monies are used. I’ve seen missionaries drive 4WDs to inaccessible places to share about Jesus. I saw Lottie Moon money used to help the Muslims of Indonesia after the 2004 tsunami. I hid the Jesus Film DVD in Chinese rice fields that were in a specific dialect. This was done through Lottie Moon funding. I’ve stood by AIDs patients in South Africa who have now come to Jesus through Lottie Moon supported missionaries. *Lottie Moon was a pioneer missionary for forty years in China. She survived civil wars, persecution, and famine. She died of malnutrition as she left her beloved China in 1912. Since 1925, Southern Baptists have taken a yearly offering to support our overseas missionaries. DeDe and I will be serving for two years in Africa beginning in 2013. This offering supports the work we will doing.
Wal Mart in the Sahara: Thoughts on the Self-Aware Life
Friday, November 23, 2012 Black Friday: A Wal Mart in the Sahara “It is the most important rule of the desert. You must learn to watch, to be sure, and always remember where you have come from.” -Saharan Tuareg nomad quoted by Amanda Jones in her story “One Night in the Sahara.” (From the book The Kindness of Strangers** by Lonely Planet) After reading this quote, I’m determined to do one thing better: remember where I park at Wal Mart. Whether it’s the excitement (or dread) of going in a Super Center, I often won’t be aware of my parking row or spot. From the chorus of car alarm horns I hear in Wal Mart parking lots, I know I’m not alone. We fumble with shopping lists, cell phones, and finding an empty spot, then empty cart, we lose our bearings.
Get a FREE e-book copy of Christmas Jelly!
So with Thanksgiving in our sights, we here at Creekbank stories want to share some holiday love with folks. Right now, continuing until December 1st, sign up for our Newsletter and get a free e-book of Christmas Jelly! https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/248228 Tell your friends! Remember, we send out the coupon code on December 1, and if your not signed up by then, you won’t get one! So hurry up and subscribe already! [button link=”http://eepurl.com/e17ks” newwindow=”yes” color=”green” type=”big”] Click to Subscribe! [/button] How you can pray: Even though we’re not in Africa yet, you can begin prayer walking with us now. Let’s begin in the town of Entebbe, Uganda. This is the place our supervisor (Bob C.) wants us to live. It’s near the International Airport so we can get to other countries quickly in our Engagement jobs. Pray that the right apartment/house will come open. That God will be preparing us to be good witnesses to our new neighbors. For our co-workers Bob and Nancy/David and Renee.
The Right Gift: Mandela, Todd Burnaman and more
The Right Gift It’s November. Time to think about gifts. As my momma says, “It’s never too early to think about Christmas buying.” I’m reminded that the best gifts don’t have to be expensive. They just need to be covered in love. When Nelson Mandela was South Africa’s president, he made a state visit to America. President Bill Clinton and the White House staff wanted to give him the perfect gift. Nelson Mandela This story from NPR tells about the gift: During the Clinton administration, one of Chief of Protocol Mary Mel French’s biggest successes came when her team learned that South African leader Nelson Mandela was a boxing fan. “We wrote letters to all the major living boxers in the United States and their agents and asked if they would give a ticket to one of their major matches or a program that they signed or something that was from this famous boxing match, whatever it was,” she says. The boxers not only sent memorabilia; they each wrote a letter to Mandela. French’s team bound it all into a volume with photographs, and President Clinton presented the scrapbook to Mandela.
Christmas Jelly: Coming soon to a stocking near you.
Cool breeze in the pines. October afternoon at The Old House In the edge of Crooked Bayou Swamp. All quiet on the Southern front Except for the occasional acorn on the tin roof And a murder of crows taunting a cat squirrel. Monday, October 8 We’re excited about the upcoming release of Christmas Jelly. This short story collection features thirty short stories celebrating Christmas in the piney woods of Louisiana. Stay tuned this week to our blog, Facebook page, and website for more information. Two talented young people have lent their skills to Christmas Jelly. Julian Quebedeaux has once again performed his magic and created a memorable cover for our latest book. In addition, he set up the interior of the book. Julian, a recent UNO film graduate, works as a librarian with the Calcasieu Parish Library in DeQuincy. East Beauregard student Ashley Miller served as editor on this collection of stories, recipes, and tidbits celebrating Christmas in the unique piney woods of SW Louisiana. Ashley is a descendant of many pioneer families who settled in Louisiana’s “No Man’s Land” in the 19th century. The painting shown on the back cover hangs in honor at The Old House in Dry Creek. It is one of our favorite paintings by my uncle, Bill Iles.
