Surprise!

Whitewater rafting down the New River in West Virginia looked like a fun family thing to do one summer. Armed with helmets, paddles, life preservers, and a ten-minute safety course, we put in. The guide perched on the back of the raft, barking orders and issuing warnings. The one thing he kept reminding us about was that Surprise was coming.

The down river venture was a piece of cake. We skimmed a few mild rapids and rammed a few rocks on the way. We laughed when the playful guide purposely threw Ross and Rene’ in the water. We joked our way down the stream, talking about everything under the sun. Whatever Surprise was all about, we knew we could handle it.

Surprise was the locals’ name for a particularly rough section of the New River . The water foamed and swirled like a gigantic washing machine. We hit it driving hard, paddling furiously—-just not furiously enough. I looked over and saw my wife’s’ feet shoot straight up in the air. Into the waves she went! Before I could say a word, the raft tilted sharply. I lost my footing and disappeared over the other side of the raft and into the rapids. I couldn’t believe it—-both of us thrown from the boat!

Unable to breathe, I fought to get to the surface, only to be thrust back down by the churning waves. At that moment, I couldn’t decide if I was in real trouble yet, but I knew something had to happen fast. Just as I felt panic rise to my throat, I realized that the current had carried me toward the quieter water. I stuck my nose and mouth out of the water and gulped in air. Fatigue overwhelmed me.

When they finally pulled me back into the raft, I discovered that the guide had thrown Sandy a rope and had pulled her to safety. I lay on my back in the bottom of the raft and managed a weak laugh. Inside, I was just glad to be alive. Other than Sandy losing her favorite shoes, and all of us gaining a harrowing experience, we were okay.

“Surprise,” Jeremy, our guide grinned. Now I know why the cameras were set up on the banks alongside Surprise. The pictures are hilarious—-now.

This tale from the Jordan vacation is not intended for entertainment purposes. Rather, I have a vivid picture in my mind of the church as the ship of Zion . The wind and the waves challenge everyone aboard. Some have failed to keep their footing as the waters became rough.

Do you find yourself fighting with your schedule in order to be in church services on a regular basis? When you do manage to keep Sundays and Wednesdays free, are you so tired that coming to church seems more of a chore than a joy? After you miss several services, do you feel so guilty about it that you dread showing your face?

Your relationship to God cannot be divorced from your relationship to your church. I firmly believe that to serve God is to be deeply involved in the local assembly of believers. You must not be thrown off. If you are lulled to sleep and think you can survive without faithful and committed involvement in your church, Surprise will teach you a hard lesson.

• Every believer needs preaching—-strong, anointed and often.
• Every believer needs teaching. It keeps us thinking straight.
• Every believer needs to worship God with the church.
• Every believer needs time to pray at the altar.
• Every believer needs fellowship with other saints.
• Every believer needs to be pastored.

Anyone who forfeits a viable and active participation in the church literally chokes off the flow of spiritual food to his or her soul. I have never known anyone who has grown stronger spiritually by staying out of church. On the other hand, I am acquainted with many who have deeply damaged their heart and conscience by lack of attendance. Don’t let that happen to you.

“Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.” Hebrews 10:25.

The day is approaching. It’s more important than ever to get solid footing on the ship of Zion . We are not just rafting down the New River . We are journeying toward our eternal home.

I will be looking for you.

And Then, God Created Grandparents...

Max Lucado writes, “You trace a soft finger across tiny, sleeping eyes, and wonder, “God gave you to me?” Let me tell you…or remind you…about the joys of grandparenting, as opposed to parenting.

Parents stand close…often too close…to their miracle to drink in the wonder of it all. Their focus is on the multitude of tasks, the urgency of care, the responsibility of a new life now living under their roof. The daily dose of relentless pressure presses in on them. In their brief moments of respite, they are more apt to seek a quiet place, a few minutes of uninterrupted peace, rather than to lose themselves in the awe of God’s gift. Oh, they know, and love, and hold, and cuddle and breathe thanksgiving to God, but it is cut short by an eye on the clock. Feeding time, sleeping time, playing time…and then time to do the laundry and time to visit the doctor, and time to run to the store for more diapers and all the other paraphernalia that babies need.

