Mama Knows Beans

Mama Knows Beans
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Judith peered out her kitchen window as she finished washing the last canning jar. Molly was walking slowly up the lane, lost in thought, it seemed. Judith picked up her dishpan and nudged the screen door open with her hip. Walking to the edge of the wide porch, she heaved the dishwater out into the yard. Then she placed it near the door and set out to greet Molly.

“Good morning sweetheart!” Mother wrapped daughter in a warm embrace. Although Molly only lived a mile away, Judith and Henry had been allowing the newlyweds plenty of time to themselves. “I’m so glad you could come and help with the beans today. Can I get you some water?”

“No, Mama. I’m just fine. From the looks of it, we better get started. I’ve never seen so many green beans!”

“I planted a new variety. They’re extra long ones. I thought we’d sit out here on the side porch where it’s breezier. I’m forever grateful to Henry for building this porch.” Judith set one heaping bushel basket between the two ladder-back chairs she had arranged. Each chair held a small pan for depositing the stems they would remove from the beans. A large tub sat ready to collect the bite-sized bean pieces. “These beans are so long, they’ll need two to three snaps each, I’m afraid.”

The women settled in and each grabbed a large handful of beans.

Snap, snap, snap…

“If I figured it right, you and Galen will have been married three months tomorrow.”

Snap, snap, snap…

“You’re right, Mama.”

Snap, snap, snap…

Judith arched one eyebrow and took in Molly’s crestfallen countenance.

“Are you okay, Molly? Is Galen treating you right?”

Snap, snap, snap…

“Mama, did things change after you and Daddy were married? I mean…it’s not like Galen is cruel or anything, he just doesn’t hold my hand and look me in the eyes the way he used to. I tie a fresh ribbon in my hair before he comes in, and he doesn’t even notice.” Molly sniffed and stopped long enough to dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh Mama, I clean the house and cook a delicious meal and Galen walks right in with his muddy boots on. During dinner he goes on about the weather, the crops, and getting the barn built before winter. He never asks about my day. By the time I’ve done the dishes and mopped the floor again, I’m exhausted. And Galen…”

Judith watched as color spread across her daughters cheeks. “Let me guess. Galen’s ready for romance, and you’re so upset with him you don’t even want to share his bed.”

“How did you know, Mama?”

“Don’t forget I was once a new bride, too.”

“Daddy treated you that way? I had no idea. How did you put up with him?”

“I stopped trying to fix him, and tried to fix myself instead.”

“But Mama, I’m doing everything for him. I’m trying so hard to be a good wife.”

Snap, snap, snap…

“Have you told him all those things you told me?”

“Of course. I tell him every day.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“But Daddy said we mustn’t keep any secrets.”

“Learning to hold your tongue isn’t the same thing as keeping secrets. I would almost guarantee he heard you the first time you told him.”

Snap, snap, snap…

“Molly, when was the last time you told Galen how much you appreciate the hard work he does every day? The Bible says for a woman to see to it that she honors her husband. I think that God, our creator, knew we would find it easier to nag and complain, so he made a point of telling us to honor instead. Try it tonight, Molly.”

“Okay, Mama.”

Snap, snap, snap…




******
“My, you look beautiful this morning, Molly. You’ll have to sidestep the wood Henry carried up for our canning. Are you ready for more hard work?”

“Sure, Mama…you were right, you know.”

“Right? Right about what, darling?”

“I did what you said. I told Galen how proud I am of him.”

“And?”

“Let’s just say he noticed my hair ribbon.” Molly blushed. “He helped with the dishes, too. Mama, how did you get so smart?”

Judith laughed. “It’s not my wisdom, dear. It’s God’s. Some people think it’s outdated, but God’s wisdom never grows old…unlike these beans. We really need to get to work.”

“Yes, Mama. Tell me, though. Did Daddy snore and steal the covers, too?”





Laury is hosting Fiction Friday today at her blog, His Mercies Are New. I hope you take time to visit and link to the other stories posted today.

Legend of a Bush and a Tree ~ based on Jeremiah 17

by Sharlyn Guthrie


A bush sprang up in the middle of the desert.
It muddled in a puddle in the pouring rain.
When the puddle dried up the bush fried up
‘Cuz the roots couldn’t creep through the sand so deep.

