Walking the Dog on a Snowy Morn by Wil Triggs

It has been my habit the last couple years to listen to our daily Bible readings using YouVersion on my phone. Most days I do this as I walk my dog Pongo. It’s a good app that helps focus my mind on something higher than my dog doing his business.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work. But sometimes my mind wanders. Or things happen. Or both.

One day recently Pongo was pulling on his leash extra hard. It could have been because he saw another dog or a person walking in the street in a mummified get-up to keep him/her warm. Or maybe it was that super-fit couple who always nod at me with kindness that borders on some kind of pity because I’m not in shape or I’m too old or I have to walk my dog in my resale shop layers instead of their heat-retaining, moisture-wicking, air-permeable gear.

I don’t remember which of those it was that prompted Pongo to pull. I half-tripped. Then my old-school earbuds that still needed to be plugged into my phone became disconnected.

The Bible-reading voice kept going. Uh oh. I was losing my place. So I stopped and plugged back in. Now then. Where was I again?

I wasn’t sure. Were we in Acts still, or had we jumped to Genesis?

No, it hadn’t skipped; it was still Acts where Stephen was preaching his sermon as I listened that early, windy, dark morning. Interesting, I half said out loud to Pongo as we walked, that Stephen was talking about some of the very same passages that the reading plan was covering in the Old Testament.

It was true. After turning a couple more corners, there we were in Genesis reading some of what Stephen had just been preaching.

So I went back and listened again. What an amazing sermon it was.

I mean, Stephen really put it out there. What an amazing presentation of Jesus and the Old Testament—penetrating, scathing, convicting.

You stubborn people! You are heathen at heart and deaf to the truth. Must you forever resist the Holy Spirit? That’s what your ancestors did, and so do you! Name one prophet your ancestors didn’t persecute! They even killed the ones who predicted the coming of the Righteous One—the Messiah whom you betrayed and murdered. You deliberately disobeyed God’s law, even though you received it from the hands of angels.

In our circles, an amazing sermon, we hope, would result in revival breaking out. In the context of Acts, the response was different. The people listening to Stephen understood what he was saying.

Now our introduction to the human hero of Acts—Paul—is that he’s not even Paul yet. Not only was Saul there, but he understood, like the others, what Stephen was saying, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The crowd picked up stones to kill, and Saul was good with it. Acts doesn’t say that he picked up stones himself, but he heard, he watched and he approved.

Stephen’s words, his preaching, really got to everybody. I can’t imagine that Saul didn’t think about them. And after he became Paul, surely he remembered.

But it wasn’t instant; things got worse before they got better. Saul had to be struck blind. No screen time. It was just something that had to sink in over time, with fasting and a lot of prayer, helped by the Holy Spirit.

How could the church possibly trust this persecutor?

Years ago I interviewed a pastor/elder at a church in the former Soviet Union. He started attending church as an informant to the atheistic Soviet government. His task was to keep an eye on the church and make sure nothing got out of hand. Think of him as a spy, well, sort of. It was just a normal part of their church life to have people like this in their midst.

While he was monitoring the church, the Holy Spirit was infiltrating his heart. Eventually he came to faith. This man fought it. He didn’t really want to believe. I mean, this was professional suicide. But when it came right down to it, that didn’t matter. Because the little mustard seed of faith was growing.

The truth of the gospel became undeniable. Jesus wanted him. And he was amazed himself that Jesus was real and the gospel was true. So he repented.

The church was skeptical to say the least. Everyone knew who he was. But over the coming years, the church grew to believe his conversion and trust him.

Real change can really happen, even to the worst of our enemies. Our hope is not in human might but in divine blessing and change. Enemies can become brothers.

Our Sovereign God does the transformation, not us. Do we believe it?

After walking the dog that day, I came back home to start working on the prayer sheet for the persecuted church. Headlines from all over:

• China: Early Rain Pastor Sentenced to 9 Years in Prison

• Colombia: Pastor Murdered in His Home

• India: Church Demolished by Suspected Extremists

• Kazakhstan: Pastor and Wife Imprisoned

• Kenya: Al-Shabaab Murders Three in Bus Attack

• Laos: Abusive Husband Demands Return of Children

• Nigeria: Boko Haram Kidnaps Pastor

• Vietnam: Church Spared from Demolition

Hostile crowds all around us, Sauls everywhere, anger, hatred, terrorism, martyrdom.

