Once We Walked by Wil Triggs
Once we walked
for days to get beyond
where trees could grow.
We lay on the granite floor to watch.
For this we walked so far:
God’s show of stars
Obscured by progress
Alive above the timberline.
A Prayer for Father's Day by Ellen Ellwell
Ellen Ellwell's heartfelt prayer for Father's Day is from her book, Prayers for Every Occasion.
Father God, thank you for blessing me with a kind, patient, and generous father. I wish all children could have that experience. The older I get, the more I realize it's not true in all families. Some children—even in adult years—find it difficult to grasp your unfailing love, partly because of painful memories associated with their earthly fathers. Maybe one of the reasons I haven't struggled to appreciate your kindness, patience, and generosity is that I've observed those qualities in my earthly father.
Please bless all children everywhere who need your help and perspective to work through painful or non-existent memories of their fathers. Please provide them with men in their lives who are outstanding and caring father figures, whether they are relatives, friends, colleagues or pastors.
For those of us whose fathers are still living, may we be quick to express appreciation and thanks to them in spoken or written words for the specific ways they have influenced our lives. As our fathers age, may we be generous with our time, care, and attention, which will honor them and honor you. Amen.
Secondary Relationship by Lorraine Triggs
Shortly before I headed off to Moody Bible Institute as a freshman, the Institute mailed me the student handbook, which I was to read, sign and agree to abide by. Most of the rules made sense, but the dress code, well, that was an entirely different matter.
This was back in the early 70s, and I wore jeans every day to high school. In fact, my high school didn’t even have a dress code. It was liberal before its time. We had open lunch and could leave school whenever we wanted. Some of my Christian friends and I took over one of the restrooms, decreeing that no cigarette or pot smoke was allowed. (Believe it or not, our fellow students respected our takeover.)
If I had to wear a dress, I wore granny skirts and peasant blouses (vintage at a young age.) I wore clogs or sandals or Chugga boots, not ballet flats or high heels.
I was in big trouble even before I started classes. “I don’t want to buy different clothes,” I whined to my mother. “These are stupid rules. Why can’t I wear jeans?”
My mother flipped through the handbook, not tipping her hand one way or the other about the rules. “Well, you do want to go there, right” she asked. I nodded.
“You’ll need to sign it, right?” I nodded, not liking where this was headed. “And if you sign your name, you’ll follow the rules, right?”
I didn’t nod in agreement, instead I asked my favorite question that I had been asking since I was a toddler, “Why?”
The answer was obvious to my mother and it had nothing to do with rule-keeping. “Your name is as good as your word. If you sign it, then you need to keep your word.”
I'm glad my mother maintained this secondary view of rule-keeping. It's a reminder that rules are good, but not the end all, nor the way to righteousness or relationship.
Though the church I grew up attending was full of rules, my mother never let me confuse those rules with personal holiness. It was the people mattered, not the clothes they wore or what they did or didn't do. I could be a Pharisee in jeans or a dress, and she would have none of that. When you give your word to a person, you had to keep it, whether you were in a formal dress or wearing jeans with holes in the knees. So now the same sort of teaching was extending out to my school of choice.
When I read the prologue to the law in Exodus 20:2, I hear relationship: "I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery," and Colossians 1:13 echoes in my heart: "he has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son."
On those days when my inner Pharisee makes an appearance, I remember that God has done the delivering, I remember that God wants wholehearted devotion, not my self-righteousness, and then I rest in the truth that I can depend on him to keep his word forever.
Taste of Jesus
It’s a little like the parable of the sower, but instead of different soils, there are all kinds of people. Some walk by and avert their eyes, others stop, interested from a variety of perspectives—where is your church? What denomination? Can I get some free stuff? How much is the water?
When we go out into the community, we trust God to do most of the heavy-lifting. All we need to do is our little part in God’s big work.
One of the Taste of Wheaton vendors, as she was setting up, came by and said hello. Looking at our display, she asked for a mug. Sure, I replied. Later, she came back and asked if we had bug spray. I pulled out the can of OFF and she sprayed it on and said thanks. The next day, as we set up she greeted me with a smile.
A student came by three times, the first time looking away, the second time stopping to take a pen and fill out a survey, the third time finding out about our summer programs.
Diane warmly and happily engaged children as they walked by the table. She would take them to the games and encourage them to play and win prizes. Then, she would introduce herself to the parents and give them information about our summer ministries.
