Lines of wooden tables covered with red checked cloths, yellowed cotton cloths, handmade crocheted cloths, loaded till sagging, every square inch laden with stoneware bowls full of red potato salad, yellow with mustard, and studded with chopped celery, sweet pickle nuggets, and chunks of hard-boiled egg; bright orange carrot salad polka-dotted with black raisins; clear glass bowls of layered salads, various shades of green, orange, white, and yellow; finely chopped slaws, pale green with orange and purple flecks and dressed in a white dressing or a sweet vinegar; chipped china platters of golden-eyed deviled eggs, some bloodshot with paprika; luscious pink ham slices, and piles of fried chicken covered with a homemade breading redolent with spices and herbs, the chicken itself tangy and moist from a buttermilk brine; club aluminum Dutch ovens filled with pole beans, green beans, speckled butterbeans, and white acres, mustard, turnip and collard greens, all sporting a sheen of bacon drippings and shreds of pork; cast iron pots of bubbling baked beans spiked with molasses and the contents of every bottle in the refrigerator; others loaded with fall apart pot roast, pork roast, or chicken and bright yellow rice; others still steaming with chicken and slicker style dumplings; spoons sticking up akimbo from mason jars full of the jewel colors of various pickles, everything from deep red to chartreuse to layers of emerald green, canary yellow, and white; baskets of fluffy, tan buttermilk biscuits, soft yeast rolls, and black skillets of cornbread wedges; pies billowing with meringue, dense with pecans, or fruit bubbling from a vented golden crust; moist cake layers enrobed in swirls of chocolate or cream cheese or clouds of seven minute frosting, some cloaked in coconut, others with nuts peeking out from the coating—none of them exactly perfect because everything is homemade.

That’s what potluck was like when I was a child.  It was far superior to today’s offerings, at least half of which are purchased on the way—fold-up boxes of fried chicken and take-out pizza, plastic containers of salads and slaw, and bakery boxes of cakes and pies, all entirely too perfect to be made from scratch.  Is it any wonder that everyone rushes for the obviously homemade goodies and even snatches slices of cake early, before going through the regular line, and hides them for a later dessert?

Potluck originally referred to feeding drop-in guests or folks passing through who needed a meal whatever was in the pot that evening.  Drop-ins were not considered rude in those days.  I remember my parents thoroughly enjoying the evenings when someone just happened to stop by.  We didn’t load our lives down with extra-curricular activities back then--people were the activities.

Potluck eventually came to mean “You bring what you have and I’ll bring what I have and we’ll eat together.”  It didn’t really involve any extra work—that was the point.  When no one has enough of one thing but you pool it together, there is plenty for everyone, and plenty of time left to visit.

We often speak of “feasting on the word of God.”  I wonder what would happen if we had a potluck?  What would I have to offer?  Anything at all?  Do I spend enough time in the word of God to have thoughts on it readily at hand?  Most of us are too embarrassed to show up at a real potluck with nothing in our hands, but think nothing of showing up to a Bible study with nothing to share.

Would my spiritual table be loaded down with good food or store-bought, processed, preservative-laden grub because I had no time left in my day to cook something up?  Would my offering be fresh and nutritious or calorie-laden and fatty?  Would it be a gracious plenty mounded high in the bowl or spooned into a plastic cup barely big enough to feed one?  Would it be piping hot or lukewarm?  Would people go away satisfied or determined to avoid my table at all costs in the future?

Think about it tonight when you look at the meal you feed your family. What’s in that spiritual pot of yours should someone happen by?  Would they be lucky or not? 

Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen diligently to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. Incline your ear, and come to me; hear, that your soul may live; and I will make with you an everlasting covenant, my steadfast, sure love for David, Isaiah 55:1-3.

