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“Honey”
My friend Kay was as clever as they come. She was quick, sharp, and funny. She didn’t miss a thing. She could always be counted on for a laugh. Not anymore.
Our mutual friend Anna is steadfast, the one of us to have been the most diligent about ensuring get-togethers. Kay and I certainly made our contributions to the cause, but Anna is a cut above.
The three of us have been friends for over three decades. We’ve spent countless hours together talking, eating, working (yes, we met on a job), and attending a huge variety of functions. We’ve spent hundreds of hours on the phone over the years. We’ve bailed each other out of jams. There was one serious falling-out between two of us some 17 or 18 years ago, cleared up with a little time and effort, a few tears. I love both of them dearly.
We got together a couple of days ago in Anna’s home. This now takes some doing, as Kay is no longer herself and relies on her gem of a husband to get her around. Kay is struggling with early-onset dementia. She can’t take herself anywhere. In fact, when she is some place, she’s never quite sure where she is.
She stumbled into the house on her husband’s arm and was clearly confused. She has a visual condition that further complicates her situation; she is nearly blind. And Anna went into action.
“Here, Honey,” she said, taking Kay from her hubby. “I’m right here. And here’s Carolyn.” I spoke so she could place me. We moved on from there; at every juncture Anna made a point of Kay’s knowing where she was, what was happening and what was going to happen, and just generally keeping her as oriented as it’s possible for her to be. We led her from place to place, seating her, serving her, explaining and answering questions.
We both spoke carefully and simply, reminiscing, joking, reminding, directing. “Honey,” Anna kept saying in a preface to most of her comments to our friend. “Honey, here’s your chair. I’ll help you sit. Turn around.” “Honey, this is a pasta salad and here’s bread. May I butter it for you?” “Honey, will you have more tea?”
It made me smile, it was so sweet. Anna isn’t generally given to calling people “Honey” but she was clearly in care-taking mode and the endearment was a mark of her love for Kay. It was gentle, tender, caring, thoughtful, soft. She was being a good friend.
It brought to my mind the verse found in Ecclesiastes 18:24. It was penned by Solomon. “. . . there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother” (or sister).
We’ve been a threesome for a long time. I hope we remain so for some time yet, even forever. And when Anna begins to call me “Honey,” I’ll know the jig is up for me. But I’ll sure be glad to have her!
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Memories
Well, I’ve been alternately laughing and crying through the day. I need a break so here I am.
We’re fixing to bust a move, literally. Our plan is to relocate to where I came from originally. There I have family, friends, and familiarity. There I’ll have amenities. There is where I’ve always wanted to “end up.” It’s where our burial plot is. But until recently, we’d only spoken in “someday” terms. A few weeks ago, we moved to “now” for a variety of reasons.
And though our home hasn’t yet sold, we want to be ready when it does. So we’ve been packing. Today I’ve been working through several memorabilia boxes. I’ve looked at, read, and discarded or kept hundreds of items, and there are a lot more to go. Every single one of them carries with it a precious memory or I’d not have kept it – I’m talking cards; loose pictures; photograph albums; graduation and wedding announcements; funeral programs; newspaper clippings; invitations to attend anniversary celebrations; ticket stubs to sporting events, concerts, plays, and lectures; church bulletins; small gifts; pieces of my grade school, now gone; a small strip of wood flooring from the central building on my college campus, now replaced by a different, new structure; articles from all kinds of media, etc.
I’d planned to go through all these items . . . someday. And someday, it turns out, is today. It’s been wrenching in many ways, as well as exhilarating at times.
Much of my family is gone. So are many of my friends. Or they are no longer quite themselves – I’m to see one of them this weekend. I’m never sure she’s certain who I am. She’s one year younger than me.
I can no longer pitch, throw, or catch a softball reliably or safely.
I don’t willingly subject myself to big-city traffic anymore – at one time I didn’t so much as blink at the prospect.
So . . . today I am struck anew with the rapidity of time passage. So fast. It’s all gone so fast. And nothing is the same as it was.