She also talked with a follower of Bahai about Jesus and God and religion for about ten minutes. He spoke of how he liked that religion because of how it promised to adapt to changing cultures and societies and needs. Diane explained how she finds comfort in our unchanging God in the midst of a constantly changing world. He went away with Pastor Josh’s book “How Church Can Change Your Life.”
We are praying that we can show the love of Jesus to people in big and little ways.
A couple stopped and I spoke with them about our various areas of ministry. “You know, I drive by that church every day on my way to work” the husband said to his wife. “If you think you might visit us, come in a couple weeks and stop by the café for a homemade cinnamon roll, baked by my wife,” I said, handing him a Café card.
“Well, that sealed it right there,” said his wife, “he’ll do anything for a cinnamon roll.” [Even go to church, I thought/wondered.]
“I’ll be there” said the husband.
A couple pushing their baby in a stroller went by. We talked through various aspects of church, and when I got to the 5K (aka Run for the STARS), the wife said, “My husband likes to run.” And took the flyer over to show her husband, who was already at the next table over.
Three students stopped looking at all that we had on display and two of them eagerly took Bibles. They asked first, tentatively, and were happily surprised when I said that they were free.
"Do you need to register ahead of time to go the a Backyard Bible Club?: asks one mom. "No, you can just come!"
After his time at the display, Bruce Aulie gave a brief report, too.
“Rather than eat by ourselves at the Taste of Wheaton, Caleb and I sat down with our food at a picnic table with a teenager with earbuds and struck up a conversation. He said he was joining the military after graduating from Wheaton North. We found out he doesn't go to our church but is a believer We encouraged him in his faith and talked about what it means to lay your life down. How Jesus did that for us. That we are no longer our own.
“A young woman stopped by our table. A recent college grad, she said she had walked away from the faith during school. Now she was returning. She took a Bible, encouraged to read it and anchor her life in Christ's promise of living water.
“One young boy stopped, a bit shy and embarrassed to be at our church table but grabbed a Living Bible and took off like a shot.
“A group of girls stopped to chat with Diane and with surprise and delight exclaimed, ‘This is my church!’"
Our table at Taste of Wheaton isn’t very big. We’re right next to the Pella Windows display, facing Hale Street. When the bands play, sometimes the music overwhelms the park and it’s hard to hear anything. There are times when no one stops by or people ignore our cheery hellos. So why do we do it?
It’s because every conversation, every Bible grabbed or politely removed from the table, every handout or water bottle or book we give is an invitation to come and see who Jesus, come and meet the one true God and receive his gift of mercy and grace.
If you're going to Taste of Wheaton, stop by; bring a friend with you. Even if you're not, pray for this little piece of College Church in Memorial Park this weekend, that some might have a Taste of Jesus.
A Call to Listen by Whitney Wiley
Whitney and her husband, Caleb, are College Church mid-term missionaries to Madagascar. Music projects are part of Caleb's life--while at College Church, Caleb was involved with ChurchFolk.
Listen to the music of Sakalava believers as you read Whitney's post.
A local Christian radio station in my hometown of Houston is famous for its punny slogan, “God listens.” It naturally comes to mind when I consider our calling to work with the Sakalava Music Project in Madagascar. My husband, Caleb, and I are preparing to spend a year on a small island in Madagascar, recording local worship music for a new church that recently received the Bible in their language. All cheesy double entendres aside, the truth of a listening God has informed this ministry in drastic ways.
God does listen to even the least of these, and he is at work drawing these people to himself. The Sakalava people are a minority group of about a million people in Madagascar, and God is sending people to this field white for the harvest, leading an ever-growing church of new Sakalava believers.
God has called the missionaries already on the island to listen, hearing the gifts of local people and the way music is bringing the gospel alive in their hearts. Despite any preconceived plan or audio expertise, they readily followed the Spirit’s leading in fostering and equipping the new believers in the creation of worship music.
God is using music to reach the hearts of the Sakalava people in their own language and style. He speaks their language and loves their songs, and as they listen they are transformed. A local radio station has picked up the song you are listening to now, and is broadcasting the truth of creation throughout the island.
And as we go to serve on this island, recording more of these songs and teaching the local believers how to record and distribute their music for the sake of evangelism and the church, we pray that God would give us the grace to listen as He listens. Because, ironically, that is often the first step in proclaiming the gospel.
