CEDARS OF LEBANON

The righteous will flourish like a palm tree, they will grow like a Cedar of Lebanon. (Psalm 92:12)

So give orders that Cedars of Lebanon be cut for me. My men will work with yours, and I will pay you for your men whatever wages you set. (1st Kings 5:6)

Last night was our Wednesday night mid-week service, and one of our lay ministers spoke on the topic of The Cedars of Lebanon. Of course, Bro. Martin referred to a couple of scriptures in the Old Testament, and the building of Solomon’s Temple, but his sermon had little to do with the literal Cedars of Lebanon, but rather, the proverbial or figurative trees of that variety.

Given the implication of the first paragraph, you may have picked up on his metaphor. You see, the allusion here is to those people who have exercised a positive influence on our lives. And the good man went on to enumerate various people who, throughout the course of his life, helped, blessed, admonished, encouraged and/or guided him.

I can so well relate since such ‘Cedars of Lebanon’ have made a profound difference in my own life. Now to be sure I readily admit, (to my disadvantage) I have never had what I might describe as a mentor; except perhaps dead ones. (People like Peter Marshall, Amy Carmichael, Eric Liddell, and Jim Elliot; those heroes of the faith who have left not only their writings behind, but their spiritual legacies).

As I have inferred, there have been those people whom God set in my pathway who “stepped up to the plate” and fulfilled God’s momentary will; at least momentary in terms of their influence on yours truly. And in so doing, each and every one of these who cooperated with His leading enhanced my Christian preparation, function and maturity.

There are two particular individuals upon whose shoulders I stand. Men of faith. Men who, in turn, stood upon the shoulders of my spiritual grandparents. For you see, these two of whom I speak were my spiritual fathers, and who, for lack of time and space I will limit the remainder of my story.

I graduated from high school in 1967 from the oldest high school in Florida’s Polk County; ‘Summerlin Institute.’ And I had only just graduated the previous month when another Summerlin graduate, and friend of mine invited me to join him at a revival meeting hosted by a local Bible College. I have long since forgotten whether I attended more than one of the weekly services, but I will never forget the particular meeting which impacted the entire rest of my natural life.

A ‘Bro. William Kirschke,’ the then Assemblies of God National Sunday School Superintendent, stepped to the pulpit and proceeded to share a Gospel message with the assembled throng. As he closed his message, and as you might expect, he offered anyone who would the opportunity to “walk the old sawdust trail” to the front of the college chapel, and kneel at the altar. As John Wesley once phrased it, “my heart was strangely warmed.” And before I realized it, I stood up and walked in the direction of the stage.

Although I was raised in the Methodist Church, and was greatly impacted by its music, I had never, ‘til now, “bent the knee” at what has been referred to as an “old fashioned altar.” Thus, everything about this experience was a bit alien to me.

I had no sooner kneeled, and perhaps momentarily wondered, “what comes next” than an older gentleman knelt down beside me, introduced himself as ‘Jerry Triemstra’ and invited me to repeat “The Sinner’s Prayer.” As I recall, he encouraged me to say the words aloud, and in so doing I ‘picked up’ on his foreign accent. As I later learned, Jerry was a Dutch immigrant, and a former missionary to South America.

I never saw either of these two men again, though as I approached the grand old age of 2/3 of a century I set out to discover what I could about each of them. My quest was not in vain.

Having contacted the National Headquarters of the Assemblies of God organization I procured an article about the late Rev. Kirschke; which included a poor newspaper photo; but a photo, nonetheless. A couple of years later I managed to speak to the secretary of Rev. Triemstra’s church. While he had long since gone on to his heavenly reward, ‘Ms. Langley’ was able to procure a nice picture of Jerry and his family, and a bit of background information. And interestingly enough, one of my ‘Facebook cousins’ made me aware that her grandparents had been friends with the Triemstra’s.

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

Ironically enough, the next year after my conversion experience, I enrolled at the same college where I came to know the Savior, and four decades later I was blessed to serve as an adjunct professor there; now a Christian-based, liberal arts university boasting 10x the original student body.

God has given thousands of men, women, boys and girls to my oversight, as over the past 25 years I have ministered as a pastoral counselor.

And though I never had a mentor, and perhaps as a response to this oversight, I have given a significant amount of time and effort to exercising a mentor role in the lives of dozens of young and not so young persons.

