Wrestling with Waiting

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him”  Psalm 37:7a (ESV)

My dog has developed a curious habit based on faulty assumptions.

Being a well-trained pet owner, I respond to her cues dutifully. Her whining and twirling antics as my feet touch the bedroom floor each morning mean she needs outside – urgently! I hurry to open the kitchen door, watching as she runs down the deck stairs into the backyard.

Soon she reappears, thumping the door with her front paws or giving a quick bark. I understand she’s anxious to get inside for her breakfast. I promptly open the door and fill her little bowls with fresh food and water.

She watches, sitting just outside her dining room (aka the laundry room) until I place her dishes back in their stand and say, “okay.” Charging to her bowls like a racehorse from the starting gate, her tail wags her body as she wolfs down her morning meal.

Following breakfast, it’s time for treats. She backs up and stays and I toss her a tiny treat. She crawls and I toss her another. She sits up, shakes hands, high-fives, and rolls over and I dispense a treat after each trick. Her grand finale, playing dead, ends when I release her with the word “okay.” She springs to her feet and I launch a tiny shower of celebratory treats. After sniffing the floor to ensure she hasn’t missed one, she curls into her little pillow and rests from the demands of running me through the morning routine.

Lately, however, she doesn’t rest long. She has incorrectly concluded life with me is a series of if/then transactions and she’s in charge. If she gives a cue, then I’ll respond appropriately. She’s recently begun testing her hypothesis by repeating the steps that, in dog logic at least, should result in me serving her a second breakfast. If she tells me she needs to go outside (now skipping the part where she actually runs down the steps into the yard; after all, it is just a drill) and asks to be let back in, then I should once again fill her food dish.

Her happy, expectant demeanor quickly shifts to dejected disappointment when she discovers I’ve failed to respond and the food bowl remains empty. Sadly, since she gains weight easily, her food dish won’t be refilled until 5pm, regardless of the repeated attempts to sway me. She doesn’t understand my lack of immediate action is because I care about her. It is because I love her that I don’t respond each time she wants to be fed. Waiting isn’t her strong suit.

The same can be true of us. We’re often certain we know what we want or need and get our relationship with God a little backwards. Have you ever in prayer, found yourself telling God (or strongly suggesting) what needs to happen and when? Waiting doesn’t come naturally to us, either. That’s when we need to set aside our faulty assumptions and shift our focus to the truths of God’s character. As we remember his great love for us and place our trust in his sovereignty, we find patience is the remarkable by-product, a fruit of the Spirit. As Psalm 37 reminds us, it is by anchoring ourselves in the knowledge that his will and timing are always perfect, that we can rest in the Lord and wait patiently for him.

Prayer: Lord, thank you that you are an omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent God. You know my needs and concerns even before I ask. Thank you that I can trust fully in your faithfulness and love. Help me walk in patience and wisdom, Lord, knowing your timing is perfect. Amen

The Most Important Thing

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

Writers love writing. We’re bound in a strange romance with the written word that nearly defies description. It’s a kind of longing, a part of us deep within, simmering until finally, the overwhelming urge to write finds its way to the surface and never lets go. We must write.

Naturally, as one of those afflicted with this strange love, I’ve written a lot of stuff. Silly stuff, pointless stuff, dumb stuff and maybe even some informative, interesting, or inspiring stuff. But, the fact is, I’ve written a lot of stuff and will, no doubt, continue to.  So, as I prepared to write recently, I asked myself what exactly is the most important thing I could write?  If my writing days were numbered or I was given one last word count to meet – what would I write?

It is this:

Jesus Christ is Lord of all. I know this without a doubt. I know there is no more important fact to consider and embrace. I know it firsthand; by the way Jesus changed my own life. I know this because he continues to answer my prayers and direct my days. I know it by the peace and strength he’s given me in the most undesirable circumstances I’ve known, the deaths of my children and grandchildren. I know it by the changes I’ve witnessed in other’s lives when they, too, concluded Jesus Christ is Lord of all. I’ve witnessed the miracle of freedom and transformation from addiction, depravity, depression, and disease, by no other means than a heart fully surrendered to Jesus. I’ve experienced the joyful, weepingly wonderful change that must be celebrated because someone surrendered their life to Jesus and became a new creation in him.

I’m aware there are many who find the idea absurd; some of my friends and loved ones among them. Oh, how I long for them to grasp this most important thing while there is still time. So, I think again, maybe I’ll write about it…  But, then, what can I possibly write that hasn’t already been written – and by someone far more brilliant and articulate than me?    