That’s something we must all come to grips with. David said about humans, in Psalm 144:4, “For they are like a breath of air; their days are like a passing shadow” (NLT).
Fortunately, this life is not all there is. No, there’s more and better. Much more. Much better. My friend’s mind will be restored. The dead will live again. I’ll see my mother, my grandparents; my father will be hale and hearty. We won’t forget things. We needn’t fear traffic, or anything else for that matter. We’ll not get sick or die, or even suffer injury. We’ll not be separated, ever. I’ll be able to manage a softball quite handily if I want to.
Won’t that be the day? I know this is so because God promises. Here’s one of my favorite scriptural passages: “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the old heaven and the old earth had disappeared. And the sea was also gone. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven like a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, ‘Look, God’s home is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.’ And the one sitting on the throne said, ‘Look, I am making everything new!’ And then he said to me, ‘Write this down, for what I tell you is trustworthy and true’ ” (Revelation 21:1-5. NLT).
I can hardly wait. Collecting memorabilia will not be a “thing,” I don’t think. Or maybe it will. But in any event, we’ll be present to one another, we’ll remember without having to be reminded, our minds will remain sharp and new and clear, all things will be possible.
And then we’ll begin to make new memories.
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Be a Jewel
Have you had your 15 minutes of fame yet? I’m pleased to report that I have had mine.
Thirteen years ago yesterday I discovered a stash of jewels in a Campbell’s mushroom soup can. To be clear, it was actually a safe in the exact likeness of a soup can, but one would be hard-pressed to tell the difference. Here’s how it happened.
Every May, the community in which I lived at the time has what they call the “Letter Carriers Food Drive,” which is a food collection effort for the local food banks. Folks leave donations near their mailboxes and the postal workers pick them up as they make their mail deliveries. The bags and boxes are taken to a centrally-located warehouse, where they are sorted through and sent, over the next several months, to nine different affiliated food banks in the area as needed. I volunteered at one of those food banks.
Within a couple of weeks of the drive, all nine affiliates were notified that someone had reported they’d accidentally swept their small safe filled with jewelry off their pantry shelf along with actual soup cans and donated it to the cause. They wanted it back. All nine distribution centers were asked to be on the lookout; there were television and radio accounts of the loss and newspaper articles.
My thought at the time was, “Talk about a needle in a haystack! What are the chances?” Still, I determined to examine every can of Campbell’s mushroom soup that came into my hands and began to do so.
On the morning of July 16, I picked one up – a can in a long line of such cans (a hundred, maybe? More?) that I’d handled since May. I gave it the slight shake I had become accustomed to giving the little guys and prepared to set it down again. But – oh, hey! – this one felt different. Very. Slightly. Different. It was.
I looked it over closely. Turned it upside down. Shook it again. I couldn’t immediately see how to get into it, but I knew.
I called the Director and Assistant Director over, as they were both nearby. Together we figured out how to breach the thing – it simply involved the screwing off of the bottom. And there they were, in a velvet bag – nine pieces of jewelry. They were rings, necklaces, and a couple of bracelets.
You can imagine the joy of the owner of these items – Theresa by name – when she was notified of their discovery. The central food warehouse and the media wanted her picture taken, at our facility, with me, receiving them back again. This was done. There was another newspaper article and interviews on TV and the radio. It was all quite exciting.
The commotion Theresa and I experienced over those jewels in a can isn’t anything compared to the electrifying, spectacular eagerness that Jesus will display coming to claim His jewels. “And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels . . .” (Malachi 3:17, KJV). Can you imagine?! It’s what He has been waiting for! It’s what we have been waiting for!! It will happen, my friends, and it will be glorious. And that prospect ought to put joy into our hearts, ought to make the battle manageable.
To find a jewel is one thing. To be a jewel is quite another. Be a jewel!
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Thank You, Louis Johns
Four days ago, on the Fourth of July, I wrote the letter again. It’s the same letter I’ve written, with only slight variations, every year on or around the holiday for 59 years. Because sixty years ago – on July 4, 1961 – I was granted renewed life. My existence very nearly ceased early in the afternoon on that day. And without Louis Johns – father, swimmer, person-paying-attention, and all around good man – it would have.
