Hobo Supper

You Need to Move On

As a Director of Missions, I get invited to numerous events.  Attending events creates a bond between church laity and a director of mission.  The continuity of a director of missions and the churches he serves comes from the Director to Laity relationship.  Some think that it is the Pastor to DOM but pastors transition to other churches.  The laity was at the church before the pastor and will be there long after he is gone.

Sometimes churches become rooted in the local church being their church, not the bride of Christ.  Laity can get the attitude of “Our Four and No More.”  I fear this trend.  Churches that do not birth new members are destined to die.  The church will continue until the Lord returns.  I must imagine that some churches will continue to meet with their four even when the church is raptured.  The attitude of the church being a closed event prevails.

I experienced this by invitation to a “Hobo Supper” church event.  One of the churches I served had an annual Hobo Supper.  This hobo supper started an iron pot cooking with a little water and meat.  Everyone brings an item from the pantry to add to the pot making a stew.  It is delicious.  The first year I attended I won best costume just wearing my everyday works clothes.  After that I will dress like a poor hobo.

One year I decided to fool the church folks.  I got an old white dress shirt that yellowed with age, put  it on by buttoning it wrong, and ripped it by stretching it.  I took an old pair of pants and cut one leg shorter than the other and tied the pants around my waist with an old rope.  I wore two different tennis shoes as well as two different socks.  I got an old had that was frayed and a broken pair of sunglasses.

I wore a pair of realistic “bubba teeth”, put smut on my face, dirt under my fingernails, and dog poop on my shoes.  I found a discarded beer can and sprinkled the remaining contents on as perfume.  I hadn’t shaved for a few days.  I had gout and walked with a limp using the staff.

Since it was a hobo supper, I took a staff and tied two canned vegetables in a red bandana on the end.  I had my son drop me at the entrance of the supper.  To make it realistic, my son acted as though he had picked me up hitchhiking and told me that was as far as he could take me, and I told him thanks and that he was a fine young man.

As I stood on the shoulder of a US Highway, drivers would move to the other side of the road to avoid me.  I stuck out my thumb to see if I could get someone to stop.  I was unsuccessful.  Several women waved and smiled as they turned to enter the hobo supper which was down a drive behind some woods.

Finally, a deacon and his wife from the church stopped as they entered the drive.  He lowered the window of the passenger side just enough to talk.  He asked me what I wanted.  I told him that I had been in town looking for food when a young man in a red jeep told me of a hobo supper.  He said I did not look to hungry.  I am a big man.  I told him not to look at my appearance and that just because I had a large stomach did not mean that I was not hungry.  He told me that I needed to move on down the road and I was not invited to the hobo supper.  He rolled up his window and continued down the drive to the supper.  Ironically, I exercised with this deacon at the local gym every morning.

Several passersby told the host that there was a bum at the driveway entrance.  She told them that it was probably me having fun.  The deacon told her that it was not me.

Another man I knew stopped and verbatim did as the deacon did.  He was not as hospitable as the deacon and told me there was no hobo supper.  I told him that I knew I was close and that I could smell the smoke and the stew cooking.  He wanted to know how I learned of the supper.  I told him a fine Christian man told me and even brought me to where someone could direct me.  He rudely said I needed to move on down the road.

After a short I while I hobbled down to the gathering.  When the host saw me, she said that is not Bobby Hopper.  Everyone shunned me.  I told them that they needed to remember the Scripture how men and women entertained Angels unaware.  I did jokingly but was serious about how they treated a stranger.

I took out my bubba teeth and removed my hat and sunglasses to reveal who I was.  They were shocked and said that if they knew it was me they would picked me up, especially my deacon friend.  I told him that it should not matter and that as a deacon he should have acted differently.

This is one of the reasons for starting God’s Front Porch.  Many of us do not feel welcome when attending church.  It may be the way we dress or smell.  It may be that we suffer from divorce or spousal abandonment.  We may have a problem with addiction, be homeless, mentally, or physically challenged, or jobless.

I know from conversations with believers that many are disgruntled with church but not with God.  Two or three of my former church members and friends have told me that one more episode at church and they will stay home, help the needy, and worship the Lord there.

The church that does not evangelize dies.  I recall that the Scriptures in the Holy Bible reveal that the church had the concept of our four and no more with all its rules and regulations and people who needed God were ignored and that is why Jesus came to save.

Fifty Year Anniversary

“THEY SAID IT WOULDN’T LAST” 

They said it wouldn’t last, but didn’t know our love.

They said it wouldn’t last, but they didn’t know God’s plan from above. 

God worked in a wonderful way bringing us together through a friend.

He created our love that would be special and without end. 

They said it wouldn’t last, our friends and kin of fifty years ago.

Today they gather in His house to celebrate what you and I know. 

A bond started On that day when our eyes first met.

