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MORE INSPIRATIONS FROM MARIANE HOLBROOK
A LETTER TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER
by Betty Jo Mings
Author of "Poems For The
Common Man"
Website: http://www.bettyjomings.truepath.com/
My Dearest Heather:
Tomorrow you are getting married. With a heart full of
love, joy, and pride, and with eyes full of tears, I will
watch you pledge your love and devotion to the man God has
chosen for you.
I remember when I first held you, my first grandchild, in
my arms. I thought you were as beautiful as your mother had
been as a baby. I cherished every minute I spent with you, and
you responded to my love with open arms whenever you saw me.
When you were just two and a half years old, you were
singing with your parents about having Jesus in your heart.
You asked them what that meant, and right then you prayed and
asked Him to come in.
Later, your father baptized you and your sister, Bethany,
at your church and your extended family watched with
thankfulness.
You were an avid reader and all through school you earned
dozens of honors, trophies and acclamation. But you always
loved Jesus and put Him first in your life.
When you were in the fifth grade, you started a Bible Club
in your home so your friends could know about Jesus. You led
the singing and told visualized stories while I told Bible
stories. Many of your friends learned to love the Lord because
of your witness.
When you were fourteen, your father took you on a "date"
and gave you a "promise ring" to wear, signifying you would
keep yourself pure until your marriage.
Many times I attended your school or church to hear your
beautiful voice when you sang a solo or a duet with Bethany. I
had a hard time controlling my emotions, especially when you
and Bethany sang "I've Just Seen Jesus" at a public school
choir and band performance. Mine were not the only wet eyes as
the audience gave you a standing ovation.
When you were sixteen and received your driver's license,
you drove 50 miles to spend the night at my house, bringing a
delicious apple pie that you had baked for me, along with a
bouquet of roses from your garden. How I cherished your
visits!
Because we live near Disneyland, we kept season passes for
your family to enjoy. What fun we had together!
I watched you graduate with honors from high school where
you were voted "The Girl Most Likely To Succeed." And their
prediction proved true!
What a special thrill it was to watch you become a Doctor
of Veterinary Medicine! My tears flowed as you and your friend
sang "The Star Spangled Banner" at your graduation ceremony.
The love you extend to everyone you know manifests itself now
in your tender care for animals.
Last Christmas you provided me with what will become one of
the sweetest memories of my life. Your gift to me was the last
present opened. Knowing how much I love flowers, you designed
a beautiful card showing the flowers I would receive each
month for a year and thanked me for 25 years of love and
prayers. And every month as the flowers have been delivered to
me, I have felt your love.
All through the years I have prayed for you; through your
tears and joys and problems and victories. I especially prayed
for the man God was preparing to be your husband, that he
would enter your life in God's time. I wept when I heard about
your Kevin, that he loves you, loves the Lord and has also
kept himself pure for you.
And now the time has come to see you put on your beautiful
white wedding dress, and walk down the aisle on your father's
arm. How excited and happy I am for you both, and now I pray
the Lord will bless your marriage and keep you always closely
nestled in His loving arms. And I thank Him again for blessing
me with my beautiful granddaughter, my Heather, whom I love so
dearly.
Grandma Mings September 2003
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BAPTIST ANGELS WITH CHAINSAWS
by Mariane Holbrook
In early December dozens and dozens, perhaps hundreds of
male angels descended on North Carolina in such droves that
newspaper and television coverage of the event continues even
yet.
A damaging ice storm had made a wide and eerie swath
through central and western North Carolina, leaving every tree
branch glistening with frozen, emerald precipitation. The
popping of brittle pine trees and broken limbs could be heard
through the night, some falling on cars, others crashing
through homes and businesses.
It looked like a war zone. Some called the scattered debris
worse than that left by Hurricane Fran in 1996 when it roared
inland to the surprise of nearly everyone.
A few days after the ice storm in December, a kind,
unassuming elderly woman stood at the window of her home in
Randolph County shaking her head in disbelief at the snapped
trees, broken limbs, the blanket of fallen branches littering
her yard. How on earth would this widow pay someone to clean
up the mess that stretched before her like the unwelcome
visitor it was? Her Social Security check barely covered her
essentials. Where would she find the hundreds of dollars
needed for this necessary cleanup?
Later that day when Vera was visiting her daughter, a
truckload of men drove slowly down the road and viewed her
littered lawn. Jerry, a neighbor of Vera's, was leaving his
driveway when one of the men approached offering to help in
debris removal.
Jerry explained that Vera was a widow of limited resources
and unable to pay for what would likely be a significant fee.
The men said they only needed a signature giving the
homeowner's approval, then they would get busy. It would cost
Vera nothing. Jerry signed for Vera, pleased that help was
forthcoming.
The men in the truck were angels. As surely as those who
heralded Christ's birth 2000 years ago. As surely as those who
appear unannounced and unrecognized in our lives today when we
need them for protection and comfort.
The dictionary defines angels as "typically benevolent
celestial beings that acts as intermediaries between heaven
and earth."
The men in the truck were part of that dedicated, selfless
group called the North Carolina Baptist Men, who fanned out
all over North Carolina immediately after the ice storm to
help wherever they could. They came from as far away as South
Carolina and Virginia.
