The year was 1996. I was 17. It was my first overseas mission trip. I was in Russia. I was young. Very young. Sometimes I wonder why God allowed me, so young and dumb, to do His work.
I'm realizing now it was a journey. A part of my growing up. Just like now. It doesn't stop. As long as you're seeking God, God is changing you.
There are certain things from that trip that stick out in my memory. Some of them, I can't shake. Some are seemingly trivial, but they're there none the less and I think about them often.
This one is an untold story. Mainly because it's not really a story. Just a blip in time. But it's come full circle and now it must be told.
I was living in an orphanage of sorts, and we all had Russian roommates (mostly students that were going to school there). I was assigned to a small room with just two beds and an early teen girl who barely spoke English. My Russian was worse than her English, so conversation between us was minimal. She didn't own a lot. But, as I soon learned, neither did any of the other ordinary Russians. Small flats that they lived in, minimal possessions, no cars - the list was short. I had more "stuff" in that room that I had brought over the sea in my two oversized suitcases than she probably owned.
One of the rules for the Americans that lived there was that we weren't supposed to share clothes. Simple and silly, but not the point of this story. Everyone shared clothes anyway, without much regard to the "rule." Everyone but me anyway. I was (and still am if you ask Dan) a rule follower. To a T. I try not to be such a stickler, but my conscience works overtime. To put it plainly, it never sleeps.
My roommate came up to me one day and asked in broken English if she might borrow one of my skirts for the day. I quickly explained to her that that was not allowed, and I was sorry, but, no, she couldn't. She quickly turned away in embarrassment and never asked again. She knew that all her Russian friends were borrowing clothes from the Americans, and she wanted to develop that camaraderie with me. I really have no clue if she even understood my lame explanation.
That was it. That was the untold story. The story that won't leave me alone. It's been 19 years since that day. And I am still plagued. For the first 10 years the guilt I felt every time I thought of it was for not just breaking the dumb rule and letting her borrow my skirt. You know, learning to follow the spirit of the law and not the letter. Developing a sweet friendship with another soul.
But then, something changed, something inside me. Seeking God, growing, changing, seeing the world through Jesus' eyes. And one day when I thought of that incident, the light bulb came on. The guilt was no longer - "Why didn't I let her borrow the skirt?" The revelation was - "WHY IN THE WORLD DIDN'T I JUST GIVE HER THE SKIRT??!!!!" Why wasn't I being Jesus, the very Person, I was in Russia to be?
Why? Because it wasn't even in my radar. That's why.
But it is now. When I think of this, I'm looking at it through different eyes. I think of our closet there in that small room in Moscow, Russia. My roommate had 2 skirts to her name. I remember that clearly. I think I must have had 10, and probably at least 5 more at home. So many clothes compared to this girl, but it didn't even occur to me in my immature mind to give out of my abundance.
The reason this story has come full circle for me is because God is teaching me to give. If I was smarter on the computer I would change the font just on that little word "give" and put it in the most beautiful script I could find because it is beautiful.
I just read a story about a church in Austin, TX who had a guest speaker on an Easter evening in 2007. Near the end of the service he mentioned that earlier that morning he had spent some time in a homeless community in San Antonio. Their spokesman had told him that their biggest need was - shoes. He said that homeless people spend all day on their feet, and since their shoes are worn out cast offs they have chronic leg and back pain. As people came forward for communion that Easter evening, the speaker gave them an opportunity. He told them if they wanted they could leave their shoes (and socks) at the altar, and they would see that it all got to that homeless community in San Antonio.
Easter Sunday 2007 - 150 people at a church in Texas in their best shoes. So many of them left that service barefoot and smiling. There's something about leaving your gift at the altar. It may have been your favorite pair of shoes, but now it's a gift to the Savior. There was a need and communion called not just for remembering the gift of Christ, but a call to action in giving a gift to Christ. "For when we give unto the least of these we're giving unto Him." (My paraphrase of Matthew 25:40 inserting the beautiful word - give.) They gave their shoes because they couldn't help it! And they had church that day, the way it was meant to be.
That's where God is taking me. I'm not there yet, but it's my journey. I want it to be second nature to give. When the Russian girl asks to borrow my skirt, I don't want to have to even think about it when I smile and say, "Here, take it, it was for you all along." I want to walk home barefoot because someone needed my shoes more than I did. I want to not be able to help it!