Christmas Jelly Authors Notes and Photos
This page is for readers who want more. Stay tuned to http://www.creekbank.net. We’ll be adding photos, trivia, and extra stories.
Curt’s Current “Six Words to Live By”
I seek to live by six defining words. It helps keep me focused and purposeful. Here are my current words as of August 2012. I’d love to hear about the words you’ve selected.
Here we go!
Here are notes, quotes, and drawing from my current notebook. It’s the 58th journal I’ve kept. Every leader must be a reader. I’m a “LLL.” Life Long Learner. It means I must constantly be reading and listening. This story is fictional but it’s based on a story from one of DeDe’s uncles. I laughed writing it. I hope you do too. King of Kings, Lord of Lords. My name is Nancy. This is my story of the Christmas I’ll never forget/always remember. I had finished my sophomore year at L.S.U. and brought Jeff home to meet our family. Naturally, I was nervous about my rural Pineview family being nice to him. Jeff was from old money in New Orleans and our rural dairy farm was another world to him. Everything went fine until Christmas Eve. Our Baptist Church had a traditional candlelight service. Jeff was Presbyterian and I explained this would be a lot different from the liturgical services he’d grown up on. I had no idea how different it would be on this cold rainy Louisiana night. He and I arrived fashionably late and slid in the pew behind my mother. She and Poppa always sit on the “Rob Lindsey” pew, named after her grandfather. My father was finishing up milking and hadn’t arrived. Just about the time the choir started “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear” is when Poppa slipped in. His flannel shirt was peppered with rain and the familiar odors of manure and wet cows settled in with him. He put his arm around Momma and winked at me. How could I be embarrassed by my hero? He was the best man I knew. The children’s class played out their nativity scene replete with towel headdresses and bathrobes. Poppa laughed as the children waddled down the aisle. My boyfriend Jeff saw it first. Poppa put his arm over the pew back and made the mistake of inserting his middle finger in a Lord’s Supper cup holder. Poppa had sausage-like fingers with ham-sized hands. It was much easier getting the finger in than out. He grunted and twisted the finger to no avail. It was stuck. I put my hand over my mouth. Jeff helpfully leaned up and tried to help but only irritated Poppa. He leaned back over the pew to get a visual on his predicament. He cut his eyes at me, which only made me laugh louder. By now Momma had been alerted as well as the two rows of young people sitting behind us. That section was the congregation had lost all interest in the program; they were intent on what would later be called “The Battle of Lindsey Pew.” Poppa tried to jerk his finger out but only succeeded in shaking the entire pew and causing more pain. His finger was turning blue. The highlight of the Pineview Baptist Christmas Program was always the choir’s attempt at “The Halleluiah Chorus.” Poppa always said, “They’re out of their league trying it. Handel didn’t write it for pulpwooders, housewives, carpenters, and schoolteachers and anyone with a ‘day job.’ ” Regardless, it was time for their rendition. The choir leader, Silas Moore, shared the story of Handel’s performance when the King of England—visibly touched by the soaring music—stood to his feet. Since then, “The Halleluiah Chorus” has been sung with the audience standing. Sure enough, the first notes rang out and the congregation rose. Everyone except Daddy. He tried to stand but could only manage an uncomfortable lean, his right hand pinned to the back of the pew. About the time they boomed out “King of Kings and Lord of Lords, he sagged into his seat. His finger was pinched and so was his face. The song soared to its finish and the audience took their seats again. Reverend Williamson gave a short sermon and prepared to announce the benediction. Relief was coming for Poppa. “Bro. Bernard, would you give our benediction and blessing on the refreshments.” Poppa jerked his hand in one final attempt to free himself. It was tradition in rural churches for men praying to stand in reverence. Poppa had been tagged to pray but couldn’t stand. At least not straight up. After a pregnant pause, he took his leaning stance and began, “Dear Lord, we want to thank you . . . “ I didn’t close my eyes and neither did most of the congregation. They were staring at Poppa. About half had no idea what was going on. The other half had been watching him closely for thirty minutes. He prayed a brief prayer ending with a hearty amen. Once again, he tried to break loose. Mrs. Daisy Crawford eased over from her front row perch. “Bernard, have