I PRAY THE LORD MY SOUL TO KEEP

“Do not weep; she is not dead, but sleeping.” 

Luke 8:52

I fought with what I had in me just to get back to where you are- the place where I left you.  I admit I thought it was only momentary, I now see my separation was more permanent than temporary.  Every part of me that was whole came apart.  I swung my greatest punch before being knocked down by my opponent.  He was greater than me- greater than the You I supposed was in me.  How overwhelmed I felt and was when I discovered I merely had a form of godliness but no power.  I now recall Paul saying, "I no longer live..." but I wished I had not forgotten his words beyond that.   (Pause.)  "But Christ," Paul continued.  Maybe I had not forgotten those two words, "but Christ"; Now I see that I just did not use them effectively.  You see, I continued to make excuses using those exact words, "But Christ, it's too hard"; "But Christ, I can't"; But Christ..."  In this very moment that I am existing, I desperately want to live what Paul penned, "But Christ who lives in me" but I cannot.  The heaviness of this world has pressed me beneath the earth.  So how do I push up when I am so far under?  Have mercy on me, I pray, and use your powerful word like a spade and dig me out of this once hollow grave.  My only hope is knowing that if it had not been for the separation of my spirit from my flesh, the same flesh that I am buried in, that made me fall, I would be eternally fastened to this enemy clinging to my bones.

Will you reach into the ground that was formed by your breath and rescue me from the noise of this death that surrounds me?  And Father, if by chance that there is still something in me that can be lifted up from this sunken hole, let it be my heart being lifted to you; the heart that I had given to you long ago.  If it is still possible, fuse my heart with your heart so that you and I are one.  The very thing you have desired for us since before I was formed in my mother's womb.  I pray, please don't tell me it's too late.  Please don't tell me it's impossible especially to you for whom nothing is impossible.  (Breath.) 

Now I lay me down to sleep.  I pray the Lord my soul to keep.  If i should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

New Book Release: From The Pages of Their Diaries

An excerpt  from the book, From The Pages of Their Diaries

by Lisa Evans

“Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God; and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God.  He who does not love does not know God, for God is love.” 

1 John 4:7-8

We were hurt, rejected, abused, and forgotten. We cried, we got angry, and we retaliated.  Alas, though it took us some time, we learned that we could not blame anyone for the hurt that we encountered as we sought to find love.  The men who inflicted pain on our hearts did not genuinely know the love of God.  Likewise, we were afflicted because we did not know God’s love either.  Men and women equally play a part in the great disconnect between what God’s love is and what man’s love has become.

Love is not something exclusively for beautiful women, rich women, “lucky” women, or perfectly sized ten women; love is an intricate part of every woman’s make-up.  We were created in love and out of the love that God had for us.  This would explain why the pursuit of or for love drives us into relationships that, in many cases, are more damaging than rewarding.  Have you ever wondered if there is anyone else in the world that has been through what you’ve gone through and is willing to admit it?  Talk about it?  Who knows the real story behind the pain you withstood all in the pursuit of love?  From the Pages of Their Diaries are entries from the diaries of women who longed to be loved but discovered that love was not an easy find, particularly when one looks for it outside of the will of God. 

As you turn the pages of this book, perhaps you will be able to identify some of these women.  Maybe these women are women you know personally: your mother, your aunt, your sister, or your friend.  You might possibly discover that one or more of these women could even be telling your story as written in your own private diary. 

Whatever reason exists as to why you have chosen to read this book, I hope that you will read it in light of the women that you know or have heard about who fit the descriptions of the women on these pages.  I pray that you take the pledge to send From the Pages of Their Diaries to women who need to understand that real love, genuine love begins with knowing God. 

To order your copy contact:  Thisisyourseason@yahoo.com or Lisa.evans67@yahoo.com only $10.00 plus shipping.  http://www.facebook.com/pages/From-the-Pages-of-Their-Diaries/323373161015263

A Cause to Pray

God sat enthroned before the altar of prayer; His warring angels were standing on each side of Him.  All of heaven could see the overwhelming, hostile attacks against the broken-hearted, and the angels assigned to them were prepared to retaliate against the evil injustice that was being done.  God wanted to release heaven into the earth, but He was waiting for His children to simply pray.  Each day, these  angels were hopeful that someone would pray to God for the broken-hearted; they wanted to take flight in the spiritual realm and win victories for those too weak to pray for themselves.  Since the angels were not privy to hear the prayers offered to God, they waited for God to give them the command to join the others battling in war.  One person after another came to the altar but none remembered to pray specifically for those who were hopeless, in despair, and grief-stricken.  The angels stood with their swords drawn from their sheaths…but God was silent.  If He couldn’t find anyone to pray for the broken-hearted who burdened His heart, then God would do as He had done in the past- He would strike the mark Himself and make intercession.  After all, the people were His.  God was willing to clothe Himself and fight against the evil that tormented His people and kept them under a deep, dark cloud.  At the end of the eleventh hour, just about midnight, a man knelt down at his bedside to pray.