There’s a scene in the movie, “Dances With Wolves” in which an old mule skinner, and the military character are seen conversing about the former’s family, and their desire to see him at the end of his journey. Given the dangers posed by Indians and the thousand miles which lay between, he exclaims,

“I hope I don’t disappoint them!”

In the same way, I hope I don’t disappoint my spiritual fathers, as the result of the inherent dangers of the Christian journey, or simply the result of getting my eyes off the prize, or falling by the proverbial wayside. I can see them standing in the bleachers of heaven cheering me on. How I look forward to meeting them and spending a bit of quality time with both of them.

And like Rev.’s Kirschke and Triemstra, I honor my heritage by building a legacy. I am committed to becoming one of those giants upon whose shoulders someone else stands. One of those Cedars of Lebanon who stands straight, and strong and tall and beckons others to do the same.

And though I love William and Jerry and owe them a debt I can never repay, I think they and all whom God ever set in my pathway can wait.

My allegiance is to the lowly Nazarene; the God-man and Creator of the universe. He who spilt His last drop of blood for you and me, and who rules and reigns forevermore.

My greatest hope, my most ardent wish, my fondest expectation is to hear those blessed words,

“Well done, my good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.”



 by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

THE NOT SO LEAN ELVIS

Before anyone dumps all sorts of derogatory messages on me re. the title of this blog, please understand that in titling this bit of writing the way I have, I mean no disrespect for the (almost) living legend that is Elvis. However, you will soon understand the reason why I felt compelled to use the moniker that I have.

I listen to “Elvis Radio” Channel 19 every time I set my derriere onto the driver’s seat of my automobile, put it in gear, and attempt to fulfill my sundry commitments for that day. This morning, as I drove to a not so distant town to do a safety meeting for my construction crew, I listened to an interview between E.A.P.’s high school friend, George Klein (the primary DJ on Elvis Radio), and Wink Martindale, the 70’s-80’s-90’s gameshow host.

It so happens that Sandy Martindale, (Wink’s wife) dated Elvis ‘way back when’ and she was with him (Wink, not Elvis) in this morning’s interview. Sometime before (or after) the two married, Sandy and Wink developed a close mutual relationship with ‘The King of Rock & Roll,’ and often attended his performances.

And as it fell together, the couple last saw Elvis at a Las Vegas show shortly before his passing. And what they saw left them mortified. Elvis was obviously in poor health, and had gained a great deal of weight. No doubt, they were aware that the greatest male singer of all time had regularly indulged himself with prescription, and possibly other substances. The most disinterested lay person could see it in his eyes. While he seemed to maintain his cognitive abilities, such as his skill with the recall of songs, his countenance and physical condition spoke volumes.

As Wink and Sandy visited in Elvis’ dressing room before the show, they noticed sweat beading on his forehead, and it occurred to both of them that this could well be the last time they would ever lay eyes on the most famous and gifted man on the planet. As the interview neared its conclusion, Wink mentioned that Elvis seemed hesitant to leave them, though his next show was only moments away.

Ultimately, the couple said their ‘adieu’s’ and departed the premises. On their way out, they stopped long enough to write a note for Elvis, and left it with the King’s ‘right hand man;’ (whose name escapes me at the moment).

The note read roughly as follows:



Elvis

We would love for you to come visit with us in our home for a few weeks.

This would give you an opportunity to rest, lose weight, and regain your health. People tell me (Sandy) that I am a good cook, and I don’t think you’d regret staying with us a while and dining at our table. Hope to hear from you soon.

Love & Prayers,

Wink & Sandy



Pt. 2

One might have thought George Klein would have changed the subject, and prevented the Martindale’s from telling the story. But this was not the case.

I must say I have been pleasantly surprised at how open ‘The Elvis Channel’ and its DJ’s have been with the radio public in regard to ‘the good, bad and the ugly’ which transpired during THE American Idol’s all too brief 42 years on earth.

There’s a poignant passage in the movie, “A River Runs Through It.”

In speaking of his father, the main character, Norman Maclean, reminisces.

l remember the last sermon

l heard him give;

not long before his own death…

Each one of us here today will,

at one time in our lives...

look upon a loved one who is in need

and ask the same question.