Preservation, Prophecy and Purpose

Perhaps I could entreat them to open the Old Testament and consider how unlikely it is that a text of its antiquity could be so accurately preserved since 300 or 400 BCE (or BC, as I prefer). Maybe I could ask them to consider how the entire Bible, written across so many centuries, by forty or more authors doesn’t contradict itself and continues to speak into and change lives simply by reading its message. Maybe I could ask them to more seriously consider how the writers foretold so many details of Jesus’s birth, life, and death, as the coming Messiah, centuries before he was born. It is an incredible manuscript; one that speaks directly to the mind and heart. That is, if one really reads it.

I could write about Jesus’ s remarkable life. How this teacher who claimed to be God, was born, died and came to life again! How he appeared to hundreds of people after his resurrection. Or about the extrabiblical historical documents that recorded these events. But I guess that too, has already been written about. A lot.

I consider writing about the afterlife. I know many believe everyone goes to a happy heavenly place when we die, regardless of what their life was like-unless maybe they’re a serial killer or something. And others believe this life is all there is. They live for the now, expecting nothing more than to turn to dust when this life ends. I could explain that scripture talks about an afterlife for us in either heaven or hell. That, according to Jesus’s teaching, we choose our eternal destiny by what we believe about him. He said if we die without a relationship with him as our Savior we’ll spend eternity in hell. Referring to himself as our Savior sent by God, he said, “That is why I told you that you would die in your sins, for unless you believe that I am he, you will die in your sins.” (John 8:24 ESV) And, when speaking of eternity in heaven, he said, “Truly, truly, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgement but has passed from death to life.”  (John 5:24 ESV)  

Maybe I could remind people that there will be a day when we have no breath left. Today, my husband learned about an old friend of his who recently died in a car accident, with his brother and mother. No more breath. Three destinies sealed. Or I could write about how choosing to follow Jesus shapes the very quality and purpose of our lives while we do have breath. Because, knowing Jesus is Lord of all is both life changing and eternity altering.

Then I stop and think about how all of this, every bit of it, has all been written and expounded upon before. Innumerable times. Throughout history this message from God to humankind has been repeated and recorded. It has endured, etched on stone and wooden tablets, written on animal skins, papyrus, paper, and websites.  

This story of Jesus’s life, this great love he has for us and his desire that no one should perish-it has all been written before. Because it is the most important thing. Still, thoughts of the immeasurable number of times and ways this message has been written lingers. I consider how many generations and continents it has reached. I contemplate the number of souls it has touched. And just then, I catch a glimpse of why God placed this overwhelming longing to write within us.

A Grandmother’s Influence

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

“Even when I am old and gray… I will declare your power to the next generation.” Psalm 71:18 ESV

As a child, I thought of my grandmothers as exact opposites.

One lived a few blocks off Main Street in a small town, in a small white duplex with a small patch of grass between her apartment’s front porch and the sidewalk. That was Grandma Burks, who somehow always seemed a little frail and needy to me, even as a kid. While not exactly stern, I didn’t trust her smile and found no evidence of even one fun bone in her thin body.

There were lots of rules at her house. Don’t let the front porch swing hit the railing or the house. This meant you could swing about six inches forward and back without being scolded. Stay out of the alley. Be quiet. And, for the love of Pete, do not sit on the bed. If you really wanted to endear yourself to her, you’d find a way to make yourself useful. I generally chose not to endear myself.

Her apartment was meticulously clean. The sparkling bathroom bore the odd scent of cigarette smoke and Dove soap. Every room was tidy. Nothing was out of place. She had the uncanny knack of making any solid surface in her domain shine. It either bore a fresh coat of paint or was polished to mirror-like perfection. Nothing was dusty, smudged, or dull. And heaven help the kid who left fingerprints on something. During our weekend family fly-bys, she always prepared a nice little lunch for us that typically included fried chicken and homemade chocolate pie. I learned to wait at Grandma Burk’s house. Wait for instructions. Wait to eat. Wait to leave.

Worth the wait.

Leaving was jubilant because it meant we were about to make the forty-five-mile drive to spend the night in a new world, Grandma Mac’s house. She lived outside of a small town on acreage. She was sturdy, loud and hardly concerned with cleanliness. The dead cockroach permanently entombed behind the clear cover of her kitchen stove’s clock throughout my childhood was proof. That, and years of hearing the aunts whispering reminders to “check for mice pills in the cups” before pouring their morning coffee.

The smell of Grandma Mac’s farm shifted depending on the breeze and where you were. If it were a perfume, I’d say the fragrance had the rich warm tones of bacon grease, homemade biscuits, and hot cocoa with low notes of soured chicken feed, cow manure and the outhouse… it was all there. You got used to it.