It is a love story that started and continues yet. 

Ten days together was so short but our love grew and grew.

Separated while you serving the red, white, and blue. 

Could our love last for an acquaintance so brief?

Would it be short and the memory be one of grief? 

It seemed as a flash from heaven as a falling star burning so fast.

We were separated and our love seemed to others not to last. 

It was a precious moment we spent in late July.

Our separation seemed like an eternity as August crept by. 

We longed for each other until the second of September.

It became our wedding day, what a day to remember. 

Many special moments of love have continued since those days.

Three handsome boys God gave to us to raise. 

A family and home we had filled with commitment and love.

Our blessings could not have happened without God above. 

Today our lives are filled with grandchildren, great-grandchildren, friends, and other kin.

To thank you for celebrating with us, there’s no place to begin.

They said it wouldn’t last our love at first sight.

Love lasts forever when it done right. 

Marriage takes commitment and love with help from the Divine.

That’s something everyone must remember when we ask “will you be mine?” 

They said it wouldn’t last, but the years have flown by.

Fifty precious years that started on a lovely day in late July.

For: Aubrey and Ruth Randall on their fiftieth wedding anniversary on September 2, 2001

The Ponderosa: A Second Grade Adventure

The Ponderosa

There was a place not too far from where I grew up that was called the Ponderosa.  If you remember, the Ponderosa was the home of Ben, Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe Cartwright on the hit western program Bonanza.  The Ponderosa near our home was a two-room cotton shack. 

The family was not the well-to-do Cartwrights, but an older single woman named Doll and her grown son Roby.  Roby was what we called up home, not right.  He was mentally retarded, or to be politically correct, he had special needs or what is termed developmental disabilities.  Doll and Roby walked everywhere they went.  Roby would walk pass the house carrying a lid from a syrup bucket.  He pretended that it was a steering wheel.  As he drove (that is walked with the lid) he would pretend to honk the horn and then wave at us.  We knew better than to make fun of Roby or any other person with special needs.  Daddy would tear us up.  If you wanted a whupping from daddy, just make fun of someone with special needs.  In fact, daddy taught us to pay special attention to those who were mentally challenged and go out of our way to help them.  I have taught my children to do the same. 

If you want to get us charged up, you just mistreat someone who has special needs.

Roby was pretty ingenious.  I know you might find this hard to believe, but Roby and Doll had a television set at the Ponderosa.  It was something to behold seeing an antenna protruding from the roof of the shack.  The antenna was unique.  It was the spokes of a bicycle wheel.  Spokes for an antenna and a syrup can lid for a steering wheel was very creative.

As far as I know, Doll and Roby did not get government assistance, but they did have neighbors who helped them.  People kept a check on them, but they were very independent.  They did not have running water, which meant that they did not have indoor plumbing.

Doll’s brother, Allen, drove the school bus.  I remember on one occasion that Mr. Allen did not have to pick up a couple of boys who lived way down in the boonies.  I was the first one to catch the bus, then the boonie brothers.  Rather than picking up others students early, Mr. Allen decided to stop and spend the extra ten minutes at the Ponderosa. 

It was cold that morning.  Ice was spewed up everywhere.  Mr. Allen and I got off the bus and went to Doll’s kitchen.  It was the first time that I had actually been inside the Ponderosa.  Doll was fixin’ breakfast for Roby and her on an old wood burning stove.  This stove provided heat for the shack also.  She offered Mr. Allen and me some coffee, eggs, and biscuits.  I was too scared to drink her coffee and eat breakfast.  I had heard Grandmoe Chapman talk of how unclean Doll and Roby were.  I must admit that Doll would not have made a good story for an issue of the Good House Keeping magazine.

I think back on that morning and think how small the Ponderosa was.  I have often wondered what kind of trouble Mr. Allen would be in today if he took a student in for breakfast at a place like the Ponderosa.

Doll and Roby moved up in our community when they bought an old raggedy run-down trailer and just an equally run-down old 1951 Plymouth jalopy.  At least by then, Roby had a real steering wheel and a real horn to blow as they crept by the house going to the store.  I do not think Doll had a driver’s license, so she drove really slow. 

I wondered what they did with all the spare time and modern conveniences they had.  Doll and Roby acted a little more sophisticated with their new house and automobile.  From my own personal experience, I know how more sophisticated one feels when they are able to take a real bath and go to a real bathroom. Doll and Roby made their trailer a little more reminiscent of the Ponderosa when they raised the bicycle-spoked antenna beside the trailer.

Come to think of it, I have images of Doll and Roby when I read of Elijah, a widow, and her son.

So he (Elijah) arose and went to Zarephath. And when he came to the gate of the city, behold, the widow woman was there gathering of sticks: and he called to her, and said, Fetch me, I pray thee, a little water in a vessel, that I may drink. (I Kings 17:10 KJV).