But grandparents…they are a different story. Time means nothing to them. They have time to step back and get totally lost in the bigger picture. They have time to stare into bright, little eyes when sleeping time is over and trace their fingers over the lips protruding with a pitiful cry, around the dainty, pink ears, and beneath the quivering chin. Grandparents have untold quantities of unaccountable time to rock, to feel the little heartbeat and stomach breathing in and out, and be content with no more excitement than an occasional yawn or twitch of the face. They have time to talk hours on end about a dimple, a wrinkle, the shape of a foot or the sound of a whimper. They don’t have to be bothered with feeding times, nap times or all that other nonsense. After all, that’s why God made parents. He specifically made grandparents to coo, and laugh, and hold, and sit in the wonder of divinely created life. Someone had to notice how delicate the ears are, or how perfectly shaped the nose is, or how sweet the cry is, or how cute the tiniest facial expressions are. No one is better suited to do these important jobs than grandparents. Much of God’s finer work would go unappreciated if it were not for grandparents. (I also suspect that many grandparents try to make up in the grandchildren for what they missed in their children.)

Having said all of that, I want to thank Ryan and Megan Jordan for their part in giving us MaKinzie. They are great parents. Maybe great parents is what it takes for grandparents!

A Tribute to Deacon Brown

Several years ago, I returned to my hometown of Jackson , Michigan to pay my respects to one of the finest Christians I’ve ever known, Archie Brown. The life of this man that impacted hundreds of people, including me, was remarkable for both was he was not as well as what he was.

He was not highly educated, boasting only a third grade education. He worked in a tire factory most of his life. He did not teach a Sunday School class nor did he formally head up a ministry. He haled from the north woods of Michigan and had few of the cultural refinements that most of us “city folk” find impressive. Other than singing in the choir and beating a big, slightly out-of-tune bass drum in the church orchestra, he wasn’t among the musical elite.

What he was, however, made whatever he was not pale into insignificance.

He was faithful. Rain, shine, sleet or snow, Brother Brown came to church. He came early and left late. He lived exactly the way he was taught, never varying off course.

He had a servant’s heart. He mowed the grass. He shoveled the snow. He did minor repair jobs. He taxied people to and from church, ran errands for widows and shut-ins, divided up and distributed the Sunday School literature, took care of the details of foot-washing and communion services, and literally did whatever needed to be done around the church.

He was loyal. Not one contrary word ever came out of his mouth toward the leadership of the church. I know because in lived in the pastor’s home. I heard my father say more than once, “Well, I know Brother Brown is with me.” His support was genuine and unwavering.

He loved the truth. Nearly every testimony I heard Brother Brown give during my childhood and youth started out with, “One Lord, one faith and one baptism.” He thrilled at the simple, Apostolic message of the oneness of God and the new birth experience. Often, his shoulders shook, his face took on a sort of twisted, yet joyous look, and he stomped his feet whenever he heard these wonderful truths expounded.

He had the same exuberance and excitement for God everywhere and all the time. If you were somewhat shy, you hoped you didn’t meet up with Brother Brown in the supermarket or walking down the street. “Praise the Lord,” he would always shout. He might even wave his hand or give you a bear hug and declare loud enough for anyone to hear, “God is good, ain’t he!”

He was a pure soul. Brother Brown was, I believe, the most non-self-conscious person I have ever known. He was unabashedly Apostolic. He had no hidden agenda, no guile, and no devious motives. He was what he was.

He was a family man. My dad never took a call from Sister Brown complaining that her husband was not treating her right. He never went “out with the boys” to the neglect of his wife and four children. He commanded the respect of his family because they knew he was real.

He took responsibility seriously. For a man who laughed often and loud, doing the right thing was no laughing matter. He not only took care of his personal and family responsibilities, he shouldered the problems and trials of others as well. If somebody slipped up, there was Brother Brown, quietly taking care of the needs left behind.

He desired no recognition or credit. He never looked for nor needed anyone to pat him on the back and tell him he was doing a good job. If anyone did, he would just smile and say, “God is good, ain’t he!”

Deacon Brown was a real deacon. He made my dad’s job so much easier. I pray that every church would have at least one deacon like him around.

Mabria

Brown jacketed and wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap, Ioannes stood by his simple, white plastered house and stared curiously at the Audi which crept toward him. We rolled to a stop in the vacant lot opposite the house and climbed out of the car.