Dene Ward

You know that strange commercial where the woman’s guests keep disappearing, and we discover they have all fallen into the crack of her sofa and are living down there?  Keith put his hands down the crack of the narrowest upholstered chair in the house and, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat or endless scarves out of his sleeves, he kept coming up with the oddest things—a Ghiradelli dark chocolate square wrapper, 2 unpopped popcorn kernels, 3 red hots, 2 broken rubber bands, 4 shelled but shriveled peas, a nail file, a ballpoint pen, 3 quarters, 3 dimes, 3 nickels and 5 pennies, a fifteen inch square red bandanna, a twelve by five decorator pillow, and a co-ax cable connector.  I am afraid to try the much broader backed sofa—there really might be people living down there.

I know we have all experienced that feeling of being “lost in the cracks.” We have all had applications, letters, requests, complaints, and worst of all, payments, lost in the paper shuffle of doctor’s offices, large corporations, and government agencies.  Depending upon the issue, it could cause anything from the minor annoyance of a simple delay to the more serious problems of cut-off utilities or destroyed credit ratings.  It’s a helpless feeling, and a lonely one, to know you have done everything right and still this has happened—and no one seems to care.

Now just imagine your reaction if you had not done everything right.  You filled out the wrong form with the wrong information, sent it to the wrong address with the wrong amount of money, and you did it all two years late.  Not only that, but everything you did wrong you did that way on purpose.  Yet a week later you receive everything you had asked for anyway with promises of more whenever you needed it.

You would shake your head and say, “This can’t be possible,” and you would be right.

But isn’t that exactly what we receive with God?  In spite of our best efforts to wreck our lives, to sink into the depths of sin and be lost among the myriads who are content to live there, his searching hand will find us if we just reach out and take it.  We will never be lost in the cracks.

And Jehovah said, Go through the midst of the city, through the midst of Jerusalem, and set a mark upon the foreheads of the men that sigh and that cry over all the abominations that are done in the midst thereof.  And to the others he said in my hearing, Go through the city after him and smite; let not your eye spare, neither have pity, and slay utterly…but come not near anyone upon whom is the mark.

The firm foundation of God stands having this seal, The Lord knows those who are his…Ezek 9:4-6; 2 Tim 2:19.

Dene Ward

            I had heard of it happening before, washing machines walking across a room during a spin cycle because they were out of balance.  The washers of our day must be more attuned to the problem.  In fact, several years back when I put something large and heavy in the washer, as it began to spin, it simply cut itself off—some sort of failsafe, I suppose.  I rearranged the heavy bedspread and it spun just fine, finishing the load as programmed.

            Yet a couple of months ago, I went to move the towel load from the washer to the dryer, and found my machine sitting cockeyed from the wall.  In fact, if the back corner of the machine hadn’t hit the sidewall of the nook where it sat, it might have done a complete 360, water spewing everywhere when the hose pulled out of the wall.

            Ever since then, any sort of semi-heavy load sets the machine to walking—towels, jeans, sheets—and I have numerous dings in my laundry nook wall where that back corner always slams into the wall.  The washer man gave us some instructions, but nothing works.  Somehow my washing machine has become out of balance, and it appears it will stay that way.  On our recently slashed retirement budget, it isn’t worth the money to fix.

            Some of us have the same problem.  We can’t seem to find the balance.  Some stress obedience to the neglect of sincerity; others say, “The heart is all that matters.”  Some emphasize purity and truth to the point that compassion is all but lost, while others view mercy and compassion as the be-all-and-end-all.  A good many believe that wisdom and common sense will solve all matters, avoiding sacrifice for others and unquestioning faith in a God who controls all.

            “It isn’t good stewardship of my money.”
            “God would never expect…”
            “He meant well, and that’s what counts.”
            “They have family.  Let them do it.”
            “At least they attend a sound church.”
            “I thought we’d never get him baptized.”
            “This isn’t wrong but it might lead to…”

            All of these statements are a sign of a washing machine out of balance, banging against the wall as it pits one scripture against another, wresting the Word of God to make it fit what I want, instead of weighing the spirit of the law, and making a righteous decision based upon an appropriate balance of faith and wisdom, purity and compassion, obedience and sincerity.

            I know a man who had to study to make an important decision in his life.  He said, “I studied it knowing the wrong decision would send me to Hell.”  He’s the same man who will reach into his pocket the moment he hears of a need.  If you have that kind of balance in your life, none of this will be as difficult as the contentious always want to make it.