I was nine, and couldn’t swim a stroke. My sister was seven and couldn’t either. The two of us were left at the local community swimming pool and told to stay together in the shallow end. That lasted four or five minutes at best. I couldn’t get into the deeper water where the bigger kids were fast enough. I headed that direction almost immediately.
There were lifeguards, at least two of them. I was aware of them then and can clearly remember now that each had a “tower” from which to view the pool and that they were placed at the mid-way point between the deep and shallow ends, one on each long side.
I was directly beneath one of them.
All was well for a few minutes. I repeatedly pushed myself back from the edge five or six feet, then dog-paddled back. And then I wasn’t able to get back. I suddenly and unexpectedly found myself unable to move at all, in any direction. I could see safety five feet away but couldn’t reach it. I went under.
When I came back up I shouted, or thought I did. Surely someone would hear me. I disappeared a second time. Then I broke the surface once more and hollered again. The place was packed. This had to be noticeable to someone, I thought in a panic. But it apparently was not. I wonder yet exactly what the lifeguards were looking at during this period of time, and especially the one just six feet above me.
At about this time I became aware that I was going to die. I had just enough time to feel regret and then went down for the proverbial (and very real) third time. That’s the last thing I remember until the next day.
When I awakened in the hospital, with my mother at the bedside, I asked what had happened. And she told me.
A man named Louis Johns, father of seven (including one of my own classmates) had pulled me out, she said, surely saving my life. I later heard the larger story from him directly. He was in the pool with three of his own kids when he noticed my limp, floating body. Concerned, he turned me over and realized his worst fears. I was not breathing and my heart was not beating.
And then commenced a flurry of activity, involving resuscitation efforts; the summoning of an ambulance; identification of my younger sister who was witness to everything that happened from the time I was flung out onto the deck of the pool until I vanished into the back of an ambulance and down the street, siren blaring; and a return to our home of said sister by a police officer with the news for our parents.
That’s the short version. But the bottom line is that I’m most fortunate to be alive, and am extremely grateful to God and to Louis Johns, whom God used, that I am. I thank God regularly, and have thanked Louis at least once a year as well on this holiday (and also at Christmas). Until this year. Louis passed away recently at age 97. My letter this year was addressed to his widow, Ella Mae. I could not imagine not writing one, and will write one as long as she is living.
I’ve been given 60 years I might easily not have had. I hope I’ve spent them responsibly and well. And though I have no idea how many more I am to enjoy, God does. Every moment has been laid out in advance. So says Scripture, and I believe it. In the NLT, Psalm 139:16 says, “You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.”
So . . . four days ago I wrote the letter again, the letter of appreciation and gratitude for my life, lengthened by 60 years so far.
Thank you, God. And thank you, Louis Johns.
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Sometime Dreams Really Do Come True
“When hope is crushed, the heart is crushed,
but a wish come true fills you with joy.”
Proverbs 13:12 (GNT)
Have you ever had your hopes crushed? I’ll bet you can say yes, resoundingly, as can I. There can’t be a person on the planet who hasn’t suffered disappointment, had a dream die, doesn’t mourn a missed opportunity or three. That’s how life goes. We have control over so little.
Sixty years ago, Gwen Goldman was ten years old. And she loved the New York Yankees. At age nine, so did I. I would have liked to play for the Yankees; Gwen wanted to be a bat girl. She wrote to the organization and asked them to consider her for duty. The letter she got back, dated June 6, 1961, and written by Roy Hamey, the general manager at the time, said, “While we agree with you that girls are certainly as capable as boys, and no doubt would be an attractive addition on the playing field, I am sure you can understand that in a game dominated by men a young lady such as yourself would feel out of place in a dugout.” The answer was no.