Here in Wheaton, our lives are more sanguine. I certainly don’t want to equate our struggles with people forced to flee their homeland or to witness the death of a loved one. Still, in our own way and in our effort to witness, it’s challenging. What about people in our lives who simply seem not interested in Jesus? Maybe they get hostile, or perhaps they’re too polite to come out and say it. There are thousands of ways to say “no thanks” with body language alone. Still, mustard seeds sprout.

As I finish the Friday prayer sheet, my dog jumps up next to me and curls himself around my side. He lets out a sigh. I know how he feels.

God, thank you for being in the business of turning people from Sauls to Pauls. May you do that work near and far.

We believe; help our unbelief.

The House of the Bread of Life by Wallace Alcorn

“In the days when the judges ruled there was a famine in the land, and a certain man of Bethlehem in Judah went to sojourn in the country of Moab...” 

How humilitating it must have been for Elimelech to admit to wife Naomi that the House of Bread had no bread. There in the center of Israel's bread basket, there was no grain in “grainland” (Ephratah).   

Their men now dead, Naomi brought daughter-in-law Ruth back from Moab to find the area once again flourishing, with grain and bread in abundance. Ruth had been redeemed by her kinsman, Boaz, and from their love came Obed. From Obed came Jesse and from Jesse, David. When Samuel, father of the prophets, annointed him in Bethlehem as king of Israel, the village came to be known further as the City of David.  

Then another, Micah, prophesied messianically that a son of David was to be born there: “But you, O Bethlehem Ephratah, who are little to be among the clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel whose origin is from of old, from ancient days.” 

As time was fulfilled, “Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem...” The angel sent shepherds of Ephratah back into town “for to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”   

Despite crops in the field, the land was then groaning from the worst famine imaginable. The Ephratah fields were yielding their usual harvest of grain as in the days of Ruth and Obed, mind you, and Bethlehem's ovens were producing a wealth of bread—but the people were yet starving. With full stomachs, their souls were dead. 

But from the virgin womb, that day in Bethlehem the city of David, there was born the son of David, our Kinsman-Redeemer. Some years later, in arid and hilly Galilee, he took a snack of bread and fed over five thousand people. The silly crowds clamored for more bread, which would only perish. Against this, he offered himself: “I am the bread of life; he who comes to me shall not hunger, and he who believes in me shall never thirst.”  

Yet again, the night he was betrayed “he took bread, and when he had given thanks he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’” 

We need not journey to Bethlehem in Ephratah for this bread. Our journey is to the House of the Bread of Life.

Christmas Disgrace by Lorraine Triggs

We three girls determinedly walked the six blocks to the Christmas tree lot. We were going to find the perfect tree like we did every Christmas. It was Christmas Eve and the pickings were slim. The tree lot was about to close for the season.

Cue the Hallmark movie. The beautiful young widow and her three charming daughters go to tree lot on Christmas Eve only to find that the last tree had just sold. Up steps the handsome, spiritually sensitive Christmas tree lot owner who just happens to have an eight-foot Balsam Fir and saves the day as snow falls softly from the crystal-clear night sky.

Back to my story.

Our father had died, and then, as if on cue, a week later, our cellar flooded after a storm. We three sisters waded down into the mess and pulled out boxes of Christmas ornaments. Mom had never celebrated Christmas before marrying Daddy. When she saw the damaged but rescued ornaments, we thought she would be happy.

But every ornament we saved was a painful reminder of love found and lost. Never mind. Save them we did. 

So my sisters and I were headed to the tree lot against my mother’s wishes. She didn’t want a tree this Christmas, the first without her much-loved husband and our father. Her grief sat too close to the surface.

We were on our own. If we wanted the tree, then we would have to get it home and put it up ourselves.

When we got to the tree lot, we weren’t exactly charming to the owner as we went through the motions of finding the perfect tree. Too short, too scrawny, too crooked. Most of the trees looked pathetic as we repeatedly told the owner.