Peter Maddox had fond memories of his early childhood.  Having been raised in a Christian home by loving parents who were missionaries, Peter had the kind of adventures that most kids could only dream about.   He would never forget the exciting places he got to visit or the unusual people he met; even the trip to the local Missionary Store thrilled him.  This unique store featured handcrafted products by local Christians and proceeds from each sale was used to meet local and global needs by supporting such projects as building orphanages, providing medicines for medical centers, and supplying third world countries with Bibles. 

After his mother took ill, Peter wanted to forgo all activities that took him away from home so he could be close to her side as much as possible.  However, his mother insisted that he continue with his normal routines.  She wanted to do all she could to keep Peter’s mind on something other than the illness that had plagued her.  Likewise, his father wanted to keep as much stability in Peter’s life as he could, considering the things around him were quickly changing.    

On his last trip to the Missionary Store with his father just before his mother passed away, Peter found something he wanted to buy for his mother… a teddy bear that happened to have the same name as his.  This bear, Peter Prayz, came with a prayer commitment card and a list of areas where prayer was needed, such as healing for the sick.  Although Peter didn’t know what the word commitment meant, he understood that his mother was sick and needed healing.  He hurried over to his father with the bear in his hand.

“I see you found something, huh?”

“Yes, but what does commitment mean?” he asked handing the bear to his father.

Peter listened attentively as his father explained the word commitment and how it works alongside of prayer.  “And prayer,” his father concluded, “makes the difference in the lives of others.”   

Over the next couple of months, Peter spent more time praying in the family prayer room than one might expect from a ten-year old.  However, as his mother’s condition worsened, Peter’s faith weakened and his devotion to pray waned greatly.  After she passed away, Peter refused to go anywhere near the prayer room; and at the mercy of an angry, broken-hearted young boy, Peter Prayz suffered much affliction.   At times, Peter used Peter Prayz as a wrestling opponent which he plummeted repeatedly and practiced chokeholds and other twisted wrestling moves.  When Peter wasn’t in hand-to-hand combat with Peter Prayz, he put the bear down on the ground while he rode his skateboard over it's poly filled body.  One day after nearly severing the bears’ arms, Peter yanked and pulled at the bears’ eyes until the shiny round buttons snapped off in his hands; he then hurled them across the room and watched as they ricocheted off the wall.   Once, Cush, the family dog, tried to come into Peter’s room, and Peter used the bear as a weapon.   Cush snagged the bear in his mouth, and he and Peter contended like opposing teams at tug of war.  Peter wiggled the bear back and forth until it was freed minus an ear which Cush later buried in the backyard.  Eventually, Peter Prayz ended up on the floor in the back of Peter’s bedroom closet.  It would be many years later before the bear would resurface and be in the hands of that same little boy who was now a man.

As Peter drove into town, he was surprised to see that not much had changed except for a few remodeled buildings, some newly paved streets, and another restaurant had opened.  All of these improvements made this quaint town more city-like.  Peter had not been home in more than five years; prior to that, he had only made a visit or two during the holidays.  However, even those visits were sporadic and inconsistent; it seemed being inconsistent was the only thing he was consistent at.

If his memory served him well, Tyler Bridge would be just ahead.  There it is!  Tyler Bridge meant his father’s house was less than twenty-five miles away.  On the other side of the bridge was the Missionary Store- that is, if it was still open for business.  Peter didn’t have a great deal of money, but he wanted to get his father something as a peace offering. He was glad to see that the store was still there; it was just as he remembered, operating with the same vision to raise money for global needs.  After he calculated how much he needed for food and gas to get back home, he browsed the store searching to buy something nice within his modest budget.  On the “Manager’s Special” table sat the perfect gift for his father… an oil painting of a lighthouse amidst a stormy sea.  The picture adequately depicted their relationship.  He had been the raging waters constantly crashing against his father on every side.  Regardless of the stages and storms in Peter’s life, his father, like the lighthouse, remained steadfast and determined.  Uncertain if he needed to explain the gift, he figured he should be prepared with a few brief words just in case. 

Peter hadn’t told his dad that he was coming home.  He wanted to, even tried to, but he couldn’t seem to muster up the courage.   However, the journey home thus far gave him a good feeling.  With the windows of his 1987 Chevy S10 rolled down and the summer breeze passing through warming his face, Peter wondered if that good feeling would last throughout his weekend stay.  As he passed by what used to be Maynard’s apple orchid, he grinned.  He could still hear old man Maynard yelling out from the porch at Peter and his friends.  “Get on!  Do ya’ here me?  Get on!”   They were reckless boys who knew better but just didn’t do better. 

As he came to the winding road leading to his father’s house, he reduced his speed and then came to a complete stop in a swirl of dust.  He took a deep breath and rested his forehead on the backside of his hands as they tightened around the steering wheel.  Come on Peter.  You’ve made it this far.   You can do this.  He raised his head, slowly took his foot off the brake and resumed driving.   