A Memorial Day Prayer
This prayer is from A Pastor Prays for His People by Wendell C. Hawley
Father God, we thank you for those of yesteryear who left home and family
to defend our country;
we enjoy the fruit of their sacrifice--we worship you in freedom.
Remember your children, worldwide, who want to worship you openly,
but dare not.
Grant openness to the gospel in those places of satanic oppression.
Remember those of our extended family required to be in harm's way
and all our military family.
Keep them from hurt and destruction.
Shield them from all harm.
Enable them to boldly and faithfully live a Christian life,
and may their testimony before fellow soldiers bear eternal fruit.
We pray all conflicts will end speedily
and the gospel's power will permeate all those troubled lands.
Give divine wisdom to our national leaders
that they may govern in ways that honor you.
The Ideal Companion by Pat Cirrincione
We had two dogs in my life. One named Topsy, because my mom was going to a weight loss group called Tops. I know, not very imaginative, but we loved him anyway. An aunt and uncle gave Topsy to us, because they thought he would cure my sister’s fear of dogs. It didn’t. He wasn’t an especially friendly and huggable dog and could be downright mean. We showered him with our love anyway, and he tolerated us when he felt like it, particularly when we gave him treats. And he never listened to us.
Then, in my early twenties, while working at Sears in OakBrook, a customer came to the customer service counter holding this adorable, teeny, tiny apricot toy poodle on a velvet pillow. I fell madly in love with her, but she wasn’t for sale. However, the customer said that the poodle had a brother, the runt of the litter--and he was for sale. My eyes lit up. She told me w here she lived. And one Saturday, without telling anyone in my family, I took a drive out to meet Mr. Runt.
I drove up to an old farm house in West Chicago. I knocked at the door, and the lady with the apricot cutie took me to the back of the house and whistled loudly. Out from the dirt and grime came this bedraggled gray and white thing. I couldn’t tell if it was a dog or a big rat. Its hair was matted, he was covered in mud and had these super long ears. And then he did the unthinkable. He ran right up to me, sat down and gave me a look that only a dog can give a human. He smiled. Yes, he actually smiled. And I was hooked. So, for a whopping fifty dollars, no papers and nothing to place him on in my pristine car, I scooped him up. So there he sat on my clean white shorts, listening attentively, as I told him about his new family.
On the way home, I remembered that I had forgotten to tell anyone about buying a dog. Topsy had been gone for a few years, but no one really wanted to deal with another temperamental pooch. Leaving the gray and white thing in the car, I went in, got a towel, went back to the car, covered the little rat and nonchalantly walked into the house. I hoped to escape notice by my family members having breakfast in the kitchen. Before I could get to the basement door, my eagle-eyed mom asked what the heck I was doing--then she saw my dirt stained shorts and came barreling after me into the basement. She let out a shriek when I placed the towel in the basement sink and it began to wiggle and make strange noises. I hesitantly removed the towel, and both the dog and I were now smiling at Mom, who I think fainted at whatever she thought was in the sink. When Dad heard me yelling for help, he dashed down the stairs, threw some water on my Mom’s face, and now two people were looking at our smiling faces, but they weren’t smiling.
With both parents giving me the parental stare down, I gushed on about how cute the sink rat was, or at least would be once I washed him and combed out his hair. Dead silence. I told them it hardly cost me anything, and he would be my dog and I would always be the one to take care of him. More dead silence. So, I proceeded to ask for some shampoo; my still silent mom handed it to me, and I began to scrub down the wiggling rat in the sink.
What appeared out of the mud and grime was one of the most beautiful dogs I have ever seen. He was gorgeous. After I blew dry his hair, he was even more gorgeous. Soft gray and white hair, big eyes and beautiful long ears.
After giving him a meal of people food and letting him snoop around his new surroundings it was time for bed. As all books said to do with a new puppy, I placed him in a box, with a clock and some towels, and left him in the kitchen where I thought he would just fall asleep, (especially after the meal I had fed him). I don’t know if it was indigestion or loneliness or the enclosed space he was in but he cried all night. After several attempts to sooth him failed, my dad came down and brought box and all into their bedroom, and silenced ensued. So much for trying to do the right thing by never, ever, spoiling a pet.