             But if you had known what this means, I desire mercy and not sacrifice, you would not have condemned the guiltless, Matt 12:7.

Dene Ward

            Do you know that it is practically impossible to find plain old banana ice cream in the grocery store?  You can find banana split ice cream and banana cream pie ice cream, but not plain banana.  So overripe bananas were on sale a few weeks ago and Keith bought some to make ice cream.  As we were in the middle of mashing bananas I added a splash of lemon juice and suddenly we were having a conversation about it.  He was just sure I had ruined his banana ice cream and made it sour—why the whole thing would curdle now, didn’t I know that?

            The past few weeks he has started watching me do things and asking questions for the inevitable day when he will need to take over.  In the past, he has never known that I add a splash of lemon juice to a lot of things, his favorite apple pie, his favorite blueberry crisp, his favorite peach cobbler, his favorite crab cakes, and I could go on and on.  Lemon juice is one of those things that brighten flavors and make things taste better, even though you don’t actually taste the lemon—similar to salt in baked goods.  Any good cook knows that if you leave the salt out of the cookies or the cake or the pie crust or the biscuits, none of them will be fit to eat.  You don’t know it is in there, but you sure know it if it isn’t.

            I have a feeling we treat God’s blessings that way sometimes.  We never really notice all the good things we have, but I bet if they suddenly disappeared we would.  Oh yes, we often thank God for the really big things like salvation and grace, but what if you got up to a black and white world tomorrow morning?  Have you ever really thought about the blessing of color?  We thank God every day for the food on our tables, but what if suddenly you could no longer taste it?  Let me tell you, I have had that problem with these eye medications and it is awful.  About the only thing good about it was a ten pound weight loss in two weeks, but there comes a point when even that is not a blessing.

            You see, God is responsible for everything good, even the seemingly small, unimportant things.  When your life takes a turn for the worse, it is easy to forget that and blame God.  But by remembering that there are still good things, like color and taste, like flowers and butterflies, like puppies and kittens, like rain on the roof and a breeze in the trees, like a real vine-ripened tomato, you can know that God is still there, he is still giving you blessings.  They may be blessings like lemon juice in banana ice cream or salt in cookies:  just because you don’t notice them, doesn’t mean He doesn’t care.

You visit the earth and water it, you greatly enrich it; the river of God is full of water.  You provide their grain for so you have prepared it.  You water its furrows abundantly, settling its ridges, softening it with showers and blessing its growth.  You crown the year with your bounty, your wagon tracks overflow with abundance.  The pastures of the wilderness overflow, the hills gird themselves with joy, the meadows clothe themselves with flocks, the valleys deck themselves with grain; they shout and sing together for joy,  Psalm 65:9-13.

Dene Ward

I have been spending a lot of time in doctors’ offices and hospitals lately.  My ophthalmologist has now transferred me permanently to the University of Florida/Shands Teaching Hospital where I receive excellent care, and regularly excite the interns.  These handsome young men run up and down the halls, grabbing their buddies and saying, “You gotta come!  You’ll never get another chance to see someone like this!”  For an elderly, gray-haired, slightly overweight woman, that is quite an ego builder.
             
Then there are the Fellows.  Notice, that is a capital “F.”  I have not quite figured out the whole hierarchy, but these seem to be young doctors who have finished medical school, and are now attached, almost literally, to an older, experienced doctor for a year or so before they go out on their own.  I met the latest Fellow a few weeks ago.  I go in fairly often—often enough that even the cleaning lady recognizes and greets me. Since it was our first time together, he got to do the initial work-up himself.  He tried reading the chart, but my doctor has notoriously bad handwriting, even worse than most doctors—he obviously aced the bad handwriting class that med schools seem to require all doctors to take. The pharmacy regularly has to call the office to find out what he prescribed, and that’s his good handwriting.  
              