As we approached this stoop-shouldered, elderly man, he smiled, revealing a set of slipping dentures. His head jerked slightly up and back, customary of Greeks who want to size you up and hear what you have to say. He had spent all of his eighty-five years in these environs of Megalopolis, a fair-sized city in the heart of the Peloponnesus, the southern peninsular land mass of Greece, and was always glad to help lost tourists.

“Are you Ioannes Angelopoulos?” Alan asked him.

“Angelopoulos,” he repeated, somewhat surprised. He gestured with both hands toward his chest, nodding once emphatically. “Ne,” (Greek for yes).

It was my grandfather’s youngest brother. A lump rose in my throat.

Alan went on. “Allow me to introduce you to the grandson of your brother Alexander, Markos, from America.”

“Alexis’ grandson?” He turned and looked at me in disbelief. “Alexis went to America many years ago.”

Ioannes had not seen his brother since Alexis left Greece one dark, long ago night, accompanied by their eldest brother, Constantine. Ioannes was nine years old. His two older brothers were among tens of thousands of Greek immigrants who sailed into New York Harbor in 1910. Alexis never returned. He died on my fifteenth birthday, in 1963. He was sixty-nine.

We hugged, and Ioannes kissed me on each cheek. Pure white hair, thick but nicely cropped, ran out beneath his cap. No glasses obscured his deep-set eyes. His high cheekbones, well-proportioned forehead and jaws had been softened gently by age. The silver flecks of a day-old beard grew from the olive skin, now giving way to age spots, but didn’t hide the evidence of an earlier handsomeness.

“I am very honored that you have come all the way from America to visit me,” he said in a low, controlled voice. “May God bless the memory of your grandfather.”

Georgiana, Ioannes’ wife, met us as we moved toward the house. When Alan explained to her who we were, she took my hand in both of hers and rubbed it warmly. She bubbled with questions.

“How long can you stay? Are you very hungry? I must call my son Costis when he gets home. He lives next door. He will be home soon. Let me fix you something to eat and drink. Come into the house.” I felt as though I belonged.

Someone has said that the Greeks save their best hospitality for strangers, and, I would add, long-lost relatives. Georgiana led us beneath the grapevine canopy at the back of the house and into her small kitchen. When we were seated, she scurried off to the hen house for the eggs. With the help of Costis’ daughter, Georgia, she quickly spread before us a Greek countryside meal; eggs fried in olive oil, tomato salad seasoned with oregano, home grown green beans, and feta cheese which she herself had made from goats milk.

When we were ready to eat, Georgiana gave a round loaf of homemade bread to Ioannes. Slowly, almost ritualistically, he divided it into quarters, cut each quarter into thirds, and handed it out to us. There was a certain dignity about the way he did this, as though it was his very important role. Suddenly, a sense of heritage and the sacredness of the family overwhelmed me. This old gentleman was acting out a scene he had no doubt seen his father do before him. In this simple breaking of bread, the present moment was transformed into a rich, unbroken stream of culture and tradition. The greatest messages are often conveyed in the most unassuming ways.

After dinner, we sat out on the back porch for some Greek coffee, served thick and strong in demitasse cups, and each sip chased down with a drink of cold water. By that time, Costis had joined us, and when we asked directions to the village where the family had its roots, he offered to take us there.

The village of Mabria (pronounced Mah-vree—AH) is remote, even by Greek rural standards. We left the pavement and bounced over seven kilometers of stony, curving road to reach it. Its fifty or sixty structures were situated around the bell-towered Greek Orthodox church. Now inhabited by only forty families, the mainstay of its economy remained sheep and goat herding, unchanged since the days of my grandfather. As Alan maneuvered through the narrow streets, we had to stop twice to let herds of sheep and goats get by. Turning south at the center of Mabria, we drove to the foot of the hill where the old Angelopoulos home still stood.

“This is where Alexis, your grandfather, and all of his brothers were born,” Costis said. “He lived here until he was sixteen years old, and then went to America.”

We trudged up the stony incline for a closer look. It was a small, sturdy, two-storied house, with thick, stone walls and a tile roof. Despite the scars of many years, including damage caused by an earthquake in 1965, it appeared solid. Aside from a recent addition, and the disappearance of its wrought iron balconies, little had changed.