They brought chain saws, rakes, axes and hand saws. They
gathered at various Baptist churches to receive their
assignments, then drove through the ice covered areas to work
for nothing. Nothing but a thank you and a handshake.
At Vera's house they cut down large damaged trees and sawed
the limbs into manageable lengths. They stacked the wood
neatly by the road awaiting trucks dispatched by FEMA (the
Federal Emergency Management Agency).
The men returned a second day, eager to work in the bitter
cold to remove broken bamboo, trim more branches, cutting them
into firewood lengths, and raking Vera's front and back lawn
with such precision that it looked like a well-maintained
country club green. They worked tirelessly for hours.
When they finally finished, the ten men filed into Vera's
house and handed her a New Testament with all their signatures
neatly handwritten in the front. Holding hands in a circle,
these Baptist angels prayed for Vera, asking God to protect
this godly woman and give her health and blessing for the year
ahead.
They received no remuneration and indeed, would not have
accepted any. Their rewards were at that moment being placed
in a heavenly vault with each name carefully recorded by a
trusted Scribe.
And as the Baptist workers eagerly drove on to their next
assignment, God looked down from his vantage point in Heaven
and said quietly, "Those are my men. Those are my beloved
men."
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BRINGING OUT THE BEST IN US
by Mariane Holbrook
Last week, the car in which a godly, elderly couple was
riding was hit broadside by an 18-wheel truck packed full of
heavy, ripe pumpkins ready for delivery to market.. The driver
rushed through a red light at a busy North Carolina
intersection, killing instantly Susie Everett and critically
injuring her husband, Ed, who was airlifted to a major medical
center.
"How could this be?" "For what purpose?" were the two
questions first asked by shocked family members and friends
whose grief knew no bounds.
It was then that compassion, healing oil and love took on
legs of their own to reach out to a stunned and hurting
family. Phone calls and food, flowers and gifts, prayers and
concern, hugs and tears surrounded the grief-stricken loved
ones.
In a word, it brought out the best in them.
Several decades ago, Christian mystic and renowned author
A.W. Tozer published a column, a copy of which I have carried
in my Bible for many years. When I was told of Susie and Ed's
accident, I read it again, this time with more meaning than
ever before:
THE CHRISTIAN TRAVELS AN APPOINTED WAY
By
A. W. Tozer
To the child of God, there is no such thing as an accident;
he travels an appointed way. The path he treads was chosen for
him when he was not, when as yet he had existence only in the
mind of God.
Accidents may indeed appear to befall him and misfortune
stalk his way, but these evils will be so in appearance only
and will seem evil only because we cannot read the secret
script of God's hidden providence and so cannot discover the
ends at which He aims. When true faith enters, chance and
mischance go out for good. They have no jurisdiction over them
that are born of the Spirit, for such as these are sons of the
new creation and special charges of the most high God.
While sojourning here below, these children of the eternal
covenant may pay token tribute to nature; sickness, old age
and death may levy upon them, and to the undiscerning eye they
may seem to be as other men. Here, as in all other judgments
upon Christians, the world is completely fooled by
appearances, for it cannot see that these believing ones are
"hid with Christ in God."
The man of true faith may live in absolute assurance that
his steps are ordered by the Lord. For him misfortune is
outside the bounds of possibility. He cannot be torn from this
earth one hour ahead of the time God has appointed, and he
cannot be detained on earth one moment after God is done with
him here. He is not a waif of the wide world, a foundling of
time and space, but a saint of the Lord and the darling of His
particular care.
All this is not mere dreaming, not a comforting creed woven
as a garment to warm the shivering hearts of lonely,
frightened souls in a dark and unfriendly world. Rather it is
of the essence of truth, a fair summation of the teaching of
the Bible on the subject, and should be received reverently
and joyously along with everything else which is taught in the
Scriptures.
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HE REMEMBERS OUR SIN NO MORE
by Mariane Holbrook
"He does not treat us as our sins deserve or
repay us according to our iniquities."
Psalms 103:10 NIV
One of the things I most dislike about the enemy of our
souls is his penchant for attacking the ill, the elderly, the
infirmed.
While my godly mother lay dying, racked with pain from
arthritis, sciatica, neuritis, bursitis, heart failure and a
host of other illnesses, she began to doubt that Jesus loved
her, that Jesus cared for her. I held her hand in that sterile
room, read promise after promise from God's precious Word that
He had saved her, that she was the darling of His care, the
apple of His eye, her ever-present Lord. Those assurances
brought peace again to her heart.
Oftentimes, when my own pain reaches unbearable heights,
thoughts come to me that perhaps some sin in my life caused my
illness. But my Savior Jesus helps me rebuke that barrage and
know once again that when God forgives, He forgives to the
uttermost and buries our sins forever and ever in the depths
of the sea.
Other times, when I lie on my bed, too ill to move, the
enemy of my soul tells me that my lack of faith is responsible
for my lingering illness. But God reminds me again and again
that He honors even a tiny bit of faith. In Matthew 17:20 the
mustard seed is specifically used to illustrate faith and the
exercise thereof.