Oh the sun beat down and it cracked the ground
And the roots didn’t find any water around.
The green leaves withered and the worms they slithered
Into the rotten wood that wasn’t any good.

A tree grew up nearby the living water
let its roots shoot down ‘til they found the stream.
Its green buds popped and they never ever stopped.
When the weather grew dry its branches didn’t fry.

Oh the sun beat down and it cracked the ground
But the roots were long and the tree grew strong.
The leaves stayed as green as any you have seen
And the tree bore fruit and a brand new shoot.

Now the bush in the desert is a man that is foolish.
He learns and he yearns for the ways of man.
But his ways grow old and are much too weak to hold.
He can only blame his sin for the pickle he is in.

Oh the sun beats down and it cracks the ground
But his roots can’t find any water around.
So his life it withers and the serpent slithers
o’er his heart of stone that is sad and all alone.

The tree by the water is a man full of wisdom.
He learns and he yearns for the ways of God.
And God makes him new as only He can do.
He is fruitful and free and as happy as can be.

Oh the sun beats down and it cracks the ground
But his roots are long and his faith is strong.
So he won’t fret about a storm or a drought
And God receives the glory for his amazing story.









I'm joining Ann VosKamp's Walk With Me Wednesday today. The topic is "Cultivating the Life God Desires"

Words For Katie

NOTE: Today's story is more than just a story. It is something I actually experienced as a teenager. I don't have any daughters, however, so I wrote it to use in the 7th grade health class I teach. I just shared it with the girls yesterday, along with a lesson on sexual abuse. If you are interested in printing a copy of this story to share with someone you love, you can find it here: Words For Katie




What do you see, Katie? Can you see Miller’s Dairy Farm and the old country school? Have you ever been higher on a swing? I came to this park every evening when I was your age to swing, dream, and pray about my future. I especially hoped for a daughter someday. And God is so amazing! He gave me you.

The summer I was sixteen, on an evening just like this one, I was leaning back in that very swing, legs extended, my long hair flowing behind me.

“Hey! I thought that might be you!” The sudden interruption surprised and annoyed me, but I dragged my feet and stopped regardless. I didn’t know much about Kent except that he was twenty-one and a new Christian. He had attended our Bible study a few times, although he lived in a town some distance away.

“Hey, yourself! What are you doing in Podunks-ville?” I asked

“I think God wants me to do some witnessing. He brought Liz Harney to mind. Don’t you know her sister?”

“Shelby and I are on the same cheerleading squad,” I answered.

“Have you ever witnessed to her?”

“She knows I’m a Christian. We’ve talked about it some.”

“Let’s go then.”

“What?”

“Let’s you and me go witness to Liz and Shelby. What do you say?”

That’s how I ended up in Kent’s car, heading out of town toward the Harneys’. Slowly it occurred to me that I hadn’t told anyone where I was going, and I was barefoot. “Oh well,” I thought, “It’s for a good cause.” Besides, it was kind of exciting.

The further we drove, the less talkative Kent became. As he turned onto the river road, darkness enclosed us. It was still several miles to the Harneys’.

As I considered those facts, Kent pulled the car to a stop and switched off the headlights. “Wha…” I began, but he had already grasped my arm and was pulling me toward himself. “Kent, I thought…” He covered my mouth with his and groped, tearing my shirt as I writhed and pushed against him.

Breaking free, my hear pounding, I slid toward the passenger door and swung it open over the steep, overgrown slope leading to the river. “Please, God, rescue me!” I prayed.

When I hesitated, Kent grabbed my wrist. “Don’t.” he said evenly.

“No! YOU don’t!” I shouted, breaking into sobs. “I want to go home!”

God answered my pleas for help. Kent re-started the car, turned around, and headed back toward town. I kept my back to him with my hand on the door handle, prepared to leap if he so much as made a wrong turn. Before he came to a complete stop at the end of my driveway, I bolted and never looked back. It was the last time I ever saw him.

Inside my bedroom I fell to my knees, thankful to be alive. But I also felt ashamed, stupid, and no longer safe. It was many years before I told anyone about that night.

Oh Katie, I hope I haven’t frightened you. You are so full of dreams and eager to experience life, just as I was on that long-ago summer evening. Would I deny you the freedom you have so responsibly earned? Not for anything. But I had to share my experience with you in hopes that you might learn from it. These are the things I hope you will remember:

Nearly every person who is sexually assaulted knows their abuser.