you hurt your back again?” “No, Aunt Daisy, I’m hemmed in. My finger’s caught in the communion cup holder.” She took a look for herself. “Is that so?” Momma stepped in. “Wait right here, I’m going to the Kitchen to get a bottle of Joy.” Poppa, who was red with embarrassment, snorted, “Wait right here? I sure ain’t going nowhere.” The crowd thickened as word spread of the situation on the Rob Lindsey Memorial Pew. Poppa whispered to me, “I feel like a damn two-headed calf at the Parish Fair.” “Don’t’ talk like that in the Lord’s house.” Momma returned and covered his finger with Joy dish detergent. In spite of this, the finger was stuck. It had swollen to a size that looked impossible. Poppa’s Uncle Henry pulled out his pocketknife. “Let me help you, Bernard.” Momma screamed and Poppa made a fist with his free hand. Uncle Henry unfolded his knife. “I ain’t gonna cut you. I got this new-fangled Swiss Army knife for Christmas. It’s got a Phillips screwdriver on it.” He went to the work on the inset small screws holding the
Two stories on forgiveness
This chapter is from our upcoming short story collection, Christmas Jelly. It contains two of the most powerful stories on forgiveness I’ve ever heard. May Ruth and Biggie’s stories touch you as they have me. On Forgiveness Forgiveness: the greatest gift to give. You can receive it. You can give it. It’s the gift that keeps on giving. I still think about it about foggy mornings, especially during winter. It was a foggy November morning that changed our community forever. Five men from our community were carpooling south to their highway department jobs in Lake Charles. A northbound eighteen-wheeler passed in the thick fog. The driver later said he veered to the ditch when he saw the Volkswagen van, but its driver did the same. The head-on collision killed all five men. Our village and nearby Fairview community were devastated. Five women became widows; several of my friends became fatherless. Mr. Ritchie Young was driving the vehicle. He and his wife Ruth were close friends with our family. Their sons, Bubba and Paul, were two of my best teenage friends. I watched up close the grief and loss a tragedy like this brings. Mrs. Ruth has been my mom’s best friend for over fifty years, including the forty years since the tragedy. Mrs. Ruth, Mom, and several other ladies make up “The Posse,” a rambling fun group of Dry Creek single ladies. I consider Ruth Young Taylor a second mother. I love her. That love and respect only deepened when she recently told me this story: “After Ritchie was killed, the driver of the eighteen-wheeler was in jail for nearly a year. Elaine Young and I went to see him. They checked our purses as if we might be carrying on gun, but we weren’t there for revenge. We were there to extend forgiveness. ” She smiled, “He was shaking when we walked in. We assured him of our open hearts and complete forgiveness. He shook even more, but this time from emotion.” I studied Mrs. Ruth’s peaceful face as she continued. “Elaine and I found out his family was having a difficult time so we bought them a load of groceries.” I asked, “Mrs. Ruth, how did y’all forgive like that?” “Oh, you can’t do that on your own.” She pointed heavenward. “It’s got to be from the Lord.” You’re probably wondering what this story has to do with Christmas. It actually has nothing to do with Christmas Yet it has everything to do with Christmas. Christmas is a time for forgiveness. Receiving it. Giving it. Sharing it. It is the perfect time to examine of list of hurts and disappointments and wipe the slate clean. Thinking you can’t forgive them? If two women can extend forgiveness to the driver who their husbands, can’t you forgive a slight from ten or twenty years ago? You need to forgive. Even more importantly, you need forgiveness. We all do. # # # Here’s another story on divine forgiveness that goes beyond human understanding: Just his name intrigues me—Biggie Spears. He was a legendary north Louisiana preacher. I never knew him, although I’m friends with his son and grandsons. In 19____, he received the call every parent dreads. His son had been injured when a vehicle struck his horse. He rushed to the hospital but it was too late. His son, _____________, was dead. Biggie Spears then turned to a man weeping in the corner of the ER. It was the man who’d struck his son. He went to the man, wrapped him arms around him, and prayed for him. In his personal journal, Rev. Spears shared, “I never expected to be praying for the man who’d killed my son.” His actions that day are worthy of his nickname. Biggie Spears. Big in heart. Big in forgiveness. God offers this same type of forgiveness to you. We believe that all the sins of the human race were poured on God’s Son Jesus at the cross. In other words, your