Why then am I not healed? With all my heart I believe it's
because this is the only way God can get my attention, to set
me aside to feed me from His Word, nurture me with His
presence, surround me with His love and grace, prepare me to
be the kind of godly woman He wants me to be.
Heaven is a prepared place for a prepared people and God is
using our days of pain and suffering that so many of us are
going through to make us ready to meet our bridegroom, Jesus.
I don't want to be ashamed at His appearing.
Please, Father, don't let these days of pain be wasted on
me. I want to be an eager student, a vessel that will make me
an eager participant in the "fellowship of Your suffering."
Amen
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IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT
by Mariane Holbrook
"Yet day by day the Lord also pours out his steadfast love
upon me, and through the night I sing his songs and pray to
God who gives me life." Psalm 42:8. (Living Bible translation)
I've learned that long nights, without distractions or
interruptions, can be scalding deserts of pain or soothing
oases of comfort and inspiration. I've experienced both. And
often.
One dark night I fashioned a poem which revealed my angst
and impatience with being partially (and I hope temporarily)
disabled.
SHELF LIFE
I've done it again, Lord, will I ever learn
That
trusting should still be my greatest concern?
I chafe on
this shelf, Lord, I want so to be
Used to bless others
like You have blessed me.
I long to reach out, Lord,
please help me I pray
To find ways to serve You, and not
waste away.
So many are hurting, so many need love.
So many need You to reach down from above.
I chafe
on this shelf, Lord, release me I pray.
I can't serve
You here; I am too far away
My child, now please listen, you're not on a shelf;
Nothing has changed, dear, you're still your sweet
self.
I love you in spite of mistakes that you've
made
Your sins have been covered, the price has been
paid.
I know of your pain and I know of your fears
For I am your Father; now dry all those tears.
And
start praising Jesus, and then I will bring
Such joy to
your heart that you're rise up and sing.
I'll bring in
your life those I want you to bless
And trust me, my
child, I will do all the rest.
You're not on a shelf,
dear, you're where you should be;
I want you to
rest, not to fret, just trust me.
My plans are not clear
to you yet, but please know
You're safe in My hands and
I won't let you go.
Sometime later, in the still of night, my sister, Norma,
emailed me. "I just woke up and feel impressed to ask you to
do a CD entitled "It Is Well With My Soul." A few hours later,
my friend Billie Jo, phoned me to ask that I put together a
piano CD for her with "It Is Well With My Soul" as the first
song. She felt it might ease the long nights ahead as she
dealt with an aggressive and terminal cancer.
Was it a coincidence to receive the same request from my
sister and friend who don't know each other and live 1500
miles apart?
Perhaps. But perhaps not.
The project turned my long nights into times of quiet
worship as I sat at the piano wearing my earphones in the
semi-darkness with no printed music in front of me, quietly
playing traditional hymns of faith. The CD lacked professional
quality. It was full of mistakes because my small hands can
barely reach an octave. The finished copy would have made
music purists squirm.
But, astonishingly, God used it to give comfort to the
hurting. I made it available free and postage paid to anyone
who is chronically ill or lonely.
Rest Ministries, an online support group for the
chronically ill, listed it on their web site, as did
ChemoAngels, an international support group for cancer
victims. Before it was over, nearly 600 people had requested
and received the CD.
Emails came from nearly every state and from several
foreign countries. I learned something about the suffering of
others and their valiant efforts to cope. I'm still in awe.
A woman in the Southwest used the CD in the nursing homes
where she works with the aged and terminally ill.
A pastor in Georgia used it to calm his nerves at night
when he couldn't sleep because of the turmoil in his church.
A woman in her nineties, suffering the indignities of a
debilitating stroke which left her unable to speak, lay in bed
with the CD playing day and night.. With her eyes closed, she
mouthed silently the words to the old hymns, worshiping God
and finding solace and comfort.
A teacher in Tennessee used the CD to quiet her class of
autistic children when they were out of control.
A retirement home in Pennsylvania used it on their in-house
television station and in their dining room as background
music.
A dying woman in Wisconsin listened to it for weeks before
her death. It played quietly in her bedroom when she went to
meet her Lord, with her family standing around her bed. A
family member requested that the CD be played at her funeral
and also at her gravesite.
A bed-ridden, converted Jewish woman in Maryland requested
the words to all the hymns on the CD so she could sing about
her new Messiah.
A postal worker played it while he sorted mail in a busy
Canadian post office.
Two secretaries played it in their car to relax during
their commute home from jobs in a nearby metropolitan city.
A woman in the mid-west used it as a choir accompaniment
when their regular organist was absent.
A church in Illinois played it before the morning worship
service.
A California woman used it in her speech to Southern
Baptist women to demonstrate how God can still use us in spite
of age, disabilities or resources.
Many requested or made copies to keep on hand for those
they would meet who were discouraged or ill and needed to be
reminded of God's never-ending love.
As I burned the CDs one at a time on my computer, printed
the labels and mailed them out, I thought of God reading my
poem "Shelf Life." He decided then to find a niche for my
mediocre talent during the time of my greatest personal need
and used a caring sister and loving friend to urge me on.
All in the quietness and stillness of the night.