Most abusers use deception and enticement rather than force to get close to their victim.

It is often the violation of trust, even more than physical injury that causes long-lasting emotional pain.

A person who is sexually assaulted is in no way to blame for it.

It is still assault, even if the person doesn’t say ‘no’ or fight back.

A survivor of sexual assault may wait a long time before talking about the incident. They may be embarrassed, ashamed, fearful of their assailant, afraid of not being believed, or simply eager to forget it. Eventually, though, talking about the assault helps with the healing.

I hope that something like this never happens to you. Oh, how I wish that I could protect you every minute of your life. But that would be like making you sit on that swing, yet never allowing you to experience the joy of swinging. So hold on, Katie, I’m giving you a great big underdog push, but I’ll be here if you ever need me.






Julie Arduini is hosting Fiction Friday today at The Surrendered Scribe.

When God Does the Cultivating...

Several years ago God began a cultivation process in my heart. For what purpose, I had no clue at the time, but this is how it began. A Samaritan’s Purse Christmas box that I had packed was delivered into the hands of a child in Zambia. The child’s father, a pastor, wrote me a thank you letter, and a friendship developed. I learned of the school operated by his church, and naturally, as a teacher, my heart was touched as I learned that many of the students are orphans. I collected and sent many school supplies and funds for various projects at the school. Eventually, the pastor invited me and my husband to come for a visit, however every attempt and inquiry met a dead end. I was a little puzzled, but accepted that a visit to Zambia simply was not God’s will.

Near the end of 2008 I learned of a ministry beginning in Uganda through Heart of God International, through a writing friend of mine, Jan Ross, who is the founder of this organization. When I learned that the ministry would involve working with children in a school setting in Uganda, I realized that God had sown seeds of love in my heart for African children through my contact in Zambia. I felt Him nudging me to go to Uganda.

If you have followed my blog for a while, you know that I spent 10 incredible days in Uganda last summer, working with 450 street orphans at Smile Africa; ministering to several hundred women (mostly widows) at the conference we held; and visiting the slums, as well as other Ugandan schools. (You can find blog posts for each day of my trip in this blog’s July and August archives, including many pictures and videos).

After returning home last summer, I was offered the position of education director for Heart of God International, and I accepted that position. We are now preparing for our second trip to Uganda, and I am thrilled to see real growth in what began as a gentle cultivation process. Ten very special friends from my own church and school are joining me for this summer’s trip. Each individual felt God’s tug on their heart when I shared with them what God is doing in Uganda.

For this summer’s trip we have a nurse practitioner and a nurse who will be establishing medical records for the children, four teachers and a foster care provider who will participate in the teacher conference I am planning, two men who will be organizing and participating in a men’s conference, and two teens who will be participating in a teen rally. Eight more team members from other parts of the country will be joining our group from Iowa as well. Last year four women blazed the trail, and this year, nineteen will return to build on the relationships and ministries that were started. Our fearless director, Denise Matthews, has been busy planning and organizing the trip, and holding training sessions. We are all busy raising support for our individual trips, plus money for the various ministries we will be involved in.

Throughout this past year some remarkable things have occurred. My first privilege and responsibility as education director was to assist Pastor Ruth of Smile Africa in making school and living arrangements for eleven young girls (ages 10-14) who had no homes or families to care for them.




Through some special funds designated for these girls, we were able to set them up in two rented rooms near Smile Africa and enroll them in a regular school. Tears came to my eyes when I saw this picture of the girls in school uniforms, with shoes on their feet. These are no doubt the first items of personal clothing many of them have ever owned!





These precious girls are now cultivating their own red-brown earth and harvesting their own vegetables.



I am certain that God has begun a process in each of their hearts as well, since they are regularly reminded that these gifts are from the hands of a loving Father. I can’t wait to see for myself how these girls are doing when we return this June.

In one of my previous posts I mentioned Paul, an employee of Smile Africa, who wanted so much for us to visit his home and pray for his family. He was very proud of the tiny room he and his wife share with their two children, and I could see why. It was clean and tidy and exuded love. “But,” he had said, “I wish I had a table.”

I later shared Paul's statement with my husband, who said, “So, buy him a table,” and we did.




Pastor Ruth delivered the table to Paul’s home a couple of months later. He immediately raised his hands and began praising God for this gift.