In a rush of Christmas charity or an overwhelming desire to get rid of us, the tree lot owner told us to hurry up, pick a tree and we could have it for free. Spurred on by his generosity, we quickly found the tree and sweetly asked if he could tie twine around it so it would be easier to drag home. We could be charming when we wanted to.

The tree helped some, but that Christmas was closer to miserable than merry.

In his Advent devotional, Repeat the Sounding Joy, Christopher Ash writes about the disgrace of Elizabeth and Zechariah—the disgrace of childlessness. Ash writes that their disgrace is a “vivid example of the misery of living in a world under sin and the righteous judgment of God. Every sickness, every sadness, every disability is—in this sense—visible evidence that we live in a world under the righteous judgment of God.” 

Ash points out that we all are marked in some way with Elizabeth’s disgrace, and the “removal of this ‘disgrace’ is a sign of the kindness and mercy of God, as ‘dis-grace’ is swept away by grace.”

My mother’s marks of disgrace that year were widowhood, sorrow, little income, uncertainty. There was no Hallmark Christmas movie ending that year. Fortunately, my mother didn’t need the movie ending to Christmas. And she didn't stay there. In years to come, we shared the joy with redeemed friends and family and of rescued ornaments from the flood. (I still have a few.)

In retrospect, that first miserable Christmas was closer to grace and truth than we ever imagined.

Christmas came because the Savior had come. His grace had removed the biggest disgrace of sin. His grace would remove the disgrace of my mom’s poverty and sorrow, not with a Christmas windfall but with the Christmas affirmation that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14)

Miserable or merry, Christmas comes to us full of grace and truth, full of promise of salvation and righteousness, full of grace.

O Christmas Tree by Pat Cirrincione

I was alone one night, feeling quite nostalgic and missing the time of holidays past. Times when our families were large and always gathered together for any and all holidays. Both grandmothers and Mom always cooked and baked the most delicious foods and desserts. Their faces glowed with happiness (or was that sweat on their brows?) as they would bring each bowl and platter to the table. Adults and children alike would ooh and aah over it all before filling their plates with each delectable morsel. It wasn’t just about the food. It was also about the house that was transformed each holiday with decorations, inside and out.

My favorite season began right after Thanksgiving when the coming of Christmas turned the neighborhood into a magical fairyland. The first sign was the Christmas lights strung on the houses, and then a lighted snowman or Santa Claus or Nativity set would appear on front porches or in yards. However, nothing surpassed the excitement of jumping into the car to go and find the Christmas tree.

In our household, this always happened on Christmas Eve, when the price of the tree was going to be a lot less than any other time in December. I always remember snow and feeling the cold no matter how warmly dressed we were. Neither the cold or snow hindered this exciting excursion each year. We all had a say on what determined the perfect tree: the height—not too short, not too tall, but able to get up the outside stairs and into the house; the fullness of the branches (again, not so full that you couldn’t get up the inside stairs and through the front door); straightness when you looked at it from all angles (you never got a leaner, a tree that leaned too much to the right or left); short needles or long.

This usually took several hours, but once we finally decided on a tree, we children ran back to the warmth of the car while poor Dad and Mom struggled with getting the tree to the car and tying it securely to the roof of the card for the drive home. More hours went by untying the tree from the car roof, getting the tree into the house, and watching Dad get the tree in the tree stand, making sure it was securely held upright by screws so it wouldn’t fall. Then, Mom's hot chocolate as we oohed and aahed over how pretty the tree looked.

One year, Dad decided on a different adventure in our quest to buy the best Christmas tree ever. Once Mom had the three of us dressed warmly, Dad got out the wooded sled and pulled his children a mile in the snow to Madison and Pulaski and the Goldblatt’s Christmas tree lot. The sled ride was fun, but the tree hunting was dismal. It was before dinner time on Christmas Eve and all the good trees were gone! There wasn’t a good tree to be had, and we were beginning to think that this would be the first Christmas without a tree. Tears were close to the surface. Then Dad spotted them—two Christmas tree halves! Seriously!