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MUDDY CARPETS
by Mariane Holbrook
My mother (bless her memory) had a stock answer for every
confrontation: "A soft answer turneth away wrath but grievous
words stir up anger." (Proverbs 15:1) She repeated it so often
to my sister and me during childhood arguments that we mouthed
the words to each other even before she had a chance to utter
them.
My godly father (bless his memory, too) never responded nor
retaliated when unwarranted criticism or rumor were angrily
shot at him or about him. He likened those remarks to mud
being tracked in on the carpet.
"Honey," he once said to me, "If you try to clean the mud
on your carpet while it's still wet, it'll smear and spread
all over the carpet causing more permanent staining. Leave it
alone until the mud dries, then you can whisk it away lightly
like dust and you won't even remember it was there. So it is
with unkind remarks aimed at you. Just leave them alone. Don't
respond to them and in time they'll disappear from your memory
like so much dust."
In 1854, prominent attorney Edward Stanton was known for
his critical nature and insulting verbiage. Appearing at
court, he learned that another lawyer, Abraham Lincoln, was to
be his co-counsel in a case up for trial. In a loud voice, to
make sure Lincoln over-heard his vicious remarks, he bellowed,
"I will not associate with such a (expletive deleted) gawky,
long-armed ape as that. If I can't have a man who is a
gentleman in appearance associated with me in this case, I
will abandon it."
There's no doubt that Lincoln heard the words and was hurt
by them, yet he made no response. He was, above all, a
gentleman.
Eleven years later, after Lincoln became president, he
overrode the objections of many on his staff and appointed
Edward Stanton Secretary of War because he felt Stanton was
the best man for the job
Later, when Lincoln was assassinated, Edward Stanton, now
convinced of the greatness of his president, stood by his
dying Commander-in-Chief with tearful eyes and upon Lincoln's
final breath, Stanton sobbed aloud the now-famous words:
"Now he belongs to the ages."
A few days before dying, Lincoln said, "When I left
Springfield I asked the people to pray for me; I was not a
Christian. When I buried my son-the severest trial of my
life-I was not a Christian. But when I went to Gettysburg, and
saw the graves of thousands of our soldiers, I then and there
consecrated myself to Christ."
Lincoln, a humble man who held no rancor and sought no
retribution, knew the secret of Proverbs 15:l.
He was a master carpet cleaner.
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MY MOTHER’S HANDS
by Mariane Holbrook
Hot tears burned my eyes and I turned quickly toward the
bus window. Mother was sitting quietly beside me, her hands
resting in her lap.
I was struck with how chapped, how rough they were; the
bitter northern winter and long hours as a seamstress in a
dress shop had left their cruel marks.
I had met her after she finished work and we were riding
the bus home together that cold winter night. I stole another
glance at her hands.
I wanted to thank her for working to supplement my father’s
meager wages at his thankless job at the Lehigh Valley
Railroad. Supporting seven children had not been easy for
them. There were many sacrifices. Too many. Her hands were
proof of that.
They were soft and cool when she gently wiped the beads
from my fevered brow during childhood illnesses; swift and
firm when discipline was meted out.
They were strong and sure when she kneaded dough for
parkerhouse rolls and cinnamon buns, long family favorites.
Her hands worked eagerly to prepare meals for visiting
ministers and missionaries whom she entertained in our home
year after year.
They worked tirelessly to sew dresses for her daughters,
attire that became the envy of all our friends. Her loving
hands altered and pressed the suits of her two proud sons.
Her hands were regularly folded in prayer for her five
daughters whom she prayed into Nyack College. One daughter,
Evelyn, became a pastor’s wife; two daughters, Marjorie and
Norma, became missionaries to the Philippines and to Africa;
Eleanor held positions of authority in a local bank and
newspaper, and I received a teaching degree and taught
elementary education. Mother was no less proud of her two sons
who rose to the top of their corporate ladders.
Mother’s hands lovingly cared for our saintly father during
his illness with terminal cancer and ministered to her second
husband, a kind Christian widower, who also succumbed to
cancer.
Faithful until the end, her glorified hands are raised in
adoration to her Saviour she now worships face to face.
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NO PARTY INVITATION
by Betty Jo Mings
Author of "Poems For The Common Man"
Website:http://www.bettyjomings.truepath.com/
In the 1930's almost everybody seemed poor, some more than
others. I was the youngest of six children, and my father had
walked out and left my mother to face the awesome
responsibility of feeding and taking care of all six of us.
We moved from my grandfather's farm in the country to a
bug-infested apartment house in a run-down section of the city
where I was enrolled in second grade at the local elementary
school.
In those days birthday parties were rare, and the few that
occurred were considered the social events of the year. One of
the girls in my class named Olivina started discussing her
upcoming birthday and excitedly announced that her Mother was
going to give her a party. It was the talk of the class and
everyone wanted to attend. I didn't know much about birthday
parties since I had never had one, but I could just imagine
the cake and ice cream, games and fun, and I wanted more than
anything to be invited.
I thought there must be some mistake when the invitations
were handed out to all my friends and I didn't receive one.
Surely Olivina would bring my invitation the next day. There
were only four people in the room who were left out and the
other three were big boys who caused a lot of trouble.
I finally had to face the fact that I was not invited.