Queen of Sheba

IF YOU ARE A COLLEGE GRADUATE, I’M THE QUEEN OF SHEBA

Several times in the last few days, I ran across the name Sheba. One of the occurrences was on the History Channel. A program on the Ark of the Covenant told how King Solomon and Sheba were married and had a son. It told that Solomon gave his son the Ark of the Covenant and that it is in Ethiopia today. There is a Hebrew word for that: baloney!

Actually, I thought Indiana Jones found it in the movie Raiders of the Lost Ark, and it is filed deep in the archives of the Smithsonian Institute in Washington or in the secrecy of Area 51 in New Mexico. Who knows?

I did have a conversation with the Queen of Sheba in New Orleans. No, I am not fibbing. Here is what happened.

One of the requirements for getting a Master of Divinity degree from New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary (NOBTS) as I attended its extension in Birmingham was that I had to spend thirteen weeks on the NOBTS campus within the four-year time frame of the program. I accomplished this by having earned four weeks of vacation a year from the cement plant. I spent my vacations in New Orleans in class, taking tests. One week was equivalent to a full term.

One of the breaks from this rigorous schedule was a trip to a steak and seafood restaurant, named Jack Dempsey’s. If you go to New Orleans, be sure to go, and order the steak and red fish platter for two. It is wonderful, and it is more than two can eat.

It was during a trip to Jack Dempsey’s that I met the Queen of Sheba. She was from a land far from Alabama, called Georgia. She attended the Marietta extension of NOBTS in Georgia, and she had been invited by some of the other female students who tagged along with several of us who were preachers. New Orleans is not a very safe place for females at night, so being the Southern gentlemen we were, we invited the ladies to tag along.

Sitting around a large table, we enjoyed the food and each other's company. It was exciting to meet new people, share our experiences, and learn of other places and traditions. The Queen appeared older than most of us. She dressed and acted sophisticated, maybe a tad snobbish. I was cutting up and having a good time, when she asked me, “How did you get into this program?”

Being simpleminded, I told her that I had registered. She then said, “I thought you had to have a college degree to register.” I responded by telling her that I had a college degree from the University of Montevallo.

She said, “If you have a college degree, I am the Queen of Sheba.”

My preacher friends and the other ladies (who wanted to be preachers, ministers of education, and counselors) waited for my response. I had two cards, small certificates, in my wallet, from the Phi Alpha Theta and the Sigma Tau Delta. Now, I know that is Greek. The Phi Alpha Theta is from the History Honor Society for having an A average. The Sigma Tau Delta is from the English Honor Society, one of the top five in the nation, for having an A average in English.

I took the cards from my wallet, gave them to her, and said, “Here, read this, Queen of Sheba.”

It was a precious moment that I cherish. My friends around the table erupted in laughter. The Queen of Sheba was speechless. She gathered her composure and asked, “Why don’t you talk like you have an education?”

I said, “I ain’t got to. My professor of public speaking told me that once a speaker establishes his or her credibility, he or she can speak as they want, as long as they communicate. Ma’am, I pastor a small rural church in Bibb County, Alabama. The people I serve are good old country people. If I talk prim and proper, I cannot communicate with them. I know when to act educated and when to be me. I am country, proud of it, and you will have to accept me for who I am.”

And when the queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon concerning the name of the Lord, she came to prove him with hard questions … And she said to the king, It was a true report that I heard in mine own land of thy acts and of thy wisdom. Howbeit I believed not the words, until I came, and mine eyes had seen it: and, behold, the half was not told me: thy wisdom and prosperity exceedeth the fame which I heard (I Kings 10:1, 6-7 KJV)

I have often wondered what she said when she went back to Georgia.

Have you ever met a Queen of Sheba?

How do you respond when someone questions your motives or actions?

What impresses you about people?

Prayer: Father, thank You for all the people that have had the privilege of sharing Your wonderful work in me. The places You allowed me to visit and the education You have given me is far greater than that of any school, university, or seminary. Having opportunities to share experiences and learn of other places is fascinating.

Spring Break

Since it is Spring Break, many will be headed to exotic destinations.  A majority of High school and college students will head to the beach.  The beach is attractive, but I do not care for it.  I do meet friends each year at Gulf Shores, Alabama for Christmas.  On one occasion, I observed “Snow Birds” enjoying the beach and I was inspired to write the following poem.

FLEEING THE TEMPTER

A seagull chases a killdee* up and down, round and round.

As long as the killdee flees, the seagull cannot catch it.

So, in its illusiveness they race just inches above the crashing and roaring waves.

Children play in the sand, some tiptoe to the edge of the sea’s invitation to dive into its threshold.  In innocence, they laugh as incoming waves chase them away from the sea.

Guardians along the shore keep watch over the naïve younglings.