The two things I remember about that sweet young Russian girl so many years ago, is the story I just told, and the gifts she gave me the day I left for home. I still have them. Sweet, generous gifts out of a kind heart. A constant reminder of the beauty of giving, whether it's out of abundance or out of precious little.
I missed that opportunity 19 years ago, but there are oh, so many more. Everyday, everywhere - opportunities to give in Jesus' name, opportunities to be The Gospel. You don't even have to look to find them. They will find you.
And you won't be able to help it.
Give because it's beautiful.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Floaters in the Tub
Elijah pooped in the tub the other day. I should have seen it coming, but since he's been potty trained for about a year, I had let my guard down. I'm still not sure why he did it. Maybe the relaxing warm water, maybe the beans he had for dinner, maybe it was just time and he didn't want to move... Whatever the reason, there we were with a floater. I yanked him up out of the water as quickly as I could and plopped him on the potty to finish his business. He looked over at the floater in the tub, and then looked at me. "Get it out," he stated. "No," I said, "You did it, you're going to have to get it out." He looked up at me in surprise. "I can't," he said, "I will get my hands dirty!"
Needless to say, I did the deed, but I told Elijah that if he did it ever again he was getting his own hands dirty.
I didn't really mean it, but I hoped that the threat would keep him from a repeat offense.
So, I just walked into the bathroom because I got the yell - "Mom! I'm done!!" I found Elijah sitting on the pot, hiding his face in his hands. All around him were brown streaks. Everywhere. On the floor, on the toilet, on his legs, everywhere. My first thought was, "Oh yippee."
I looked at what looked like smeared poop on the floor, put my hands on my hips, and said, "What happened?" Silence. "Elijah, what happened?" I repeated. Still no response. "Did you poop on the floor?" I ventured. "Yeth," he said. "Where is it?" I asked fearfully. He looked up, "I picked it up and put in the potty, Mom,"
I guess he thought I was serious. "Did you get your hands dirty?" I asked him. "No, I used toilet paper." He answered. Explains the streaks on the floor.
He's pretty smart for a 3 year old.
Needless to say, I did the deed, but I told Elijah that if he did it ever again he was getting his own hands dirty.
I didn't really mean it, but I hoped that the threat would keep him from a repeat offense.
So, I just walked into the bathroom because I got the yell - "Mom! I'm done!!" I found Elijah sitting on the pot, hiding his face in his hands. All around him were brown streaks. Everywhere. On the floor, on the toilet, on his legs, everywhere. My first thought was, "Oh yippee."
I looked at what looked like smeared poop on the floor, put my hands on my hips, and said, "What happened?" Silence. "Elijah, what happened?" I repeated. Still no response. "Did you poop on the floor?" I ventured. "Yeth," he said. "Where is it?" I asked fearfully. He looked up, "I picked it up and put in the potty, Mom,"
I guess he thought I was serious. "Did you get your hands dirty?" I asked him. "No, I used toilet paper." He answered. Explains the streaks on the floor.
He's pretty smart for a 3 year old.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Adventures That Must Be Had
The male species was born for adventure. And, when I say that, I mean it in the most dramatized voice I can muster - BORN......FOR.....AD...VEN...TURRRRE.
They were. It's ingrained from the moment they can start exploring. From my toddler wanting to ride his little car down the big hill in the street, to the boys digging up onions, to my grown man white water rafting. The sense of adventure is there - wanting to escape at every possible moment.
Two of my boys decided to take some manly adventure just this weekend. Last year Dan started telling Zack that he would like to take him on his first backpacking trip. They would hike into the woods with everything they needed on their backs. They would pick a remote camping spot in the wilderness, cook their food over a fire, and be engrossed in nature.
A year passed by. A few weeks ago the dreamed of camping trip came up again. "I really think you should take him this year," I told Dan, "He's really looking forward to the adventure, and he's almost 12." Before the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. "Almost 12." Old enough to go backpacking. I've got to stop blinking!
The weather this weekend was supposed to be perfect and we had no previous plans, so the backpacking trip planning went into high gear. Friday evening was spent cooking, packing, and excitedly discussing details. Dan crawled into the attic and dug out the dusty backpacking gear. We only have one "real" backpacking sleeping bag, so Dan did his best to roll an old army one into as small a roll as possible. As if "small" can be in the same sentence as "army sleeping bag."