Her home was often noisy, filled with the laughter of aunts and uncles visiting with their families at the same time. It was a place of freedom and exploration where I could search for terrapins in the pasture, holding them hostage in a shoebox until time to leave. Or, exploring the woods and lime quarry deep within it, where blue-tailed skinks darted into crevices evading capture and life in the shoebox. Sometimes I’d tiptoe out the squeaky kitchen screen door behind Grandma before anyone else awoke to watch her scoop grain from the bulging gunnysacks in the smoke house. Then following her through the ankle high wet morning grass I’d stand near as she scattered it to the chickens in the yard before going back inside to start breakfast.

I don’t recall any lengthy or meaningful conversations with either of my grandmothers. Frankly, I don’t think either ever really talked with me when I was a child. I was mostly an observer, a tag-along, another kid at the table when we visited their homes. Neither were affectionate. Neither set out to inform my opinions or to intentionally teach me anything. Yet, they did. They each helped shape my childhood and my life. Because that’s what grandmothers do.

In fact, that’s what grandmothers have always done. They leave an impact, an impression – good, bad, or indifferent.

Especially blessed are the families whose grandmothers are aware of their great influence, who intentionally leave a spiritual legacy, ensuring their grandchildren know the life-altering love of Jesus and his Word.

Prayer: Father, thank you for the gift of grandchildren and the privilege of influencing their lives. Guide me in my time with them and in my prayers for them that they will grow to love and know you as their Savior. Amen.

.

Christ in the Coffee Shop

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

She reminds me of a bird, possessing endless energy in a tiny frame.

We first met her several years ago, when she approached our table at the coffee shop.

“What are you studying?” she asked, smiling and nodding at our open Bibles.

One of the ladies gave her a quick explanation and an invitation to join us. She jumped at the chance.

“Just let me gather my things. I’ll be right back,” she said, her British accent still detectable despite decades in the Midwest.

Her ‘things’ consisted of a purse and a bag containing her sweater, Bible, and current knitting project.

The bag, we learned, was her evangelistic tool kit. She carried it to the coffee shop each week, sometimes multiple days a week, luring patrons into conversation with her skillful needlework and quick smile. When that failed, she went to them – flitting to their table, chatting long enough to turn the strangers into friends.

Unwilling to remain caged at home while her husband, a pastor, attended meetings and worked at the church, she relished her coffee shop social time. She fast became a regular member of our Bible study group.

As the months unfolded, we learned more about our slender, seventy-something, silver-haired friend. Like the time she casually mentioned she swam several times a week.

“How many laps do I do? Oh, about twenty each time. Then, I do one underwater lap to finish. I love it! It’s a great time to pray. And it helps me burn off all this energy.”

At some point she shared that when she was about eighteen years old she lived with her family “in a flat on Abbey Road in Westminster.”

“You mean the Abbey Road?,” we asked.

“Yes, uh huh. We lived just a few doors down from the recording studio. One day as I passed by I asked the doorman if anyone famous ever came there. He said, ‘Oh yes, as a matter of fact, the Beatles will be here around midnight tonight.’ So, close to midnight, I took my camera and went there to wait for them. And they posed for me there on the sidewalk!”  She swooned a moment before continuing.

Then, in her usual animated manner, stamping her feet under the table, pretending to cry, she finished the story, “But my camera’s flash didn’t work! Can you imagine? I didn’t get the picture! I was so angry when I got home I tossed that camera from the window and broke it to pieces!

We learned that as a young woman, she joined the Royal Air Force and became friends with a young Christian woman. The friend invited her to meetings with other young Christians.

“I’d never met anyone like her,” she told us. “She seemed to have something special and I wanted what she had! One day after attending a few of the meetings, when I was alone I prayed. I just told the Lord I was sorry for all my sin and that I wanted to follow him. The most beautiful feeling came over me! I couldn’t wait to talk to my friend about it.”

Her blue eyes widened, recalling the conversation. “I told her, I’m not sure what happened, but I feel like a whole new person. She told me, ‘I’ll tell you what happened; you were saved!’  I wasn’t sure I understood exactly what that meant. But I knew I was changed. And from then on I’ve lived for the Lord”  

She told us about meeting her future husband – the American, a military man stationed in England.

“I told my mum, I’ve met the man I’m going to marry. I can still see her face when I told her he was American… but they loved him. So, that’s how I ended up back over here,” she smiled. She always smiles when she speaks of her husband.

We noticed she sometimes repeated stories. But then, don’t we all?

Soon she confided she was having health issues.

 “My head feels all woozy – like I’m in a fog. They think I may have had some TIAs or something.”

More health issues followed, including episodes of passing out and a seizure. They hoped the pacemaker would help.