Olivina explained it was because I was too poor to buy her a
present. As a seven-year-old it was a traumatic experience for
me because I felt I was not good enough or important enough to
be included.
The day of the party finally arrived and all the invited
guests wore their best clothes to school, taking extra care to
keep them clean since the party was to be held right after the
closing bell. Everyone had brought wrapped presents and the
teacher put them on a special table to be picked up after
school.
The party was the only topic of conversation among the
students. Each recess period there were pretend party games as
the anticipation mounted.
I didn't want anyone to know the pain and rejection I felt
so I held back my tears until class was finally dismissed
before I blindly stumbled home, my body wracked with sobs.
Over sixty years have passed, yet I still vividly remember
the agony and humiliation of that experience. I didn't know
anything about the way God uses events in our lives to shape
and mold our character or how He works all things together for
our good. But that event had a profound effect on my life and
I determined I would never hurt anyone the way I had been
hurt.
I became more sensitive to the feelings of others and more
conscious of things that cause pain. Years later when my
daughter had a birthday party, we invited the whole class so
no one would feel left out. I was able to instill in my
children a concern for the needs of others.
Today I have several precious grandchildren and it thrills
me to see their sensitivity and how they care for others.
I wonder if the Lord could have used me in the same way or
if I would have had the empathy I feel for those whose dreams
have been shattered if I had been invited to the birthday
party so many years ago.
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SHE DID WHAT SHE COULD
by Mariane Holbrook
How many times has someone said to you, "You don't look
sick. You look great!"?
How often have you been asked to accept a position at your
church, your children's school or your place of employment
when you knew you were physically unable to?
Many times we accept these added responsibilities because
the guilt we feel in not doing so seems worse than the pain
and disability itself.
Pain isn't always visible. More often than not it's hidden,
known and experienced only to the one who is suffering and to
our heavenly Father.
Once a caring pastor said to me, "If God calls you to do
something, He will equip you. He will not lead you out onto a
limb and leave you hanging there."
I love the story of Jesus being anointed by the woman as
recorded in Mark 14:8. "She did what she could." Jesus knew
her, He knew her circumstances, He knew the desires of her
heart. He defended her against her accusers.
How many of us would love to teach Sunday School again as
we did years ago before we became ill or infirmed? What would
we give to stand in the choir and sing songs of praise and
worship to the Saviour of our souls? Who among us desires
above all else to be more mobile again to visit the sick and
elderly and attend to the pressing needs of our families?
Our loving Saviour knows all about us. He still gives us
the most important ministry of all - a prayer life, that
wonderful privilege to be an Aaron to hold up the arms of
Moses; in a more modern vernacular, "to be the wind beneath
his wings."
God, our understanding Father, knows we didn't choose to be
bedridden or paralyzed or slowed down with age with pain or
lingering illness.
He looks at us with compassion and defends us with the
tender words of Jesus, "She did what she could."
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THE CHRISTMAS MIRACLE OF THE RUBY
by Mariane Holbrook
I should have been happier.
It was three days before Christmas and I was driving alone
on a country road in our small mountain community delivering
home-baked cookies to shut-ins.
I had spent the last couple of days with church friends,
mixing dough, shaping date balls, melting chocolate, baking
dozens and dozens of several varieties of Christmas cookies.
We had covered every surface in my kitchen with cookies,
laughing uproariously at our own jokes and singing off-key.
Driving alone, I was having a conversation with my Lord
about the death of my mother four months earlier. We had had
this conversation before and each time the Lord had provided a
measure of peace. But only a measure, it seemed.
And yet, they surfaced again and again; the same questions.
Over and over and over: "Why did my saintly mother have to
endure so many years of mind-numbing pain before her death?
Why don't I have peace about where she is at this moment? Why,
Lord, why?"
I delivered all the cookies that were assigned to me,
warmly greeting the shut-ins who had no inclination of the
battle being waged within me. At my final stop, a lady,
accepting a box of cookies, kissed me on the cheek and
whispered "You're an angel, do you know that?"
I was anything but an angel and I knew it.
Back in the car, I drove a short distance, then pulled over
next to an old, weathered split-rail fence and parked. No farm
houses were in view.
I laid my head down on the steering wheel and wept. I
missed my mother. This was my first Christmas season without
her. I had no peace in my heart about where she was. I knew
well the verse, "to be absent from the body is to be present
with the Lord." Still, I wept alone on that country road,
unable to accept the peace that God was so willing to give me.
Finally, in desperation, and with no thought of Biblical
precedent, I asked the Lord for a sign. A sign that He cared;
a sign that He heard me; a sign that He loved me.
Wiping my eyes, I returned to our country home where I
quietly prepared dinner for my husband. We were alone; our
sons were married and living in another part of the state.
The next morning, while dressing for church, my husband
turned quickly to me in surprise and asked, "Where on earth
did you find it?"
"Find what?" I asked, straightening my skirt before the
mirror.
"The ruby!" he replied. "Isn't that your ruby there on the
bedspread?"
I rushed to the bed, picked up the ruby, held it close to
my breast and began to weep.