"Zack," Dan said as they stuffed more and more stuff into the large backpacks, "What would you think about just setting up camp and then hiking into the wilderness instead of carrying everything in?" "Oh no," answered Zack, "We have to carry everything INTO the wilderness and camp there!" Dan looked over at me with a bit of anguish in his eyes. "It was your idea," I reminded him. "It was a moment of weakness!" Dan whispered desperately.
I laughed.
"Where are the matches?" Dan asked me. Zack cut in before I could reply, "We don't need matches, Dad. I have my magnesium fire starter! It will be a real wilderness experience!" "I'm throwing in the matches," Dan whispered to me again. "Just in case...." "Oh, I'm sure you won't need them," I teasingly replied, "You have the magnesium fire starter."
I laughed again.
The backpacks were packed and ready to be tried on. Zack put on his and acted like it would be nothing to haul it for miles on end. Dan put his on and made no bones about the fact that it would be way more than nothing (close to excruciating) to haul that huge monstrosity with the military sleeping bag swinging off of it for miles on end. He suggested the camping and then hiking option again.
I laughed.
The next day, with great anticipation of many adventures my men got in the car and headed off where cell phones don't work, fire is made without matches, and bears and mountain lions roam. I gave Dan a hug and told him to enjoy sleeping on the "soft" ground.
He laughed.
They arrived back home this afternoon with tales of heavy packs, fires that were actually started with magnesium fire starter, killer crows, rain, waterfalls, miles of hiking, and swimming in a cold creek in March.
Adventure. That's what they had. Real live, self made adventure. Memories. That's what they made. Memories that won't ever be forgotten.
They were. It's ingrained from the moment they can start exploring. From my toddler wanting to ride his little car down the big hill in the street, to the boys digging up onions, to my grown man white water rafting. The sense of adventure is there - wanting to escape at every possible moment.
Two of my boys decided to take some manly adventure just this weekend. Last year Dan started telling Zack that he would like to take him on his first backpacking trip. They would hike into the woods with everything they needed on their backs. They would pick a remote camping spot in the wilderness, cook their food over a fire, and be engrossed in nature.
A year passed by. A few weeks ago the dreamed of camping trip came up again. "I really think you should take him this year," I told Dan, "He's really looking forward to the adventure, and he's almost 12." Before the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. "Almost 12." Old enough to go backpacking. I've got to stop blinking!
The weather this weekend was supposed to be perfect and we had no previous plans, so the backpacking trip planning went into high gear. Friday evening was spent cooking, packing, and excitedly discussing details. Dan crawled into the attic and dug out the dusty backpacking gear. We only have one "real" backpacking sleeping bag, so Dan did his best to roll an old army one into as small a roll as possible. As if "small" can be in the same sentence as "army sleeping bag."
"Zack," Dan said as they stuffed more and more stuff into the large backpacks, "What would you think about just setting up camp and then hiking into the wilderness instead of carrying everything in?" "Oh no," answered Zack, "We have to carry everything INTO the wilderness and camp there!" Dan looked over at me with a bit of anguish in his eyes. "It was your idea," I reminded him. "It was a moment of weakness!" Dan whispered desperately.
I laughed.
"Where are the matches?" Dan asked me. Zack cut in before I could reply, "We don't need matches, Dad. I have my magnesium fire starter! It will be a real wilderness experience!" "I'm throwing in the matches," Dan whispered to me again. "Just in case...." "Oh, I'm sure you won't need them," I teasingly replied, "You have the magnesium fire starter."
I laughed again.
The backpacks were packed and ready to be tried on. Zack put on his and acted like it would be nothing to haul it for miles on end. Dan put his on and made no bones about the fact that it would be way more than nothing (close to excruciating) to haul that huge monstrosity with the military sleeping bag swinging off of it for miles on end. He suggested the camping and then hiking option again.
I laughed.
The next day, with great anticipation of many adventures my men got in the car and headed off where cell phones don't work, fire is made without matches, and bears and mountain lions roam. I gave Dan a hug and told him to enjoy sleeping on the "soft" ground.
He laughed.
They arrived back home this afternoon with tales of heavy packs, fires that were actually started with magnesium fire starter, killer crows, rain, waterfalls, miles of hiking, and swimming in a cold creek in March.