Since this Fellow was having such a tough time of it, I just started talking.  He shut the file and listened, and then asked quite a few questions.  I have learned more about eyes than I ever hoped to know, including anterior chambers, corneal depths, iris prolapses, capsular tension rings, and zonules. The look he gave me was half surprise and half amusement.  Before we were through he said, “In your next life you will be an ophthalmologist.”
        
Opportunity knocked and I was totally oblivious.  Let me describe this young doctor and see if you miss it, too.  He was medium height, about five-nine, slim build, probably one-sixty.  His hair was dark, with heavy eyebrows, his face square and his skin dark as well.  His name was Indian, as in Gandhi, not Geronimo.  The University of Florida is nothing if not a melting pot.  Now think back to what he said.  “In your next life…”  Even if he no longer believes in his native country’s faith, his culture was showing:  reincarnation.  About 6
hours later, I realized what I should have said:  “In my next life, I won’t need
an ophthalmologist.”  Here he was, so imbued in his own culture’s faith that such a statement would pop out of him, and I, supposedly imbued in mine, missed a golden opportunity to reaffirm what I know to be true.
             
What do I do?  I blame it on my slow mind.  I’m getting older, you see, and don’t think as quickly as I used to.  Nonsense!  I had that problem twenty years ago, too.  “Old” has nothing to do with it.  What has everything to do with it, is a focus on the here and now, rather than on the eternal.  I was too concerned about what the doctor would tell me about this life to see what I might be able to do about the next one. I was too concerned with my physical fate and not concerned at all with the spiritual fate of another.  
              
A few months ago, I did a little study on spiritual immaturity.  Do you know what the apostle Paul equates that with?  Carnality.  Walking after the manner of men, 1 Cor 3. Thinking more about the physical than the spiritual, more about this life than the eternal life to come.  As I get more and more mature in Christ, this life should be less and less on my mind.  It should be easier to think of the “right” thing to say, not harder.  Have I not gotten any better at all?
             
Well, yes, I am some better.  I do not rail at God about this illness.  I do not ask him, why me?  I don’t whine--well, not very often anyway.  And just when I think I have accomplished something, the Lord sends me a wake-up call.  What I don’t  do is not even half of it.  My faith should be a positive thing, not a negative thing.  Here I had a chance to sow a seed, however small, and I stumbled in what might have been freshly plowed ground and fell flat on my face.   
           
I can hear some saying, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.  You have serious issues to deal with in your life right now.” Didn’t Paul have serious issues when he was beaten and thrown into prison?  But didn’t he sing God’s praises and preach to whoever would listen while he was there?  Isn’t his focus on the spiritual the reason he was able to say I have learned in whatever state I am to be content, Phil 4:11?  How else do you handle beatings that flay you open to the bone, stoning, shipwrecks, and betrayal by so-called brethren, to the point of rejoicing that those traitors were preaching the gospel, 1:15-18?  
 
And what shall I more say? for the time will fail me if I tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah; of David and Samuel and the prophets: who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, from weakness were made strong, waxed mighty in war, turned to flight armies of aliens. Women received their dead by a resurrection: and others were tortured, not accepting their deliverance; that they might obtain a better resurrection: and others had trial of mockings and scourgings, yea, moreover of bonds and imprisonment: they were stoned, they were sawn asunder, they were tempted, they were slain with the sword: they went about in sheepskins, in goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, ill-treated (of whom the world was not worthy), wandering in deserts and mountains and caves, and the holes of the earth. And these all, having had witness borne to them through their faith, received not the promise, God having provided some better thing concerning us, that apart from us they should not be made perfect.   Heb 11:32-40. 
 
All of these folks, some of whose names are not even recorded for us, like their father Abraham, desired a better country, v16, [greeting it] from afar, v13.  And because of that focus on a spiritual life, they were able to meet the challenges of the physical.
             
Yes, I will see this young man again, probably many times. But I may never again get that golden an opportunity to make a comment that might make him think.  But at least next time, I will be listening for the knock.
             
Are you listening?

Dene Ward

It’s that time of year—college football season, overlapped and immediately followed by, college basketball season.  My family will be excitedly quoting stats from September through the first weekend in April—from the first kickoff of the year till the last tip-off.  

