Multiplied Mercies

One week ago I returned home from my second trip to Uganda. I have spent the week unpacking, tending my flower and vegetable gardens, and trying to get back on a decent sleep schedule. I don’t know why sleeping through the night is so difficult after that trip, but it seems my fellow travelers were all affected similarly.

Gardening time is also my thinking and praying time, so amidst bean picking and weed pulling I have contemplated blogging. Last year I blogged a day by day journal, which took a long time and, I’m afraid, tried the patience of both myself and my readers. So I have decided to approach it a little differently this time, and perhaps give you a better insight into the Ugandan culture, including what I learned from it, and how our ministry worked within it. So far I am planning six posts, but stay tuned...it could be more or less, depending on how the Spirit leads!

In order to have a reference point for future posts, I will introduce you to our team and outline our itinerary in this first post. God multiplied the number of team members from four last year to 18 this year,


















eleven of us from my home town!
















While each of us participated in every activity to some degree, I will state the main focus of responsibilities for each team member. We couldn’t have had a better or more diverse team! The entire group worked well together and complemented each other in so many ways. We all remained basically healthy throughout the trip, thanks to many prayers and also the care of our medical team members. God was indeed merciful in keeping us all safe and healthy.

Jan Ross (Ohio)-founder of Heart of God International Ministries

Jeanice Coffell (Illinois)–co-founder of Heart of God International Ministries

Denise Matthews (California)–HGIM Director of East Africa Ministry –put the entire trip together!

Mark Matthews (California) –HGIM East Africa Men’s Ministry Director –planned Pastors conference

Me, Sharlyn Guthrie (Iowa) –HGIM East Africa Education Director –planned teacher conference and educational activities, worked with children at Smile Africa

Ben (California) –spoke at pastors conference and teen rally

Sylvia (California)–worked with children at Smile Africa

Scott (Texas)–spoke at pastors conference and remained in Uganda when the rest of us returned home

Aaron (Iowa)–spoke at pastors conference and teacher conference

Andrea (Iowa)–participated in teacher conference, planned educational activities, worked with children at Smile Africa

Wendy (Iowa)–participated in teacher conference, planned educational activities, worked with children at Smile Africa

Norma (Iowa)–participated in teacher conference, planned educational activities, worked with children at Smile Africa

Jane (Iowa)–treated and immunized children at Smile Africa and other schools

Cheryl (Iowa)–treated and immunized children at Smile Africa and other schools

Paul (Iowa)–spoke at pastors conference

Michelle (Iowa)–assisted with teacher conference, worked with children at Smile Africa

Emily (Iowa)–worked with children at Smile Africa, participated in teen conference
Courtney (Iowa)–worked with children at Smile Africa, participated in teen conference

God also multiplied our ministries through the special Ugandans we met last year, who brought us into contact with even more fellow believers and their ministries this year. Instead of three schools, we were involved with five. Instead of one church, we were involved with four. In addition to the seven teachers of Smile Africa, God allowed us to minister to 100+ teachers from both private and government schools. Besides the three pastors we met last year, God gave us over one hundred in attendance at the Pastor’s conference. We even had four more days added to our itinerary this year.

Itinerary:

June 19-20 –Travelled from Chicago to Entebbe, via Amsterdam. Stayed in Lubowa Cottages and Gardens













June 21 –Travelled from Lubowa to Tororo
June 22 –Women worked at Smile Africa, men began the Pastors Conference















June 23 –Nurses, Sylvia, and Teens returned to Smile Africa, Men continued on with their conference, Wendy, Norma, Andrea, Michelle, and I prepared for and began teacher conference.



























Joy measured all of us for dresses and shirts.
June 24 –same jobs as previous day
June 25 –Women worked at Smile Africa, men went to final day of Pastors conference. Women joined them at the end, sharing in the Lord’s table.


















Denise and I were interviewed by the local radio station, concerning both conferences.
June 26 –Teen Rally
















June 27 –Village Churches (we split into three groups, with each group attending a different church (Pastor Stephen’s, Pastor Amos’s, and Pastor Phillip’s)















In the afternoon we visited the Smile Africa Widows’ Shop
June 28 –Travelled to King’s Primary School in Bunambutye to watch their program, do classroom activities and hand out mosquito nets and bananas.