Each tree half looked lonely and forlorn, with its side full of branches, and the other completely bare. But Dad saw a whole tree. He pulled me aside and said, “Pat, I think I can tie these two tree halves together and we’ll have us one beautiful tree! What do you think?” 

Well, I was kind of doubtful but figured dads can do just about anything. I quietly nodded my okay. Dad got those two tree halves for free, tied them to the sled, and we walked home, wondering what Mom was going to say. That shall go unmentioned, but once Dad worked his magic, that tree was big, tall, full and beautiful. (The tree is pictured on the right.)

I dubbed this tree the Charlie Brown tree that wasn’t, because we kept that tree alive and standing until only the bark was left. Sadly, after Charlie was gone, we never had another real pine-smelling tree in the house. We had fake silver trees on a rotating stand with different colored lights. The tree went from silver, to purple, to red, to yellow and blue. Next came the artificial green trees with its different branches you inserted into the tree pole. If you messed up, you could rearrange the branches until the fake tree finally resembled the real.

Then, the pièce de résistance! The flocked Christmas tree. I was pretty sure there was a real tree there somewhere, just covered with fake, er, flock snow. This tree always reminded me of a distant abominable snowman relative.

And I can never forget the Christmas tree in the front yard where the same family photo was taken at every, and I mean every, holiday or special occasion. There's the ceramic Christmas tree, the newlyweds' first Christmas tree and the quaint table Christmas tree.

Every year, once the Christmas tree was decorated with lights (colored or white or twinkling), heirloom ornaments (carefully handled), homemade ornaments from the loving hands of children, family and friends and garland (either new or homemade), we would turn off the house lights, plug in the Christmas lights and sing, "O Christmas Tree."

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree,
How lovely are your branches!
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree,
How lovely are your branches!
Not only green in summer’s heat,
But also winter’s snow and sleet.
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
How lovely are your branches!
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree,
Of all the trees most lovely;
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree,
Of all the trees most lovely.

Blurring the Lines by Lorraine Triggs

The other day I watched my neighbor and her son untangle their outdoor lights and begin draping them over the bushes. My lovely autumn display is still on the porch even if a squirrel or rabbit made a feast of that one little gourd. Inside, my vintage pilgrim candles are lined up on the sideboard.

I am always conflicted when Thanksgiving weekend ends on the first Sunday of Advent. After learning my lesson about Advent candles a few years back, I have an heir and a spare—at least I think I do.

"We need Advent candles," I announced to my husband the other day. "I gave away the spare to Lois last year."

He's fairly certain we gave away the heir and kept the spare. We'll find out this weekend.

I prefer more well-defined markers—well, at least a week—between Thanksgiving and Advent. Just getting into the Thanksgiving mood and then it's over. We give thanks, take a breather, and then move on to more important holiday tasks such as bringing up the Christmas bins from the basement and checking the strings of outdoor lights to see how many blue or white ones we need this year. And the tree.

What if the lines between Thanksgiving and Advent are intentionally blurred, and that day of thanks spills over to Advent, but not the way we expect.

What if thanks for blessings of everything going well (read: according to my plans) turn into thanks for the promise of light in the darkness? What if the Truth really is for all people in all situations. What if thanks for provision or success turn into cries for come, oh, come, Emmanuel and set us free from cancer, family conflict and unemployment? What if thanks for answered prayer just the way we had hoped turn into thanks for waiting for the fullness of time? Can thanks and waiting peacefully coexist?

I think of the homeless person stopping by church and waiting patiently to speak with one of our pastors. What about the family whose member is in the midst of an experimental medical treatment. The refugee moms and dads with their children coming to church for English lessons. Women escaping abuse through Naomi's House. The kids in Englewood. The wealthy executive anticipating a bonus that turns out year after year to not satisfy.

Now when he heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew into Galilee. And leaving Nazareth he went and lived in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what was spoken by the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled:

“The land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali,
    the way of the sea, beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles—
the people dwelling in darkness
    have seen a great light,
and for those dwelling in the region and shadow of death,
    on them a light has dawned.”