On June 28, 2021, three nights ago – 60 years and two weeks after receiving that letter – Gwen was on the field. In uniform. The Yankees were making things right, enabling the dreams of a little-girl-turned-mature-woman, putting her to work in Yankee Stadium.
She had a locker of her own; was fully suited out; accompanied the team’s third base coach, Phil Nevin, when he took the lineup card out to the umps before the game; chatted with and fist-bumped the players; threw out the ceremonial first pitch; delivered and picked up bats; posed for pictures; wiped tears from her eyes.
In life, dreams frequently flare out and die. But not always. As Brian Cashman, the Yankees’ current general manager, said in a new letter to Goldman, “Some dreams take longer than they should to be realized, but a goal attained should not dim with the passage of time.”
And that’s true, isn’t it? Hold fast to your dreams. Many will never be realized. But many have been realized and some will be realized yet. Do what you can for yourself, watch for openings and opportunities, ask help of others, pay attention. You never know.
Just ask Gwen Goldman, aged 70, New York Yankees bat girl. Does it appear to you that she has found her joy? It looks like it to me.
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He Shall Give His Angels Charge
“For He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways. In their hands they shall bear you up, lest you dash your foot against a stone.”
Psalm 91:11-12 (NKJV)
Don’t underestimate the littlest ones among us. They are capable of some pretty amazing feats, to be sure.
Have you heard the story out of Rock Port, Missouri recently of the 3-year-old who saved his brother and father from catastrophe involving a (very deep) well? It was the evening of May 10, 2021, and Brandon Leseberg, a farmer and cattle man, finished working the cows and called his sons to his side. They were heading in for the day. Louie, six, and Everett, three, met him at the gate and he began to close it. The boys stopped to drink from a water spigot nearby, something they’d done many times before.
In the course of shutting the gate, Brandon began to turn, and noticed that Louie was not in view. Just a couple of seconds had gone by. “Where’s Louie?” he asked Everett. Everett pointed to a 6-year-old sized hole in a (rotten, as it turns out) board covering the family’s well. Brandon heard a splash while he stood there and some gasping from 70 feet beneath him. He jumped without giving it any thought at all, enlarging the hole somewhat.
About half-way down, feeling impressed to do so, he reached out to one side and discovered a pipe running down the wall to the well motor. He grabbed on; he certainly didn’t want to land on Louie. It stopped his descent.
However, he was yet a distance from his screaming, flailing son, so in three separate releases of the pole and subsequent grabbings on again, he lowered himself until he reached the boy. The pipe near the bottom was too slippery to hang on to at all, being around the waterline and wet and gunky as it was. They definitely would not be able to climb it out. He hoisted Louie up onto his chest.
From 70 feet down, Brandon called up to Everett. Did I mention that Everett is THREE? He told him he’d have to be a big boy and run to the road. He was to stay out of the road and stand by the mailbox until someone came by. “You’re going to have to save us,” Brandon told him.
And that’s what Everett did.
The first folks by were a couple from a neighboring farm. They stopped at the sight of Everett’s tiny self waving for their attention. The 911 call, made from the edge of the well a few minutes later, is really quite a wonder to listen to. While 911 was still on, the neighbor woman called another neighbor. That neighbor grabbed a barn rope, not knowing its exact length or the depth of Brandon’s well. He prayed it would be long enough. He called his teen-aged son to come and they rushed to the scene. Their arrival can clearly be heard on the 911 call.
The removal of Everett from the well is a marvel of a story. Unexpectedly heavy for a 6-year-old, the rescuers discovered that he’d been entangled in the pump works, which they lifted right along with him. But they got him up and out. It can all be heard on the emergency call.
Now it was Brandon’s turn, and two more men stopped to help at about the time his ascent began. It took all five of them to drag him up from the depths. As he cleared the lip of the hole and emerged into full daylight, he saw the emergency vehicles entering his property. But Everett, and the neighbors, had already achieved the rescue.