Many other wonderful things have transpired as well. The children are now receiving fruit once a week due to some generous monthly donations.




The students of the school where I teach (Cedar Valley Christian School), along with some students from a school in California, sent Christmas gifts to the children. Pastor Ruth said that these are the first real toys these children have ever had.







The babies are receiving milk, and a nursery is in the process of being completed to care for them. Still, there are many needs, and it will be so good to see how God will use our group to meet some of those needs.

When God does the cultivating, He also gives the increase in fruitfulness. It is thrilling to see Him at work, and even more thrilling to be a part of it. That He purposefully directed the delivery of a Christmas box to Zambia as a way of preparing the soil of my heart for this ministry to the street children of Uganda is simply amazing!

Please, please pray for our trip, scheduled for June 19-July 3, 2010.
I would stop right there, but some of you may be wondering how you can be a part of this exciting ministry. You can find more information online at http://uganda.heartofgodinternational.com. Or you can mail a check to:

Heart of God International Ministries –Uganda
P.O Box 248
Willard, Ohio 44890

Please mention in your correspondence that you were referred through my blog, and I will send you personalized updates. Heart of God International Ministries is a completely volunteer organization, so 100% of your gifts will directly benefit those who need it most.


Today's topic for Walk With Him Wednesday is "Cultivating the life God Desires."

Life Is Not Always A Bleach

It was just an ordinary Sunday afternoon phone call to my son, who happened to be in his second month of college five hundred miles away. Okay, I’ll admit it. I hadn’t heard from him for two weeks, and the mother in me had begun to conjure up all kinds of disturbing scenarios: he had sunk into a deep depression, and dropped out of school; his dorm was under the siege of terrorists; he had joined a cult, and was roaming the country in his bathrobe. I desperately needed to hear Justin’s voice. However, I tried to sound casual when he answered.

“So, what have you been up to?”

“Not much. I’ve been playing some flag football lately. That reminds me, Mom. Whatever you do, tell my brothers about bleach!”

What an odd request! The fact that his two statements might actually be linked, however, seemed stranger yet. “Sure. I’ll tell them.” I couldn’t help but grin into the phone, imagining how unenthused his brothers would be to learn the finer points of bleach usage. “Is there anything in particular you want them to know about it?”

“I ruined my favorite jeans; that’s all. I didn’t know bleach could do that.”

I knew which jeans he was talking about. I had fudged on the family clothing budget to buy them. Now I envisioned them splotched with white. “You know, some people pay big bucks for jeans with rips or bleach spots. Or, if you don’t like the spots, maybe you can just bleach them some more, until they are a lighter shade of denim.”

“Mom, you don’t get it. I don’t even have the jeans anymore.”

I seemed to have touched a nerve somehow, but I was incredulous. “You threw them away just because you got bleach on them? Those were expensive jeans!”

Exasperation resounded in the heavy sigh emanating from three states away. “Okay. Here’s what happened. I played flag football in my new jeans. It was stupid. I know that now. But it wasn’t as stupid as using bleach to try to get the grass stains out.”

“Ooooh…I’m starting to get the picture. Go on. Did you accidentally splash them when you poured the bleach into the washing machine?”

“I asked a girl in the laundry room how to bleach something, and she said to soak it. So, I poured a bottle of bleach into an ice cream bucket, and then I put my jeans in to soak while I went to the library to study for a while.”

“You’re telling me you poured the whole bottle of bleach in the bucket? How much water did you put in?”

“No water. She just said to soak it in bleach, not water.”
I stifled a snicker. “So what did the jeans look like when you came back from studying?”

“They looked pretty light, but I figured I could deal with that. So I just dumped them in the washer and put my quarters in.”

“You didn’t take them out of the bleach?”

“Nope.”

“And you didn’t put any other clothes in with the jeans?”

“Nope.”

“Well, at least we can be thankful for that!”

“No doubt.”

“I guess they were just too messed up then, and you had to throw them away.”

“You could say that. When the cycle ended and I opened up the washer, my favorite jeans were in tiny little pieces.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. I’m not kidding you. The biggest piece I found was the zipper. Just tell my brothers about bleach.” Justin emphasized each word of his final sentence.

My overactive imagination had eased by the time Justin and I finished our conversation, but the moment I hung up the phone I burst into uncontrolled laughter. I could relax. My son was actually learning some practical lessons. Of all the disturbing scenarios I had envisioned, his laundry error was pretty tame -the net loss being an overpriced pair of jeans, and perhaps a little dignity.