A rock-strewn field, scattered with trees and shrubs, stretched out behind the house. Costis said that when my grandfather and his brothers were school-aged children, they would play for hours on these craggy rocks. If they were playing school, the one sitting on the biggest rock would be the teacher; if they were playing marketplace, he would be the richest merchant. The field spread across the top of the hill and down toward the irregular valley below. Imposing, rose-hued mountains presided over the village. The ruins of a medieval castle, probably erected during the Ottoman-Turkish empire era, were visible from one peak.

A fig tree stood about ten yards off the corner of the house. It was late September, so the figs were ripe. Costis picked one, peeled back the skin, and handed it to me to eat. It was much sweeter and milder than I anticipated, nothing like the processed, candied figs I had eaten in America.

“This tree has stood here for a long time,” he said. “Your grandfather probably ate figs from this same tree.” I discovered later that Alexis had actually planted the tree when he was a boy. It was the sweetest fig I will ever eat.

Slowly, panoramically, I drank in the scene. Time flowed backwards. I melted into the rugged terrain of a village suspended in time.

I heard the shrieks of little olive-skinned boys with black hair and brown eyes as they ran shoeless and scuffled among the big rocks…

I heard the hollow sound of bells clanging on the necks of favorite sheep…

I smelled the aroma of freshly baked, hard-crusted loaves as it drifted from the hot kitchen…

I heard sticks crack against branches laden with olives that cascaded down on sheets spread beneath them…

I saw work horses stall as the plows caught on boulders embedded in the earth…

I also saw expressions drained of hope…

I sensed the unsettledness of lack of opportunity, lack of jobs, a dismal future…

I saw dark, thoughtful eyes stare at rose-hued mountains and wonder what the world was like that lay beyond them…

I felt silence close over the cacophony of lively children.

Mabria’s stark, pastoral setting sighed dispiritedly.

A big Italian ship was scheduled to leave the port of Patras soon and Cos and Alexis had passages booked.

Hope and dread wrestled within both parents and sons.

Tears flowed.

Long embraces were exchanged.

Lanterns swung like fireflies in the night, and Mabria faded into a vague and distant past.

Did Alexis know he would never retrace those steps?

Or did the black-bordered letter he received some twenty years later discourage him from going back? Without his mother, perhaps Mabria had lost all attraction.

Like a long lost friend, my past rose from these grounds to meet me. In touching it, I was assured of the spiritual bond, the sense and substance of belongingness, that defines my essence. I am a link in a chain, a part of a whole, one element that derives its meaning from the rest, and awed by a glorious synergism of people and culture.

Mabria taught me the sacredness of family. I grieve for millions today who have no linkage to history, not even to one generation before them. With no sense of the past, will they have a sense of the future? If they do not know where they came from, will they not care where they are going either?

The family is sacred, yes. All families are. But the overarching lesson is that life is spiritual. Materialism, secularism, living for self and pleasure, are all vapid and unfulfilling in the end.

This I received. I leave it as a legacy for you.

Brothers and Sisters

Brothers and Sisters

“And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?” Genesis 4:8-11

The relationship between brothers and sisters dominates the pages of both the scriptures and of secular literature. The protocols for this relationship lie deeply imbedded in the holy writings, in culture, in legal documents, in social customs, in family traditions and in the actual give-and-take of life situations. Love, hatred, loyalty, betrayal, treachery, devotion, fighting, tenderness—all these elements and many more characterize filial bonds. Even more, the concept of brotherhood and sisterhood transcends genetic ties and holds a general meaning for associations between people who share in the same cause or class. Yet, for all this, the dynamics of the sibling linkage remains largely mysterious. We would all add great richness to our lives if we developed a more complete understanding of what it means to be a brother or a sister.

Famous Brothers and Sisters of the Bible.

Cain and Abel
Jacob and his twelve brothers
Ishmael and Isaac
Jacob and Esau
Rachael and Leah
Moses and Aaron
Moses, Aaron and Miriam
Hophni and Phineas
Absolom, Amnon and Tamar
Peter and Andrew
Martha, Mary and Lazarus
And my personal favorites, Huz and Buz (Genesis 22:21 )

The Bible has certain protocols by which we are to treat brothers or family members.