Driving up, Peter could see that time and a fresh coat of paint had been kind to his father’s house.  Nearing the front door with his duffle bag and the gift wrapped oil painting in his hands, he wondered if the key on his key ring still worked.  He dared not try the key; after all, this was no longer his home.  At least that’s what he screamed at his father the day he left for good.  Shifting the things from his right hand to his left and then back again bought him a few more seconds to pull his thoughts together.  When he looked up, his father was standing at the storm door looking at him through the wire mesh screen.

The silence seemed to widen the distance between them which gave Peter an uneasy feeling.    

“Peter? Is that you, son?”

“Yes, sir.  It’s me.”

His father unhooked the latch and slowly pushed the door open.  Peter stepped aside giving way for the door to swing wide, and then stepped back propping it open with his shoulder.  He didn’t know if he should hug his father or shake his hand, which one really didn’t matter just as long as he felt his father’s touch again.  When he stared into his father’s eyes, his heart sank.   The feeling of guilt and shame crept over him so quickly that his knees buckled.  He wanted to collapse right there on the front porch, but he had come too far, driven too long to miss out on any more time to spend with his father.   So, he steadied himself.  Sensing his son’s discomfort, his father stepped towards him.  Peter bowed his head as familiar arms wrapped around him evoking tears accompanied by a sudden case of the sniffles.  His father knew that the embrace was necessary.

Now that they had gotten past the initial reunion, Peter and his father could do their best to catch-up on the last five years plus.  They sat and talked for hours until the sun finished her shift and the moon had clocked in for the third watch. 

“Tomorrow, we’ll go into town and get the hardware we need to hang the picture.  Do you remember your way around the house?  Where everything is?”

“I’m sure I can find my way.”

“I always believed you would.  Good night, son.”

As his father turned left and walked down the hallway to his room, Peter went right to his old bedroom.  Not much had changed in the room except that the twin bed he had as a young boy had been replaced with a full size bed.   Peter yawned, tossing his duffle bag on the bed.  The hour was late; he still needed to shower to wash off the dust from the long drive home.   He quietly fumbled around in the hallway linen closet for a towel and wash cloth being careful not to wake his father.  Peter turned on the water; a hot shower was exactly what his tired body needed.  Initially, it seemed as if low water pressure blocked a strong stream of water, but after he let the shower run for a few minutes, the water eventually flowed freely.   Peter thought the shower head could be another project he and his father could work on tomorrow... together.  Finishing up, Peter then dried himself off and dressed for bed. 

Peter tossed and turned for two hours.  He couldn’t blame the bed for his restlessness, because it was much more comfortable than the palette of blankets bawled on the floor back home that he was accustomed to.  He knew that coming home wasn’t just about reconciling with his father, there was still the issue surrounding his hurt from his mother’s death that needed to be resolved.   Peter got out of the bed and walked outside of his room.  He stood in the hallway contemplating what he knew he had to do.

A dim light peeped through the door of the room next to his.  Entering the room, Peter pressed against the slightly ajar door looking in with wonderment.  The prayer room.   Inside, Peter’s eyes scanned the floor to ceiling bookshelves and numerous books his father had collected.  There were more books in that one room than Peter had ever read in his lifetime.  He ran his fingers along the spine of some of the books:  Spurgeon, Swindoll, Jakes, Stanley, Thomas, Chambers, Maxwell, and the list of authors went on and on.  Books weren’t the only thing his father had as a keepsake; there were family pictures framed and displayed throughout the room.  The wedding photos of his father and mother, Peter’s baby pictures, and various other snapshots of the three of them hung on the walls as well. 

Everything about the room was inviting, including the pleasant scent that filled the air.  Peter soon discovered that a square bottle labeled frankincense and myrrh with tiny sticks pointing upward was the reason for the intoxicating fragrance.  Peter turned around and sitting plumb in the middle of the room was the old wooden chair- just as Peter remembered.  When Peter was a young boy, he inquired about the uncomfortable chair.  His father had replied, “This uncomfortable wooden chair keeps me humble; it reminds me that Christ died an uncomfortable death on a wooden cross for my sins.” 

As he came around to the front of the chair, he noticed the worn out teddy bear sitting there.  There was something familiar about the bear.  At first, Peter couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was and then it dawned on him; it was Peter Prayz, the bear he’d given to his mother.   In an instance, it seemed as if his heart had been torn open and all of the hurt he had harbored was painfully being pulled out.  He was finally able to admit that he was angry:  He was angry with his mother for dying; he was angry with his father for letting her die; and he was angry with himself because he had hated them both so unnecessarily.  As he sat holding Peter Prayz, all he could do was weep. 