Visited Royal Palace Primary and Nursery School on the way home. Had dinner at Pastor Ruth and Basil’s house. Joy delivered tailor made clothing when we returned to the hotel.
June 29 –Said our goodbyes and travelled back to Lubowa Cottages. Stopped at the Source of the Nile for sightseeing and shopping.















Attended Saphan’s church service in the evening
June 30 –visited the women’s prison, dividing into four groups














July 1 –Spent the day at Early Learning Center. Children put on a program for us,














then we split up into five groups and spent time in each family group, eating lunch with the first group, then doing activities with each of the others.
July 2 –Spent the morning packing, had a visit from Sarah (a girl from home who lives in Kampala), went to Agnes’ home for a large, delightful lunch.













From there we visited Saphan and Alex's home, then went to the airport and waited for our 10 p.m. flight to Amsterdam.
July 3 –We had a 6 hour layover in Amsterdam before our flight to Chicago. We said our goodbyes, then loaded up in our two vehicles to drive five hours back home to Iowa.

Yes, God’s mercies were new every morning and throughout each day of this trip. He provided in ways that amazed and encouraged not only our team, but all of those to whom we ministered. He proved His character over and over again.

I was reminded today in the message I heard at the Austin Stone (we are in Austin, TX visiting our son, Travis, and his family) that acting on ones faith often results in great blessings such as we experienced on this trip, but according to Hebrews 11 it can also result in great trials and what many of us would term, "misfortunes." (Hebrews 11:35-37)

God is good, and my faith in Him is worthwhile, not because my trip to Uganda can be termed successful -that is simply grace. He would still be good, and my service to Him worthwhile, if I had suffered injury, imprisonment, loss of health or even loss of life during my travels, because neither Iowa or Uganda are my home. I am "...longing for a better country, a heavenly one." (Hebrews 11:16)

It was affirming to hear this message today, because I know that some have regarded going to Uganda on a missions trip as dangerous and even reckless. I prefer to think of it as being bold in faith (although I have never thought of myself as particularly courageous!).

On two occasions when I told two separate Christian leaders that I was planning to go to Uganda their response was, "why in the world would you want to do that?"

It is a good question, and one that I have pondered much. My answer is simply this, "because God gave me the opportunity and put it on my heart to go. His love compels me." I have never regretted my decision, nor will I ever regret it, whatever the outcome in this life. God's mercies here and in Uganda are only a taste of what awaits me in that heavenly country I already call "Home."

I hope that over the next few weeks you will enjoy reading my musings on how God’s bountiful mercies have been displayed and how they continue to multiply. My next post will be about homes and families in Uganda, and will be titled, "Home is Where You Tie Your Goat."

Where are Ravens When You Need Them?

If you have checked my blog recently and wondered where I've been, I have been busy finishing up the end of the school year and preparing for my trip to Uganda. I leave in just two weeks, so you may not see much activity here until I return.

Since many of you seemed to enjoy my May 13th story, I thought I would share another (humorous) Boundary Waters tale. Enjoy!

Where are Ravens When You Need Them?
by Sharlyn Guthre

“Would someone tell me how I ended up on this ledge?” I wondered aloud.

“You climbed.” Ordinarily Dan was a likable teenager, but at that moment, had there not been so many witnesses, I would have smacked him. The ledge we were sharing jutted out forty feet above the lake where the rest of the youth group and the other chaperones sat staring up at us from their canoes. One look over the ledge, and I headed back the way we came.

“The only way off is to jump,” my companion said matter-of-factly. “I’ll go first.” Again I quelled a violent outburst, but I did manage a death grip on his arm.

“No! Not yet, I mean…just let me figure this out.” He was right about the path we had taken to the top. We had climbed hand-over-hand, pulling ourselves up and over rocks. I’d broken two fingernails coming up. I could easily break my neck attempting to go down.

I tried to think of someone to blame for my predicament, and settled on my adventuresome, risk-taking husband, who was responsible for dragging me along on this trip in the first place. Concerning this latest adventure John had merely said, as compellingly as the serpent himself, “I dare you.” He had also pointed out that Dan, Gilbert, and I were the last remaining holdouts, and Dan was already making his way to the top. That left me in the same category as Gilbert, a constant shirker of responsibility, feigner of injuries, and genuine pain in the posterior region. If that weren’t enough, my entire family had already successfully leaped from the cliff.