sins and mine “killed” Jesus that day. Instead of retaliation, God offers us complete forgiveness. Biggie Spears would probably like the idea that his kind act in that E.R. was a picture of what God the Father has done for us. That kind of forgiveness is too costly to ignore or belittle. That kind of forgiveness is as close as your heart and your sincere prayer. He is listening. He’s waiting. And His gift of forgiveness has an added benefit—it’ll help you forgive another person who needs it badly—yourself. Often we forgive everyone but ourselves. We carry the heavy load of some sin, great or small. Some terrible decision that has affected your life for ten, twenty years or more. An ancient writer, Publilius Syrus, said it well, “How unhappy is he who cannot forgive himself.” Self-forgiveness is essential to our emotional and spiritual well-being. Jesus says, “Whether you can forget that or not, I have forgiven you.” You don’t have to carry that load anymore. And by the way, it doesn’t really matter anymore. In fact, I am powerful enough and kind enough to take this terrible thing … this invisible prison … and use it so you can better serve me. Finally, friend, I want to tell you about the greatest gift you can give this Christmas. It’s simple but tough. Whom do you need to forgive right now? Who has cheated you? Left you out to dry? Put you out on a limb and then cut it off? That person needs your forgiveness. Christmas is a time for dropping grudges. It’s a time to remind ourselves that “holding a grudge and hating someone is like drinking poison and hoping it kills the other person.” To help on this forgiveness journey, start small: Recipe for Forgiveness Active ingredient: Pray for that person by name. Initially, it’ll be difficult to even voice their name out loud to God … but go ahead and ask
Stolen Christmas Trees… Thoughts on Holiday Giving
A Stolen Christmas Tree From the book, Wind in the Pines, by Curt Iles copyright 2004 Creekbank St0ries “I know I tagged a tree in this area.” Those are the words of my neighbor, Mitzi Foreman, as she walks through our Christmas tree farm on a blustery Sunday afternoon. Together we search through where she tagged her tree last week but cannot find it. “Well, maybe your tag blew off or worse—maybe someone pulled it off,” I said. “No, I tied in on securely.” The problem is that all of the other nearby good-sized trees are taken. However, my dad and I have learned to be prepared for situations like this—we have several extra trees tagged for such an occurrence as this. I walk Mitzi over to a beautiful Leyland Cypress in the southeast corner of our field, away from the highway. She loves it and I quickly saw it down before she can change her mind. Later that afternoon, Daddy joins me and together we look for the missing tree. He points to an open spot, “Look at that.” It’s the rough-cut stump of a tree. It’s evident it was not cut with the level cut of our bucksaw, but rather the jagged cut of a machete or ax. We now know what happened to the Foreman tree—someone stole it. This both mystifies and frustrates me. Who in the world would steal a Christmas tree? I just can’t quite picture a family sitting there on Christmas morning, opening presents, singing “Silent Night” around a stolen Christmas tree. However, people will steal just about anything. In the gift shop at the Christian Camp where I work, we have an ongoing minor problem with shoplifting. Ironically, the most stolen items are the W.W.J. D. bracelets. As you probably know, this stands for “What Would Jesus Do?” Well, I know this much—Jesus wouldn’t tell you to steal a bracelet—or for that matter, a Christmas tree. A few days after cutting several trees for customers, I take my boots off at our front door. Hanging from the Christmas wreath is a scribbled note, “I cut a tree today.” Attached to the note, held there by a clothespin, is a twenty-dollar bill. Pocketing that, I kneel to lift our doormat. Under it is another price tag and twenty dollars. Written on the price tag is ‘Wishing you a very a Merry Christmas.” Yearly, Daddy puts up a sign telling how we operate our tree business. I love his handwritten sign, posted at the end of our road: “If we aren’t home, you can still get your tree. The saw is on the front porch. You can leave your tag, your name, and money by the front door. Now go do your thing.” I especially love his benediction. “Now go do your thing.” Unbelievably, this system has worked well. We’ve found that when you put trust in people, they usually come through in an honest way. In the week after the stolen Foreman tree, we notice another stump. The thieves have evidently returned, or someone else has sunk to their low level. I tell my three teenage sons, “We’re going to catch the thieves if and when they return at