Peter’s father lay awake in bed listening as his son’s cries echoed throughout the house.  He knew that there wasn’t anything he could do to ease the discomfort that comes along with the healing process.  He could tell that his son had had a difficult life.  In many ways, even for him, life had thrown some hard punches his way.  The years he spent without a relationship with his son were extremely difficult and had certainly taken a toll on him. 

His son had returned home and they were given another chance to mend their relationship, but this new start for a happy ending wasn’t the case for every family.  He began to think about how many parents were broken-hearted because sons and daughters had walked away from them or the number of children who were hurting because their parents had turned their backs on them.  He slipped out of bed and took a position on the floor to pray.  His prayer focus was on reconciliation and restoration for the broken-hearted.

As Peter’s father kneeled down, God looked to his left and to his right.  The angels were armed and ready; they were at God’s disposal for whatever He had need of night or day.  God gestured and released the angels to take flight into the spiritual realm to war.  One angel after another after another until legions was released, yet there were still troops of angels that remained around the throne of God.  “The noise of the wings of the living creatures that touched one another, and the noise of the wheels beside them, and a great thunderous noise”[i] was heard throughout the heavenlies on behalf of one man who realized there was a cause to pray.

---

[i] Ezekiel 3:13

The Sunday Evening Toast

“And these stones shall be for a memorial to the children of Israel forever.”  Joshua 4:7 (NKJV)

Mom was finishing up dinner while Dad was at the kitchen window peeping through the venetian blind at Ben and Francine sitting on the front porch. 

“Russell,” Mom said warning, “will you leave those two alone?”

“I heard a car door.  I thought Greg might drop by.”

“You told me Greg was out of town visiting his mother.”

Dad felt like a trapped animal with his foot caught in a snare.  Mom just stood there staring at him while he tried to wiggle his way free.

“Oh, just admit it Russell.  You’re gonna miss her as much as I am.”

Papa Joe’s timing to come into the kitchen could not have been more perfect.    

“Hm, dinner smells ready.  How long before we eat?” Papa Joe said rubbing his pot belly stomach and eying the chicken.

“I’m finishing up the gravy now.”

“What’s Russell over there doing?”  Papa Joe asked, tasting a piece of the chicken leg.

“Crying the blues; I think he’s gonna have a harder time letting go of Francine than I am.”

 “I heard that, and I am not crying,” Russell replied defensively. 

“It’s hard to believe that in six days, Franny will be Mrs. Benjamin Abraham.”   Mom watched from the corner of her eye as Papa Joe pulled another piece of the chicken off and ate it.

“They grow up so fast,” Mom said.  She pretended as though the chicken platter was in her way so she moved it to another counter space away from Papa Joe.  “Now, where did I put that gravy bowl?” she pondered.  Then she opened the cabinet door and pushed some things from one side to the other searching for it.

While Dad was peeping through the blinds, and Mom was busy looking for the gravy dish, Papa Joe eased his way over to the chicken platter.  He tugged at another piece of the chicken until it broke lose then shoved it into his mouth and savored the well seasoned morsel.    As soon as Mom turned back around, Papa Joe swallowed fast and looked at her innocently.  She, knowing he was guilty, gave him a suspicious glance with one eyebrow raised, and then went back to stirring the gravy.  He knew he would be pressing his luck if he tried to steal another taste, so he redirected his attention elsewhere. 

 “Russell, she’s only getting married for crying out loud! She’s leaving the country.  Try not to let it worry you.”

“Who’s worried?  Me worried?  I’m not worried,” Dad assured Papa Joe with much apprehension.  “Claire’s the one running around the house crying about her baby is getting married.  Not me, I’m as cool as they come.” Dad turned back around and pried the blinds open so he could get look at Francine.   He didn’t expect her to be standing at the window looking in.    “Oh, Lord!” he screamed, staggering backwards nearly knocking the basket of rolls on the floor.

“Watch out!”   Mom yelled barely catching the basket from toppling over.

Francine rushed inside with Ben following closely behind. “Dad, are you all right?  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to startle you.  I was peeking to see if dinner was done,” she explained.

Mom shook her head and breathed a trio if “hmphs” under her breath.  She wasn’t sure if Russell would make it six more days let alone down the aisle without passing out.  Papa Joe thought the whole spectacle was hilarious.  He had a hearty laugh but tried to cover it up with a bogus cough when Dad looked over at him.

“Dinner is ready,” Mom announced.

“Francine, would you do me the honor of letting your dad escort you into the dining room?  I can practice how I’m going to walk you down the aisle.”

“Here honey,” mom said handing Francine a bowl of vegetables, “just pretend it’s your wedding bouquet.  Ben, bring the chicken before Papa Joe eats it all up.”

“Now Claire, I only had a small pinch.

“A small pinch?  Papa Joe, that chicken had two legs when I took it out of the oven, now look at it.”

“I thought love kept no record of wrong.”

“Are you admitting that you wronged that bird?”

“Isn’t there something I can do to help with dinner?”  Papa Joe asked changing the subject.