"We are willing to help, Lord...

but what, if anything, is needed?"

It is true we can seldom help

those closest to us.

Either we don't know what part

of ourselves to give...

or more often than not,

the part we have to give...

is not wanted.

And so it is those we live with

and should know who elude us...

but we can still love them.

We can love completely...

without complete understanding.

At least during this particular interview, Wink and Sandy Martindale never disclosed whether Elvis responded to their offer that he visit with them, lose weight and attempt to regain his former health.

We can be sure, however, that if he responded at all it was not of the affirmative kind; since the well-known gameshow host and his wife

…never saw Elvis again.



I think Wink and Sandy were a lot like the kind of people of whom that old preacher alluded in his final sermon, the sort of folks who reach out in love to those near and dear to themselves; though bereft of any understanding.

One can only wonder how history might have been rewritten had Elvis taken them up on their gracious offer. Perhaps the King of Rock & Roll would have given us the gift of a few more years and a few more songs.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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A MOMENTARY EXPERIENCE ON AN ELEVATOR IN SCOTLAND

My wife and I enjoyed the vacation of a lifetime last year. We had often wanted to visit Scotland and Ireland, and were determined to do so by our 70th birthdays. And true to our intentions, we just managed to do so 'by a whisker.'

Our hotel in Glasgow, Scotland stood on the banks of the Clyde River, (or River Clyde, as they are prone to refer to it 'over there'). We were just fifty feet from a beautiful bridge which spanned the river, a hundred yards from the convention center in which the now world famous Susan Boyle was awarded second place in "Britain's Got Talent," and an ancient overhead ship-building crane, for which the wonderful city is known, was just seconds away from the front door of the hotel.

On our second day in Glasgow, I boarded an elevator to take me up to our room on the third floor. And it so happened that a middle-aged, fairly non-descript man stepped on the elevator with me. I must have greeted him with a, "How are you." And recognizing my accent he said, "Are you an American?" And I evidently responded in the affirmative. (I could not be sure, and I did not ask, but based on the stranger's own peculiar accent, I surmised he was probably a native of this country).

As the elevator moved quickly towards my third floor destination, referring to the Second World War, my short-term acquaintance mused,

"Ah, we are so grateful for what your great country did for us; coming over here to help us" (and) "those dear, dear American lads. How we love and appreciate them even today."

And with this the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened, I nodded, and stepped off.

It was just a momentary, circumstantial sort of thing, lasting all of thirty seconds, and yet I will remember my brief interaction with this fine gentleman; as long as I live, and move, and breathe on the earth.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

DUI (While Riding a Horse)

If we care to do a little research, every one of us can locate a few choice ancestors who were nothing less than characters.

I have done a great deal of genealogical research and discovered some of those characters “growing” on my family tree.

However, I think among a myriad of known and unknown characters on my family tree the most unique was a preacher named Rev. Isom Peacock, my 4x great grandfather, and a Revolutionary War soldier, and itinerant minister of the Baptist persuasion.

Of course, there were any number of itinerant Baptist preachers who traveled a fixed circuit in those days, and held services at churches in an area as large as a couple thousand square miles; (about the size of the County of Polk in central Florida, in which I currently reside).

Old Isom resided in South Georgia, and eventually, Florida, and there were several things, ultimately, which made him unique among his peers.

You see, this circuit rider was zealous for the Lord, at least for the Baptist doctrine, since he is credited with founding the first (not First) Baptist church in the State of Florida in what is now Nassau County. (His son-in-law, a Rev. Ryan Frier, my 3x great Grandfather, founded a small mixed-race Baptist church in Jacksonville, Florida which became “the first fruits” for two mega-churches which exist in that city today).

Beyond Isom’s notoriety for having founded the initial Baptist congregation in the State of Florida, it seems he was “taken up” with the doctrine or condition of that freedom which Christ bestows upon His people. It is reported that he regularly pulled a fifth of whisky from his over-sized coat pocket, and swigged on it, as he stood behind the pulpit.

(Talk about ‘show and tell’)!

I surmise the ole boy owned slaves, as we know that his son-in-law, Ryan, did. It would appear even men of the cloth suffered no apparent contradiction between the preaching the Gospel and the keeping of slaves.

Did I claim ole Isom was unique? (Well, he was).