 “The worst thing is that I can’t drive anymore,” she often told us. We began taking turns giving her a ride home each week.

Spotting a sports car in traffic always elicited a startling teenager-like squeal from her. “Oh! I love that car! I’d love to drive a car like that!”  Then, in a quieter, thoughtful tone she’d add, “I’d love to drive…but I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone. So, this is best. God knows what he’s doing.”    

It became common during meetings for our friend to fish a small tablet or piece of paper from her purse, lift her pen, and politely ask, “Would you mind telling me your names, again? I just want to get them in my head.”  

The repeated stories and comments come much more frequently now – often within the same hour.

Each week she apologizes for forgetting to do her lesson and tells us, “Next week, I promise I’ll have it done.” Then she’ll add, “And next week, I’m bringing my bigger Bible. The printing in this one is just too small.”

But the lessons no longer get done and the bigger Bible doesn’t make it into her bag. Still her courageous, cheerful outlook remains.

Lately she’s started telling us the same “new” news. Always in the same hesitant manner, like she’s sharing a secret. It’s the same news her husband shared with us a few months ago. The diagnosis is Alzheimer’s.

Even with its relentless progression, she continues to show up smiling each week. She continues to express gratitude and praise God. She continues to trust Him with her future. How many times have we seen her simply sigh, brush the air with her hand, dismissing the seriousness of her condition, saying, “It’s all right. This stuff is only temporary, anyway. One day I’ll be free from this flesh!”

During our studies, sometimes when we think she isn’t really tracking with us, she contributes to the conversation with a remarkably relevant Holy Spirit-borne insight or a funny quip delivered with her trademark dry humor and grin.

But, what she does best, what she’s always done best, is love. She loves God, she loves people and she loves His Word. Through the fog of the disease, her resilient spirit shines as an example of the truth of Nehemiah 8:10, “The joy of the Lord is your strength.”   

Perhaps the lessons that resonate most deeply from our coffee shop Bible study aren’t the ones in written form at all. But instead, those taught by a life fully surrendered to Christ.

Side Trips Make the Best Memories (If You Live)

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

Do you ever look back and realize how many times and how many ways you’ve been protected? I kind of cringe when I think of some of those experiences. But, in another sense I also treasure them.

As a single mom with little money for much more than necessities, I once took my kids, then 14, 10 and 9 years old, camping in southwestern Missouri. Nearing the end of our three-hour drive to the campsite, one of the kids noticed a faded billboard advertising the Wonder Cave. It seemed intriguing; so, we set off to find it, following the few old road signs pointing the way.

Our search led us up a secluded gravel lane to a weathered farmhouse with a beat-up screened-in porch. A half-dozen junkers sat decaying under shade trees next to the drive. The two brown hounds sleeping on car hoods raised their heads to bark half-heartedly as we exited the car. From the drive we could see the remains of several 1950’s rental cabins in a semi-circle around the far edge of the yard.

While explaining to the kids that this must have been a little vacation resort back in the day, a thin elderly man came out of the house.

“Hush up, dogs!”  He scolded the hounds, opening the porch door to get a good look at us.

“Hello! I’m sorry to bother you. We were just following signs, trying to locate the Wonder Cave,” I explained, thinking he might tell me where I took the wrong turn.

“You’re here!” the old fellow announced. I’m certain we all looked stunned.

“See that door over there? The old man pointed across the yard toward the giant wall of rock with a barely noticeable narrow wooden door at its base. On the door handle was a large padlock.

“That’s the cave. I can take you in. You want to see it?”

Naturally, the kids wanted to and immediately made their opinions known. This would have been a good point to insert some parental wisdom and decline the kind offer. But I did not.

“Just a minute,” he said. “Let me get my keys. You all come on up on the porch and have a look around.”

There wasn’t much to see on the porch; just a small stack of old newspapers now yellow and curled at the edges. A few old dust covered Wonder Cave brochures still propped in their little display box sat atop a rusted chest freezer.

The old man reappeared with keys and a flashlight.

“Tours are $3 apiece,” he announced.

I was momentarily stunned, but we were imposing and this was probably how he did business decades ago. So, I fished the cash from my purse and like lemmings, we followed him to the cave door.

We trailed behind him, single file, into the blackness of the cave. He shined his flashlight for us to see the high cave walls as we walked. Then, he let the light settle on a set of ladder-like stairs obviously constructed many years prior.

“You’ll have to go up there to see the rest of the cave,” he said. “But I can’t get up those stairs anymore. I’ll go get my daughter-in-law and she’ll take you.”   And he left us. In the dark. In the cave.

Now, a brighter, better mother might have been concerned about being padlocked inside the cave at this point. However, for some now unthinkable reason, I was not brighter, better, or concerned.