Deuteronomy 15:1-3 At the end of every seven years thou shalt make a release. 2 And this is the manner of the release: Every creditor that lendeth ought unto his neighbour shall release it; he shall not exact it of his neighbour, or of his brother; because it is called the LORD's release. 3 Of a foreigner thou mayest exact it again: but that which is thine with thy brother thine hand shall release;

Deuteronomy 15:11 For the poor shall never cease out of the land: therefore I command thee, saying, Thou shalt open thine hand wide unto thy brother, to thy poor, and to thy needy, in thy land.

Deuteronomy 24:10 When thou dost lend thy brother any thing, thou shalt not go into his house to fetch his pledge.

Sibling Rivalry

Sibling rivalry basically stems from competition for limited or scarce resources among brother and sisters. In the natural habitat, siblings usually compete for food and will fight with each other until one of them manages to kill or drive the other out. The triumphant individual wins the exclusive use of the food resources available in that area.

In nature there are some extreme cases of sibling rivalry. For example, as baby sharks develop within the mother shark's womb, the biggest baby shark devours all of his brothers and sisters, ensuring for himself all of the available food resources. In another example, eagles make their nests at great heights, in mountains or trees. The first baby eaglet that is born kills all his sibling eaglets by pushing them out from the nest as they come out of their eggs. That way all the food that the mother eagle brings will be only for him.

A similar competition exists between siblings in human families. However, here the scarce resources are the TIME, ATTENTION, LOVE and APPROVAL that the parents can give to each of their children. Looking at this situation in very simple terms, if the parents have only a certain limited amount of exclusive (one-on-one) time to give to ALL their children, it is easy to see that if there is only ONE child in that family, ALL of the parents' available time will be for that only child; if there are TWO children in the family, then each child can have HALF of the parents' time; if there are THREE children, then each child gets a THIRD; if there are FOUR, then each one gets a FOURTH of their time; and so on.

That this is indeed the case can be seen by simply looking at most families' photo albums. Looking through these albums, one can see that there are usually many pictures of the birth and first year of their first-born child. For the second child, there are fewer pictures. And, from the third child on, one may have a hard time finding pictures of them in the album - it's as if they didn't even exist!

Life with Brothers and Sisters

Even though they share a room, Jennifer, 15, hasn't spoken to her sister, Nicole, in more than a week. "Nicole is always taking my clothes and wearing them without asking," Jennifer complains. "Last week was the last straw. I found my new sweater tossed in the laundry room, and it had a big stain on it. When I asked Nicole about it, she acted like she had no idea what I was talking about."

Ryan, 16, says he's tired of his younger brother, Sean, 13, hanging around when his friends are over. "He's such a pest," Ryan says. "Every time my friends come over, Sean turns into my shadow and wants to do whatever my friends and I are doing. I wish Sean would find some friends of his own and leave me alone."

Treasuring the Relationship

As I have written in the piece named “Carol,” my eldest sister died suddenly on March 26, 2007 . I did not know it at the time, but I have been deeply affected by her loss. I had many things that I wanted to and should have shared with her, but I just didn’t. I can blame it on the distance or my busyness, but the fact is that I wasted all the opportunities. I filled up my time with things that were way down on the priority list. Someone once said, “Urgency is the tyranny of the important.” Now that Carol’s death has taken her from this life, denying the enjoyment of a living relationship with her, the lost treasure of her life seems infinitely more pronounced to me.

The role of a sibling is much more than most of us make it. Several important factors make this obvious. A finite number people in the entire world share the same parents. Blood relationship binds brothers and sisters together beyond any bond they have with others. While marriage changes the dynamics of that relationship in many important ways, marriage doesn’t destroy genetics, loyalty to parents and shared experiences of childhood. These precious elements of closeness will never be duplicated and must not be lost.

As they grow older, many siblings do not communicate very well with each other, beyond superficialities. “Opening up to each other” means exposure, vulnerability and revealing hidden thoughts. That can be dangerous. Siblings can be too guarded, too sensitive and too obstinate with each other. Perhaps it’s because they continue to play out the petty conflicts they had growing up. In many cases, they still compete with each other, only instead of racing or wrestling, they compete with cars, homes, possessions, bank accounts, education, etc. Some still rival each other for the attention and favor of their parents. Old jealousies, spats and attempts to irritate each other stay alive. Adults siblings should accept that those days are over and they are no longer rivals.