Of course, I begin hearing about it during spring practice.  Who is outplaying whom for which position?  Who will the starters be?  I bet if one of the players went to the coach and asked, “Do I have to be at every practice to be a starter?  Do I have to do extra work in the weight room?  Do I have to show up early and stay late shooting baskets?” that he needn’t bother checking the list to see if he even made the team, much less if he made the starting line-up. 
And I bet those players do not have to be told so.

My parents recently celebrated their 64 wedding anniversaries.  I wonder how many they would have made if they had each said, “Now give me a list of what I have to do to be a satisfactory spouse.  How many times do I need to remember your birthday?  How many times do I need to remember our anniversary? How many times do I need to say I love you?  How many
times do I even need to be polite?”  They never would have married in the first
place.

What would my boss think if I showed up tomorrow and asked for a list of
the minimum I need to do not to lose my job?  Hmmm. I think I just lost it, especially since this is something I get paid to do.

Service is, by definition, voluntary.  Otherwise it is forced labor.  It does not expect repayment.  It does not seek to know the minimum to get by.  Asking that very question does not even cross its mind because it desires to do the most it possibly can, and by doing that often succeeds in doing even more. 
But it understands from the depth of its soul that even that is not enough.

Here is the problem for those who want to just get by: on God’s team, everyone is a starter. Sitting on the bench is not an option. There will be no
third-stringers, who never set foot on the field during a game, but still
receive a championship ring. Only God’s starters get the trophy, and with God you either make the starting lineup or you don’t make the team at all.  
 
Now, what was that question you had?  

Now beloved, we are persuaded better things of you, and things that accompany salvation, though we thus speak; for God is not unrighteous to forget your work and the love which you showed toward his name, in that you ministered unto the saints and still do minister.  And we desire that each one of you may show the same diligence unto the fullness of hope even to the end. That you be not sluggish, but imitators of those who, through faith and endurance, inherit the promises, Heb 6:9-12.  

Dene Ward

I have had a terrible time with my basil this year.  It will not grow.  It just sits there exactly the same height and with the same number of leaves, day after
day.  Usually, even though I use it a lot, it becomes a shrub, and I must cut four cups at a time making pesto every couple of weeks to keep up with it. 
This year I had to ration it in things like my orzo salad with grape tomatoes, green onions, pine nuts, feta, and basil, and the cherry tomato salad with basil, fresh mozzarella, garlic, and balsamic vinegar. Pesto was not even in the forecast, and my late summer marinara may be blander than it has ever been before.

Basil is one of the easiest herbs to grow.  Being Mediterranean, it can take the Florida heat and humidity.  It may wilt on a hot summer afternoon, but recovers quickly in the evening and looks like new the next morning.  It can handle the worst of circumstances.  It doesn’t even have its own particular pest like parsley has parsley worms.  So what is the problem this year?  We watered it during the dry weather and fertilized it as usual.  I have no idea what happened.  Maybe I took it for granted that it was a strong plant needing no special care.

Strong Christians can be like that.  People get so used to them being strong
that no one checks on them, no one asks how things are going, no one gives them an encouraging word—that’s what they are supposed to do.

When was the last time you patted an elder on the back and thanked him
for his work, maybe even apologized for any trouble or worry you might have
caused him?  When was the last time you sent him a note or a card of appreciation?  How about his wife?  She must not only deal with some of the same problems he does, but watch the effect of it all on him—distress etching lines in his face, frustration turning his hair gray a bit too early,  his smile all but disappearing over the sorrow for lost souls.

How about the preacher?  Even people who don’t mean anything by it can say hurtful things, can judge harshly, and can expect the impossible—perfection. 
Preachers and their wives must watch their children grow up too early as
they see their father mistreated over and over, everywhere they go.  It’s a wonder any of them stay faithful.

The worst thing you can do to a strong Christian is tell him or her that you know he is strong and can take anything.  Sometimes they can’t.  Sometimes it just gets to be too much, and instead of having brethren who will pull them out of the abyss, they must climb out all by themselves because no one thinks they need any help.