“Hold up, Dan!” I had called out, oblivious to the shocked expressions exchanged by the others.

It can’t be that bad. Who cares that I’m the oldest female in the group? Besides, I’ll make my sons and my husband proud. Everyone will respect me, and news of my strength and courage will spread throughout the church -maybe even the city.

Such grandiose thoughts had fueled my ascent. Now, with Dan’s arm turning blue beneath my fingers, I considered the alternatives.

Jumping is definitely out of the question. Climbing back down is impossible. Maybe I can convince the others to leave me here and pray, like Elijah, for the ravens to feed me.

My musings caused me to loosen my grip just enough that Dan wriggled away. “See ya at the bottom, Mrs. Guthrie. Good luck.” And with that, Dan ran and leapt off the cliff. I couldn’t bear to watch, but several seconds later I heard a splash, followed by cheers and applause from below.

I had never been so alone. I searched the sky for ravens and, seeing none, edged closer to the ledge.

“Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!”

So this is the respect I get…twenty ungrateful teens heckling me to leap to my death like a jilted lover on a New York skyscraper. I’ll show them. They’ll be sorry when their little wilderness vacation is cut short and they have to figure out how to haul my body back to civilization. Guess I’ll end up in the papers after all, if only in the obituaries.

I sucked in my breath, closed my eyes, and stepped off the ledge…down…down…down. When will I reach the bottom? Down…down…down…better take another breath. Down…down…down…I’m coming, Lord Jesus!

Splat! I felt as though I’d been spanked –hard! Silence closed in and it felt like my lungs were held in a vise as I rose to the surface. I came up gasping, and immediately sank back under the chilly water. This time, several hands grabbed and pulled me up and into a canoe.

“You did it!”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Way to go, Mrs. Guthrie.”

“Wait till everyone hears about this.”

“My mom would never do what you just did.”

I felt exhilarated, proud, and thankful all at the same time.

“See, aren’t you glad you did it?” My husband asked, embracing me.

“I guess so. It was pretty impressive how long it took to reach the water. I actually had time to think! I broke two fingernails, though, and my back end is a little sore.”

“You’ll get over it,” he said, with not one bit of sympathy –and I did.

Later, however, in the privacy of our tent I dropped my wet shorts, revealing a bruise the size of Texas. John gasped, then quickly tried to suppress a grin.

“Go ahead and laugh,” I said. “I dare you.”

Fiction Friday is being hosted today by Yvonne at My Back Door. Stop in and find links to more great fiction.

What Was I Thinking?

This story is more truth than fiction, even the ending, as I just may be joining my husband and the youth group for this trip once again this summer -sigh!

What Was I Thinking?
by Sharlyn Guthrie

I still don’t know why I said “yes” when he popped the big question. No, I’m not talking about a marriage proposal. The question my husband asked went something like this, “I finally talked the youth pastor into taking the youth to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area this summer. Isn’t that great? He wants us to chaperone. You’ll go along, won’t you?”

I was raised in a hotel loving, all-girl family. I had never been in a motor boat, much less a canoe. Still, my sense of adventure was stirred. When my teenage son blurted, “YOU’RE going to the Boundary Waters?!” something in his tone challenged me.

My husband was like a child waiting for Christmas. He counted the weeks and then the days. He dragged me to stores I had never shopped in before to purchase items I didn’t know existed –collapsible dinnerware, green vinyl rain ponchos and camouflage hats with netting that tied over your face. I laughed, informing him that I intended to maintain my stylish reputation. He laughed back –an evil cackle, really. I should have been very scared.

We began packing. “I’m having a little trouble over here,” I informed him. My pack was bulging, while another sizable pile of necessities waited to be included.

My husband quickly pinpointed the problem. “You packed too many clothes. You only need one set to stay dry and one to get wet.”

“For a whole week?” Doubts were mounting, but the next item to go was my make-up. “You’re kidding me!” He wasn’t.