A year earlier, my husband and I had celebrated an
important wedding anniversary. My siblings, pooling their
resources, had presented me with a lovely ruby on a simple
gold chain. The next week, the stone had inexplicably come
loose from its setting and was never found, leaving me
distraught beyond reason.
I had searched for nearly a year, combing the carpets,
checking our closets, looking in the most unlikely places for
this ruby which had lovingly tied me to my siblings with
umbilical strength.
And now, on this Sunday morning, the ruby appeared from
nowhere in the center of our bedspread. More curiously, the
bed had been made less than a half-hour before.
My husband, sensing my suspicion, placed his hands firmly
on my shoulders and assured me that, as a Christian, he could
affirm that he knew nothing about the ruby's whereabouts or
how it ended up on our bedspread. Looking deeply into his
eyes, I believed him.
I turned the precious stone over and over in the palm of my
hand. How like God! He knew my flawed faith. I had asked Him
for a sign and He surprised me with joy.
There could be no other explanation.
And I sought none.
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THE FEAR FACTOR
by Mariane Holbrook
Eighty-year-old Eva was afraid. Terribly afraid.
She lived on the eleventh floor of public housing in one of
the less desirable sections of town. Every time she had
occasion to use the elevator, she was overcome with fear.
Numbing fear. Other elderly residents who shared her anxiety
opted to use the staircase.
This was not possible for Eva. Advanced arthritis riddled
her days and nights with unrelieved pain, making it necessary
for her to ride the elevator to the first floor dining room
three times a day for her meals.
Hers was not a groundless fear. Some residents had been
attacked in the elevators by outsiders who knew the elderly
had neither the physical strength to resist nor the financial
means to pursue legal recourse.
Hearing of her fears, I cross-stitched and framed the verse
from Psalms 121:8. “The Lord will watch over your coming and
going,” and affixed the little gift to Eva’s door as a
surprise. She wept with gratitude.
Now, when she leaves her room, she runs her bony, arthritic
hand over the framed verse, lifts her eyes toward heaven and
whispers, “Thank you, Heavenly Father.” Then she more
confidently makes her way to the elevator in a spirit of
childlike faith and trust.
I gently suggested that she always ride the elevator with
two or three friends as a precaution and this added to her
sense of peace.
When my sister, Norma, and I were children in Waverly, New
York, we often chose a short cut through the dark and deserted
alley of the local junior high school on our way to church. At
night it was frightening and we felt it was fraught with
danger. We ran as fast as we could, singing loudly the old
hymn, “God Will Take Care of You,” ostensibly to scare off any
would-be assailants. True, we lived then in a different era
when few crimes occurred in our sleepy, little town but even
so, we lacked good judgment in running through that forbidden
alley.
As Christians, we are encouraged to hold onto the timeless
promises of God found in the Scripture. But today more than
ever we must exercise caution in the face of possible harm.
And though He is our Good Shepherd and we are His compliant
sheep, He created us with ample intelligence and
decision-making abilities so that in the verdant meadows of
our lives, we can use our common sense and don’t have to ask
Him about which shade tree to rest under or which particular
tuft of grass to eat.
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THE SOUND OF RAIN
By Esther Schaeffer
(Mariane's niece)
Missionary to Burkina Faso
Here in Bobo-Dioulasso, we often go five or six months
without a drop of rain. Sometimes, when I notice a cloud in
the sky, I pray that it will bring much-needed relief from the
awful heat and dust. I love the sound of rain, especially on a
tin roof. But, during the last few weeks, it seems that the
rain has fallen at the most inconvenient times.
My big project this past month was the recording and
filming of a Christian music video performed by the Alliance
Women of the Sarafalao Church, a group that I have been
working with for the past three years.
As I was getting ready to go to the studio for our final
rehearsal, here came the rain. Not one of the 40 women have a
car. All must travel on foot, bicycle or motorbike. To make
matters worse, the dirt roads in Sarafalao always flood when
it rains, practically cutting off the neighborhood from the
rest of Bobo-Dioulasso. Even our Toyota has difficulty getting
through.
Since few here have phones, it is difficult to postpone or
reschedule a recording. So I ventured out, inching our car
through the flooded streets in search of the women. Wonder of
wonders, many of them were already en route to the studio in
spite of the rain. When our car was filled with passengers, we
hurried back to the studio (right next to our house). Finally,
after a two-hour delay, our rehearsal was underway.
The next morning was our scheduled taping. Here came the
rain . . . again! Almost all of the women made it, so we
decided to proceed. But first, I called over the wall to my
house and had hot tea sent over to help warm the soaked, yet
undaunted, women. Wet clothes were strewn everywhere around
the studio's front porch. Now, as we started to record, there
was a new concern. Would that lovely pitter-patter on the
studio's tin roof be heard on the sound track? We thought we
had a good recording and everyone went home happy.
But it wasn't to be. Two microphones had stopped working at
different points during the recording. Our musical technician
discovered the error and notified me that we faced a dreaded
decision: whether or not to re-tape. Earlier that morning, I
had read the words that David said to his son Solomon in 1
Chron. 22: "If you carefully obey the Lord, you will be
successful. Be strong and courageous; do not be afraid or lose
heart!"