Past events tend to mold and shape present relationships. Interpersonal dynamics can be shaped by many things (e.g. words, acts, attitudes). Present behavior follows templates established long ago. Siblings may instinctively put up their guard around each other for these reasons. Instead of sharing their thoughts, they suppress them because of fear, rejection or ridicule. Tragically, suppressed feelings create unnecessary pain and forfeit potential fulfillment that ought to be experienced in the familial relationship.

Brothers and sisters who fail to express love or approval for each other cause great emotional damage. This is actually a cruel form of manipulation. Here’s how it happens: Subconsciously, one of them acts in a way that says, “You must earn my love or approval. Giving it to you, however, may make you stop doing what I want you to do. Therefore, I will never give it to you.” Withholding love and approval force a sibling to keep working for it. Withholding love and approval may lead siblings to believe they are unloved and unworthy. This can develop painful emotions and creates baggage for life. How bad can it get? Heinous crimes or suicides often result from a sense of being unloved or unworthy.

Many brothers and sisters use physical distance between their places of residence to bury unpleasant feelings and live a relatively stress-free life. It may insulate them against further hurt, but it is just managing or coping, not resolving. We shrink our souls into small boxes that leave out much of the beauty of life. These defense mechanisms really short-change our happiness and impoverish our lives. If siblings treat each other in such a way that they can’t be open and honest with each other, or if they are superficial or silent with each other, then they have cost themselves the benefit and beauty of having a brother or a sister.

Joseph serves as the model for sibling relationships. A more beautiful story, whether in the Bible or out, cannot be found that surpasses Joseph’s encounter with his traitorous brothers. Read it again just to renew the full impact of Joseph’s decision. Genesis 45:1-5. “Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him; and he cried, Cause every man to go out from me. And there stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren. And he wept aloud: and the Egyptians and the house of Pharaoh heard. And Joseph said unto his brethren, I am Joseph; doth my father yet live? And his brethren could not answer him; for they were troubled at his presence. And Joseph said unto his brethren, Come near to me, I pray you. And they came near. And he said, I am Joseph your brother, whom ye sold into Egypt . Now therefore be not grieved, nor angry with yourselves, that ye sold me hither: for God did send me before you to preserve life.” Pragmatically speaking, his brothers meant nothing to Joseph. According to anyone’s standards, they deserved to be severely punished for their monstrous crime of selling him into slavery. Moreover, Joseph had all the necessary power to enforce their just penalty. What prevented him from carrying it out? I am convinced that his profound respect for his blood relationship to them, plus his undying love for his father, outweighed any sense of retribution he may have received by executing them. His actions stand as a powerful testimony to the value of the family.

Questions:

When is the last time you told your brothers or sisters that you love them?
Do you send birthday cards, Christmas cards, or other greetings to them?
Do you go see them or call them regularly?
Do you still hold a grudge against them for a wrong they committed?
When a brother or sister compliments you, how do you feel?
If they never have, how would you feel if they did? (After smelling salts were administered!)
Do you still look up to a brother or sister? (Have you told him or her?)
Do you still think of a younger brother or sister as a pest or refuse to take them seriously?
Do you still seek approval or love from a brother or sister?

The slightest amount of work on your relationship with a brother or sister promises to yield wonderful and immediate results. You will tap into a source of joy and strength that you never dreamed existed. There’s the phone. Get started.

Five Secret High-Impact Words and Phrases for Husbands

Want to make a greater impression on your wife and improve your marriage? Learn these five words and phrases by heart and use them generously. They will have an immediate and powerful effect. They would have even cheered up Queen Victoria, who always seemed pretty unhappy to me.  Of course, using them seriously will end up costing you, but there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Besides, the payback will far outweigh the expense.

1. “Now.”

“I will make that call now.”
“I will schedule that job now.
“In fact, I will run down to the store now and get the stuff I need.”
“I will pick up those clothes now.”

The last thing your wife wants to hear is another lame excuse for doing something later. Chances are that the particular chore in question has stared you in the face far too long anyway. When you say “now”, however, you send a message that her desires jump to the head of the things-to-do list. First, the immediate response satisfies the urgency of the need. Second, stopping whatever you’re doing and turning your attention to the task at hand conveys the feeling of priority to her. And, under normal circumstances, acting now rather than later invites a warm and grateful feeling in return.

2. “What else?”