Brandon, Louie, and the neighbors are all quick to give credit where credit is due. From an article I ran across: ” ‘What did we do? Did we pray a lot?’ Brandon asked Louie, as Louie shook his head yes. ‘You asked me who was going to save us? Who saved us?’ Brandon asked. ‘God,’ answers Louie. ‘And were there angels all around us? Had to be,’ says Brandon.”
” ‘Well, I think the hero is probably Everett,’ says Dan. ‘Sending him out to the highway to stop somebody for help. What would be going through a dad’s mind as you have your son in the well? How are you going to get help out of there? And what a trooper to go out there to the road for help. He’s the hero here. Not us. We’re just neighbors to help any time anyone needs anything.’ “
There were no serious injuries to either Brandon or Louie. And Everett did exactly what he was asked to do without any harm coming to him either. Brandon considers it all to have been a miracle. ” . . . there’s too many good things that happened that day that you can’t mark that as luck or coincidence. . . . We have angels looking after us,” he says. “God was up there. There must be something special He wants to do with these boys is all I know.”
I’ll bet he’s right. And wouldn’t you love to know what that something special is? Maybe someday we’ll find out. I fervently hope so.
And He shall give His angels charge . . .
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Stealing Second
Two days ago I went for a bike ride. The weather was unsurpassed, the company – hubby and nephew – delightful, and the route – a paved path along a gorgeous river – awesome. There was not a single disappointing facet to the day.
The path, the parks, the river were all packed. Bikers, walkers, joggers, picnickers, kayakers, and canoeists were out in number. Kids were everywhere.
We whizzed, at one point, by a tiny biker and his dad. They were just off the path but pointing toward it. The little guy, maybe three, was standing beside his bicycle-with-training-wheels, hands on handlebars, rocking forward and back gently. “Push. Push. Push,” he was repeating in the wee-est voice. I wasn’t able to determine what the situation was exactly, but neither boy nor man seemed upset or impatient or hurt, so I assume they were both OK and just facing a small glitch of some sort. It was a sweet scene.
There was artwork on underpass walls. There were ice cream cones. Families at picnic tables. Lovers strolling hand in hand.
There were ball games. These were, for me, the real highlight. As we approached two ball fields right next to each other but angling slightly away in the direction of their respective playing areas, Rick said, “Oh, look. A couple of softball games!” That’s what I thought, too, at first glance, but upon getting closer, I realized that the players were little boys and the game was baseball. No matter. Though I’d played softball for many years, I love both games. Over I went.
And was it ever a kick! I’m here to tell you those boys were as serious as a heart attack about their game(s). They were dressed and behaving as if they were men, the men they no doubt idolize. (Though I observed no spitting at any time!) The coolness, the posturing, the hustle displayed were all quite impressive. And somewhat humorous. They were all so small, or so it seemed to this old lady.
The pitcher in the game to my right was throwing high. Still, he got a few pitches low enough to be hit and one extra-small boy finally hold hold of one. He made it to first. And then the attempt to steal second commenced. He had me mesmerized. He led off a little bit and was crouched low, his leading arm extended slightly toward second, his other a bit behind him. His form was excellent. He rocked and swayed, didn’t take his eyes off the pitcher. He looked ready to fly. And fly he did when the time came. Made it, too! I’ve been calling him Rickey Henderson in my mind since. (Look him up if you need to . . .)
Oh, how I enjoyed that delicious day! And I thank God for it. I could have been somewhere else and missed all that beauty and joy. Solomon said, in Ecclesiastes 3:12-13, “So I concluded there is nothing better than to be happy and enjoy ourselves as long as we can. And people should eat and drink and enjoy the fruits of their labor, for these are gifts from God” (NLT).
It needn’t be a big thing in order for us to enjoy something. Often it isn’t. Sometimes it’s small. For me, on Sunday, it was a young boy stealing second base.
Thank you, Lord!
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The Essence of Living
When things go bad, good people step up and do something. I love to hear of examples of this, and there have been plenty recently. Take the February snow and ice storm, for example.