A few minutes later a stout younger woman in a moo-moo and house shoes showed up with the flashlight and led us up the ladder and into a much larger cavern. She shined the light on the stalactites above and on various rock formations around the room. We huddled together behind her, walking deeper into the cave following the single beam of light she carried. As she walked she told tales about primitive Indian markings on the walls and researchers from the Smithsonian who visited the cave in years past. When we finally reached what seemed to be the back of the cave, she shined the light down a chasm that was shockingly close to where I stood.

“We don’t really know how deep that is,” she said. “No one’s ever found the bottom of it.”  While I pondered what that even meant, she pointed the flashlight to illuminate a narrow, roughly constructed concrete bridge. The makeshift bridge over the chasm was perhaps four feet long and led slightly upward into an oven door-sized opening in the back cave wall.

“You have to go over the bridge to get to it, but that hole right there opens up into another room. It’s the best room in the cave. It has the most markings on the walls. The researchers said they’re ancient! And there was a lot more pots and dishes in there, too, before they took most of ‘em to keep at the museum. You all can go in there if you want, but I’m too big to fit through that opening now. So, if you want to go in there I’ll give you the flashlight.”

Of course, the kids wanted to go in. So, I took the flashlight and slowly inched across the little bridge. Once inside the room’s opening I shined the flashlight so each of the kids could cross the bridge one at a time. This seemed prudent given our guide’s casual comment that she “wasn’t sure how much weight the bridge could hold at one time.”  

After risking our lives crossing the Chasm of Doom, the room turned out to be rather anticlimactic. It was a little smaller than my current home’s powder room, with a much lower ceiling. The few shards of broken clay pottery on the floor looked suspiciously staged. And, after hearing some of the yarns she spun on our tour, I could too easily imagine the owner carving the walls with his pocketknife.

Once we were out of the room, across the chasm and “safely” reunited with our guide, we backtracked through the cave to the rickety ladder and finally out into the sunlight. We thanked her and heard another story or two about clear-white insects that walked upright, as tall as humans. She’d seen them herself in the headlights, crossing the highway from time to time as they emerged from the woods. After receiving a serious warning not to get out of our car along the highway at night, we headed off to find our campsite to begin our camping adventure.

The fact that we were entirely ill-equipped for camping didn’t really dawn on me or matter all that much. We slept in the boys’ two tiny pup tents in thin sleeping bags. The next morning after a quick breakfast, we rented huge inner tubes and floated in the sun on the clear water of the Elk River 

My youngest son, now a middle-aged man, stopped by the house the other day with a birthday gift and some vitamins he wants us to try.

“Do you remember when we went in Wonder Cave, Andy?” I asked.

His eyes lit up and he smiled like that kid I remember.

“Oh man, that was the greatest trip, wasn’t it, Mom? That cave was awesome!”

“I’m just thankful we lived!” I laughed as he hugged me and headed out the door.

Meet the Can Man

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

I’m a list maker. So, each year as the new year approaches, I’m excited to make a new list. I ponder the things I need to do, think I should or want to do. Then, remembering my priorities might not be His priorities, I stop and pray. I ask God what He would like on the list and wait for the answer. After a time, a fine list emerges. One particular year “Meet the Can Man” made the list.

Most Tuesdays, the day of the week when trash cans dotted the curb at the end of each driveway, we’d see the stocky aging Filipino man. Somewhere along our route, there he’d be with his cart, on his quest for aluminum cans, waving a white-gloved hand at passing cars as he worked.

Why the fascination with the Can Man? I don’t really know except that I tend to believe each day holds special moments; moments that cause us to look at life and others a little more closely. So, each Tuesday, my grandson and I watched for him as we drove to school. We often wondered aloud about the old fellow.

“Where do you think he lives?”

“Do you think he has family?”  

“How old do you think he is?”

His cart was a large and strange homemade rolling contraption; a combination of net, metal and plastic parts hung together with wide tape, straps and string. Frequently we found him sorting through someone’s trash can like it was his own, plucking out the aluminum treasures he collected so faithfully. Other times, he simply stood on the sidewalk holding the cart’s handle with one hand, resting. He chose this time to become the morning greeter, smiling and waving, ensuring each passing car was enthusiastically acknowledged.

Now, with “Meet the Can Man” scribbled on my list, the task seemed official. But months passed. Eight to be exact. And although we spotted him regularly, I still hadn’t actually met the Can Man. The sightings were always on the way to school when either time or traffic didn’t allow a stop.