After you’ve completed a certain task for your wife, take the time to ask her what else you can do. Think about it. You are there; you are ready; you are in a mood to accomplish something. While it may not be the most convenient time, it will certainly be more convenient than coming back some other time. Most important, her esteem for you will skyrocket because you are truly focusing on her needs, wants and welfare. Remember, Jesus taught us to give the cloak as well as the coat and to go the second mile. Doing the minimum has no place in a Christian’s conduct and attitude. When you do more than asked or expected, you invest into immense good will and gratitude.

3. “What do you think?”

It galls some men to admit that someone else, especially their spouse, may have a better idea. Nothing is more damaging to your relationship, however, than to continually override or ignore input from your wife. When you ask her what she thinks about something, you show that you are not the megalomaniac that she has perhaps accused you of being from time to time (in her honest moments.) And—-perish the thought—-your wife actually may have a better idea! She certainly will have a different perspective than you, and she may know some additional facts about the situation that you lack.

4. “I’ll try.”

When you’re asked to do something that you feel incapable of doing, don’t cover it up by talking big about your abilities. When you say, “I’ll try,” you show that your spirit is willing, although your flesh may be weak. You are not expected to be able to do everything, but you can give it your best shot. The value in that kind of attitude shows up in the impact it has on your marriage relationship. You can at least try.

5. “Just you.”

“I just want to be with you.” “I just want to know what you want (think, like, feel). For your spouse, those words have almost as much meaning and positive value as “I love you” does. They demonstrate respect and high esteem. They underscore the fact that you have an exclusive relationship with her and her alone. Your wife will do almost anything for you when you show this kind of spirit toward her.

Great relationships are not based on complicated strategies, but on simple, down-to-earth attitudes. Your marriage can show marked improvement by using these simple suggestions. It’s worth trying.

Carol

Carol Jordan Wilkinson

1938-2007

My oldest sister, Carol Wilkinson, died suddenly on March 26, 2007 at the age of sixty-nine. Many of the folks at First Apostolic Church did not know her because she lived nearly 600 miles away, in Union City, Tennessee, and didn’t get to travel often. After her husband’s retirement in 2005, he suffered heart problems and had a knee replacement. It was only this spring that he was able to start enjoying his retired status. They planned an Easter vacation back north, but Carol left us two weeks before the trip. Besides her husband, she left two sons, a daughter, and seven grandchildren.

For the last two years, Carol served as my Mother’s primary care-giver. Since the rest of us were—-and still are—-immersed one hundred per cent in our ministries, she was the only one who could provide a home for my Mother and she watched over her 24/7. We knew that this was a huge task and we were extremely grateful. But circumstances aside, Carol wanted to take care of Mother. She had a special relationship with her since she was the first child born to my Mother and Father after their very first baby, Marion, died at ten months old with diphtheria.

At her home-going service, the family asked me to represent them. Even though our church in Toledo did not know her well, I still want to share the following reflections with you that I gave there.

Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor—

Bare.

But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light.

So, boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps.

‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now—

For I’se still goin’, honey,

I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

(Langston Hughes)

My sister, Carol, taught me this poem when I was about four years old. This is one of our family’s most poignant memories of her, certainly it is of mine.

Carol Wilkinson was born a star. She was the first grandchild in the Anderson family, after the death of Marion Rose, and the oldest in our immediate family. But she really was a star, an undiscovered talent. She was dramatic, musical and artsy. She had a flare for style and décor, and knew, among many other things, how to make a Christmas present look like a million dollars.

Carol was always beautiful in whatever she wore, however she fixed her hair and whatever age she happened to be in any given year. She turned heads whether her hair was black, mixed gray or pure white. She had an off-beat sense of humor and often laughed at well-crafted words, phrases and delicious irony. While she was intellectual and had wide-spread interests, she was also folksy and down-to-earth.

In terms of her attitude, Carol was always non-judgmental, always willing to hear the other person’s point of view.  She was largely self-deprecating, and quite self-conscious…at least as an adult. As a rather precocious child, however, she did like the spotlight. When she was about six, she declined to sing a solo in church. “Why won’t you sing, Carol?” “Because, there’re not enough people here!” she replied.