Tomorrow, after Sunday dinner, we'll light the first Advent candle, the Promise Candle, and I am going to leave the vintage pilgrim candles on the sideboard, purposely blurring the lines, purposely giving thanks that the Savior has come and is with us no matter what.

The Referral by Wil Triggs

When I went there, Stephens Junior High School had three grades: seventh, eighth and ninth. Seventh graders went from being the cocky kings of elementary school to the little children everyone else laughed at once they hit junior high.

When you were in ninth grade, you were in charge. You ruled. Life was good, except when it wasn’t.

There was a big difference between the grades. We fought, mostly figuratively. Sometimes it seemed like students were in a sort of war with ourselves and one another over all kinds of nothing.

The principal of our school was both referee and governor. She could mete out punishment on a whim. She had a reputation. I had never been to her office before, but I had heard stories about how she used a rod, how she had thrown a student down a flight of stairs, how the rest of the office workers were afraid of her. If she seemed nice, it was just a ruse, and she was absolutely not to be trusted.

Nothing to worry about, though, because you had to do something really bad to see her. You couldn’t just walk in. You weren’t allowed to even see her without a referral. The staff seemed to work extra hard to make sure you did not go in to her office.

But if you got one of those referrals, you had no choice. You had to see her.

Referrals always got delivered during class, one at a time. Even if a group of students were in trouble, it was a one-at-a-time deal. A student monitor would come into the class and hand the teacher the paper. The teacher would look up and say a name. That was it. The rest of us fell silent. The student stepped forward, took the referral from the teacher, collected his or her things and headed out the door. Solemn silence lingered. One of our own had fallen.

When I hit ninth grade, I had issues at home but I loved school. I played trumpet, and I was getting good. The band teacher had me filing music for him after school and I came in early some days or stayed late to practice. And my English and journalism teachers were encouraging. I fell in love with letters. Now we call them fonts. I was developing an eclectic taste for Stevie Wonder and Igor Stravinsky. I could run fast. Even though I didn’t go out for track, I beat some of the kids who did. That gave me a certain kind of cool that surprised me. I liked that.

Somedays I liked school so much, I didn’t want to go home. It was a haven for me against the struggles I had with my difficult, disabled dad, and my quiet, hard-working mom. I knew they both loved me, but somedays that didn’t matter. I was worried about what I might face when I got home.

Then, early on in the ninth grade, the door opened, a student came in and handed the teacher a referral. I like to think there was a look of shock on her face when she called out, “Wilfred.”

I don’t use it much now, but that’s my given name, named after my dad. That’s the name I went by growing up all through school. If I had gone by Bill or Will, I could have somehow hidden behind those common names thinking that they had the wrong guy. But with a name like that one thing was for sure: there was no other Wilfred in the class or even the whole school. It had to be me. I took the paper from her and looked at it. There it was. My name in black and white.

It was humiliating to stand up, all eyes on me. I stepped out of the class into the metal locker-lined hallway. I walked slowly down the hall, but the slower I walked, the faster my heart started to beat.

What had I done?

This can’t be happening, I thought. What will my parents say? What will my dad do?

As I walked down the hall, I knew. I had been bad.

I learned how to use coarse words at an early age. With my friends I used words like a roughed-up kid on a corn farm in Nebraska, which is where my dad grew up. It wasn't his fault, though, it was mine. My friends and I spent study time in the library thinking of how many different ways we could trash talk each other. We would tear each other down for fun and laugh.

One of the teachers I actually liked heard us. That was embarrassing. It didn’t fit my nice guy image. Maybe she had reported what we had said and done.

Could it have been that?

My mind raced through a variety of other junior high sins I had committed. I was guilty. An array of possible punishments flashed by as I made my way down the hall.

Turning into the office, the friendly lady at reception smiled. I showed her the referral, and she motioned in the direction of the principal's office. This was it. I had to face the music. I walked through the door and saw. . .

. . . my adult sister’s smile.

“I bought this for you today,” she said, “and I wanted to get it to you as soon as I could.”

She had four kids of her own, was a minister's wife, lived what seemed like along way from me, yet there she was. She held the gift out for me to take.

The principal sat behind her desk and didn’t say anything.