Thirty one teens and chaperones launched fifteen canoes into Farm Lake, following prayer and a few instructions. “Don’t stand up or shift your weight suddenly. Remember the phrase ‘up a creek without a paddle?’ It can happen here. Tents don’t float.” Halfway across the lake those instructions were demonstrated with much more clarity than any flight attendant’s oxygen mask routine.

The occupants of two canoes playfully lunged at each other as they passed. One canoe flipped, depositing two teens, their packs, and tent into bone-chilling water. Ignoring the shrieks of bobbers in life-vests, the guides grabbed their packs instead. But the tent had already sunk. The canoe was righted and repacked, though one paddle had drifted away unnoticed amidst the commotion.




At camp two cold, wet boys solemnly spread their wet belongings on tree branches, then huddled near the fire. Although they were sheepish in their request for tent space it was soon granted. Three now had to squeeze into tents designed for two.

“Let’s go for a walk,” my exultant husband called, grabbing a shovel.

“Okay,” I responded, skipping ahead of him. “This is fun. How far are we going?”

“How about over here? It’s off the path for privacy’s sake, but not too far away in case of bears.”

I hesitated. “Just what are we talking about doing over here?”

“We’re digging the latrine.”

Speechless, I just stood there watching him dig that hole. My husband ignored me, but a sinister grin played at the corners of his mouth.

Meanwhile, the contents of a bag labeled “beef stroganoff” were dumped into boiling lake water. The resulting substance convinced most of us to skip supper and retreat to our tents early. It was a good thing, too. The stroganoff moved swiftly through those who ate it, resulting in many trips to the now totally disgusting latrine.

We awoke to rain. Grudgingly I donned the ugly green poncho, casting sideways glances at my gleeful husband. On day two of drizzle I became openly hostile. “What were you thinking? What was I thinking?” His smirk remained intact.


The sun broke through just before going down on that second day, creating a spectacular sunset. My husband raised his arm, attempting an embrace. “You stink!” I snapped, and reality hit. We hadn’t bathed for three days, yet we had paddled hard, sweating under ponchos. Using a tarp my husband fashioned a shower, then poured cold lake water over me as I yelped and hollered. Then I returned the favor. It was a high price to pay for cleanliness.

Mosquitoes as large as hummingbirds converged on us at dusk. Out came the funky hat my husband had selected for the occasion.

I wish I could say that things improved after that. They didn’t. Joyfully I returned to the land of warm showers and flush toilets.

Yesterday my husband asked, “Are you going back to the Boundary Waters with us next summer?”

I have no idea why, but I said, “Yes!”











Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Catrina Bradley on her blog, A Work In Progress.

Baby Blues

In honor of Mothers Day I thought I would share a story I wrote about becoming a new mother. Sure, it has been a while since this happened to me, but some feelings are easily recalled. In case you're wondering, the baby in the picture is none other than my new little granddaughter, Josie Jean LaRue Guthrie, born April 26th. She was one day old here. Isn't she precious?





Baby Blues
by Sharlyn Guthrie

As I reach up from the wheelchair to accept the tiny bundle my eyes widen and my heart seizes. “Are they really going to let me take you home, little one? What makes them think I can care for you properly? I killed all my African violets, for heaven’s sake! And last week I totally slept through Roger’s raucous card game. The cat nearly trips me before I remember to feed him. What if I forget to feed you?” Anxious thoughts erupt one after the other, causing my raised hands to shake.

“Are you okay? A little tired, perhaps? Maybe I should push him down in his bassinette.” As if my own worries aren’t enough. Now I’ve managed to alarm the nurse.

“I’m fine.” The infant moves only slightly as his cocoon is nestled into the crook of my arm. He draws my attention like a magnet, making me barely aware of our procession down the hall. He is warm and beautiful. Delicate eyelashes rest on sumptuous cheeks punctuated by a comma for a nose. The shape of a heart adorns his upper lip, resting on the beginnings of a pout. “What was it that Grandma said about his chin? Ah yes, ‘an angel must have kissed him there, for a perfect dimple remains as evidence.’”

“My son is beautiful, not handsome.” The sudden revelation, or else the jolt of the descending elevator, causes my stomach to lurch. “Will the other children think he’s girly? Call him names like ‘wimp’ or ‘pretty boy?’ Will he get picked on at recess and eat his lunch by himself, causing his teachers to whisper among themselves and shake their heads with pity?”