Adventure. That's what they had. Real live, self made adventure. Memories. That's what they made. Memories that won't ever be forgotten.
The Forgotten
"I don't have time," I thought to myself. "Homeschooling 3 kids with a toddler running around is a job in itself. On top of that I have my piano students, church duties, the Bs (baseball and ballet), the class I'm teaching, not to mention making dinner and trying to keep the house clean. Oh, and then there's the laundry. It never stops. If they would just stop. wearing. clothes. So much to do, so not enough hours in the day."
"I just don't have time."
"I don't have time to stop and see them."
But then the memories come flooding in -
I've known them since I was 11. They took me into their hearts as soon as they met me, and loved me as much as their own grandchild. They taught me to love church, God's work, and pound cake. I used to hang out at their house, drive their golf cart around, play with their "real" grandchildren, and talk fishing with them. They took me out on the lake and on a three week camping trip to West Texas. I played the piano while he sing and played cards with her. So many happy memories of hours together.
Oh, the time they invested in me because they loved a funny looking little girl who had all the time in the world!
When they moved away to be by their children, I was sad. It had been a wonderful 10 years. But, I understood; they needed to be by family as they got older. Besides, I was an adult now and my life was getting busy. Not as much time anymore for long visits and pound cake.
Fast forward twelve more years. They've come home. The gentleman, he's 81 now, but you would never know it. His beautiful wife is suffering with dementia and failing health. They want to spend these years here, in a place where they were so happy.
I'm in my 30s now with four kids, a husband, and the normal American busy life. I'm not that little teenager anymore with hours to kill.
But their life has taken a turn. They aren't busy anymore. No more fishing, boating, mission trips, church activities, or even walks. Because of her health, they can't even make it to Sunday church most days. The lonely long hours creep by for them. This is certainly not what they are used to, or where they want to be, but this is where they are.
I finally find a moment between school and ballet to sneak away and go see them. I walk in. She looks up at me from her spot on the couch. She doesn't remember a lot anymore, but she knows me. I'm not sure she knows my name, but she knows me. She says, "I sure do like you." I smile, give her a hug, and sit down beside her. She reaches over and takes my hand. She holds my hand for a half an hour while I visit with her husband. It's too hard for her to carry on a conversation, but she wants me to be there by her. We talk about old times, their kids, and the birds outside. Way too soon I get up to go because it's time to take Rylie to ballet class. "I wish I could stay longer," I say. "Please come again soon," she replies, "We love to have you." (It's pretty much the only thing she's said.) "I will," I say, trying to think of when I will be able to make it back by.
As I drive the to ballet, I can't help but think about the love the man has for his wife. At 81 he is caring for her better than any nurse could. He makes her meals, helps her walk, takes her on drives, and is so patient with the ever prevailing dementia that is overtaking her mind and body. He won't leave her side whether it's at home, or when she is in the hospital for weeks at a time. And she doesn't want him to. He meant it over 55 years ago when he said, "for better or worse," and "till death do us part." He is kinder to her than any young man trying to win a fair lady ever was.
And they're lonely. These are lonely, long days for them.
And they're not the only ones. There are so many elderly at home, with nothing to fill the long, lonely hours and days because of failing health. They need people, but can't get out to see them. Some of them are our parents and our grandparents, some are other people's grandparents. Some have nobody.
We must not forget. We MUST NOT forget these elderly people who paved the way for us. Who made time for us when we were young. Who raised us and invested in our lives. Who still have so much to say, but oftentimes, no one to say it to. Stories to tell, encouragement to share, smiles to give, love that needs a recipient. And they're at home, hoping they are not forgotten. Hoping someone will stop by.
They are easy to forget because you don't see them unless you go to see them. And our lives are so busy.
During the snow Dan took Zack to shovel a driveway of another elderly couple in our church. They couldn't make it to their mailbox because of the snow. Zack asked me why he had to go. I told him because I hoped that when his dad was too old and feeble to shovel our driveway, that some young man would care enough to come and do it for him. If we don't do it, who will? If we don't teach our kids, who will visit us when we are old?
If the hands and feet of Jesus don't visit the elderly, who will? Who will hug them? Who will hold their hand? Who will listen to what they have to say? Who will take time out of their busy lives to see someone who is homebound? Who will let them know they are still valuable if we don't?