 “Bring the salad out of the refrigerator, and don’t forget the dressing.”

Papa Joe absolutely adored Claire and Russell; he moved in a short while after his wife, Pearl, passed away.  Even though he was unrelated to the Lankers, he had been a part of their lives for over twenty-five years. 

After dinner, Francine’s dad took his knife and gently clanged the side of his water glass.  “Huh-hum, I have a very important announcement to make.”  He held his glass up as though making a toast.  “Claire,” he said to his wife of more than thirty years, “this was the best meal you have ever cooked.  Thank you.”

Francine giggled leaning over to rest her head on Ben’s shoulder.  Dad made that same announcement after every Sunday meal, even if they ate at a restaurant. 

“Ben, since you’re practically part of the family, why don’t you make the evening toast.”

Francine sat up so Ben could stand.  The Sunday evening toast was a Lanker family tradition.      

Ben stood.  “Thanks dad,” he said proudly.  “Tonight, I would like my beautiful bride-to-be to join me in the toast.”

Francine tossed her dinner napkin onto her plate and slid out of her chair to join Ben at his side.

Mom gently squeezed dad’s arm while whispering, “That’s nice.” 

“It’s ironic that you would have me to give the evening toast.  Francine and I have a few things we would like to say to say.”  Ben looked at Francine for her to continue where he left off.

“Ben and I have talked in great detail about our wedding how we wanted a traditional wedding.  However, when it came to the something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue tradition for the bride, Ben and I thought we would do something untraditional.  Let’s start with something old.”  Francine handed her mother a ring box.  On the inside were the three promise rings Claire and Russell had given her as she grew in age from a teenager to a young adult.  “Mom, these rings are priceless to me.  They always reminded me that I was a promised daughter of the King.  I’m not giving these rings back to you because I don’t want them; I’m giving them back so you can one day give them to your granddaughter.  I pray that you tell her as you told me how special she is to God.  I think they would mean so much coming from you.”

Claire could hardly hold back the tears.  She and Russell had given Francine her first ring at age twelve, then sixteen, and her last ring when she was twenty-one.  Each ring was a reminder that she was in covenant with a living God.  Tonight was the first time her parents heard her express in her own way what the rings meant to her. 

“Now for something new,” Francine continued.  As you all know I’ve wanted to open my own bakery long before attending culinary school.  What you don’t know is that yesterday, Ben and I finalized the lease agreement for a vacant bakery shop.  We will open in less than two months.  In honor of Nana Pearl, our new business will be called Pearl’s Pastries.”

Papa Joe’s head hung down.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.  He wiped across his eyes hard and quick.  If only his beloved Pearl could see Franny now; she would be so proud.  Pearl taught Franny everything she knew about baking and was the inspiration behind her becoming a pastry chef. 

 “That brings us to something borrowed.  Dad, uh, I huh,” Ben stammered.  His nerves were unraveling.  He took a deep breath and continued.  “Every Sunday you lead this family into an evening toast where you all give thanks to God for who He is or what He has done.  I had never seen anything so wonderful; I knew that I wanted that tradition established in my family as well.  If it's all right with you, I would like to borrow the Lanker family tradition and make it a part of our family tradition after we’re married.”

Dad was touched that this young man saw something in him that he wanted to imitate.  Dad thought those days of the older man teaching the younger generation were long since passed.  He was wrong.  He lifted his water glass signifying his consent to Ben’s request.

“And lastly, something blue.” Francine was eager to make this presentation.  She stepped away briefly to get a small gift bag from the other room.  “Papa Joe, this is for you.” 

Papa Joe opened the bag and pulled out a soft, blue baby blanket.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

Papa Joe, I do not know why God didn’t give you and Nana Pearl children of your own.  Ben and I both think the world of you, and I know Mom and Dad feel the same way.  This family would not have stood as tall as it has if it had not been for your shoulders.  This blue blanket is our gift to you.  If we are blessed with a son, we want him to carry on your legacy.  We want to name our son Joseph Benjamin Abraham, after you.”

That day with teary eyes and warm embraces, both families lifted their water glasses and gave thanks to God during the Sunday evening toast.

Best Regards, Gable Fletcher

Therefore say to them, ‘Thus says the LORD of hosts: “Return to Me,” says the LORD of hosts, “and I will return to you,” says the LORD of hosts.  Zechariah 1:3

“Please,” the Judge demanded, “one at a time!”  A few strikes of his gavel against the table and the room hushed.  “Let’s start with you,” he said pointing to man on his left.

“My name is Calvin Herman.  I was scheduled to meet with a commercial real-estate agent at my restaurant this morning, so I went in early.  When I got there, I found this briefcase sitting at the door,” he explained, “with this note attached.” He then handed the note to the Judge.

The Judge wiped his eyeglass lenses with the cuffless sleeve of his robe.  After checking for smudges, he slid his glasses on allowing them to rest comfortably on his nose.  The note read:  Please bring this briefcase with you to your meeting at noon with the Judge in his chambers.  The Judge was baffled.  “What about you?” he said to the man on his right.