The door has opened again and my son and I are wheeled toward the lobby. I relax a little as onlookers pause, regarding us tenderly. Apparently I don’t look as inept as I feel. Maybe I’m not an unfit mother after all.

That thought evokes an unwelcome memory from three Sunday nights ago. It was time for my hourly trek to the bathroom to relieve my restricted bladder. The dog whined to relieve hers as well, so I picked her up and waddled to the back door, whacking her in the head with the door as I opened it. She leapt from my arms and cowered, whimpering under the picnic table. She still tucks her tail between her legs whenever I approach. “What if I accidentally harm my own child? Or worse yet, frighten him by losing my temper? Will he someday wince when I raise my hand? Will he run to hide when I call his name?”

A kiss on my forehead interrupts my frightful retrospection. “Motherhood suits you,” Roger whispers. “You positively glow.”

Touching my flushed cheeks, I smile faintly. Oblivious as usual, Roger is simply being his easy-going self. Yet somehow at this moment his jovial, laid-back manner irritates me.

“Here, honey. Why don’t you take your little prince and fasten him into his car seat?” Sarcasm rolls off my tongue with the words. “I assume you have it properly installed and all the straps sorted out and adjusted.” I watch for any hint of trepidation, but there is none. Roger calmly lifts our son, placing him gently into his seat, only slightly fumbling with the straps he is fastening. All the while he croons a soothing lullaby.

Un-beckoned tears squeeze out, streaming down my cheeks, releasing my worries, my doubts, my fears like a flood. Whether it’s unbalanced hormones or a bad case of the jitters, I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t have to do this alone. The God of the universe has promised never to leave me. And Roger, my amazing, even-tempered, God’s gift of a husband, promised the same thing.

I settle into the back seat next to our son who continues his peaceful sleep, totally unaware of my inexperience and insecurities. He absolutely trusts in my ability to care for him. Surely I can rest as peacefully in God’s strength and trust as fully in His power.

Glancing sideways, I note that our baby’s pout has turned into a lop-sided smile, and fresh concerns tumble through my mind. “Is he still breathing? Are his nerves and muscles all connected right? Will the left corner of his mouth always droop like that?”

Be still, my fretful soul.




Fiction Friday is being hosted today by Karlene Jacobsen at Homespun Expressions.

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.

Alphabet of the Cross

I am partial to the alphabet for many reasons, but mainly because it is basic to reading and learning just like the cross of Jesus Christ is basic to my faith. Somehow it seemed natural to combine the two. I hope someday to publish an illustrated version of this as an alphabet book. Until then I am thrilled to display the alphabet quilt shown above that was made for me by a mother of a couple of my students. My word for each letter of "Alphabet of the Cross" is stitched into each letter block of the quilt. I hope that you are blessed as you read this.

Alphabet of the Cross
by Sharlyn Guthrie

A is for atonement.
According to Mosaic law, only an unblemished lamb could atone for sin. Jesus, the holy Lamb of God became our atonement.

B is for blood.
Just as the blood of the lamb was poured onto an altar, Jesus’ blood poured from His hands, feet, and side as He hung on the cross.

C is for crucifixion.
Crucifixion was a cruel, slow, and humiliating punishment that ended in death on a cross, hours or even days after it began. Jesus was crucified.

D is for disciples.
Jesus ate supper with His twelve disciples the night before He was betrayed. He asked them to remember His death by breaking and eating bread (a symbol of His body), and drinking wine (a symbol of His blood). Believers in Jesus continue to observe the Lord’s table or communion to remember His death.

E is for Eli.
Eli is the Hebrew name for God. From the cross “…Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” that is, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46) God could not look upon His own son because of the sin -mine and yours- that He took with Him to the cross.

F is for forgiveness.
“Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing,” Jesus cried from the cross. He even forgave the sins of the thief hanging next to Him.

G is for Golgotha.
Golgotha, “the place of the skull,” was the hill outside of Jerusalem where Jesus was crucified.