Seagulls stand guard and await the seas invitation to dine upon its continual supply of refuse, trash, and skeletons of creatures fallen in the sea. 

The temptation is too great for them and they feast. 

Unnoticed, people walk by the seagulls that focus on the sea’s roar calling to dine.

Some walk along the waters edge slowly seduced by the hypnotic voice of the deep.

Quickly escaping the tempter’s snare, they flee the cold chill of the rushing waves.

Briskly they saunter along the shore with no destination in mind.

Leaving their footprints upon the sands of time, troubled waves wash them quickly away.  Slowly they fade way leaving no evidence that have resisted the seas continual seduction.

The older generation sits and reflects upon the repeated temptation of the sea as it vacillates.

It reminds them of life’s continual restlessness that will continue long after they are gone. 

They reminisce of childhood sand castles that vanished long ago with the shifting sand. 

They think of romantic yesterdays as they watch two lovers embrace as the waves crash to shore.  They think of past passions as the sun is seduced and slowly enters into the sea. 

In the seduction, the sun loses its brilliant glow and blushes as it kisses the sea.

Only moments before, the sun’s flame had made the sky crystal clear, pure, and virgin blue.

It sparkled like a diamond in the cold winter air penetrating the air with a warm embrace. 

The sand that glistened as a bride dressed in white meeting her groom, now besmirched.

Suddenly, the seagull stops his pursuit of flirting killdee.

Temptation to dine overcomes the seagull as it dives into the sea for its prey.

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you (James 4:7b KJV).

*Killdee is a small bird that runs along the beach.

Never Give Up

SWING, JIMMY, SWING

When our youngest son, Aaron was in the fifth grade, he wanted to play football, basketball, and baseball. I played football, so I helped coach peewee football. I played basketball, so I helped coach Royal Ambassador basketball for the church. I played baseball, my dad’s favorite sport—and my worst—so I was a dugout dad.

When Aaron’s Little League coaches asked me to be a dugout dad, out of ignorance I agreed. It had been a long time since I'd played catcher for the Mars Hill Little League, and a lot had changed. I asked the coaches, “What does a dugout dad do?” When you are ignorant you fall for anything.

They told me that I was responsible for having the batters in the right position and to make sure that everyone had the proper equipment. It always amazed me that Little Leaguers would run onto the field without their gloves or caps. I was responsible for team morale when a player was at bat. I was responsible for encouraging miniature Babe Ruths when they were crying after striking out; for doctoring cuts, scrapes, and wounded egos; answering all questions; and solving all of their gigantic problems. I should have coached third base. It seemed simpler.

We had eleven boys to play ten positions. That meant that the lone player and I would have this terrific discussion about why he was not playing and the other ten were. I was very lonely, and content, when one or two did not show up at game time. Most of the time, it was Jimmy and me in the dugout.

Jimmy was one of those little boys who could not do anything. Literally, Jimmy could not do anything. Since it was a dugout dad’s job to be personal trainer to the undeveloped superstars of Little League, I was Jimmy’s personal trainer.

When he threw the baseball, he threw from his elbow up. He could not throw the ball over ten feet. He looked like a little girl, or more like an infant throwing a ball. I encouraged him to use his whole arm and his body. By the end of the season, he could throw it around twenty feet. He was so bad we played him in the outfield opposite of where we thought the opposing batter would hit.

If the ball did go to Jimmy, we instructed him, he should throw it to one of the other outfielders, like Aaron, who would throw the ball to the appropriate place. I have watched as Jimmy tossed the ball to Aaron, who would throw the ball from deep in right field to home plate. Aaron had the arm Jimmy did not have.

When Jimmy ran, he shuffled his feet. He did not pick up his feet over an inch or two from the ground. He reminded everyone of a little old man inching his way around. He was so slow that when he got to first base, the first base coach would have him stand on the bag, foot against it, and tell him, “Don’t move.”

Poor Jimmy could not catch the ball. He would hold his glove up, and I would throw the ball to his glove. Repeatedly I would tell him to close his glove to catch the ball. When he started catching it, I would throw the ball where he would have to move his glove to catch it. He never did. His hand-to-eye coordination was horrible.

He could not hit the ball. He did not know how to swing the bat. I would toss, not throw, the ball to him. Jimmy would watch the ball all the way into the catcher’s mitt and then swing. When it was his time to bat, the coaches and I would have all the players chant, “Swing, Jimmy, swing” over and over. Every time, without fail, Jimmy would watch the ball all the way to the catcher’s mitt before he would swing.

Even though he never got a hit, Jimmy was a baseball magnet. We could count on Jimmy getting on base. After several games, we realized we had to put a runner on in Jimmy’s place to take advantage of his slothfulness.

We had a pretty good season and a whole bunch of fun, and the season went quickly. In our final game, we almost forfeited the game. It was against Maplesville, a baseball town with a string of championships in all age groups. They were the ones going to the next level of Little League. The only pitcher they could play was their best, the league best.