Just as Pastor Tisdale got out his first two words, an older gentleman dressed in a gray pinstriped suit entered the Judge’s chambers and quietly took a seat.  Having received the okay from the Judge to continue, the pastor picked up where he left off.

“Your Honor, I am Pastor Stanley Tisdale of A New Life Fellowship Church.  I stumbled upon this briefcase when I had gone to my office to look over some expansion plans for our church.”  He gently placed the briefcase on the table.  “Like Mr. Herman, I, too, had a note attached to my briefcase as well.”  He handed the note to the Judge for review.

“Hmm, both of these notes are exactly the same.  Does anyone here know who owns the briefcases?”

A swarm of “I don’t know” and “Do you know” buzzed about in the room as each looked at the other with their shoulders hunched. 

“I do,” the gentleman in the gray suit answered in a raspy voice.  “The name’s Truman, Your Honor.  Theophilus Truman.”

“Mr. Truman, I was called into work today because Judge Stephens took ill.  I’m afraid I couldn’t find the docket for this case, so it’s hard for me to follow what’s going on here.   Would you mind telling me what this is all about?  Do you know anything about the mysterious briefcases?”

“They were left by me on behalf of Mr. Gable Fletcher,” Theophilus confessed.  “I apologize for my tardiness, Your Honor.  There was a last minute change in my schedule.  As for the briefcases,” he continued, “it was Mr. Fletcher’s wish to bequeath the contents of the briefcases to the individuals who are represented here today.” 

Still confused by the ordeal, the Judge looked at the individuals sitting in front of him and asked a very simple question. “Do either of you know Mr. Gable Fletcher?”

Neither of them could recall the man or the name Gable Fletcher.

“Your Honor, if you don’t mind,” Theophilus interrupted.  He reached his hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.  “Mr. Fletcher asked that I give this envelope to you,” he said as he handed it to the Judge.  “I believe the letter will explain everything.”   

The Judge opened the envelope and read the letter.  “I see,” the Judge said rubbing his chin.  “It appears that even though you all do not recall knowing Mr. Fletcher, he recalls knowing each of you.  According to this letter, any persons having received a briefcase is a beneficiary of the contents contained in the briefcase that he was given (as it were).  Mr. Truman, the letter states that you have the keys to open these briefcases.”

Theophilus placed three small envelops in the Judges hand, each containing one key for the number of briefcases he delivered.

“Your Honor, the initials of the beneficiaries are written on the outside of each envelope,” Mr. Truman added.

“Let’s proceed,” the Judge said pushing the nose-bridge of his glasses with his forefinger.  He handed both men a key according to their initials.  Supposing that a third person would either show up late or not at all, the Judge set the third envelope with the initials RI to the side.   Theophilus watched but didn’t say a word. 

Inside each briefcase was a letter addressed to the beneficiaries.  Both men read their letter silently.

Dear Calvin Herman,

You may not remember me, but I used to volunteer when you would go out into the neighborhood to feed the hungry.  I was amazed at how you always prepared the right amount of food and still had enough leftovers for the people to take home.  The people in that community felt God’s love through your act of kindness and showed it by letting nothing you prepared go to waste.

I had gone away for awhile to visit with family and when I returned, I was saddened to hear that the community feed program had stopped.  According to the newspaper article I later read, I learned that you had opened up a restaurant with future plans to open a second eatery.  I must admit I was a little confused as to why you stopped the community feeding program to open up a restaurant to feed people.  Mr. Truman tried explaining to me that now that you own your own restaurant, you don’t have as much time as you once did.  I told him that I thought his explanation was ridiculous and flat out asked him, “How could a man be given more and do less?”  To my question, he had no response.

One evening we decided to visit your restaurant to sample the “fine dining experience.”  Mr. Truman and I enjoyed our meals so much that the only thing we left on our plates was the China design.  However, I noticed the other patrons were not as responsive.  There were plates and plates of half eaten food being scraped for garbage; whole loaves of bread in baskets that were certain to go into the trash.  I kept thinking about how the scraps left in your restaurant still outweighed the combined amount of food in the cupboards of at least five families in the community feed program. 

Mr. Herman, after speaking with members in the community, I realized that your time is worth just as much to others as it is to you.  Therefore, Mr. Truman, who is the executor of my estate, is prepared to write you a check for what your time would cost to continue feeding those in the community.  If you agree, Mr. Truman will contact you again in six months to see if you would be willing to sign on for another term.  Simply tell Mr. Truman the cost for your time and any other expenses, and he will give you a guaranteed check for that amount. 

By the way, I found some old photos that I had taken of you when you were serving the people in the community.  I had the pictures restored and put in photo albums for safekeeping.  You’ll notice that I even have a few shots of the children hugging you as a gratitude of thanks.