H is for the Holy of Holies.
A heavy veil in the temple separated God’s people from the Holy of Holies…God’s dwelling place. As Jesus died, the veil of the temple was torn from the top to the bottom, ending forever our separation from the presence of God.

I is for “It is finished.”
Jesus spoke these words just before he died.

J is for Judas.
Judas, one of the twelve disciples, betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.

K is for King of the Jews.
Jesus’ accusers crowned Him with thorns and hung a plaque over His head that read, “King of the Jews”.

L is for lots.
The soldiers stripped Jesus, and then cast lots, gambling to see who would win His clothing.

M is for mocking.
“The soldiers also mocked Him, coming up to Him, offering Him sour wine, and saying, ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save Yourself!’” (Luke 23:36-37)

N is for the ninth hour.
It was the ninth hour when Jesus died crying, “…Father, unto Your hands I commit my spirit.” (Luke 23:46)

O is for offering.
Jesus became the offering for our sins, making the many offerings required of people and priests before His death unnecessary to continue.

P is for pierce.
After Jesus died, the soldiers pierced his side with a sword. Water and blood gushed out, fulfilling Old Testament prophecy, and proving that Jesus was dead.

Q is for quake.
As Jesus died the earth quaked, rocks split, and tombs were opened.

R is for resurrection.
Many saints were resurrected. Their tombs were opened by the earthquake.

S is for sin.
“God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” (II Corinthians 5:21 )

T is for tomb.
The tomb where Jesus was laid was sealed and guarded. But He arose! Death lost its power!

U is for Undeserved Love.
Jesus shed His blood so that sinners like me could live. That is undeserved love -incredible grace!

V is for Via Dolorosa.
The Via Dolorosa is “the painful way” that Jesus took to Golgotha. Although His death was agonizing, there was no other way.

W is for weeping women.
Women who loved Jesus wept as they watched His crucifixion.
Later, after His resurrection, He appeared to them first. Their weeping turned to jubilation.

X is for example.
Jesus lived a perfect life. Although He was tempted, He never sinned. He is our perfect example.

Y is for yield.
Jesus yielded to His Father’s will. He asks you and I to do the same. He will put our old, sinful selves to death and raise us into a new life.

Z is for Zion.
Zion is Jerusalem, the city near Golgotha. Some day soon Jesus, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, will return to Zion’s Hill to establish His kingdom. We watch, hope, and yearn for that day.

In the Light of the Cross

For Fiction Friday this week I have decided to share a story written from a cricket's point of view. It isn't one of my favorites, but it's fun. While you're here, I hope you will scroll on down the page and read my previous (more thoughtful) post on the cross which includes a recently penned poem.

In the Light of the Cross
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Yes! It’s the band! Chirp chirp. I can make my own marvelous music without attracting attention. Chirp chirp. Seats are filling up and the volume is increasing –all the better for a covert cricket like me. Chirp chirp.

How, you might ask, did a cacophonous field cricket make his home in the pulpit of Christ Community church? Truth is, I was hatched in the flower garden outside. Chirp chirp. I found my way here in search of food. There’s a lifetime supply of peanuts in front of this dusty hymnal, plus half a cherry-flavored cough drop for my sweet tooth. Chirp chirp.

Light streams in through the cut-out cross, which also provides me with a grand view of the congregation. Chirp chirp. The cross is a common sight here, although I’m not sure why. The old hymnal has a cross on its cover; a humongous gold cross stretches from the rafters to the platform behind the pulpit; and a red cross gleams from each stained glass window. Many of the congregants wear a cross on their lapel or necklace. Chirp chirp. Even so, I have never once heard mention of it from the pulpit.

It seems to me that people come here to feel good. Chirp chirp. They shake hands, sing happy songs, and listen to The Reverend speak of their goodness. Smiles grace their faces –whether heartfelt or simply what’s expected, I can’t tell. Chirp chirp.

The Reverend speaks in soothing tones. Chirp chirp. He speaks of human kindness, saving the planet, and performing good works. The men nod off. Their wives elbow them. Chirp chirp. Obediently they straighten, and a placid smile quickly returns to their faces.

Okay, no more chirping. The music has stopped. A feeble old preacher in a pin-striped makes his way to the platform. Where’s The Reverend?