Justin’s brothers were informed and entertained by the tale of disintegrating blue jeans. I’m fairly certain they won’t repeat the same mistake; although I did hear them whispering something about the sweaters Aunt Sally gave them for Christmas. Just in case, I’m hiding the bleach.











This story was written for the topic, "oops." It is actually a true story from several years ago, and one of my favorite stories to retell. I posted this story today for Fiction Friday, hosted today by Shelley Ledfors @ The Veil Thins.

Redemption in the Back Pew

by Sharlyn Guthrie

Pastor Rob’s office clock chimed four times. Standing, he locked his desk, then stood to leave. A sudden, urgent rapping on the outside door interrupted his ritual. He strode toward the door, supposing he would find a homeless person seeking assistance.

Six months earlier Pastor Rob had left rural South Dakota for inner city Chicago seeking adventure and fresh challenges. The interruptions had been constant at first, and often dramatic. He had promptly organized a city-wide ministry to the homeless. Although the building that housed his congregation composed an entire city block, the congregation had dwindled to less than a hundred. Most drove in from the suburbs out of fierce loyalty to God and the First Baptist Church. An endowment funded the church, but its days were numbered.

The well-dressed man at the door was not what Pastor Bob expected. “How can I help you?”

The man glanced both directions, then pushed past the puzzled pastor. “I need to make a confession.”

“This is a Baptist church, sir, not Catholic…”

“You’ll hear me out, won’t you?” It was said with such authority that Pastor Bob merely nodded his head as he motioned toward a chair.

The visitor loosened his tie and removed his sunglasses, slipping them into the pocket of his white shirt. “The boss wants me to do someone in. I’ve done some bad things, but I draw the line at murder.”

“Well, now. I can’t say I’ve had any experience with this sort of thing.” Pastor Rob’s heart skipped several beats when the man slid his hands into his pockets. The locked desk contained his only weapon –a can of mace left behind by the previous staff. “Listen, I can give you spiritual guidance if that’s what you’re looking for, but I can’t put my congregation in jeopardy.”

“I won’t trouble your congregation. I’ll stay out of the way. There’s plenty of space here. You won’t even know I’m around.”

“Please, Mister…”

“Call me Johnny Ray. My Grandma was Baptist and she prayed for me relentlessly. Guess that’s why I’m here. I don’t mean any harm. I just have to lay low or they’ll take me out too.”

That was the beginning of an unspoken “arrangement” between the two men. Johnny Ray remained holed up in the First Baptist Church, while Pastor Rob feigned innocence. Soon after the service began each Sunday morning, Johnny Ray slid into the back pew. During the benediction he slipped out again.

Pastor Rob kept the kitchen stocked with ready-to-eat items. He scanned the paper carefully each morning for any mention of mob activity. The mace was moved from his drawer to his pocket, and all exit doors were secured twice daily. Otherwise, life at First Baptist Church remained unchanged.

Weeks turned into four months since the day Johnny Ray first pounded on the church door. Then one Sunday the back pew remained empty. Pastor Rob felt a pang of worry mixed with a tinge of relief.

Soon the pastor’s worries turned to a more pressing issue. The church had to make a decision. The remaining endowment funds could be used to move the church to the suburbs, or the church could continue for another year before dissolving. Both scenarios made Pastor Rob cringe. Without the First Baptist Church the homeless ministry would not survive. While moving to the suburbs might secure his job, he may as well move back to South Dakota. He was certain that both his opportunity for adventure and his newfound sense of purpose would be greatly diminished. “Please God, Show us another way,” he prayed.

The annual business meeting began with a surprise announcement. “The following letter was sent to the trustees of First Baptist Church,” the chairman explained. “Dear Sirs, Pastor Robert Dolan saved my life. I have turned from my sinful ways and placed my trust in the Almighty God. I am forever grateful to him and to the First Baptist Church. Therefore, I have deposited five million dollars into your endowment fund.
In Christ’s name, J.R.”

The small crowd let the meaning soak in for a moment, then broke into spontaneous rejoicing. Their stunned pastor was dumbstruck, especially when he read the headlines on page six of the next day’s Chicago Tribune. “Inside sources report five million dollars missing from mafia-controlled bank accounts.”