Best Regards,

Gable Fletcher

Calvin took a deep breath as he sat there going through the photos.  He had forgotten how special those moments were.  He pushed his chair away from the table.  Then folded the letter and slid it between two pages in the photo album book and tucked the book under his arm.   Without saying a word to Mr. Truman, he quietly exited the room knowing what he had to do. 

Meanwhile, Pastor Tisdale sat reading his letter.

Dear Pastor Stanley Tisdale,

I met you early one Friday morning when I happened upon your church hoping to find the doors opened for prayer.  You were there at the altar crying out to God for lost souls.  After a couple of hours of prayer, we had the opportunity to sit and talk for awhile.  That day you shared with me your testimony of receiving the call to be a messenger of God’s word at the age of ten years old.  You were, as you put it, to be a watchman on the wall.  I recall that you had been recently installed as the new pastor and were very adamant about following God and the direction He wanted to take His church.   

Not long after our first meeting, I came by the church on several mornings before sunrise hoping to find you still upon the altar petitioning God for this nation and its people.  Unfortunately, each time I came by the doors were locked.  Concerned, I decided to call and that’s when I was told that you usually don’t get to the church until ten or shortly thereafter.  I attempted many times to reach you, but I guess we just could not connect.  Recently, I had Mr. Truman to drive me to the church; I didn’t even know that you had closed the doors permanently.  I asked the people who were “hanging around” how long it had been closed, and they informed me that you had bought a new building somewhere on the opposite side of town and relocated your church members there.  With much persistence on my part and the help of my GPS, Theophilus and I finally found our way to the new church, which I have to admit is quite a distance from the original location.  When we arrived, I found the architectural stone and stained glass building stunning. I’m afraid I can’t say anything about the interior; I felt too underdressed to go inside.  As we sat in the parking lot, I remembered that I had your cell phone number and tried calling you.  I was somewhat surprised to find that your old number was disconnected and your new number was unlisted.   

As Theophilus and I drove away, I kept thinking to myself, what will become of all those souls that were standing around at the old church.  Then I had an idea.  Since you still own the old property, I was wondering if you would allow me to buy it from you so that I can reopen the doors for the lost, the rejected, and the downcast.   If you are interested in selling, just name your price and give the figures to Mr. Truman.  He will make the necessary arrangements to settle the sales transaction. 

By the way, I wanted you to know that I took your advice that day on writing down my prayers and recording when and how God answered my prayers.  You were right; it is amazing to see God moving through our prayers.  I am leaving you my prayer journal.  If you wouldn’t mind, there are still some unanswered prayers that I would like for you to add in with your prayer request. 

Best Regards,

Gable Fletcher

Pastor Tisdale removed the prayer journal from the briefcase.  He took a moment to sift through some of the pages.  He was touched to find his name written throughout the journal.  He took time to gather his thoughts.  How could he possibly ignore what God was saying to him in that hour?  After pushing in his chair, he grabbed the prayer journal and exited the room.  He had quite a few phone calls to make to get things ready for Sunday.

When both men left, Theophilus got up and gathered the briefcases, tossing the keys inside each one.  He turned to the Judge and thanked him for his time.

As he sat in his chambers fiddling around with the envelopes that once held the keys to the briefcases, he remembered that he still had the third key with the initials RI.  He got up quickly, thinking that he might catch Mr. Truman before he left the building.  When he opened the door leading to the hallway, he noticed a briefcase sitting in the middle of the floor.  He looked this way and that way but there was no sign of Mr. Truman anywhere.  He picked up the briefcase and brought it back into his chambers.  I wonder if the third key fits the lock he thought.  He took the key out of the envelope and tried it.  Sure enough it opened the lock.  Inside was a letter and a leather covered Bible.   

Immediately when he read the salutation, his heart began to beat double-time.  The letter was personally addressed to him; he was RI- Rufus Ingalls.  He leaned back in the chair and finished reading. 

Gable Fletcher had sat in on his first case as a Judge.  In the letter, Gable recalled how Judge Ingalls was unashamed to look in the law books before rendering his verdict to make sure people were getting a fair trial.  He admired the Judge for that because he wasn’t depending on himself to make right decisions.  After more than twenty years as a Judge, Gable revisited the courtroom.  He could tell that Judge Ingalls was more confident in himself and his knowledge of the law.  In fact, he had become so familiar with the law that he no longer consulted the books for anything.  “That,” Gable wrote, “was one of mankind’s greatest errors concerning the Bible- becoming so familiar with God that he no longer consulted God’s word before making a decision.”  Judge Ingalls had been guilty of that and he knew exactly where Gable Fletcher was heading. 

As he sat contemplating the contents of the letter and the motivations of his heart, something on the table caught his attention.  All of the envelopes for the keys that had the beneficiary’s initials written on them were side-by-side on the table.  He hadn’t taken notice until now all the initials put together spelled CHRIST; and right in the middle of Christ was his initials.  Something told him to open the cover page of the Bible.  He did, and on the inside flap he found written the following inscription.      

