A Pastor Prays for His People

Good news—we now have copies of Wendell’s book A Pastor Prays for His People at the Sunday morning book stall.

Blessed Redeemer, beautiful Savior
Author of all grace and comfort.
We approach you with the deepest reverence
Not with any presumption, not with servile fear—
But with respectful boldness—because of your gracious invitation.
In days of yore, you met the invited penitent at the mercy seat.
There the sprinkled blood was a covering for sin,
Today, our needed blessings are to be found at the throne of grace.
Here it is that we find grace in every—every—every! time of need.

It is easy for us to elaborate our needs, as trouble upon trouble piles up on us:
fragmented friendships,
hostile relationships,
adversarial conditions,
financial roadblocks,
family nightmares,
unanswered questions.
Some of these heartburning situations have plagued us without relief,
and we have pled with you to alleviate—
Yet still we wait for divine answer.
Lord, we have nowhere else to go but to you,
And so we again cast ourselves upon your mercy.
Maybe you delay because of the insidious sins
we tolerate or turn a blind eye to!
Galatians tells of good old Barnabas and influential Simon Peter who were
Captured by flagrant hypocrisy.
Maybe that’s our sin today—protection of self—
Desiring the approval of the crowd rather than God
to wash away that sin.
We confess with tears all the times we played the hypocrite
and curried the world’s favor—in the world’s place—
and tried some face-saving, self-serving falseness around God’s people.
Forgive us, Lord, as we pray now for deliverance from such sin.

Thank you, Father; help us to never again indulge in hypocrisy.

As a Mother

Director of Childen's Ministries Diane Jordan shares this prayer for Mother's Day.

Almighty God, king of creation, who formed us in our mother’s womb, who knows us best but loves us still, we worship you.

We praise you for your protective love which longs to gather us under your wings as a hen gathers her chicks.

We thank you for your tender compassion as you comfort us as a mother comforts her child.

We stand amazed at the depth of your love for us—a love that paid the ultimate sacrifice—death on the cross, so we could be your children.

How precious is your steadfast love, O Lord.

As we celebrate Mother’s Day, we get a glimpse of your divine love—a love that is gentle yet fierce, humble yet strong, kind and true.

And we thank you for our mothers, and for those who have been like mothers to us—for those who show us in tangible ways what your unconditional love looks like.

May we honor, love and cherish those who gave us birth and those who have been spiritual mothers to us, who have nurtured us, taught us, prayed for us, cared for us and shown us the face of the Savior by their example of faith.

Strengthen them in their daily tasks. Give them wisdom as they teach, patience as they discipline and perseverance as they pour into others’ lives. Help them to see in every mundane task the eternal significance of what they are doing.

Help each one rest in the knowledge that they are but stewards of the children you have given them. Enable them to be strong women of faith, relying on you for their every need, living and loving in ways that point to Jesus.

Father God, we know that for some, today is a day of heartache, not celebration.

We pray for those who have lost a mother, a child, a loved one. We pray for those who are ill, whose bodies are failing. May the reality of the resurrection give them hope.

For those who have longed to be moms but never had children of their own, for those struggling with the process of adoption or infertility, for those dealing with shattered dreams, Lord, we ask that you mend their broken hearts and empower them to live, trusting in you for the future.

Lord, we lift to you those distressed over choices their children have made, for those with children who have turned away from you. We ask that you comfort them in the knowledge that your love is constant, your understanding is perfect, and your compassions are never ending. Remind them that you are a God who pursues the lost.

Father, the many seasons of our lives are marked by transitions and changes, but your nurture and affection for us remain the same. Your steadfast love never ceases. Your mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning.

May the power of the Holy Spirit enable each of us to love and live a life of faith that points others to you and your steadfast love.

For your honor and glory. Amen.

The Door to Forever by Virginia Hughes

First, the door,
a welcome in.

Set it down, the bag of rocks you carry,
empty out your pockets full of grief.

Sit and lean toward the warming fire,
soothe your ever aching back and feet.

Before you were born I saw you. 
Before you were formed I knew exactly what you need.

Here is love. 
Forgiveness in a bath for you.
Wash in my salvation. 
Wrap a towel of pardon
around your weary soul.

This is my body, the bread that feeds. 
This is my blood, the drink you seek. 
Be filled at the never-ending feast.
Do this in remembrance of me.
Here is love.