It began on February 13, 2021, when foul weather hit in the Pacific Northwest of the United States, my own neck of the woods. But it quickly spread north, south, and east, eventually impacting more than 170 million Americans in various ways and causing blackouts for more than 9.9 million people in the United State and Mexico. Texas, in the United States, was particularly hard hit and 14 million Texans suffered various forms of misfortune from minor to catastrophic.
The able stepped up.
Jim “Mattress Mack” McInvale, owner of a three-store chain of furniture warehouses in Houston called Gallery Furniture, opened up two of them to anyone who needed a place to stay. Thousands of people had such a need and hundreds of them streamed in to his two facilities, setting up camp on beds, recliners, sofas, tables, and floors. McInvale had the in-store restaurants running and even had other meals besides brought in for his guests.
And this is what he said: “We think that the essence of living is giving and it’s not our privilege to do this, it’s not our right to do this, it’s our obligation. This is what we’re put on the earth to do is help other people and when situations come up, that’s the time for us to spring into action and help people get a better view of the day because some of their lives right now are very, very dark.” Indeed!
Nina Richardson and Doug Condon are of a similar mind. On Valentine’s Day, just 24 hours into the epic storm, a young woman named Chelsea Timmons attempted to deliver groceries to their home in Austin. Her own house was in Houston, three hours away over extremely bad roads. But that became sort of beside the point. Chelsea’s brakes locked up on her way down the steep, icy driveway and she slipped and slid right through their flowerbed and took out a small tree before stopping just short of the house, thankfully. She was mortified and filled with dread.
She was left with no option but to text the family inside the home and tell them of her plight. Doug came right out. He tried to free Chelsea’s car from the ice and snow without success. All three began making phone calls – to AAA and area tow services. No luck. No one would/could come.
That was when Nina and Doug invited Chelsea to stay with them until she could safely get out and moving again. Five days later she was able, finally, to do that. In the meantime, she was tucked up – safe, warm, and well-fed – with a couple who’d been, until then, total strangers to her.
These folks – Jim, Nina, and Doug – did what they could in the circumstances. We all can and should do the same. Paul and Timothy, in a letter they apparently sent jointly, wrote, “Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others” (Philippians 2:4, NIV).
As “Mattress Mack” said, it’s our obligation to do what we can when we can. I’d argue, though, that it’s also our privilege.
“Do not withhold good from those who deserve it, when it is in your power to act,” said Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived (Proverbs 3:27, NIV). And that’s sound advice.
That is, in fact, the essence of living.
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A Few of My Favorite Things
“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,
Brown paper packages tied up with strings –
These are a few of my favorite things.”
Oscar Hammerstein II and Richard Rogers
A couple of days ago I was driving into town from my rural home. A wondrous sight fell to me: off to one side knelt a man in a garden. He was digging and planting. And on three of his sides sat a small dog, looking with diligent focus and utter concentration down at what he was doing. They all looked alike, were possibly litter-mates. But their undivided interest and sweet curiosity was clear. I’d have stopped for pictures if I hadn’t known the view would immediately change upon my doing so by disturbing everyone’s attention. The enchanting scene would no longer exist. But it made my heart smile, it was so very delightful. It made me feel warm all over and reminded me, once again, of how much joy and beauty there is in our world. So much.
It reminded me of all the things for which I am grateful, of the blessings that are mine, of the fact that I have and do enjoy many “favorite things.” Here are just a few.
There are puppies and kittens, of course; there are dogs and cats. There are farmers. While gazing at the man planting, my mind turned to my grandfather, who farmed. I spent some considerable time on that trip thinking of my grandpa’s bent figure and his excitement over a harvest. He and my three other grandparents are among my most favorite things.
I was making the trip to meet two long-time friends for lunch in a town 90 miles away. These two befriended me when I turned up at the church they attended almost 17 years ago. They have both mentored, encouraged, and used me in various capacities in and out of the church in these intervening years. They are two of my favorite things, absolutely. But other acquaintances, too, are precious to me. I am indeed rich in friends.
I love a good book, a close and challenging game of Words With Friends. I take great pleasure in looking out over the lovely yard my husband has made and keeps for us. I like to hike and ride my new bike, now that I can do those things. And the vistas I’m often rewarded with – favorite things!