Rufus,

Never forget that your life is hidden in Christ so that He can lead. 

Best Regards,

Gable Fletcher

An Acceptable Sacrifice

"I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service."

Romans 12:1 NKJV

“Mom, did you sign my permission slip so I can go on the field trip to the dinosaur exhibit tomorrow?”

“I told you before you went out to play to put the permission slip on the counter,” Kayla’s mother replied.

“Oh no, I hope I didn’t lose it.  Are you sure you didn’t see it or move it from the counter?” Kayla asked interrogating her mother.

“I’m sorry, Kayla.  You never left it for me to sign.” 

Kayla was starting to get upset because she couldn’t find her permission slip.  Her mother thought if she helped Kayla retraced her steps; it might help her remember where she left it.    

“Do you remember the last time you saw it?” her mother asked.  “Did you check your room?  What about your pockets?  Could you have put it in your pocket?” She continued. 

“That’s it!  I put it in my pocket.”  Kayla shoved her hand in her pocket and felt around for the piece of paper.  “I found it,” she rejoiced pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of her back pocket.  “Here it is right here.”

Her mother laughed to herself as she watched Kayla attempt to press the wrinkles out of the permission slip with the side of her hand.

“And mom, my teacher asked that all the kids in the class bring something so we could have a group lunch.  I’m supposed to bring dinosaur shaped cookies. “

“Kayla, why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?  I could have gotten the ingredients I needed when we were at the store.”

“I’m sorry.  I guess I forgot about the cookies.”

And just like you forgot about the permission slip.  Kayla, you are going to have to be more mindful of the things that are important not just to you but to others around you.  If you don’t, you are going to miss out on a lot more than just dinosaur shaped cookies.

“So you’re not going to bake the cookies I need for class?”

“No, I’m not.  If there’s time, we can stop by the store in the morning on the way to school and pick up one or two packages of cookies.”

“But Mom, they won’t be in the shape of a dinosaur.”   

“I’m sorry, but it is too late to try to bake homemade cookies now.  You’ll just have to explain to your teacher, Mrs. Hurdle, what happened.”

“But mom…”

“Kayla, not another word!  Now go upstairs and get ready for bed.  I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Yes ma’am,” Kayla replied, and then marched upstairs.

Kayla brushed her teeth, took her bath, and put on her pajamas.   When her mother came to her room, Kayla was saying her prayers.  After a few minutes of silence, Kayla peeped through one eye and saw her mother standing in the doorway. 

“Are you finished?” her mother asked. 

“I think so.  I can’t think of anything else to say to God,” Kayla replied. 

“Then hop into bed, young lady, so you can get a good night’s rest.  You have a busy day tomorrow.” 

Kayla scurried off the floor and jumped into bed. 

“I love you, sweetheart.” 

“Mom, I’m sorry about the permission slip…and the cookies.  I’m sure Mrs. Hurdle won’t mind what kind of cookies I bring, just as long as I bring cookies.”

The two shared in the laughter.  Then her mother kissed her goodnight and turned out the lamp by Kayla’s bed.  As soon as her mother had snuggled under the covers in her room, Kayla screamed, “Mommy, Mommy!”   She hurried to Kayla’s room, her heart was racing.  When she got there, the lamp was on and Kayla was sitting up in her bed.  Her eyes filled with tears. 

“What’s the matter honey, did you have a bad dream?” her mother asked.

Kayla was staring out as if she had seen a ghost.  Her mother came near when Kayla reached out her arms. 

“It’s okay, mommy’s here,”  she said as she sat on the bed.  Her mother tried her best to console her, but the more her she held her close, the more Kayla sobbed. 

“Tell mommy what’s wrong,”  her mother said as she looked into her daughter’s eyes.

“I forgot to tell God I love him.” 

“Oh sweetie, it’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not.  I missed it.”

“Missed it?”  Her mother echoed her words.  “What did you miss?”

“God.  When I said my prayers, he was here but now it’s somebody else’s turn to talk to him.  He won’t be back until tomorrow; but I want God to know today that I love Him.  Oh mommy, ask God to come back.  Please, ask him to come back.” 

Her mother just held her in her arms trying to hush Kayla’s cry.  When Kayla calmed down, her mother took the time to explain to her how God is always with her, and any time she wanted to talk to God she could.    

“So you mean if I still want to tell God that I love him, I can? I can tell him I love him any time I want?  As often as I want?” a squeaky voiced Kayla asked.

“Absolutely,” her mother reassured her. 

Kayla tossed the covers to the side, slid out of her comfy bed and kneeled down to pray. 

“God, it’s me Kayla.  I forgot to tell you something earlier,” she paused as if she were waiting for God to respond.  “I love you,” she said smiling.  She looked up at her mother.  “Do you think God received my love?” she asked. 

“Oh Kayla, your love was an acceptable sacrifice, well pleasing to God.”