In church, Carol always got involved, usually in the music area, but also in leadership. Deeply spiritual and often engaged in prayer, she had a special relationship with God. She was used of God in the gifts of the Spirit and loved good preaching and solid Bible teaching. Loving and forgiving, she made everyone feel like they were a unique gift of God. Her family, of course, was at the top of her list.

Jim, we thank you for loving Carol. You came into her life at a difficult time and gave her meaning and direction. She loved you very much. The family is also very grateful to Carol for taking care of our mother for the last two years. When she was called upon, she did her duty with faithfulness and love.

To her family, Todd, Andrea and David, today may seem like a surreal moment…but, reality often comes disguised as a dream. As the days beyond this day stretch out into the weeks and months ahead, however, you will embrace a greater reality…the reality of an eternal future. She’s there now, with Daddy and Terry, waiting…

One final note…When my mother-in-law, Vera Kinzie passed away, Carol emailed me this response:

Dear Mark,

Sis Kinzie will be deeply mourned by us. We may not have been around her much in the past years since moving here but we loved and respected her. She truly was a great lady and woman of God who is now gathered up in the arms of her creator and Lord whom she served so diligently through her lifetime. I wish part of her spirit of service could be transferred somehow to me.

Love to all the family,

             Carol and Jim

I find myself waiting for another email from her. I loved you, Carol. I didn’t tell you enough.

Back Pain

The raw material for every writer is personal experience. My raw material for this piece comes at the courtesy of raw pain. Back pain. Pain that, in one nanosecond, lunges from dull ache to intense stabbing; that spreads from vaguely regional to precision locations; that makes itself heard from low moans to blood-curdling screams; that finds relief only in rolling around on the floor seeking an unattainable position that makes it stop hurting. But you have little interest in hearing about my pain. My bouts with x-rays, spine manipulation, ice packs, hot pads, electrode stimulators, injections, muscle relaxers, Motrin, Darvocet and all the other related trials and tribulations, remedies and treatments would bore all but the most macabre among us.

What you want to know is why. Why pain? What good is it? Why doesn’t it go away when the one thing we beg God for is to make it go away? And, oh yeah, we beg alright. I’m the biggest baby of all, begging God for relief, however slight, and strongly hinting to him that I don’t deserve this (therefore, he should be ashamed of himself in permitting me to hurt like this). I never quite heard his answer because, frankly, I was too busy moaning and rolling around on the floor. Later, I wondered why he wanted to humiliate me by forcing me to roll around in a wheelchair in front of the whole congregation.

Pain is bad. It makes us lose time off work. It makes us extremely selfish. We obsess on it so much that we pay scant attention to anyone else. It makes us cranky and hateful. We become big burdens to family and friends. Our lives come to a standstill until we can get rid of the pain. It can get expensive. Medicine, treatments, or surgeries cost enormous amounts of money. Besides all of that, it just makes us feel yucky. It brings out the worst in us. A person in pain is a miserable human being.

Jeremiah asked, “Why is my pain perpetual, and my wound incurable, which refuseth to be healed? wilt thou be altogether unto me as a liar, and as waters that fail?” The prophet must have had back pain. It seems perpetual and defies a cure. It even makes one think that the God who promises healing is a liar. But then Jeremiah makes an astounding revelatory statement: “ Therefore thus saith the LORD… if thou take forth the precious from the vile, thou shalt be as my mouth.” Jeremiah 15:18-19 KJV. He admonished the saints to take the precious from the vile. In other words, even vile pain has a precious quality to it that must not be cast aside with the pain.

Just because pain is bad doesn’t mean it is all bad. Like anything else that comes along unexpectedly in life, pain catapults us into a brand new dimension of thought. And the good of pain goes beyond the obvious incentive to pray. Everybody knows that. Far more important, pain makes us reflect. We reflect on all the hours we wasted when we felt good. We reflect on how fortunate we were when we were not in pain. Health takes on a virtue that cannot possibly be understood without the backdrop of pain that sharpens the contrast. Hours of pain make us appreciate the few delicious seconds or minutes of relief that trickles down to us. It also humbles us to know that vast numbers of people deal with far worse pain, whether physical, emotional, psychological or spiritual.

Pain belongs to this dimension. Even saints have pain. The scripture, “there shall be no more pain” is set in heaven, when time shall be no more. Until then, we will deal with our share of pain, knowing that Christ has the cure to relieve us, and is the cure for us, even while we find ourselves in the midst of the pain.