I enjoy music, and especially get a kick out of finding something new – a new artist and/or genre and/or instrument(s) unfamiliar to me. I really appreciate new information/understanding/insight. On any subject.
I relish coming across a photo I’m not expecting, one that takes me back in time and enables the enjoyment, once again, of a moment that holds special meaning for me. One such instance occurred two days ago. On a particular Facebook page I frequent, one that pertains to the town I grew up in, someone posted a picture of the teacher group at the school where I attended kindergarten and first grade. And there they were – my two earliest teachers, both of whom I loved dearly. Mrs. Curtis and Mrs. Klassen, I owe the two of you my utmost gratitude for the start you gave me, for being kind to me and patient with me, for instilling in me the love for words and books. For teaching me to read! You are two of my favorite things. My life would not have been nearly the same without you.
There are more favorites, of course: certain foods (and, I confess, food in general), a good sermon, a birthday, the sun, the sight of Rick sitting in his chair across the room from me, answered prayers, good news, a compliment.
And from whence do these joys come? From our heavenly Father, who loves us. Scripture is a “favorite thing,” and here’s a favorite verse: “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows” (James 1:17, NIV).
Ah, so much to savor, and all from One who is crazy about us.
What are a few of your favorite things?
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Who’s On Your Prayer List?
I took a walk this morning in my local park and added a little boy to my prayer list. He looked to be about four and appeared to be with his grandmother.
I’ve never had children and have always believed I wasn’t very good with them. But I enjoy them and get a kick out of talking to and being around them. I’ve had a few call me “Grandma” over the years and some do seem to genuinely enjoy my company. So maybe I’m not as inept as I’ve thought.
At any rate, this morning there was a little boy. When I passed him the first time just off the track I was circling, he smiled, very sweetly and amiably. He was just as cute as it’s possible to be. By the time I was set to pass him the second time, however, I could see he was no longer smiling. I have no idea what happened between the first and second rounds, but it was clear that something had.
His grandmother had him posing for pictures out in some long grass, and he wasn’t having it. He wouldn’t look at her. He was turned partially away from her. He certainly wasn’t about to smile for her.
“Look up,” she said. “Smile!” No go. He did neither.
I stopped. The boy looked up at that. “Would you like a picture of the two of you?” I asked her.
“Oh, yes. I would, thank you. That would be wonderful,” she replied, and handed her phone over. The youngster had come alive, was now looking my way. His grandmother joined him and both turned toward me.
“What’s your name?” I asked the little guy. “Daniel,” he said. Then he straightened up to his full (approximately three-foot) height. “My full name is Daniel Jefferson Jackson, though,” he informed me quite grandly. (This is not his real name, but it is something similarly strong and manly and impressive!)
“Wow!” I said. “Daniel Jefferson Jackson, smile up.” And he did. I took several pictures, it was determined by the two of them that they were adequate, and I said good-bye and left them.
But I haven’t been able to get the sweet boy out of my thoughts. I haven’t the faintest idea what his story is, what circumstances he’s dealing with or will deal with. But I do know that he’s a precious child of God and is loved supremely by his Creator. There are big plans for that boy, of that I’m certain, because there are big plans for all of us. And I feel impressed to pray for him. He can certainly use all the help he can get, I don’t doubt. We all do. This is a complicated, messy, difficult, and – yes, thrown in – joyous life we’re engaged in. But we need direction and encouragement and support whoever and wherever we are, through whatever is happening to us.
So Daniel Jefferson Jackson is now in my prayer rotation. I’ll be remembering him daily. And I’m eager to someday learn what my prayers meant to and for him. I may never see him again in this life. But prayer makes a difference. “Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours” (Mark 11:24).
I claim this promise for young Daniel. My prayer is for blessings upon him; protection, direction, guidance, and salvation for him. I believe that he will receive these things. And I can hardly wait to see him again in the kingdom.
Who’s on your prayer list?