Then, one Saturday morning, exiting the neighborhood market, loaded up like a caravan camel, lugging bulging plastic bags and an oversized purse, I was surprised to spot Can Man’s cart in the store’s parking lot. At that moment, the oddest thing happened. As though just waiting for a witness, with no provocation – other than weight and gravity, the wheels of the heaping cart began to turn and it took off. Aided by the gradual slope of the parking lot the cart quickly gained speed. Scanning the parking lot for its owner, I saw the Can Man, oblivious, his back to the cart several parking spaces away.

“Hey, look!,” I yelled, motioning toward the traveling cart. A club footed Can Man hobbled after it. My heart sank. I had never noticed his foot. I knew he couldn’t catch up to the cart. So, with grocery bags and purse dangling from my forearms, I took off after it.

Too late! The cart smacked into the pristine bumper of the silver SUV with a gray-haired passenger seated inside. Ricocheting after the impact, the cart quickly redirected itself. Now, it targeted the four-lanes of highway traffic in the distance at the base of the parking lot. I ran as fast as I could, finally catching up with the cart in the nick of time. I grabbed its handle before it could launch over the curb into traffic. Stunned at how heavy it was, I struggled to hold on to it. As I stood panting, I looked up to see its owner limping toward me, his smile inappropriately serene.

“Thank you, thank you,” he nodded rhythmically with each phrase. Still expressing gratitude, he extended a gleaming white glove to take my hand between his. In that moment I was struck by the almost glowing cleanliness of this man who spent so much of his time going through trash.

“You got it?” I asked Can Man. The heavy cart was still insisting on heading toward traffic. Nodding again and grasping the cart handle, the Can Man reclaimed his unruly container.

I noticed the SUV’s passenger had exited the car and was inspecting the bumper. Looking from the bumper to the offending cart now being pushed back up the parking lot, the passenger remained expressionless and climbed back into the vehicle. Can Man, still beaming serenity, completely disregarded the man in the car.

Walking back up the parking lot together I discovered he spoke little English.

“I’m Pamela,” I said motioning to myself. “What’s your name?”

“Name?” he asked. “Tomas.” 

“Do you live close by?”  I asked.

He didn’t answer, but pulled out a worn wallet, flipping it open to show me a picture I.D. Interestingly, his thumb covered the house numbers revealing only the street name.

I nodded to him, “I see.” I asked him the question that had been on my heart since first seeing the old fellow.

“Tomas,” I asked, “Do you know Jesus?”

He smiled again, nodding affirmatively. “Hesukristo.”

After that day, as opportunity allowed, I drove down the street I saw on his ID, always watching for clues as to where he might live. But there were no signs of Can Man or his cart. As summer faded into fall, we saw Can Man less frequently. By spring, we realized he was no longer making his rounds. I was especially thankful “Meet the Can Man” made the list that year and for the completely weird way it happened. I still think about him from time to time. And when I do, Hebrews 13:2 usually comes to mind, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

Abortion Rights – Recognize the Ruse

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

My heart breaks for the infanticide our nation is responsible for. At the same time, my heart breaks for the hurting women facing difficult circumstances leading them to consider abortion as a solution. Most disturbing? Women are being duped into believing they are entitled to abort their babies. Yes, I said duped.

Pro-choice proponents present abortion as an exceptionally complicated issue. They tell us women must fight to ensure we can have an abortion when pregnancy poses a health risk, when rape or incest occurs or when the baby has a serious abnormality. They say the situation is dire and we must stand up for our rights. Ladies, we’re being played. Look at the numbers.

The truth? 0.3% of the million plus abortions that will occur in the US this year (89,770 per month) are necessary due to major body function compromise or risk of life to the mother. 0.4% are due to rape or incest. 1.2% are because the baby has a serious abnormality. I’m not saying that because these numbers are fractional that they aren’t important. These lives and concerns are important; the situations are tragic. But in spite of the current pro-abortion narrative that wants us to believe otherwise, there are options available for these women; the less than 2% of all those having abortions. And, granted, if there’s an abortion cause to champion, perhaps it is with ensuring there is wise law in place for these specific situations. But that’s not what is happening.

What is happening is an effort to broad-brush acceptance of all abortion. What is happening is the false magnification of this less than 2%, in the media and pro-abortion talking points. This is intended to divert and deflect, to take our eyes off the fact that around 98% – the vast majority of abortions – are for elective or non-specified reasons.

In simpler terms, 98% of abortions are because a woman didn’t want, mean, or expect to get pregnant but did. When faced with an unwanted or unplanned pregnancy that will no doubt complicate her life, it’s not hard to see why she would want to reverse her circumstance – to become “unpregnant.”  Honestly, who among us ever wants to reap undesired consequences? But, with a pregnancy, to do that means destroying human life. And, who speaks for that baby?