The key in a door apart,
turns and opens,
now a part.

I knock on your door,
I AM also the door.
I AM the bridegroom who heals your heart. 

 Virginia Hughes

Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.  Rev. 3:20 ESV

My Mom's Legacy: Pirates, Horses and Edmond Dantès by Pat Cirrincione

A friend of mine recently gave me the book, I’d Rather Be Reading, The Delights and Dilemmas of the Reading Life by Anne Bogel. What a great gift to give to a fellow all-around book enthusiast! As I began to peruse its pages it made me wonder how my love for books began, and then these wonderful memories of my mom surfaced in my mind’s eye.

It all began when I was quite young. My siblings and I would run into the house after school, and Mom would have a snack waiting for her four hungry hounds. We would then do our homework before dinner, and so each day would go. The magical time came after dinner. Everything in the kitchen would be washed and put away, and we would gather around the sofa for story time. We never knew until right before the story began if a treat would be involved--either Jiffy Popcorn or a square from a giant Hersey Bar. Happily munching on our goodies, we would await the sound of the book being opened and the pages turned to whatever chapter we left off from the night before.

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson was always one of our favorite stories. A story of “buccaneers and buried gold.” Long John Silver shaped my perception of pirates, including tropical islands and one-legged seamen, bearing parrots on their shoulders. Treasure Island propelled me to playing Captain Hook in a play, and I paraded around the house as a pirate for weeks. “Ahoy, matey!” I yelled at my siblings each night before we went to bed. To this day, I just love stories and movies that involve pirates, and I even own a small collection of books about pirates.

Then there was Black Beauty by Anna Sewell. If you’ve read this haunting tale you probably can still see Beauty as a carefree young colt, and you probably still cry when he begins a difficult life journey pulling cabs in London. If you’ve ever felt confined or been treated cruelly, then you might feel as joyous as I felt when Beauty gets his freedom. You can feel his breath of relief as he returns to the countryside to enjoy a happy retirement in the fresh air he enjoyed as a young colt.

And if you’ve never read The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, I urge you to do so now! The story revolves around Edmund Dantès—betrayed by those he thought were his friends—and his desire for retribution. It’s a story of the conflict between good and evil told in a mesmerizing way with much excitement and drama (and more pirates)!

These were just some of the stories my mom read to us. Each of book full of richness and wonderful detail, and the sound of my Mom’s voice as she read to us. They brought my siblings and I into other worlds for just a moment each night, and were full of life lessons about kindness, sympathy and understanding.

In her book, Ann Bogel writes, “A book well written will make you think about things in a new way, or feel things you didn’t expect a book to make you feel, or see things in a new light. A book you won’t want to put down, whose characters you don’t want to tell good-bye. A book you will close feeling satisfied and grateful, thinking, Now, that was a good one.”

All of this made me think about the one book that never got opened in our home. The Bible. I read it for the first time as an adult. And when I began to read it, the words between its covers brought a whole new world to life. It has any theme you want between its pages. It has places to visit. It has characters to meet throughout its 66 books. It has a story that has still not ended. It’s a book that you will love, and every time, you close it, think, “That was amazing!” From Genesis to Revelation, God reveals everything he has created. It is a treasure trove of lessons in how to love, how to forgive, how to endure turmoil in daily life, and how to find true wisdom, knowledge and understanding. Through the Bible God shows us how to live as God would like us to live, as His children. God’s Word also shows how hard it is to break away from our sin nature. We get a realistic picture of ourselves and the struggles we face and the habits—for good or ill—that we cultivate.

So, Mom, although we never opened that particular book in our home, God did not forsake us. He showed your children how to connect over good books at a young age, and through these books as Ann Bogel say: “the full range of human emotions were shown to your children, from gut-wrenching, puddle-of-tears reactions. They captured the truth of our experiences, and validated our losses. They surprised us. They made us feel the loss of what could have been. They made us laugh. They allowed us to explore places we might never travel to.”

Reading became a habit I fell in love with, and one of my favorite so-called escapes. Thank you, Mom, for the bookshelves filled with amazing tales of life. Thanks for passing along your fascination with books—from cookbooks to mystery novels to biographies. Thanks for teaching me the joy of browsing libraries and bookstores. Thank you for making me fall head over heels in love with the joy of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and Winnie the Pooh. 

And thanks for pirates, horses and Edmund Dantès.