night. The next night about 10:30, my middle son Clint and I see the headlights of two vehicles leaving our driveway. We spring into action, running to my truck, taking off in hot pursuit. We are dressed for battle—I have on my pajamas and Clint in his boxers and a T-shirt. Speeding down the highway, we catch the escaping thieves before they’ve gone a mile. At the stop sign where Dry Creek’s only two highways intersect comes our moment of truth. As my headlights illuminate the rear of both vehicles, I tell Clint, “We’ve got ‘em red-handed now.” There the culprits are—my mother in her van, and my dad in his truck. They’d left one of their vehicles at the Christmas tree farm going to a basketball game. The headlights we saw were when they returned for the extra vehicle. Clint and I both burst out laughing as we turn the truck around. Arriving back home, my wife DeDe is waiting at the door. After sheepishly telling our story, she asks, “Well, what would you boys have done if you’d caught up with the real thieves?” We look at each other in our nightclothes, and I shrugged. “I guess I’d have taken off one of my house shoes and whipped them with it.” The best parts of a tree farm are the children. The excitement of warmly dressed preschoolers running through the trees laughing and singing is enough to put anyone in the Christmas spirit. The fun of letting a five-year-old boy hold the other end of the saw as he “helps” me cut down a tree. As the tree falls he loudly shouts, “Timmbbbeeer.” He’ll remember for the rest of his life how he “cut down that tree” during a Christmas season so many years ago. One of my favorite experiences, illustrating how special a tree is to a young child, occurred about five years ago. A preschool class from our local school came to shop for a classroom tree. Several of the parents came to help their child also select a tree for home. After we’d chosen and cut four or five trees, the preschoolers loaded back on the bus. I put the trees in the back of my truck and followed the bus to school. About half way down my driveway, the bus came to an abrupt stop. Teacher Dianne Brown exited the bus and came to me. “Curt, one of the little boys is crying and shouting, ‘I want my tree. That man’s taking my tree. I want my tree right now!’” It took careful explanation to convince him we were bringing his tree to school. Yes, stolen Christmas trees could make you cynical, but the joyful faces of children cutting a tree outweighs the frustration of any theft.
Back Home from the Congo
Curt and Lovely Habimana.Lovely is the granddaughter of Congolese Pastor Habimana Athanase . Back home from Africa. Thoughts from my heart. Two things to bring home from any international trip: jet lag and a full heart. Lord, my prayer is this: Help me get over the former and never lose the latter. Amen. There are six life words that drive my life.* I am nearly ashamed to even mention them because I personally fall so short of each of them. However, these six qualities are perfectly pictured in the life of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. He is the Son of God and so much more. While in the African countries of Democratic Congo, Rwanda, and Kenya, I saw these qualities exhibited in the lives of so many Jesus-Followers. Throughout the day, I’ll be adding their uniquely African stories to this blog. The joy of the Lord is my strength. 1. Passion. I’ve always loved this word. It means to live life to the fullest and have “The joy of the Lord as my strength.” It’s a word that describes how Jesus lived. He lived fully and with passion. Every act of his life from driving out the moneychangers to praying at the garden, he did it with passion. He lived life, not just existed. This joyful passion is evident in the worship of African Christians. From my travels, I’ve noticed that the less these Jesus-Followers have, the more joy of the Lord they seem to exude. I saw this Godly passion in an old deacon at a Congolese church. As the drums began beating and praise singing began, this gray-headed man couldn’t help himself. He left his bench and began dancing on one leg with utter joy on his face. As we say in the South, he was “cutting a rug.” I’ll always remember the joyous passion of his feet, face, and heart. I told Bill and Reggie that’s just exactly the type of old deacon I want to be: full of passion for life and God. A dancing deacon who epitomized “the joy of the Lord is my strength.” Do not sorrow, for the joy of the LORD is your strength.” Nehemiah 8:10 The dancing deacon (third from left) and other pastor/leaders at Hoseanna Baptist Church in Goma, Congo Africa. 