For you see, as the

… 108 year old minister was attempting to mount his horse one morning, he somehow slipped, and fell to the ground; never to rise again.

I suppose if the old man hadn’t been driving under the influence he might still be with us.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary," Vol. 37. Copyright pending

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GETTING UP FROM THE OPERATING TABLE

A minister with whom I work recently made a statement which registered with me.

“Some people (figuratively) lay down on the operating table, and get up and walk away before the operation is finished.”

(and)

“Can you imagine if real-life patients did something like this?”

In terms of the spiritual condition of many believers, I think no one ever shared a story which rang truer than one of my old Bible college professors, and which is so reminiscent of Brother Jim’s statement about someone getting up from the operating table.

I once recounted that story.

The year was 1968, and I was a student at one of several denominational bible colleges; in central Florida.

I was enrolled in a New Testament class, and my professor was a light-hearted English woman named Ruth Breush; (who interestingly enough was married to a light-hearted Australian man named Percy Breusch).

If I live to be a 103, I will never forget one day in particular. Mrs. Breush began the class with, to say the least, an unusual story.

“Last night I had a dream. In the dream I was somehow transported to heaven. And I stood beneath the throne of none other than our Lord Jesus Christ.

His brown eyes were piercing to behold. Every strand of His auburn hair was in place. His countenance was radiant. And then,

… then I looked downward.

And what I saw horrified me. For you see, His chest was sunken. His arms were emaciated. Every rib shown through His parchment skin.

And then it occurred to me.

… The Body of Christ.

While the Head is fine and wonderful to behold, thank you, the Body is unhealthy, and in need of attention.”

Christ’ Body. His believers on earth, at least a great many of them, leave much to be desired.

Fickleness, In-fighting, Temptations, Immaturity, Abject Sin.

As scripture reminds us. “These things ought not to be.”

I have often wondered if I am, by chance, my professor’s last surviving student who has recalled and passed on this story to the generation who will follow after me.

If so, I count it a distinct calling, honor and responsibility to do so.

Too many Christians come to a saving knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ, live, and ultimately die, as if they had jumped up from the operating table shortly after the operation began.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

JONI & THE POOL OF BETHESDA

Lately, my wife discovered a way to play Youtube videos on our television set.

You would have to know us. While I possess some pretty impressive computer skills, and my wife is “passing fair,” we still have a long way to go in terms of other media devices, and their interaction with desktops and laptops. I mean, I still use a flip phone.

At any rate, we were watching a Youtube video today which featured Joni Eareckson Tada. Many of my readers are, no doubt, aware that Joni experienced a life-changing accident at the age of 17; when she broke her neck in a diving accident. As a result, this precious lady has been a quadriplegic for a full half century.

Mrs. Tada is a wonderful Christian radio host, speaker, and artist. (She holds the paintbrush in her mouth). Her ministry is to the able-bodied and disabled, alike. One charitable work, in particular, to which this ministry devotes itself involves raising moneys for wheelchairs that are donated to paraplegics and quadriplegics around the world.

In the video to which I alluded Joni is seated in her wheelchair on the stage of a church. And during the course of forty minutes she shares her life story. What an absolute inspiration. If I am ever prone to feel sorry for myself, I have only to think of this dear woman of God; her years of patient fortitude, and commitment to the Lord of her life.

One portion of Joni’s message seemed especially poignant to me. Following is the jest of her words.

“If any of you out there think I’m a spiritual superwoman, and that I have this quadriplegic thing all figured out, I hate to disappoint you. Not long after the accident my sister was tending to my needs. Waking me up, bath-rooming me, getting me dressed, getting me into my wheelchair, spending time with me, and encouraging me during my day.

It was about this time I prayed,

‘Lord, I can’t face a lifetime of quadriplegia. I can’t even get through one day without overwhelming pain, and having to depend on other people to take care of the most embarrassing facets of my new life. I simply can’t do this!’”

Pt. 2

Joni continued.

“My friends, I can tell you I was at the bottom of the proverbial well, and it was at this point that I told my sister to leave me in bed. For two weeks I only got up to use the bathroom. I can so identify with the man in John Chapter 5.

You remember. Let me read it to you.”

‘During one of the Jewish feast days, Jesus went up Jerusalem. Near the sheep gate in Jerusalem is a pool surrounded by five arches; which has the Hebrew name of Bethzatha; the Pool of Bethesda.