After a brief discussion, we decided that it was all about the boys, as it always should be. We went ahead with the game. The Maplesville Little League version of John Smoltz was throwing smokers, but we were holding our own, and it was a close game.

In about the fifth inning, we had two, maybe three, players on base. We had two outs, and we had a chance to tie the game. The head coach starting licking his lips—until he realized the next batter was Jimmy. He asked, “Is Jimmy next?” I answered that he was. His licking lips were all of a sudden parched.

Jimmy took his turn. The dugout gang had chanted “Swing, Jimmy, swing” so much that they had lost their energy. I hung onto the chain-link fence and in a discouraged plea said, “Swing Jimmy, swing.”

The miniature Smoltz fired a fastball down the middle, and Jimmy tried to watch it into the catcher’s mitt. He swung the bat after the leather had popped the catcher’s mitt. The pitcher reloaded and fired another fastball down the middle, and we begged Jimmy to swing the bat as the pitcher did his windup. Jimmy followed the ball into the catcher’s mitt and swung the bat long after the ball had found its way into the mitt.

Do you believe in miracles? What happened next cannot be reproduced in a movie and cannot be explained by coaches or by Little League moms and dads.

Amidst pitiful pleas from coaches, players, moms, and dads, muffled by roaring chants of the opposing coaches, players, moms, and dads, God performed a miracle. The smirking little pitcher unleashed a scorching fastball toward an inept little Jimmy’s last turn at bat. Bungling Jimmy swung early, hitting the fastball just as instructed.

A dropped jaw replaced a smirking grin on the pitcher. An unsuspecting second baseman watched a baseball kicking up dust as it raced past him. He looked like Jimmy watching the ball going to the catcher’s mitt. The outfielder, watching everything but the approaching ball, suddenly realized he had to chase down a possible infield home run.

One runner came home, a second came home, and a third runner, I think, came home. Our halfhearted, “Swing Jimmy, swing” changed to “run, jimmy, run!” Coaches were flagging running to the next base. I looked up, and there was Jimmy. He was not running. He had gone to first base and taken his normal position, foot beside the bag and not moving. That’s all he knew to do. We yelled, “go to second, jimmy, go to second!” He was too late and too slow, and the coaches stopped him on second.

The Jemison coaches, players, moms, and dads were going crazy. We had tied the game. Little John Smoltz blew up. Every player on our team hit the ball after that. If Jimmy could hit, they could. We won the game!

After the game a Little League mom started toward me. I am a big man and not scared of much, but I am terrified of Little League moms. I would rather face an attacking lion. This lady had fire in her eyes. She was almost in tears when she said: “I want to talk to you.”

Remember, I am a preacher. When someone wants to talk to you, most of the time, it ain’t good. I know that is not proper English, but it was not a proper moment, or so it seemed.

I said, “Yes ma’am, what can I do for you?” I did not know what to expect.

She asked, “Are you a pastor?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where do you preach?”

“Friendship Baptist Church, Blacksnake Road, Clanton, up past Jack’s Hamburger.”

“What time does church start?”

“Nine forty-five, Sunday School; eleven, worship”

“What do you wear?”

“Blue jeans, T-shirt, tennis shoes, suit, tie, dress shoes, Dockers, golf shirts—most anything as long as it is decent.”

“Can we come?”

“Sure”

“I’m Jimmy’s mom. I’m divorced from Jimmy’s dad and Jimmy lives with me. His stepdad knows nothing about baseball. Thank you for working with Jimmy and not giving up on him. We want to go to a church where a preacher and church do not give up on you.”

I was speechless. I kinda, sorta, had given up on Jimmy, but I learned that day to encourage people a little more.

Either make the tree good, and his fruit good; or else make the tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for the tree is known by his fruit. O generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good things? for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good things: and an evil man out of the evil treasure bringeth forth evil things. But I say unto you, That every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment. For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned. (Matthew 12:33–37, KJV)

Do you feel as though the Church has given up on you?

Who is the Jimmy in your life, and how are you encouraging him or her?

If you are a Jimmy, who encourages you, and how do they do it?

Prayer: Father, forgive me for being discouraged when trying to coach the little Jimmys of life. Your miracle in the life of a Little Leaguer is evidence that you still perform miracles in ways that we are so unaware of and often never acknowledge. Thank You for those who recognize needs in others and seek help for them. I will always be eternally grateful for You placing me in Jimmy’s life. 

Swing Jimmy Swing is from my Devotional I Will Speak Using Stories: A Thiry-one Day Devotional

A Picture of Hell and the Hope of the Resurrection

You can tell when spring is near when you hear birds chirping, smell the aroma of trees and vines budding, see the countless colored daffodils, and taste food from the grill.  Spring is my favorite time of the year.  Everything is coming to life.  It makes Easter special.  It reminds us that the dead of winter and its long dark hours are gone.