Drowning: Do you not care that we are perishing? By Wil Triggs

I did a lot of odd jobs growing up. Cutting lawns in exchange for the goods or services of others, painting my trumpet teacher’s stucco-sided garage in exchange for music lessons, but what seemed like my first real job was working at the day care camp at the YMCA in Torrance, California.

It wasn’t really a job job exactly. I wasn’t on their payroll. The official Y employees/swimming teachers also had a day camp program for little kids. I would go to the camp and hang out with the kids.

When it was time for them to go into the pool, there were too many of them. They had the day campers all roped off in about a third of the shallow end, while the regular swimming lessons for older students and adults filled the rest of pool with their activities. There were really too many people in that pool and only one lifeguard. So my job during pool time was to make sure that none of the day camp kids drowned.

I had no training in CPR. I don’t even know if there was such a thing. There was mouth to mouth resuscitation. I remember learning that. I’m happy to say that I never had to use it. I’m also happy to say that none of the kids drowned. But I do remember pulling up a lot of kids who seemed like they had been under too long, their heads breaking the surface of water, sometimes laughing smiling, sometimes coughing, choking. Ocassionally someone drank water and needed to sit with me at the side of the pool to catch their breath and take a break.

My pay was a few dollars every day and free high-level swimming lessons. They taught the dolphin kick and the butterfly. I swam with weight belts on my chest. Sometimes I'd sink.

With this job, when I first started, I was so excited. As I look back, I can see God preparing me for years of ministry to kids and students even at this young age. I took my role seriously—watching after the kids in the water. But even the exciting becomes rote, you sort of melt yourself into the routine of swimming pools and kids, and it's easy to forget what you're really there for.

One day when I was off, I went to, where else (?), a pool. It was the municipal pool in my city’s park—kind of like Northside Park. The pool bigger than Northside’s, at least it seems like that looking back. It was nice to swim on my own, no kids to worry about, no weight belts strapped on. I swam underwater a full length of the pool. I was great. Then I saw underwater bodies heading to the ladders and the sides, everyone all getting out of the water all at once. I surfaced and saw what I never had to do myself.

The lifeguard on duty in the water instead of his perch, a child in his arms. The lifeguard rushing to the side and resuscitation efforts beginning immediately. Everyone stood frozen, all of us looking, wanting, hoping to hear the cough, the choke, the catching of breath signalling life. But in the confusion, pool staff rushing everyone to get out of the pool and out into the park on the other side of the locker rooms.

Minutes that seemed like hours later, the child was wheeled out to the ambulance, her eyes open, looking very much alive.

The pool closed for the rest of the day.

You can believe that when I went back to work on Monday, I was more aware than ever of every child entrusted to my care—watching, checking more than I needed to, making sure that pool time was fun time the way it was supposed to be.

It seems like such a long time ago, and yet the memory and the danger still seems fresh. My mind wants to take the metaphor of drowning to the people around me who don’t know Jesus—while I might be drowning in stuff or tasks or fears or worries, what about people who think they’re fine, but don’t know the storm around us all? What kind of a lifeguard might I be today?

This Sunday morning, in our Kindergarten Bible School, we get to tell the story of Jesus calming the storm. It’s my favorite lesson of the year. We make the boat and the storm and act it out as a whole group. And with all of the waves and the storm going strong, we wake up Jesus.

Help us. We’re going to drown. Don’t you care?

Real waves. Real fear. An ocean roiling all around us, swallowing us into death. All of it happening in Room 001.

And then Jesus gets up and says, “Peace! Be still!”

The Kindergarteners all at once are silent (at least it’s always worked so far). The storm is stopped. Drowning averted.

Jesus asks, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?”

Kintsugi at Easter by Daniela Abuzatoaie

Earlier this spring, someone’s breaking his coffee mug reminded me about the Japanese art form called Kintsugi, a process whereby broken pieces of pottery are repaired with a lacquer resin mixed with, most commonly, powdered gold or silver. Through this technique, an artisan carefully mends the broken ceramics, covering the cracks and flaws with the metal mixture, rendering the vessel a new, more attractive appearance. While the location of the formerly broken lines remain visible, paradoxically, their gold or silver covering adds to the final workmanship’s new beauty.