The “My Body, My Choice” slogan originated around 1969. It’s a tired banner that has been carried for fifty-five years. How much truth is in that old phrase? Since 1969, medical science has vastly changed what we know about the unborn. In the1970’s when an unwed friend of mine had an abortion, the attending physician told her what he suctioned out of her was “just a blob of tissue, unable to feel pain.”  Of course, she was relieved to hear that. It gave her temporary comfort and eased her conscience some. Although science gave her an out back then, her conscience still told her a life had been lost.

Now, decades later, medical advancements make it possible for mothers to see clearly how our baby develops; when her heart starts to beat, when his little fingers form. We know there is a point at which that little girl in the womb absolutely feels pain. We are no longer able to in ignorance say it’s just a blob of tissue.

Convenience cannot be the standard by which we determine whether to have an abortion or not. Can we really pretend it makes sense that we celebrate a successful fetal surgery performed on one infant at 16-weeks, while another at the exact same stage of development is dismissed as an inconvenience, killed, and disposed of?

As with so many controversies today, following the money provides insight. Abortion is big business and steadily growing. Billions of dollars are made each year in the industry. Do you see what is happening? The money poured into convincing us we need to fight for our abortion rights is merely an investment to sustain their industry. We are pawns. Does it make sense to you that a business built and flourishing on the death of the most innocent and helpless among us, is actually concerned about women’s rights?

I’m well aware that there may be readers now shaking their heads and saying “She doesn’t get it. No one else should have the right to decide what I do. Period.”  Really? Examine that logic. Do we all get to run red lights with no consequence? No. There’s a law in place addressing that because it benefits others who may not want to lose their life today simply because I was running late or didn’t feel like stopping; it wasn’t convenient. A civil, moral society works that way. We consider the greater good, help those who can’t help themselves and we protect life.

That is, until we’re manipulated into believing our convenience is a right; one more important and more valuable than the life of an unborn child. That’s where we are today. And we can change that, if we recognize the ruse and speak up, especially for those who cannot yet speak for themselves.

Time to Choose

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

Even in these days of political polarization, media driven false narratives on every side, pro-Hamas protesters desecrating monuments and burning the US flag in our nation’s capital – the recent Olympic opening ceremony flaunting drag queens mocking the Last Supper seems beyond the Pale. But it shouldn’t surprise us. And it sends a clear message to those of us who call ourselves Christians.

It tells us that the spiritual war that’s been underway since the Garden of Eden and before is nearing a crescendo. We feel the intensity building; see it in headlines, in our families, schools and on our streets. The days of Christian fence-sitting are over.

For too long too many of us who call ourselves Christians, me included, have sat comfortably on the sideline, listening to, and agreeing with Sunday sermons that reach no further than our ears. You and I both know people calling themselves Christians with Bibles in their homes who have found little time to become familiar with its contents. And, for too long many of our prayers have been little more than lip service, mouthed to make us feel better, lacking humility, repentance, and true worship.

The message? It is Joshua’s message:

“Now therefore fear the Lord and serve him in sincerity and in faithfulness. Put away the gods that our fathers served beyond the River and in Egypt and serve the Lord. And if it is evil in your eyes to serve the Lord, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your fathers served in the region beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you dwell. But as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”  Joshua 24:14-15

The lines have long been drawn in this war between good and evil. Will you and I continue to choose to serve the gods of apathy, comfort, complacency, and ignorance? Or will we choose to double-down in prayer and know that we know who we serve?

The familiar 2 Chronicles 7:14 passage that we’re so fond of pointing to, reciting, and posting on social media, “If my people who are called by my name humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land.” must become more than something we wish everyone else would do. We must embrace it individually. Deeply. Daily. In other words, it’s time to pick a side. There is no middle of the road.

In practical terms?

It means placing all trust in Jesus. Nothing else. No one else. Not in a job or position, not in income or possessions, not in a political party or candidate. Not in ourselves. It means praying for and acting with discernment.

It means getting in the Word, getting on our knees, and truly meeting with, listening to, and following Jesus Christ. It means prioritizing Jesus because we live for Jesus. It means obedience; praying for our enemies, for those who believe differently than us, vote and act differently than us.

It means possessing and sharing the love of Christ; making sure others see Him in us – no matter what-In traffic, in our neighborhoods, on social media, at family gatherings and community events.

It means making the Great Commission our own mission, sharing the truth in love. Those drag queens? We know Jesus loves them just as much as he loves you and me. Have you prayed for them yet? Excuse me… I have something I need to tend to.