The hands and feet of Jesus, that's who we are. It's His life we claim to have, and He cares about - people. People. From the smallest embryo to the oldest, feeblest man, life is precious in His eyes. And it should be in ours.
And not just in our minds, but our actions also.
Don't forget the elderly. Life is precious. They are precious. They need to be reminded that God thinks they are valuable, and that we do to.
I am convicted by my own actions, for our actions show what we really think.
"You shall rise up before the grayheaded and honor the aged, and you shall revere your God; I am the LORD." Leviticus 19:32
"I just don't have time."
"I don't have time to stop and see them."
But then the memories come flooding in -
I've known them since I was 11. They took me into their hearts as soon as they met me, and loved me as much as their own grandchild. They taught me to love church, God's work, and pound cake. I used to hang out at their house, drive their golf cart around, play with their "real" grandchildren, and talk fishing with them. They took me out on the lake and on a three week camping trip to West Texas. I played the piano while he sing and played cards with her. So many happy memories of hours together.
Oh, the time they invested in me because they loved a funny looking little girl who had all the time in the world!
When they moved away to be by their children, I was sad. It had been a wonderful 10 years. But, I understood; they needed to be by family as they got older. Besides, I was an adult now and my life was getting busy. Not as much time anymore for long visits and pound cake.
Fast forward twelve more years. They've come home. The gentleman, he's 81 now, but you would never know it. His beautiful wife is suffering with dementia and failing health. They want to spend these years here, in a place where they were so happy.
I'm in my 30s now with four kids, a husband, and the normal American busy life. I'm not that little teenager anymore with hours to kill.
But their life has taken a turn. They aren't busy anymore. No more fishing, boating, mission trips, church activities, or even walks. Because of her health, they can't even make it to Sunday church most days. The lonely long hours creep by for them. This is certainly not what they are used to, or where they want to be, but this is where they are.
I finally find a moment between school and ballet to sneak away and go see them. I walk in. She looks up at me from her spot on the couch. She doesn't remember a lot anymore, but she knows me. I'm not sure she knows my name, but she knows me. She says, "I sure do like you." I smile, give her a hug, and sit down beside her. She reaches over and takes my hand. She holds my hand for a half an hour while I visit with her husband. It's too hard for her to carry on a conversation, but she wants me to be there by her. We talk about old times, their kids, and the birds outside. Way too soon I get up to go because it's time to take Rylie to ballet class. "I wish I could stay longer," I say. "Please come again soon," she replies, "We love to have you." (It's pretty much the only thing she's said.) "I will," I say, trying to think of when I will be able to make it back by.
As I drive the to ballet, I can't help but think about the love the man has for his wife. At 81 he is caring for her better than any nurse could. He makes her meals, helps her walk, takes her on drives, and is so patient with the ever prevailing dementia that is overtaking her mind and body. He won't leave her side whether it's at home, or when she is in the hospital for weeks at a time. And she doesn't want him to. He meant it over 55 years ago when he said, "for better or worse," and "till death do us part." He is kinder to her than any young man trying to win a fair lady ever was.
And they're lonely. These are lonely, long days for them.
And they're not the only ones. There are so many elderly at home, with nothing to fill the long, lonely hours and days because of failing health. They need people, but can't get out to see them. Some of them are our parents and our grandparents, some are other people's grandparents. Some have nobody.
We must not forget. We MUST NOT forget these elderly people who paved the way for us. Who made time for us when we were young. Who raised us and invested in our lives. Who still have so much to say, but oftentimes, no one to say it to. Stories to tell, encouragement to share, smiles to give, love that needs a recipient. And they're at home, hoping they are not forgotten. Hoping someone will stop by.
They are easy to forget because you don't see them unless you go to see them. And our lives are so busy.
During the snow Dan took Zack to shovel a driveway of another elderly couple in our church. They couldn't make it to their mailbox because of the snow. Zack asked me why he had to go. I told him because I hoped that when his dad was too old and feeble to shovel our driveway, that some young man would care enough to come and do it for him. If we don't do it, who will? If we don't teach our kids, who will visit us when we are old?
If the hands and feet of Jesus don't visit the elderly, who will? Who will hug them? Who will hold their hand? Who will listen to what they have to say? Who will take time out of their busy lives to see someone who is homebound? Who will let them know they are still valuable if we don't?