In the end, we decided to ask the women to return to the
studio for another recording. But it had to be scheduled that
very same week since the video recording was already scheduled
for the following week. (The audio recording was needed first
so that the actions would synchronize with the music.) We
asked the women to return on Thursday afternoon.
Around 12:30 p.m. on Thursday, here came yet another
torrential downpour! I could hardly get out the door.
Eventually, I ventured out, knowing how committed the women
were to the realization of this music video. Sure enough, when
I arrived at the studio, over thirty women were already there.
Finally, the rain stopped and we were able to make a good
recording. This time the musical technician and I stayed
behind to listen to the tape to be sure that the recording was
acceptable. When I finally arrived outside, here were all the
women in a big circle, hands joined, praying that God would
not allow it to rain the next Wednesday for the outdoor
filming of the video segment.
The next Wednesday, I was out on an early morning walk and
saw big clouds roll in and felt some rain drops. But I had
just read once again about Solomon in my devotional time: "he
completed everything he had planned to do." Thankfully, by the
time we arrived, the clouds had moved on and we had a
near-perfect day for filming.
During the middle of this project, I found myself wishing I
had never attempted it. But I have felt pushed along by the
Spirit of the Lord to attempt things I would never have
dreamed possible. I find courage in God's Word and in knowing
that people are praying for me. I can be strong and courageous
because I know that God is with me.
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WE DON'T WEEP ENOUGH
(A reflection on the
Crucifixion)
by Mariane Holbrook
I've never owned nor would I wear a gold cross. Or one with
diamonds or rubies or other precious stones. I submit that all
costume jewelry crosses should be made of rough, unfinished
wood, with splinters that pierce the flesh and disturb the
soul.
I have seen obscenely large gold crosses hanging from the
necks of ungodly rock stars and Hollywood celebrities who have
no right to wear this precious symbol. I have seen crosses
dangling from the ears of brazen, scantily clad dancers and
singers who bring shame on the very One who hung on that cross
for their sins.
As Protestants, we rightly dwell on the resurrection of
Christ rather than what He endured on the cross. Not for a
minute would I imitate other religious groups who seem
permanently transfixed by the cross. Last year a figure of
Christ was removed from the cross in front of a local church.
The priest lovingly explained that he wanted his congregation
to begin emphasizing a risen Christ rather than a Christ still
nailed to the cross. Protesting church members forced him to
replace the figure and his congregation was once again
satisfied with tradition.
But do we, as followers of Christ, spend enough time
contemplating His suffering, His agony, His bleeding, His
crying out to His Father, His gasping for His final breath and
finally, His death?
Do we, in our haste to celebrate Easter Sunday, hurry past,
or worse, ignore the somber, dark hours on Friday, that time
when we should be prostrate before Him, remembering, thanking,
praising Him? Shouldn't this be a time of discomfort,
confronting our sins and realizing what an incomprehensible
and terrible price was exacted from this God/man on our
behalf?
The churches I have attended normally do not schedule Good
Friday services. Indeed, most of us follow our regular
routine, only casually glancing at the clock from noon to
three o'clock, the time traditionally set aside to remember
this awesome event. In our zeal to emphasize the emerald
brilliance of the resurrection, we have all but forgotten the
stark and total blackness of Calvary.
Philip Yancey, in his remarkable book, "The Jesus I Never
Knew" wrote: "I still cannot fathom the indignity, the shame
endured by God's Son on earth, stripped naked, flogged, spat
on, struck in the face, garlanded with thorns. 'The idea of
the cross should never come near the bodies of Roman
citizens,' said Cicero. For the Romans, crucifixion was the
cruelest form of punishment, reserved for murder, slave
revolts and other heinous crimes. Roman citizens were beheaded
but never crucified."
On Good Friday, I hope to spend some time alone in a
secluded spot where I can reflect upon Christ's unbelievable
suffering.
I want to weep over the long, angry nails ripping into
those beautiful, sensitive hands which tenderly stroked the
heads of little children.
I want to cry over those feet that walked through the
heated terrain to bring healing and comfort to the hurting and
depressed.
I want to dwell on those loving eyes from which tears of
tender compassion freely poured.
I want to remember His agony, His humiliation, His pain and
finally, His awful death to which He finally submitted to pay
for my sins.
As the old gospel song so heart wrenchingly suggests:
I should have been crucified, I should have suffered and
died. I should have hung on that cross in disgrace But Jesus,
God's Son, took my place.
Yes. Dear God, yes.
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WHY DOESN'T GOD HEAL US?
by Mariane Holbrook
I stood in the doorway of Mother's nursing home room and
wept quietly. She couldn't see me. She sat in the chair beside
her bed with her head on her knees, a few small pillows wedged
behind her back and a pink shawl pulled across her frail and
bony shoulders. She was moaning softly, "Dear God, help me.
Please, God, help me."
Tears ran in rivulets down my face as I asked God again,
"Why? Why is this dear saint of God suffering so? She's 96
years old. She's suffered with unrelenting pain all her life.
And if that wasn't enough, why did she have to break her leg
walking down the hall and lie in agony for many weeks in a
cast with the leg never properly healing? Please help me
understand the problem of pain. Please."