The following Sunday a bearded man slipped into the back pew. During the benediction his final exit was made with a tip of his hat to Pastor Rob.










I wrote this story as a Faithwriters entry for the adventure genre. It probably could have been more exciting, but I think it was exciting enough for Pastor Bob. Thanks for stopping by. Joanne is hosting Friday Fiction today. Stop by An Open Book and link up to more fiction.

Follow Me

by Sharlyn Guthrie


I love music, and Easter seems like a particularly appropriate time to revel in it. For this reason my husband and I drove to a church in a nearby city to attend an Easter musical performed by that church’s actors and choir members in full costume, and accompanied by a live orchestra. We anticipated a joyous, Easter celebration.

The musical was the story of a Roman centurion, Anthony, who was struggling to understand just who the man, Jesus, really was. In the beginning Anthony was indifferent, unable to grasp his fellow-officers’ agitation with the insignificant teacher from Galilee. He observed from a distance, witnessing several miracles.

Later, though, Anthony approached Jesus, boldly asking him to heal his servant who was near death. Jesus told Anthony that his faith was great, and for that reason the servant was healed. It was true, Anthony’s servant came running to announce his good news of health restored. As Anthony expressed his gratitude, Jesus merely looked at him and said, “Follow me.”

But how could he? Anthony’s life was invested in the Roman army. His family, his livelihood, even his very life were threatened if he admitted to his new-found faith. So Anthony believed, but he didn’t follow.

As Jesus healed the sick, the deaf, and the lame and forgave the sins of the adulteress I felt my throat tighten. Later, the same crowd (in this case the choir) that had welcomed Him into Jerusalem with hosannas only a week earlier called out to Pilate, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” I blinked back the tears threatening to roll down my cheeks. How could they be so fickle?

Then Pilate turned to Anthony, the centurion, and washing his own hands of the affair, commanded Anthony to oversee Christ’s scourging. Sadly, a conflicted Anthony complied. And though he was not an active participant in the scourging, it was his inaction that was largely responsible for the events that followed. True, others inflicted the wounds upon Jesus’ flesh. But Anthony, believer in Jesus, recipient of God’s mercy, who now understood and later professed, “Surely this man is the Son of God,” stood by, his uniform clearly identifying him as a follower of Caesar, and therefore a crucifier of Jesus Christ. Nobody would have guessed that Anthony believed in Jesus, the Son of God.

As Jesus endured insults and beatings and stumbled beneath the weight of the cross, one of the soldiers ordered a man from the audience to help Jesus carry the cross, and a twenty-first century spectator stepped back through the ages, still dressed in blue jeans; however, when he returned to his seat his blue oxford shirt was stained with Jesus’ “blood.”

That is when the Easter story, so old and so often re-told, suddenly became new and real. This contemporary, a casual observer like myself, was pulled effortlessly into the action from his place in the crowd and unwittingly helped to crucify the Lord Jesus. Anthony, who believed, yet refused to exercise his faith assisted in Jesus’ death as well.

Am I much different from Anthony? Sure, I believe in Jesus. Of course I’m a Christian –a Christ-follower. Or am I? Would I risk my name, my job, my security, my reputation, my life to follow Him? Would anyone readily identify a wretch like me as a follower of Christ? Christ’s crucifiers were not merely those who inflicted the wounds. No, those of us who stood by shared in the guilt as well. This I pondered throughout the remainder of the musical.

Forgiveness and reconciliation were portrayed through the words Jesus spoke from the cross, “Father, forgive them…” convincing Anthony and myself that even a state of inaction, a failure to follow, is forgivable. Praise God! He arose, victorious over death and sin! Hallelujah!

As the final strains of music ended, the director turned and faced the audience, now thunderous in their applause. Only moments ago his hands had skillfully drawn harmonious praise from the hearts and souls of the now silent group of musicians. Now he closed his eyes, those same hands raised, reflecting all glory and praise heavenward to God, our Savior, Jesus Christ, who is worthy of all of our praise and who bids us still, “Follow me.”

The musical I referred to today is “Bow The Knee” by Chris Machen. I am sharing this for the Tuesday meme, “In Other Words” for the quote below:

"I am the wretch the song refers to."
~Todd Friel

In Other Words is hosted today by Esthermay at her blog, The Heart of a Pastor’s Wife.