Confused, I walked toward my sister and took the gift from her hand.

“This is yours,” she said. “A Bible of your own. You can read it whenever you want and as much as you want.”

It had that new-book smell. A mixture of happiness and relief and joy washed over me.

We had an oversized family Bible at home, but no one read it. This was different. It was clearly published and meant to be read.

I thanked her and we hugged. That was it. She left and I went back to class.

The truth is, my sister knew that, in my own way, I was in trouble, and God’s Word could rescue and save like nothing else in this world. It couldn’t wait till the weekend. She wanted the Bible in my hands the day she got it.

During the days that followed when I got dropped off early for school, I would sit on the school steps, open that Bible and read. I especially remember the Gospels, Job, Acts. The miracles of Jesus. The man who suffered. Paul not dying in the shipwreck and going on to preach, how he kept going no matter what.

My junior high sins didn’t stop, but something else was going on at the same time. God’s grace is so rich.

We’re walking down the hallway toward the punishment we know we deserve. Then, God’s Word is there instead, pointing us to Jesus.

I bless the Lord for Barbara, my amazing, loving sister. She went the extra mile and brought God’s Word to me when I needed it most. That was a referral worth getting.

This Thanksgiving, think of someone in your life who helped you out in a big or little way. Give thanks to God for that person and if you are able, thank him or her, too.

Today's Table by Wil Triggs

With the early snowfall this week and the season rushing headlong into the holidays, Lorraine has already started playing Christmas music.

It softens the blow of the snow and ice, so I’m grateful. And we really do like all kinds of Christmas music, so extending the season works for us.

But it also forces me to start thinking about the holidays. And I’m working on Thanksgiving and Christmas at church and in other charity work, so it’s ever-present.

On top of all that, this year I’ve been mindful of those who aren’t able to be with family or “at home” for either holiday.

Maybe it’s because of a broken relationship. Separation or divorce can forever change holiday memories and traditions, not to mention where you go and what you do or who you celebrate with.

Or family who have moved an older member away from her home and church to a sensible and closer place where care is readily available.

Maybe there is a health challenge that keeps someone from celebrating Thanksgiving or Christmas they way they’re used to. Part of my memories associated with Thanksgiving and Christmas are of people I’ve loved who have died around the holidays. Not to be morbid, but that’s part of it, too.

Maybe it’s because of living across the world from family and home. I know of people in our church who have left their entire families on the other side of the world. There’s no visiting them. It’s far away; family celebrations are a thing of the past. Your parents can’t see their grandchildren. Your children can’t see the aunt or uncle you love, not to mention your parents. Geography, politics, money all get in the way.

So many hurts, so much pain.

And on top of all that, there’s Jesus.

As they were going along the road, someone said to him, "I will follow you wherever you go." And Jesus said to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” (Luke 9:57-58)

Wait. Did Jesus really say that?

I mean, of course, he did. Does that mean he had no home? No rest for the weary? That seems messed up. Like a king being born next to a donkey.

Or maybe he wasn’t weary. But he was fully human. So he got tired. Sometimes I can’t help but think of how tired he must have gotten with the teaching and the miracles and the half-understanding followers and the Pharisees out to get him.

Maybe heaven was the home he missed, which makes the other side of the world seem, well, a little bit closer, at least, on the same planet.

And in our crazy-busy rush to carve out a more measured and Aristotelian sort of life, what does that mean for those of us who follow him?

I don’t have the answer, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be one hundred percent sure of it. We focus so much of our energies and our hearts on home and family. These are such blessings, how can we not? And we get busy with life—so often that means not being able to give ourselves more fully to church itself.

But Jesus had his own perspective. "And a crowd was sitting around him, and they said to him, “Your mother and your brothers are outside, seeking you.”And he answered them, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” And looking about at those who sat around him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of God, he is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:32-35)

Then there's Jesus' payment for our sins, not only for his "people," but also for those who were far off and hostile, not close to the family tree. He drank the cup and took God’s wrath on himself. We don’t follow him in that. He is our substitute. It’s all on him. That’s the point. And even if we wanted to, it would be wrong for us to step in and try.