2. Compassion What a wonderful word. An action word. It love in motion. Compassion cannot sit back and wait or watch. It has to act. All through the gospels it is a word associated with Jesus. “He had compassion on them…” In Jesus’ signal story of the Good Samaritan, he uses the term, “He looked… and had compassion.” It’s a word for everyone of us as Jesus-followers to live by. Compassion. It’s one of my favorite words. * My six life words as of 4 23 2009: Passion Compassion Integrity Relationships Resolve Legacy My life words change from time to time as God works on me and in me. Do you have a life verse? List of life words? A written group of beliefs and statements that drive and focus your life? If not, this is a good day to start yours. The link below is to a fascinating article entitled: “As an Atheist, I Believe Africa Needs God” by Matthew Parris. I encourage you to read this insightful article. http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/matthew_parris/article5400568.ece
Christmas Jelly
Christmas Jelly Of all the Christmas memories and traditions, “Christmas Jelly” is one of my favorites. Each year I receive this special gift from a very special lady in my life. Before I share what Christmas jelly is, let me share about the special person who gives it to me each year. Eleanor Andrews is my neighbor in Dry Creek. For all of my life she has lived in the same house along Highway 113. Her house is easy to spot across the highway from the camp. It has the prettiest yard in our community. Her beautiful garden, flowers, and shrubs are examples of her love of gardening. But Mrs. Andrews is more than just my neighbor and a lover of flowers. She is also my all-time favorite teacher. Mrs. Andrews taught fifth grade at Dry Creek High School and later at East Beauregard High. She taught practically every young person in Dry Creek for a period of a quarter century. Now Eleanor Andrews was from the “Old School.” She was stern and took no gruff or lip off any student. Everything was rigid and “down the line” in her classroom. In her class there was no doubt that she was captain of the ship. She possessed a stare (made complete with her tongue tucked firmly in her cheek) that would stop a charging grizzly bear in its tracks. Her reputation preceded her . . . And she was just as strict as the older kids on the bus had described her to be when I sat in her fifth grade class. But I also saw something else: Beneath that gruff exterior were warm smiling eyes. She loved watching students learn and leading young people to new knowledge. During that year, 1967, she became my favorite teacher. And now thirty years later, she still is. Now let me get back to that Christmas jelly . . . Eleanor Andrews has been retired for many years and is much older and frailer than when she ruled the fifth grade at East Beauregard. Because of her health she doesn’t venture out much anymore. She lives alone in her house surrounded by her flowers and memories of a life filled with teaching and touching lives. Each year a few weeks before Christmas I receive a phone call from Mrs. Andrews. She tells me “to drop by her house.” I know that the best Christmas present of the season is now complete- Christmas jelly is ready. Before going I cut one of the Christmas trees from my farm. I’ve already tagged it weeks earlier. I have carefully chosen one that will meet her exacting standards. After loading this tree in my truck, I nervously drive to her home. I hope she will approve of my tree. Once again I feel as if I’m in the fifth grade waiting to hand in an important assignment. As I enter her living room, she greets me with that special smile I’ve known over the years. Always when I’m in her presence she makes me feel as if I’m the most important person in the world- That’s why she’s always been my favorite teacher. Into my arms she thrusts a basket of eight jars- all filled with homemade jelly. There are all of my favorites- muscadine, mayhall, even crabapple! Included are several jars of hot pepper jelly, and to top it all off, a Ziploc bag of chocolate “Martha Washington’s” sits on top of the basket. I look at this assortment of homemade jelly and my mouth waters thinking about all the biscuits it will top off during the coming year. Oh, the joys of homemade jelly! As Mrs. Andrews happily examines her Christmas tree, she insists on paying for it. Laughing I say, “No way, the best deal I ever make each year is trading a tree for the best home- made jelly in Dry Creek.” After we visit for a while, I leave with my arm load of jelly jars. As I get in my truck, I think about the art of giving. Emerson said it well when he stated, “The only true gift is a portion of yourself.” As I look at the colorful decorated jars of jelly, I’m once again reminded of what Christmas is truly about. It is all about giving- Giving of ourselves and sharing what we have. I’m so glad to live in a place where gifts such as Christmas jelly abound.