I am one of the few that enjoys winter.  When serving the Bethel Baptist Associational Disaster Relief Chain Saw team, I enjoyed snow in Missouri after an ice storm.  Well, I enjoyed the cold and the snow.  It reminded me of living in Illinois as a kid.  No, I am not a Yankee.  As the group ALABAMA sings, “My home is Alabama, Southern Born, and Southern Bred.”  Daddy worked up north for three years.  We moved back home to Alabama in the spring of 1960 because Mamma did not like the Yankees, the cold, and the snow.

Spring reminds me of going home, the eternal one.  It is the promise of eternal life found in the resurrection of Jesus.  Daddy died on Friday after Easter April 29, 1984.  I remember the morning I left the hospital.  The birds were singing, the morning sun glistened, and you could smell the aroma of spring.  I thought about what a beautiful day for daddy to go home with Jesus.

Doctors diagnosed momma with stage four-melanoma cancer in the fall of 1986 and she died in the winter in January.  Her last days were difficult.  The demon cancer consumed her beautiful body.  The funeral director said her body was as a piece of wood that looked solid until you picked it up, and then realized that, it was rotten and it crumbled in your hands.

It snowed days before her death.  With her arm eaten into from cancer, she watched me build a snowman from her hospital window.  I knocked on her window and made a face.  Hours later, the Clanton Hospital transferred her to the University of Alabama Birmingham Hospital.  I rode with her in the emergency vehicle.  I remember it snowing as we unloaded in downtown Birmingham.

They placed her in the terminal ward.  If there was a picture of hell it was the night I spent with her.  Seven people, including a young boy, young mother, and elderly man died that night.  Patients throughout the whole ward cried out in agony and pain. 

I had never been around such torment before.  I heard the cries of a young boy as he cried for his mother to hold him and stop the pain.  The lady in the room with momma would speak in a little girl's voice.  She said, “Daddy, please hold me.”  She repeated it over and over.  Momma would say, “Oh God, help me.”  She repeated this over and over.  I lay there with a feeling of hopelessness.  My pain seemed insignificant compared to those who died that night. 

I have thought about that night many times.  I went home, my back in severe pain from the stress, and stared at the ceiling.  I could not sleep, eat, work, study, read, etc.  I was useless and wanting to die.  This is how I pictured hell.  I was glad that this was the only torment that momma would endure.  When she died, my sister, my brothers, and I thanked God that she entered heaven where the flowers bloom forever and she would receive a new beautiful body.

And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom (Luke 16:23).

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me: And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand (John 10:27-28)

Resurrection morning Jesus solidified His promise, I am the resurrection, and the life. 

"Wow, All Night on the Creek"

Missions

“As a Royal Ambassador I will do my best:

to become a well informed responsible follower of Christ;

to have a Christlike concern for all people;

to learn how the message of Christ is carried around the world;

to work with others in sharing Christ;

and to keep myself clean in mind and body.”

I learned these words as a Royal Ambassador at the Union Springs Baptist Church in Randolph, Alabama.  Brother Bill Langston was our RA leader.  He taught Sunday School and was a deacon. 

One of the joys of being an RA was doing some great things.  The church did not budget money for the RA Chapter so one of the things we did to make money was wear out our family push-mowers cutting the grass around the church and for widows in the community.  The church paid us and the widows would fix us cookies and kool-aid.  There were no weed-eaters, just boys on their knees pulling grass around graves and buildings hoping for all night fishing trips.

All night fishing trips on Six-mile or Mahan Creek were great rewards for missions.  Brother Bill would load us onto a hay truck and head out for a night of memories.  This was before the day of lawsuits and release forms.  This pre-dated church vans and buses. There were no safety concerns.

After a night of sure fun, Bro. Bill would cook bacon and eggs in a skillet and brew coffee in a tin can on an open fire for breakfast.  We were hungry after a night of running wild, building huge fires, checking poles, catching catfish and eels, and eating fish.  Brother Bill always had a time of prayer and gave an invitation to follow Jesus.  He was doing Wild Game Suppers and Intentional Evangelism in the 1960’s.

One Christmas we got together and refurbished some old bicycles for some kids who were not receiving any gifts.  On another occasion we took our money and bought the church a film strip projector to show the film strips about missions.  That was the DVD of the 1960’s.

Did you know that another word for Southern Baptists is Missions?  In RA’s we studied missions not realizing that our money from cutting the grass was taking the Gospel to the uttermost parts of the world.  The RA pledge comes from First Corinthians 5:20a. Now then we are ambassadors for Christ . . . (KJV).  Brother Bill taught us that we were God’s ambassadors.