Under these arches, a great many sick people were laid. Some of them were blind, some were lame, and some had withered limbs. They used to wait in this place for “the moving of the water.” At certain times it seems an angel would appear, and enter the pool, and disturb the water. And then, the first person who stepped into the water after the disturbance would be healed of whatever malady from which he was suffering.

One particular man had laid there for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there on his back, knowing that he had been like this for a very long time, he said to him,

"Would you like to walk again?"

"Sir," replied the sick man, "I have no one to put me into the pool when the angel stirs the water. While I'm trying to get there, someone else gets down into it before me."

"Get up," said Jesus, "pick up your bed and walk!"

At once the man felt strength in his legs, got up, picked up his bed, and walked.’” (John Chapter 5. McDonald Paraphrase)

Pt. 3

“I have often asked Jesus to minister to me the way he did to the man at the Pool of Bethesda. But He has always seemed oblivious of my needs. Once I attended a Kathryn Kuhlman crusade, and sat in the wheelchair section. After her sermon Miss Kuhlman came down from the platform and prayed for the sick. But somehow, she never managed to find her way over to my area. And I almost said out loud, ‘C’mon lady, exercise your faith, and come on over to the excruciating section.’

I don’t know, but I think maybe I quit expecting a healing touch of God after this experience. I consigned myself to live this way. It was what it was. Then, a few years ago my husband and I visited Israel, and after we had toured Jerusalem’s marketplace, we found ourselves at the Pool of Bethesda. That same pool which I have so long thought about, and where Jesus spoke to the quadriplegic man, and spoke healing words to him.

You can imagine I was overwhelmed with emotion. Ken pushed me up to the short fence which surrounds that body of water, and he proceeded to climb over this small barrier to get a better look. And as he momentarily disappeared from sight, the most poignant thought came to me.

If I had never experienced that awful diving accident, broken my neck, and become a quadriplegic, I might never have known Jesus the way I know Him today. I may well be working on my third divorce, and my ‘Joni and Friends’ ministry would have remained a twinkle. All those wheelchairs we have given away, and all those folks God has given me the wherewithal to speak with, encourage, and assist in various ways would still be a theory.

I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t know why Jesus hasn’t healed me, the way he healed the disabled man at the pool, but I know that He is much more concerned with my spiritual healing, than my physical healing.

I don’t love this wheelchair. And I don’t relish quadriplegia. This entire experience has come as an unwelcome, unbidden guest. But I count it a privilege to suffer with Him; and no one ever suffered the way He did the day He voluntarily surrendered Himself to the pain and shame of the cross. I am all too aware that He has chosen me to participate in His sufferings. And I will gladly bear my cross for Him.

Yet, I am thankful that this isn’t all there is. And on the other side of this life, I will rise from this wheelchair, and I will walk again. Meanwhile, I am inestimably grateful that our Lord has given me the privilege of making a difference in the lives He daily sets along my pathway.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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I WILL BE THERE

(Author Unknown)

Where can you go that I can’t see?

On the highest of mountains

In the heat of the desert

In the life-consuming deep

and lonely heart of life’s seas

Where can you hurt that I can’t feel?

When you feel like you’re dying

Need a shoulder for crying

Come to me. I’m waiting here

with open arms that can heal

I’ll be a Father to the fatherless

A faithful Friend

when none are there

My heart of love is fathomless

and it reaches anywhere

 

I will be there through

the long lonely nights

never letting you go

I will hold. I will love you

with all my might

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

I will be there, and I want you to know

I will never leave you alone

I’ll never go. I’ll never go. I will never let you go

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

What can you feel that I can’t bear?

Any burden you’re bearing

Any sorrow you carry

Any heartache, any loneliness

or despair

What can you see that I can’t see?

Even death was defeated

all the work was completed

I’ve prepared a special place

here in my heart just for you

I’ll be a husband to the husbandless

A faithful Friend

when none are there

Inside my heart of love is faithfulness

and it reaches anywhere

I will be there through

the long lonely nights

never letting you go

I will hold. I will love you

with all my might

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

I will be there, and I want you to know

I will never leave you alone

I’ll never go. I’ll never go. I will never let you go

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

CRANKY OLD MAN

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.

Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, They found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.

And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.

Cranky Old Man

What do you see nurses? . . .. . .What do you see?
What are you thinking .. . when you're looking at me?
A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . .. with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food .. . ... . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . .'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . .. . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . ... lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . .The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?. .Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am . . . . .. As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .. . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .. . . .. . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen . . . .. with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . .. . . a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . ..my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . .I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . .. . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . .. With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me . . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, .. ...Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future ... . . . . I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing .. . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . And the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man . . . . . . .. and nature is cruel.
It's jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys . . . . .. . I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . . .. gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .. . . . .. . . open and see.
Not a cranky old man .
Look closer . . . . see .. .. . .. .... . ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. We will all, one day, be there, too!

OH LOVE THAT WILT NOT LET ME GO

George Matheson was only a teenager when he learned that his poor eyesight was deteriorating further. Not to be denied, he continued straightaway with his plans to enroll in Glasgow University and his determination led to his graduating at the age of nineteen. But as he pursued graduate studies for Christian ministry, he became completely blind. His sisters joined ranks beside him, learning Greek and Hebrew to assist him in his studies, and he pressed faithfully on. But his spirit collapsed when his fiancée, unwilling to be married to a blind man, broke their engagement, and returned his ring.

George never married, and the pain of that rejection never totally left him. Years later, his sister came to him, announcing her engagement. He rejoiced with her, but his mind went back to his own heartache. He consoled himself in thinking of God’s love; which is never limited, never conditional, never withdrawn, and never uncertain. Out of this experience it is said he wrote the hymn, “Oh Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go” on June 6, 1882.

George Matheson became a powerful and popular preacher pastoring in the Scottish village of Innellan. Despite his flourishing ministry, there was one winter’s evening when the Sunday night crowd was miserably small. George had worked hard on that particular sermon, but the empty chairs nearly defeated him. Nevertheless, he did his best, not knowing in the congregation was a visitor from the large St. Bernard’s Church in Edinburgh, which was seeking a pastor. As a result, in 1886, he was called to St. Bernard’s where he became one of Scotland’s favorite preachers.

“Make every occasion a great occasion,” Matheson later said, “You can never tell when somebody may be taking your measure for a larger place.”

(from "Then Sings My Soul," by Robert Morgan) 

OH LOVE THAT WILT NOT LET ME GO
George Matheson

O love that wilt not let me go
I rest my weary soul in Thee
I give Thee back the life I owe
That in Thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be

O light that follow’st all m y way
I yield my flickering torch to Thee
My heart restores its borrowed ray
That in Thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be

O joy that seekest me through pain
I cannot close my heart to Thee
I trace the rainbow through the rain
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be

O cross that liftest up my head
I dare not ask to fly from Thee
I lay in dust life’s glory dead
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be

A GRANDDAD & A GRANDSON

I loved my grandparents. They took me in when I was at a very early age and did not have a home. I spent about half of my childhood with them throughout the 1950s. They taught me their verities. Everyday, they told me about the Lord Jesus. And justice. And right. And wrong. And work. That was a start in life.

My grandpa, ol' John P., was 5'11', 180 lb of gristle. He started working in the coal mines when he was 13 years old, then switched to laying brick and farming later on after he moved the family up to Ohio. Some people said that he was the workin'est man they ever saw.

Sunday was his only day off. After church and Sunday dinner, he would pile into his bed in an upstairs bedroom, and you could hear him snoring all over that old farmhouse. Nobody ever had the heart to wake him up. "Daddy's sleepin' " were the only two words you needed to know.

Later on in the day, he would sit out on that rickety old front porch, rocking back and forth. He would carry on an entire conversation while peeling an apple with his pocketknife and eating the slices right off the blade. He would also use that same pocketknife to carve little monkeys from peach seeds. Whenever he finished one, he would laugh like a little child. He would then dip the little monkey in varnish, claiming he was baptizin' it.

I'll never forget how he once pulled me up in his lap and started talkin' to me straight. He held out his hands and said, " Look at them hands." I did. They were gnarly. He was a bricklayer. His hands felt like bricks. He said. "I don't want you to have hands like that when you grow up. I want you to do good in school and make somethin' of yourself. You're a right smart boy and you can make your mind up to be anything you want to be." I wasn't old enough to know that he was giving me his blessing.