One very early morning before sunrise, God in His mercy
took Mother Home to be with Him. Her two daughters who lived
near the nursing center watched as she was placed in a body
bag and carried out. From their exhaustion in overseeing her
care for several years, they cried in their grief but thankful
that her long battle with unending pain was finally over.
That was nine years ago. I am just now beginning to
understand the problem of pain because I live with it. I wish
I had understood it while Mother was still living. I could
have empathized more and ministered to her better. Before, I
was an observer of pain. Now I am a participant, however
reluctantly.
I have watched televangelists declare healing to precious
believers who are brought en masse to their meetings. I have
seen crutches being tossed carelessly aside, wheel chairs
pushed against the walls as invalids were encouraged to walk
or run across the platform to the applause and shouting of
thousands in the audience. I pray many were healed instantly
but what of those who were not? Did they return home in
abject, total disappointment with God, still not understanding
the reason for their pain? Did they continue to declare
healing when none was forthcoming? Worst of all, did they
begin to lose their faith in the One who had saved them?
As evangelical Christians, we are taught early that there
is healing in the atonement. "By his stripes we are healed."
(Isaiah 53:3) And "He Himself took our infirmities and bore
our sicknesses. (Matthew 8:17) We reason, "If we can trust
Christ for our salvation, can we not also trust Him for our
healing? God never turns away one soul who confesses his sin
and asks for forgiveness through the atoning blood of Jesus.
Why does He seem to be capricious and selective in choosing
those who will be healed from their sickness and those who
will not?"
Theologians have battled this discussion for centuries and
have yet to come up with compelling reasons for pain that
fully satisfy those who are hurting.
But for me, it has been reduced to one simple explanation:
healing is temporal but grace is eternal. Given a choice, I
will take grace every time.
Grace has been defined as "the free and unmerited favor or
beneficence of God" or "God’s love and favor to the
undeserving."
The same God who has saved me from my sins, who has
promised me eternal life, can be trusted to know what I need
to do to be more like His Son, Jesus. He decides how much of
the boiling cauldron I need to endure, not only for my benefit
but for those watching my life. In His divine wisdom, He
determines who is selected to share in "the fellowship of His
suffering." (Philippians 3:10)
Should we pray for a divine touch of healing on those who
suffer?
Yes. And we should pray earnestly and without ceasing,
exercising faith and holding onto the promises of God. But
never should we pile guilt on the infirmed by declaring that
their lack of faith is the sole reason for their not being
healed.
My friend, Edith, was stricken with polio and paralyzed
from the chest down. She was approached by a member of her
church who challenged her to get up out of her wheelchair by
faith and walk. She couldn't and he berated her. She wiped
away her tears and kept her faith and trust in the Saviour of
her soul. It wasn't in God's plan to heal her on earth but He
gave her a sterling Christian testimony that defined her for
years until God called her Home. We are encouraged by God to
pray for healing; we do not have the freedom to insist on
healing by demand..
My mother's extended family watched her suffering all her
life, but they remember most of all her unfailing faith. Her
walk with God was not uneven; it was consistent. Her testimony
was positioned there permanently as a standard against which
the rest of us measured our lives. Her "problem of pain" was
no accident; it was not indifference by God to her anguish and
travail. God used her pain for a reason: it was to refine her
and to give her a lasting testimony to the grace of God under
pressure, tremendous pressure. Even in her tears and
suffering, she knew she might not understand God's ways, but
she could trust His loving heart.
When I was in college, our Old Testament professor, Rev.
Harold Freligh, drew a large circle on the blackboard. He
placed a dot in the center. Under it he wrote in large
letters:
"In the center of the circle of the will of God I stand.
There can come no second causes,
All must come through His dear hand."
Rev. Freligh did something else that has sustained me,
especially now as I deal with my own pain. He drew a long
horizontal line on the blackboard and explained, "This
represents a shelf. On it I place all my questions for which I
have no answer. When I get to Heaven, God will patiently
explain each one to my full and complete satisfaction."
And so it is with pain. I don't know why a dear
six-year-old boy who loves Jesus is battling leukemia in an
Illinois hospital today. I don't know why my younger Christian
friend in Tennessee spends 22 out of 24 hours of every day in
bed, weakened and ravaged by Multiple Sclerosis. I can't
explain why my lovely friend in Arizona struggles with the
insidious and devastating pain of Sarcoidosis for which there
is no adequate treatment and no medical cure.
I have placed each one of these friends on my "shelf,"
confident that their pain is not in vain, knowing that they
haven't been forgotten by God or overlooked in His scheme of
things. Each one is ministering every day of their lives to
the wonderful grace of Jesus, that eternal principle which
makes their pain meaningful and their testimonies so enduring.
Each one, I am confident, if they were able, would rise to
full stature and sing:
Wonderful grace of Jesus, Greater than all my sin;
How
shall my tongue describe it, Where shall its praise begin?
Taking away my burden, Setting my spirit free,
For the
wonderful grace of Jesus reaches me.
Wonderful the matchless grace of Jesus,
Deeper than the
mighty rolling sea;
Higher than the mountain, sparkling
like a fountain,
All sufficient grace for even me;
Broader than the scope of my transgressions,
Greater
far than all my sin and shame;
O magnify the precious name
of Jesus,
Praise His name!
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