Our RA magazines featured some great Christian missionaries.  I cried when we watched the movie about Bill Wallace of China.  Some in my very conservative church thought we were doing evil by showing a movie in church, but our church got more involved in missions after watching it.

Our pastor thought the church should tithe and the church did more than the tithe.

Churches involved in missions grow.  The church that does not evangelize dies.  Pray for your Annie Armstrong Easter Offering and be involved in missions.  The last words of Jesus were about missions.  If your church is not tithing to missions, let me encourage you lead the church to commit to tithe.  If you are not tithing, remember that tithes and offerings are part of worship. 

May we be good stewards of that which the Lord has richly blessed us.  Now concerning the collection for the saints, as I have given order to the churches of Galatia, even so do ye.  Upon the first day of the week let every one of you lay by him in store, as God hath prospered him, that there be no gatherings when I come (I Corinthians 16:1-2 KJV).  A good ambassador is a good steward because he/she represents the Father.

Thought for Today

Someone asked me why I continued to gain an education.  I said the more education and more degrees I earned the dumber I got.

There'd Better Be A Cake This Time

Back in April of 2000, Aaron, my youngest son, and I visited a sick friend, whom I had not seen for five years. His name was AD. “AD” was not initials for a proper name, but just A, D. His birthday was on April Fools’ Day, and we carried him a homemade fresh frozen coconut cake. He loved coconut cake.

As we entered his room, we were shocked at how he appeared. Colon cancer had ravished his body. Loss of weight, hair, and health had him confined to a wheelchair. He was very pale and feeble. His deterioration had been swift. He had always been full of energy and life. It seemed as though we were visiting a complete stranger.

I will always cherish what AD said as Aaron and I approached him singing “Happy Birthday.” He said, “There’d better be a cake this time.” He tried very hard to smile. Aaron and I laughed and smiled, concealing our sadness at the change in this once-vibrant and carefree person.

There is a story behind his comment. Years before, I had baked a fresh frozen coconut cake for a Baptist men’s cake cook-off. I had carried a piece to work for him. He said, “I love coconut cake!”

I said, “I will bake you one for your birthday.”

AD and I had worked together at the cement plant in Calera for eighteen years. He was a kiln burner and I was his oiler. We became very good friends during our years together. He taught me how to burn, that is, operate the cement kilns. We fished together, cut firewood together, and we visited one another’s churches. AD loved long weekends, when he could travel in a motor home. His goal was to retire and travel over the whole United States.

AD became a shift supervisor (a dream come true for him) and I became a kiln burner. He was not my foreman, but I did work for him occasionally. It was always good working with him. We talked of all the shenanigans we had done together when he burned and I oiled.

On one of his birthdays, he was working twelve-hour evening shifts, coming four hours prior to regular starting time. I got one of Sharon’s Tupperware cake plates. It was yellow and it was empty. I carried it to work; everyone quizzed me about what I had. Well, I had an empty cake plate, but everyone thought I had a cake for AD’s birthday. They commented how good a friend I was to AD. Remember it was April Fools’ Day.

As I entered the control room where AD worked, I held the cake plate as though it had a cake in it. I sang “Happy Birthday” to AD. I know it was mean, but it was funny and would get funnier.

AD said, “Put it in the refrigerator, and I will make some coffee when we can eat it, around six.” I did, and then I went to doing my work. In the meantime, MC (another co-worker with no name, just MC) sneaked out from the plant to buy ice cream. It is amazing what workers will do to add excitement to work, is it not?

The magic hour came, and the birthday boy summoned his two oilers to mission control. AD, MC, and the coffee were ready. AD had plates, ice cream, and napkins ready for a party. Now, I thought for sure that AD had sneaked a preview at the invisible cake, but he had not. I opened the refrigerator, took out the empty cake plate, and opened it, saying, “April Fools’ Day!” It was hilarious. You should have seen the look on the faces of AD and MC. It was my best April Fools’ ever.

So, as Aaron and I took the fresh frozen coconut cake to AD, he had a shine in his eyes as he said, “There’d better be a cake this time.” The chemotherapy had killed his appetite, and he did not want to eat any cake. We left him the cake, and I do not know if he ever did eat any. We did have a good time that day, and Aaron got to hear some of the humorous things AD and I had gotten into during the eighteen years that we worked together.

The last time I spoke to AD he was very sick. I told him I was going to preach a trial sermon at a church. He told me to do my best and that the church would call me if they were smart.

AD went to be with the Lord the weekend I preached the trial sermon at that church. I preached that morning and that evening left early to attend AD’s funeral visitation in Clanton. The church voted one hundred percent to call me as pastor that night. AD and I both celebrated a new beginning that weekend. I thank God for placing AD on my path as I made my journey in life.

            “Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.” (Proverbs 27:17, KJV)

Do you know someone who is battling sickness, such as cancer? Write his or her name and make a commitment to do something special for them.