John P. was the closest thing to a daddy I ever had. He was gruff and strict and sometimes a little scary, but he never laid a hand on me. He didn't have to. He made me want to do good. He made me want to be a little version of him. Of course, I never even got close to that.

John P. was a leader in our church. For a fact, he was the most natural leader I have ever known. The young people adored him. They loved his jokes and his fairness and how he would listen to them. The congregation made him an officer in the church because they knew the church wouldn't go under as long as he had a dime left. As a matter of fact, he built the church-house with his bare hands, beam by beam and brick by brick. Never charged a nickel. He thought a man ought not to charge the Lord. And he was the first one that those poor people turned to when things got bad.

When he died, I was out in California working for an aerospace company. As I pondered the news that he was gone, it occurred to me that I had hands, but mine were as soft as a baby's. That's what he had wanted. I caught a plane and came back home.

I wrote John P.'s eulogy, and I didn't have to tell a single lie. I talked about his big ol' shoulders, and I talked about his big ol' gnarly hands. I talked about how he walked with his God every day of his life, and how he loved his wife and children, and how he had loved me, and how he had never treated me like I was a burden. The little boy who had received ol' John P.'s blessing so long before had the last word on what kind of man he had been.

(Leslie Kitchen)

REMEMBERING GRANDMA

When I was a child and had no home, my grandmother, Grace Caldwell Bayes, took me in. She looked after me. She cared about me. Such things were at a premium in my spotty childhood.

She was a walking, breathing stereotype, tough as an old boot with a heart of gold. She was born on Mud Creek, in eastern Kentucky, 3 miles south of a godforsaken hamlet by the name of Tram. On the 1920 census she’s listed as Gracie, 10 years old.

By the time I tumbled into her life in the 1950s, she had lived through two world wars and had birthed and raised seven daughters. She had four teeth, untreated diabetes, a bad case of arthritis, and bulging varicose veins.

Despite the aches and pains, I remember her working that old farm in her bare feet, day in, day out, singing songs about Jesus and warning me about the devil. She usually wore a big scarf around her head like a Russian peasant and looked twenty years older than her actual age.

I traipsed after her, wanting to help. Mostly, however, I was an overeager, inept little companion. But I tried to overcome that with my willingness to risk life and limb to win her approval.

We were partners, and we were always doing. Sometimes we would wander out into the fields, foraging for a mess of greens. Other times we would kill a chicken. In the evenings we would sit on the porch and break green beans, and we would play word games and, in the fading light, she would tell me stories about the old times. About bad old times.

I still love words, like she did, and people tell me I’m a story-teller, like she was. I like to think that, like she was, I’m tough as an old boot, and I am certain that whatever kindness lies within me, I gained from her for she was the kindest person I have ever known. All of that is my inheritance. From Gracie, born on Mud Creek.

I’m grown now, grown old now, but I’ll tell you straight out that losing her still cuts through my soul.

-Leslie Kitchen

(Photo - 1957)

THE PROMISE (Lyrics)

The Martins

I never said that I would give you silver or gold
Or that you would never feel the fire or shiver in the cold
But I did say you'd never walk through this world alone
And I did say, don't make this world your home

I never said that fear wouldn't find you in the night
Or that loneliness was something you'd never have to fight
But I did say I'd be right there by your side
And I did say I'll always help you fight

'Cause you know I made a promise that I intend to keep
My grace will be sufficient in every time of need
My love will be the anchor that you can hold onto
This is the promise, this is the promise I made to you

I never said that friends would never turn their backs on you
Or that the world around you wouldn't see you as a fool
But I did say like me, you'll surely be despised
And I did say my ways confound the wise

I didn't say you'd never taste the bitter kiss of death
Or have to walk through chilly Jordan to enter into rest
But I did say I'd be waiting right on the other side (yeah, yeah)
And I did say I'll dry every tear you cry

'Cause you know I made a promise that I've prepared a place
And some day sooner than you think you'll see me face to face
And you'll sing with the angels and a countless multitude
This is the promise, this is the promise I've made to you

So just keep on walkin', don't turn to the left or right
And in the midst of darkness, let this be your light
That hell can't separate us and you're gonna make it through
This is the promise, this is the promise I made to you, oh
This is the promise, this is the promise I made to you