A Picture-Perfect Mystery

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

The large black and white photograph at the bottom of the cardboard box was an unexpected bonus. It wasn’t the reason I bid on the box at the farm auction that morning. I didn’t even know it was in there! But I quickly fell in love with the old artifact, partially because of an interest in history and antiques and partially because it holds a mystery. And, who doesn’t love a mystery?

Carefully lifting it from the box, I studied the late-1800s treasure. The photo captured a group of men from the past, posing in three loosely formed rows, beside a white frame building – perhaps a home, perhaps a business. It reflects the incongruent blend of dressy attire in a casual setting. Most of the men are wearing suit coats, ties, and vests. Many are sporting the bowlers and derbies popular in that era. Most of their faces are solemn and expressionless, not uncommon in old photographs. But, a couple of the fellas appear bemused, and one has a huge ornery smile.

The details are curious. A closer examination reveals baseball gear near the younger men in the front row, almost as if the photographer interrupted their game. One gent appears to be holding a baseball while another with a no-nonsense scowl is oddly, holding a cat and a corn cob pipe.  

Who are these guys? What’s their relationship and the reason for the photo?

I notice a rusty paperclip in the photo’s margin. It holds a folded piece of paper to the back of the picture. Carefully removing the paper clip, I unfold a yellowed Kansas City Kansan newspaper article dated September 30, 1958. It features a reproduction of the photograph now lying on my dining room table. It describes the dilemma of a Mrs. Waneta Manthei.

She has some of the facts. She knows the year of the photo is 1898. And, she knows the names of the men in it. Her now deceased father, Henry Childers, is one of them. They lived in the old Armstrong District of Kansas City, Kansas. In the past, he had told her the significance of the photo, but now she can’t recall what it is. Her late father also told her about the pledge the men made to keep the photo in good condition and ensure it was passed to the next surviving member of the group. A task that now falls to her.

The newspaper story is her attempt to locate the next person to give it to and to learn more about the picture. A flashback to simpler times, the article states “Mrs. Manthei works during the daytime. Her home telephone number is DR1-0157, and her business phone is BA1-9900, extension 8398.”  

Admiring Mrs. Manthei’s determination to honor her father’s wishes, I suddenly realize the article must not have provided the answers she sought. Now the photo, so important to these men, ended up in the bottom of a box sold to a stranger at a farm auction.

That auction took place over twenty years ago. I framed both the photo and the old newspaper article to try to preserve them. I’ve dutifully toted them along with me through various phases of my life. They’ve moved with me a few times and even spent an extended stay in a storage facility. Though I’ve done some research and made some phone calls, I haven’t solved the mystery surrounding the photo.  Can you?

If you have information about the photo or the descendants of Henry Childers or others named in the article, please email 1958picturemystery@gmail.com. I’d love to learn the story behind the photo and place it in the hands of the family of one of these men to treasure.

A Celebration that Never Ends

Posted on by Pamela McMilian

“Happy Easter” images and resurrection themed posts filled social media in the days leading up to Easter. Church services and special activities were advertised and well attended. Then came the family photos of holiday gatherings, egg hunts and Easter baskets.

Now, just a few days later, the holiday is behind us and for many it’s life as usual. Yet, I’m unwilling to let it go. Because, for the Christ follower, Easter isn’t a one-day deal. It’s a daily deal.

It’s the daily awareness of what Jesus said, did, and endured for each of us. It’s an awareness of the magnitude of our own sin, and the penalty we deserve. It’s realizing Jesus took our guilt upon himself, willingly and intentionally. It’s considering the unimaginable and undeserved abuse, shame and suffering he endured. It’s all the details –Jesus struggling to carry his cross; a thief’s confession and spiritual birth as he hung next to His Savior. It’s three hours of darkness as life slipped from the one called the Light of the World. It’s the significance of graves opening and the torn temple curtain. It’s trying to comprehend the incomprehensible love of Jesus.

It’s waking up each day remembering and rejoicing that the women who loved Jesus found an open grave and received angelic instructions. It’s the wonder of a resurrected Jesus sharing food and conversation with his followers, eventually appearing to hundreds of people before ascending into heaven.

It’s his parting instructions to us, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”  (Matthew 28:19-20 ESV).

For Christ followers, Easter is daily dying to self, hearing and heeding the Holy Spirit’s leading. And it’s Easter every day!

Easter Every Day

Each new dawn proclaims
Jesus is Creator, King and Savior
The stone, moved
The cloth, folded
He is risen!
Praise Him!

Each new dawn proclaims
Willing and inexpressible
Suffering by a Holy King
His own blood offered
Purchasing my eternity!
Praise Him!

Each new dawn proclaims
I am His!
The unceasing miracle
His Spirit within
Praise Him!
Easter every day!

~ P. D. McMilian