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Easter Sunday reminded me about the Kintsugi of my existence and about how God in his mercy, has mended and continues to mend the broken pieces of my life through the power of Jesus’ blood and resurrection. “Though your sins are as scarlet, they will be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they will be like wool.” (Isaiah 1: 18)

Through Christ, God takes our sin and washes it white, he takes our hearts of stone and gives us hearts of flesh, he makes old things pass away and we become new creations. All of this is possible because we are his workmanship (Ephesians 2:10). Those who have trusted in Christ’s atonement for their sins, have experienced the powerful transformation from death to life, from bondage to freedom, and from being spiritual orphans to children of a loving God. This transformation is not imagined, but is real and powerful and alters the small and large choices of our everyday life, changes the affections of our hearts, and redirects our deepest hopes toward heaven.

Nothing under the sun brings greater meaning, greater motivation, and greater joy, than to become a vessel for honor, sanctified, useful to the Master, prepared for every good work. (2 Tim. 2:21)

Will you give God the broken pieces of your life and let his loving hand restore you to glory?

The Author's Interpretation by Lois Krogh

Two on a road to a town
Just the same
as any other little town.

One man, Cleopas, the next
Never named.
Both hopeless and confused.

“Oh, foolish ones and slow of heart!”

Do you not know? Can you not see?
All the prophets of old spoke about me?

That a messiah would come, you’ve long been expecting,
That first he must suffer is uncomprehending.

Beginning with Adam and back to t he present
He told the great story of love in redemption.

To you there are turns in the long story line,
But each part was framed in the wise author’s mind.

A People. A Purpose. A Plan and a Place.
Saved for His glory. Saved by His grace.

“And their eyes were opened, and they recognized Him.”

Back to the city from where
They just came.
Their hearts burn bright and sure.

Seeking the Dead by Lorraine Triggs

A few weeks ago, I decided to check to see what spring bulbs were coming up on the north side of the house. I had my head down, eyes on the ground, intent on finding any signs of life. Instead I spotted a clump of gray feathers, and then the dead bird.

Gross, yuck. Look no more. I hurried around to the front of the house with my head up and eyes on the horizon, or at least looking down the street at the recycling truck picking up the bins.

After more than two decades of homeownership, I wonder if I am a magnet for creatures, dead or living. The baby bunny I respectfully covered with an overturned clay pot till my husband came home to bury it. The racoon resting on the whole house fan. The dead chipmunk in the laundry room. And it's not just me. I also know about ducks in a home study and exotic tropical creatures who partnered with missionaries in Ecuador. Or my niece Holly who took in an injured crow who became "Alfred," one of their many very-much-alive house pets.

It’s highly unlikely that Zillow would list “magnet for dead or living creatures” as any home’s selling point.

Good thing Zillow wasn’t around in Jesus’ days, especially with his attraction to dead creatures—Jairus and his daughter, Lazarus, us.

In Mark 5, Jairus, a ruler of the synagogue, falls at Jesus’ feet and begs him to come to his daughter who was at the point of death. As Jesus and this influencer head off, they are interrupted by a needy woman, a non-influencer, who had spent all her money on doctors and “was no better but rather grew worse.” (Mark 5:26) Though not physically dead, she needed healing and new life, and finds both in Jesus.

Meanwhile, people came from Jairus’ house with tragic news—his daughter was dead.

Why bother Jesus anymore. It’s too late. She’s dead. Nothing more to be done. How many do we write off as hopelessly lost, too late for the touch of Jesus to make any difference.

But I think Jesus’ ears must have perked up. Come on, Jairus, let’s get to your house. Your daughter is dead, yes, well, not for long.

When it was just Jesus, Jairus, his wife and their dead daughter, Jesus gently says, “Little girl, arise,” and now it was Jairus, his wife and their breathing, living, daughter breathing, living, walking.

And just in case you’re tempted to mix up the Lazarus in John 11 with someone else in the New Testament, the gospel writer John describes him as the one whom Jesus raised from the dead. Yes, this Lazarus, who had died and walked out of his tomb, grave clothes and all when he heard Jesus say, “Lazarus, come out.”

Then there's the women who came to Jesus’ tomb on that first day of the week. Deep in grief, they expected to find a dead body. Instead they encountered angels who asked them why they were seeking the living among the dead. Really? You expected to find Jesus still dead after three days?

And in true Resurrection paradox, it’s this living Jesus who seeks out those who are dead in their sins and turns every day into Easter with his gentle graced words:

Little girl, arise.

Lazarus, come out.

Dead in sin be made alive.