The hands and feet of Jesus, that's who we are. It's His life we claim to have, and He cares about - people. People. From the smallest embryo to the oldest, feeblest man, life is precious in His eyes. And it should be in ours.
And not just in our minds, but our actions also.
Don't forget the elderly. Life is precious. They are precious. They need to be reminded that God thinks they are valuable, and that we do to.
I am convicted by my own actions, for our actions show what we really think.
"You shall rise up before the grayheaded and honor the aged, and you shall revere your God; I am the LORD." Leviticus 19:32
Sunday, March 1, 2015
The Sledding Accident that Almost Was
So it almost happened today. That sledding accident that you hope never happens. It almost happened. Almost is enough to make my mom's heart stop, but also make it so grateful.
It snowed most of the day yesterday and then turned to sleet and ice. By this morning our yard was a slick layer of beautiful whiteness. Most of us could crunch right through the layers as walked, but Elijah was not heavy enough to break the ice. He couldn't move without slipping and falling down. It was cute, but I finally took pity on him, and got a sled out and started pulling him around.
The kids discovered that they could sled right through the empty lot behind our house on the ice. There's not much of a slant in the land, so I wasn't worried about them getting hurt. Elijah watched them, thought it looked fun, and decided that he wanted to try. He lay belly down on the sled and Rylie gave him a little push. He took off. I didn't know a sled could go so fast on a non hill. His light weight sent him soaring over the ice. Rylie realized at once that this was not a good thing as Elijah was hurling towards the road. She began running as fast as she could after him. I was far enough behind that I knew unless I suddenly acquired the Flash's powers, I was useless. My heart was racing because I knew he had enough speed that he was going to fly through the ditch, across the road, and over the other side.
Rylie is very quick on her feet and was running hard behind him. I saw her fling her body outstretched as she reached her arms out to grab the sled. It looked like a slow motion moment on a movie as she just missed the sled and laid face down on the snow. (We later learned that she actually tripped on her boot and fell, but it looked very heroic at the time.)
Elijah kept sailing towards the road. I could do nothing but stand there and watch. Right as he reached the road the sled plowed into a pile of hard snow that the snow plow had left. The sled stopped short and his little body flew out onto the pile of hard snow too close to the road. Dan was there in an instant as Elijah lay there crying. He was ok, and I was filled with relief.
Rylie was really shaken up. We were actually on our way to go to a sledding hill. She promptly decided that we should just all go in the house where it is safe and no one would get hurt. I told her that we were going anyway and that it would be fine.
She looked at me and said, "but, Mom, I worry about Elijah and Kade because they don't know Jesus yet, and if something happens to them they won't go to heaven and be with Jesus." Then she turned to her brothers and started witnessing to them as we all sat in the snow in our front yard.. "You need to accept Jesus," she said. "You don't want to die without knowing Him, and we could die anytime. You don't know when you're going to die!" She was urgent as she kept talking, "Jesus is knocking on your heart door and He wants you to let Him in. Don't you want to accept Him? If you do, you will feel all wonderful inside."
She's 9. I was sitting on the snow with my children watching, listening, and feeling guilty. This child was witnessing to her brothers with a sense of urgency of one who had just faced death. She doesn't want any member of her family to die without knowing Jesus, and she's doing her best to make sure they know the way.
Her words resounded in my head, "You don't want to die without Him, and you could die at any time."
I looked around my neighborhood - "You could die at any time and you don't know Him."
I thought of people in my family - "You could die at any time and you don't know Him."
I see the world - "You could die at any time and you don't know Him."
And I grieved.
I grieved because I don't have a true heart for the lost.
Of course, I want them to know Jesus. But I don't even have the urgency of my 9 year old CHILD who will witness time after time to her brothers because she doesn't want them to die lost!
Who will tell my neighbors and my family if I don't? Who will tell them before they die without Him? They could die at any moment. My little son and my daughter reminded me of that today.
I want the heart of Christ, who gave up everything to die for the lost. I don't have it, but I want it.
.
I want the selflessness of Nate Saint and Jim Elliot who had guns, but refused to use them on the Aucas that were spearing them to death because they knew that they were headed to heaven, but that the Aucas, if killed, would go to hell and never have the opportunity to know Jesus. They gave up everything for the sake of the Gospel and a little tribe of Indians who had never heard it.
I want the heart of my daughter who has witnessed more in the last couple of years than I have.