What is something funny that has happened at your place of employment?

Who mentored you, and are you a mentor to someone?

This a story from my book I Will Speak Using Stories: A Thirty-one Day Devotional published by AuthorHouse. 

Living Life by the Lowest Bid

Easter is a very special time in the lives of many people especially Christians.  It means a new Easter outfit.  It means getting crops in the ground.  It means sunrise services, family gatherings, and eating egg salads, egg sandwiches, boiled eggs, deviled eggs, eggs, and eggs.  Resurrection Sunday for the Christian is a time of celebration.  Let us be careful not to confine Easter to one day, but to celebrate our lives to the risen Savior every day.  Let us learn to worship and serve the Living Christ.

The Gospel of John, 12:3-8, paints a beautiful picture of worship and service to Jesus.  We find Jesus at a family gathering.  It is in Bethany that Jesus celebrates with his close friends and supporters Lazarus, Martha, and Mary.  Martha is in the kitchen.  Lazarus is fellowshipping with the men.  Mary is at the feet of Jesus.  What a testimony she has.  Mary demonstrated an attitude of worship and service to Jesus.   Mary had a love and devotion to Jesus that should be the desire of all of us.  She comes to this gathering of men carrying an exquisite vase that contained about twelve ounces of expensive perfume.  Mark’s gospel says that it is worth $10,000.  The valuable perfume was usually an heirloom.  It was an investment, a nest egg.  She broke the seal of the vase and poured the perfume on Jesus expressing her gratitude, love, and devotion in one act of extravagant, yet humble love.

As we gather these next few days before Easter, Mary is an inspiration to all believers.  There are those who think that Christian worship and service are a waste of resources.  Many times we have inexpensive thinking.  Spartan philosophy believed everything built must be functional, ordinary, and basic.  Everything bought at lowest cost and everything done average. 

Chuck Swindoll in his book Living Above Mediocrity writes, “We used to laugh at a comment one of the American astronauts made years ago, but the laughter has hushed since the Challenger tragedy.  The way the story goes, someone stuck his head inside the node capsule before a team of astronauts had launched and asked, ‘Well, How does it feel?’  With a grin, one of them replied, ‘It really makes you think twice in here when you realize everything in this whole project was constructed according to the lowest bid!’  Many-dare I say, most- conduct their entire lives ‘according to the lowest bid.’” 

Christian worship and service are never a waste.  Remember, our existence as a church came at a very high cost.  Grace is not cheap.  Celebrate the Risen Savior.

 

The Easter Bunny Cake

Easter time brings many memories to mind.  One year my mom decided to bake an Easter cake for our pastor.  She looked and looked for the perfect Easter bunny cake mold.  Having found one at a department store she labored the Saturday before Easter to make her Easter gift just right.  She loved Brother Evie.  She was so proud of her cake until I entered the kitchen.

Now, you are thinking that I said something about the Easter bunny having absolutely nothing to do with the Resurrection.  Well, that was not the case.  The bunny is a sign of fertility and roots in the Easter tradition, but not the Resurrection.  Eggs are another symbol of fertility and the chicks are cute, but they have little to do with Jesus and the empty tomb.  The chocolate bunnies and eggs are good and my Angela loves those sugar peeps each year.  Chocolate and sugar add pounds, but they do not give the hope of the Resurrection.  I could have lectured her on this, but I did not.

As Paul Harvey would say, “Now the rest of the story.”  I entered the kitchen and saw momma icing a long-eared bunny that had a bowtie.  I asked momma, “Where did you get the Playboy Bunny?”

Momma, innocent, replied, “What is a playboy bunny?  Your sister and brothers asked the same thing.”  Momma warned us never to look at what she called dirty magazines.  She knew about the magazine, but never associated the bunny with an adult magazine.

What momma saw was a cute little Easter bunny dressed in his Easter suit of black tuxedo, white shirt, and black bowtie.  She was clueless to his symbolic meaning to the magazine and its revealing and degrading contents. 

When I explained the magazine to her, she was embarrassed and shocked.  She was embarrassed that she was going to give it to the preacher and shocked that her not so innocent children knew too much about the bunny.

After I did a whole lot of explaining, momma, with the hands of a skilled plastic surgeon, redesigned the voyeuristic bunny into one more appropriate for the occasion.  He became an innocent little Easter bunny.  Our pastor, for many years, never knew that the cute little bunny had experienced an Easter transformation of his own.  Brother Evie and his family enjoyed momma’s labor of love. 

And as we have borne the image of the earthly, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly.  Now this I say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God; neither doth corruption inherit incorruption.  Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.  For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.  So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.  O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?  The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.  But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.  Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord. (I Corinthians 15:49-58 KJV)

I am thankful for the transformation that Jesus does in our lives.

Bro. Bobby (Philippians 1:6)