Let’s bask in this Thanksgiving table.

The fullness of Christ means that we’ll always have family. This Father will never let us down because the Son on the cross was lifted up. And we want to please him, but we don’t have to be perfect—we can’t be, really, so the Holy Spirit is right there next to me as I write and you as you read. And there is help and hope for us to please the Father.

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven." (Matthew 5:14-16)

How can we not tell others?

Honestly, it’s easy not to.

It’s easy to be like everybody else. In some ways, we want to be sheep without a shepherd and trade what Jesus has for an earthly family and home and that's it. But we’re trading down when we do that.

Where can we shine light today? Let’s go for it. Let’s risk shining light and discover a different kind of family and a tender pull toward a new home that’s not ours at all, but one where there is always light, and fullness and life. It’s a place where the Shepherd rules and loves perfectly. Let’s live the here and now with an eye to that place where my friends Joe and Mary Lou and Ken and Margaret and Nathan and Peter and Marge and Pauline and Wes and Carole and Nita and Don and Flo are, knowing home and family like never before.

On the Move

Last Sunday was the International Day of Prayer for the Persecuted Church. As we lifted our voices to pray on their behalf, one of our watch missionaries sent us the following stories that vividly show that God is at work in miraculous ways. She helps serve at an Iranian fellowship in her country—a part of the world that is unwelcome to Christians.

Just a few weeks ago, an Iranian member brought his unbelieving family members to church. He has been sharing the good news with them for two years, and when he invited them to church, they did not want to come. His dad pointedly remarked, “I will never abandon my beloved Mohammad. You are an infidel, and now you want me to come and see you be the emcee at an infidel service?”

In the end, the entire family did come to church, which is quite a distance away for them. When the pastor saw the number of unbelievers present that day, he set aside his planned sermon and did a comparison of Islam and Christianity.

Recalls our missionary, “He was challenging, and at the end of the sermon, that 80-year-old father was the first to stand up and declare that he was ready to follow Jesus. He said he saw a man dressed in white standing behind the pastor as he taught.

"At this point, everyone started crying—then his mom believed as well. Then another member’s 20-year-old daughter came up and said she believed. Towards the end of the service, the Iranian man’s sister also came forward and said, ‘I teach Islamic theology, and you have destroyed what I believed. It’s not true. This is true. Everything you said is true.’ This man’s entire family accepted the Lord that day.”

After the service, the member’s younger sister said, “I am returning to Iran in two weeks. I will convert my husband and then our house will become a house church. Will you help me?”

Throughout the morning, four young men sat in the back of the room, watching everything. Finally, one of them spoke up, “When you first started talking, I was planning to go to the Iranian embassy and give them your name. But as you were praying, I saw a holy man behind you dressed in white. We want to accept Jesus.”

God is truly at work among them.

Another story involves “Helen,” a woman our missionary disciples. “She’s Afghan and the only one in her family who believes,” explains our worker. One evening, her older brother, who was the most vocal one against her faith, tore up her Bible. Her parents denied her access to her Wi-Fi password and tablet, essentially cutting off her only means of communicating with the missionary and other Christians. The whole family goes through waves of treating her poorly and teasing her because of her faith, but this had been the worst episode yet.

Our worker there connected with some friends who had visited Helen, and they related that both Helen’s parents and her brother woke her up that morning to apologize for treating her poorly. And they kept asking why she remained so loving towards them even after the bad things they did to her.

“Anyone familiar with the strong pride in this culture knows the great conviction it must have taken for her parents, especially, to sincerely apologize to her and why this was such a big deal. The brother served my friends tea and was quite hospitable, which has never happened before. We are praying that Helen’s whole family will believe,” our missionary says.

Providentially, "her dad memorized several Bible stories when he helped translate them into easy Dari for verbal learners. I think his heart is softer than her mom’s and more open. He also has come to church with her before. Please pray with me for Helen to remain strong in her faith, to keep growing and for her entire family to believe.”

Praise God who is sovereignly working in closed countries. Praise Jesus that people are making eternally significant decisions to follow him. Give thanks that the Spirit is using people like this worker to point people to faith in the one true, living God.