The next morning, after a sleepless night, I came up with the perfect name for my new best friend. Snoopy. He never fell short of acting just like Charles Schulz’s quirky little beagle, even though he was a poodle. He won over my parent’s hearts within a week and was unbelievably smart. Wherever I went (except for work), he went. In those days he could sit on my lap as I drove to friends’ homes, to parties or family gatherings. On the way to and from our outings he always listened to me chatter on about who we were going to visit, or sometimes I chatted and he slept. I think the steady hum of my voice put him to sleep. I would really not like to think that I bored him into snoring, but either way, it was always great to have him with me.
As time went by, and our relationship got closer, Snoop always watched for me to come home from work, running to greet me when I walked in the door. I loved holding him, taking him for walks and showing him off. On Sundays, after church, Snoop and I would drive over to the Oakbrook Shopping Center in our Sunday best and walk around the outdoor mall (me looking like Audrey Hepburn, Snoop looking like a little prancing poodle prince with his faux diamond dog collar). Those were the days. A girl and her dog. Unconditional love and friendship. Anyone who has had or has a dog, knows just what I mean.
Dogs love unconditionally (sometimes). They don’t talk back but give you dog looks. Sometimes they have “attitudes” of indignation, boredom, or laziness. Sometimes they don’t listen. They need to be totally cared for.
We had Snoop in our lives and our home for fourteen years. He won over my future husband, is in our wedding pictures with me, and became Uncle Snoopy to our sons. Then one day he fell asleep and never woke up again. Do I miss him? Every day.
Super Wash by Cheryce Berg
I’m waiting at the Super Wash in a yellow plastic scooped chair between a ficus tree and a dispenser of coffee in paper cups. The man who hasn’t stopped humming since he carried his first load of clothes through the back door slips quarters into the coffee machine and chats as his cup fills.
“Been coming here for years, twice a month. Decided we’d rather not maintain our own machines at home. They replaced the old coffee dispenser with this one—double the price but double the size. And do you know he spent $5,000 on new washers? Nice owners, from South Korea, always cleaning the place. The plants are a nice touch.”
I watch him quizzically as he chatters, wondering if it really is easier to go to the laundromat than do your laundry at home. And only twice a month? He is jovial, if not crisply clean—the type that seems unfazed by a washer broken for 22 days that no one can fix and seven loads of laundry to haul around in a Mini Cooper on a Friday night.
I sort laundry memories while I wait. I’ll hang this one with the others, though the gray strip mall setting off Roosevelt Road isn’t as colorful as the rest.
I remember Grandma’s stiff, worn, fresh-smelling towels, hung on the clothesline to dry. The farmhouse had a wringer washer in the back hall. Towels lasted for years and appeared crisp and clean, smelling of the Michigan outdoors and her garden. I loved that smell, though the roughness rubbed my tender skin raw.
I recall hiking through the Porcupine Mountains with fifty pounds on my aching back before my freshman year of college. We paused at Lake Superior to wash hair braided with leaves, army pants smudged with peanut butter, and bandanas stiff with sweat. Kneeling on the shore, we scrubbed and thumped those clothes clean in the icy water, laying them flat to dry on the rocks.
Then there was that college summer in the Czech Republic, months after the wall came down. I washed and then naively hung my simple wardrobe outside on our ground floor apartment’s patio. We were gone for hours, trudging a road marked only by electric wires, unable to board the bus without the local currency. I came home exhausted to see an empty clothesline where my clothes used to hang.
In Bolivia we washed again and hung jeans in the hot midday sun. At 12,000 feet they dry and fade fast.
Seventeen of us shared a small washer and dryer that week in the Dominican Republic. After long days of mixing cement and playing with children with mango-sticky fingers, clean clothes were a treasure.
In Turkey, we washed modest clothes in tiny sinks and wore them again each new hot morning. I sympathized with the women wearing dark-colored burkhas from head to toe in the stifling heat.
With each memory and each pile of clean clothes, my gratitude grows.
I’m back at the laundromat off Roosevelt Road. The joyful owners from South Korea have said goodnight to those of us still sitting in yellow plastic chairs watching clothes spin. The dryer buzzes and I end up leaving my iPad on the folding table, only remembering it the next day. When I return I am welcomed with four hugs. She has kept my iPad on her counter under a pile of clean clothes—turned in by an honest patron after hours.
I realize I have all I need and I always have, even if right now I don’t yet have a working washer at home. And I am grateful.
Cheryce first posted this on her blog, Hope and Be.Longing.