“Good morning. I’ll be filling in for your minister today. Please take the Bible that’s in front of you and turn to Hebrews chapter twelve.” Curious glances are exchanged as the preacher awaits a response. “Verses two and three say, ‘Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.’”*

“Today, my friends, let us fix our eyes on Jesus. Let us look at the cross as we have never seen it before –not the gleaming crosses that adorn our sanctuary, but the cross we find here, in God’s holy Word...”

Whoa! The pounding on the pulpit nearly sends me sailing through my peek-hole. I’ll be safer up here on the hymnal. This is great! Nobody’s dozing this morning. Their eyes are wide open. They’re not exactly smiling, either. This is getting interesting.

“…That cross is hard. It is ugly and offensive. It endures through the ages to remind us of the awful price that was paid for our sins. Jesus laid down his life on that cross for you and for me.”

“Amen.”

Did I hear something?

“AMEN!”

There it is again. Now that’s a new word around here!

“…Maybe you need to make your way to this altar and kneel at the foot of the cross. Confess your sins. Claim the power that is yours in Jesus Christ. Then take up your cross and follow Him. Praise God! Hallelujah!”

Hey! Careful! I nearly lost my balance. What’s happening? People are on their feet. They’re moving toward the front. Tears have replaced their peaceful smiles. Yikes! That Bible thumping preacher just dumped me off the hymnal.

“When I survey the wondrous cross…” his ancient voice quivers with emotion. “…on which the Prince of glory died,” several others join in. Band members leaf through song sheets, looking mighty confused. “My richest gain I count but loss, and pour contempt on all my pride.”**

Amazing! It makes me wonder, though. How could everyone sit here surrounded by crosses week after week and forget a story like that? Then again, why would a common field cricket hide himself inside a pulpit, denying himself fresh air, plump grain, and starry skies? How could I have settled for stale peanuts and a half-eaten cough drop?

Basking in the light of the cross I make a decision. Chirp chirp.


*Hebrews 12:2-3 (NIV)
**”When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” hymn by Isaac Watts

For links to more Friday fiction, please visit Christina at her blog, With Pen in Hand

The Uncompromising Cross

“The cross effects its ends by destroying one established pattern, the victim’s, and creating another pattern, its own. Thus it always has its way. It wins by defeating its opponent and imposing its will upon him. It always dominates. It never compromises, never dickers nor confers, never surrenders a point for the sake of peace. It cares not for peace; it cares only to end its opposition as fast as possible.” ~ A.W. Tozer, The Radical Cross

Jesus Christ knew all these things about the cross when He pleaded, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” Luke 22:42 (NIV).

As Jesus looked toward the cross He knew the cost. He rightly anticipated the pain involved in dying a cruel death normally reserved for criminals. For this reason He begged his father to allow Him to escape the cross, although He quickly added His willingness to conform to God’s will. Two verses later Luke says that Jesus was earnestly praying in anguish, so much so that great drops of sweat fell like blood to the ground.

I am comforted by these portrayals of Jesus as He faced crucifixion. I am comforted knowing that He experienced a full range of human emotions. I am comforted knowing that the matter of the cross wasn’t easy, even for Him. I am comforted in realizing that He does not ask of me anything that He himself hasn’t already experienced.

“If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” Luke 9:23 (NIV).

What of This Cross?

What of this cross that lies across my way,
imploring that myself I should betray?
It reeks of putrid death; foreshadows pain.
Is that my name engraved across its grain?

What of this cross? I find it interferes
with plans, belongings, all that I hold dear.
Must every precious treasure be laid down?
Is there indeed no other way around?

What of this cross that emulates my Lord’s,
yet sparks among my loved ones such discord?
Fighting, dissension, arguments, and hate
-this cross does not bring peace, but separates.

What of this cross that makes my footsteps halt?
I must decide to die or to default;
Every allegiance I must now disown;
take up this cross, and carry it alone.

This cross I’ll bear and boast of only He
who leads the way and spilled His blood for me.
I shall not hesitate nor breathe a sigh;
but gain my life when Self commits to die.

~Sharlyn Guthrie

Today I am "preparing for Easter" along with Ann Voskamp and her friends at Holy Experience. I hope you will take time to visit her and check out some other posts on this topic.