"Then saith he unto his disciples, The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few;
Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth labourers into his harvest."
Matthew 9:37-38
The harvest is HUGE. Christ died for all. The labourers are few.
I want to rise up from my comfortable "glad I'm saved, hope someone's telling you about Jesus, but it's probably not me" spot on my couch and be a labourer.
The labourers are few, but they could be one more.
It snowed most of the day yesterday and then turned to sleet and ice. By this morning our yard was a slick layer of beautiful whiteness. Most of us could crunch right through the layers as walked, but Elijah was not heavy enough to break the ice. He couldn't move without slipping and falling down. It was cute, but I finally took pity on him, and got a sled out and started pulling him around.
The kids discovered that they could sled right through the empty lot behind our house on the ice. There's not much of a slant in the land, so I wasn't worried about them getting hurt. Elijah watched them, thought it looked fun, and decided that he wanted to try. He lay belly down on the sled and Rylie gave him a little push. He took off. I didn't know a sled could go so fast on a non hill. His light weight sent him soaring over the ice. Rylie realized at once that this was not a good thing as Elijah was hurling towards the road. She began running as fast as she could after him. I was far enough behind that I knew unless I suddenly acquired the Flash's powers, I was useless. My heart was racing because I knew he had enough speed that he was going to fly through the ditch, across the road, and over the other side.
Rylie is very quick on her feet and was running hard behind him. I saw her fling her body outstretched as she reached her arms out to grab the sled. It looked like a slow motion moment on a movie as she just missed the sled and laid face down on the snow. (We later learned that she actually tripped on her boot and fell, but it looked very heroic at the time.)
Elijah kept sailing towards the road. I could do nothing but stand there and watch. Right as he reached the road the sled plowed into a pile of hard snow that the snow plow had left. The sled stopped short and his little body flew out onto the pile of hard snow too close to the road. Dan was there in an instant as Elijah lay there crying. He was ok, and I was filled with relief.
Rylie was really shaken up. We were actually on our way to go to a sledding hill. She promptly decided that we should just all go in the house where it is safe and no one would get hurt. I told her that we were going anyway and that it would be fine.
She looked at me and said, "but, Mom, I worry about Elijah and Kade because they don't know Jesus yet, and if something happens to them they won't go to heaven and be with Jesus." Then she turned to her brothers and started witnessing to them as we all sat in the snow in our front yard.. "You need to accept Jesus," she said. "You don't want to die without knowing Him, and we could die anytime. You don't know when you're going to die!" She was urgent as she kept talking, "Jesus is knocking on your heart door and He wants you to let Him in. Don't you want to accept Him? If you do, you will feel all wonderful inside."
She's 9. I was sitting on the snow with my children watching, listening, and feeling guilty. This child was witnessing to her brothers with a sense of urgency of one who had just faced death. She doesn't want any member of her family to die without knowing Jesus, and she's doing her best to make sure they know the way.
Her words resounded in my head, "You don't want to die without Him, and you could die at any time."
I looked around my neighborhood - "You could die at any time and you don't know Him."
I thought of people in my family - "You could die at any time and you don't know Him."
I see the world - "You could die at any time and you don't know Him."
And I grieved.
I grieved because I don't have a true heart for the lost.
Of course, I want them to know Jesus. But I don't even have the urgency of my 9 year old CHILD who will witness time after time to her brothers because she doesn't want them to die lost!
Who will tell my neighbors and my family if I don't? Who will tell them before they die without Him? They could die at any moment. My little son and my daughter reminded me of that today.
I want the heart of Christ, who gave up everything to die for the lost. I don't have it, but I want it.
.
I want the selflessness of Nate Saint and Jim Elliot who had guns, but refused to use them on the Aucas that were spearing them to death because they knew that they were headed to heaven, but that the Aucas, if killed, would go to hell and never have the opportunity to know Jesus. They gave up everything for the sake of the Gospel and a little tribe of Indians who had never heard it.
I want the heart of my daughter who has witnessed more in the last couple of years than I have.
"Then saith he unto his disciples, The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few;
Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth labourers into his harvest."
Matthew 9:37-38
The harvest is HUGE. Christ died for all. The labourers are few.
I want to rise up from my comfortable "glad I'm saved, hope someone's telling you about Jesus, but it's probably not me" spot on my couch and be a labourer.
The labourers are few, but they could be one more.
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