Find a strong Christian today and do them a favor--forget they are strong.  Treat them as if they needed a boost and then give them one.  They will appreciate it more than you can imagine.

[And Jehovah said] Charge Joshua and encourage him and strengthen him, for he shall go over before this people and he shall cause them to inherit this land which you shall see, Deut 3:28.

Wherefore brethren, exhort one another and build each other up, even as you also do.  But we beseech you brethren, know those who labor among you, and are over you in the Lord, and who admonish you. to esteem them highly in love for their work’s sake, 1 Thes 5:11-13.

[Paul said] Finally brethren, pray for us…2 Thes 3:1.
 
Dene Ward

Every time I go outside Chloe comes running, tail wagging, waiting for me to scratch her head.  If my hands are full, she butts the back of my leg with her nose until I manage to free my arms, bend over and scratch her head. If I am taking a load somewhere, she follows along, and I feel that little round nudge constantly all the way until FINALLY  (I am sure she is thinking) she gets
that longed for scratch on the head.  
 
This morning I suddenly wondered if I do that with God.  Am I so anxious for His attention that every morning I can hardly wait to talk with Him? Or do I just leave Him in the back of my mind until I can find a spare minute, and if He is lucky,  I might actually have a whole minute?

Yes, Chloe is making a little pest of herself to get my attention, but do you know what?  It doesn’t bother me a bit.  In fact, I find myself hurrying to put down my armload so I can pat her even sooner. It’s endearing to have a little creature want you so much.  Some days I go outside just to see her run up to me with that swishing tail, and actually sit down and spend a few minutes with her for no other reason  than to be with her.  I guess that’s what happens when your children grow up and the dogs are all you have around to dote on.

What was it Jesus said?  If you then being evil know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Father who is in heaven, give good things to those who ask him? Matt 7:11.  I don’t for a minute pretend to understand how God feels about things, but Jesus gives us a hint here.  If I, an imperfect person who sometimes still allows sin into my life, can love my
children enough to give them good gifts, if I can still care enough about a
small animal to want to satisfy its desire for attention, what will God not do
for me? If that small child’s pestering endears him to me because it makes me know he wants to be with me, certainly if it can happen with an animal’s little nose bumping my leg, won’t my pestering do the same for God?  
 
And to the other side of the question, if I act like God’s attention means little to me, why should He give me any of it when I decide I could use it?  My mother always says, “If I say to God, ‘I’m too busy for you right now,’ what’s to keep Him from saying that to me?”  I think she has a point there.

And he spoke a parable unto them to the end that they ought always to pray, and not to faint; saying, There was in a city a judge, who feared not God, and regarded not man: and there was a widow in that city; and she came often to him, saying, Avenge me of my adversary. And he would not for awhile: but afterward he said within himself, Though I fear not God, nor regard man; yet because this widow troubles me, I will avenge her, lest she wear me out by her continual coming. And the Lord said, Hear what the unrighteous judge says.  And shall not God avenge his elect that cry to him day and night and yet he is longsuffering over them? I say unto you, that he will avenge them speedily.  Luke 18:1-8.
 
Dene Ward

Lucas bought me a bird book for Mother’s Day one year.  This was not your average Audubon Society coffee table slab.  On the side of the book is a speaker, a push button and a tiny screen.  Each page in the book pictures a North American songbird with the usual blurb about its range, habits, and call.  Under the bird is a number.  When you put the correct number on the screen then push the button, you will hear that particular bird, actual recordings taken by the ornithology lab at Cornell University. 

I’ve heard the ugly squawk of blue jays all my life.  It seems fitting for this thug of a bird which bullies smaller birds and steals nests.  I’d been hearing a bird with a clear wooden whistle call for years.  I was positive it was a cuckoo, based solely on the cuckoo clocks I have heard, but as soon as I checked the cuckoo’s sound in my book, I knew I was mistaken.  On a whim one day, I punched in the blue jay’s number, wondering why in the world it was considered a songbird.  Suddenly a wooden whistle came floating out of the speakers.  This was a blue jay?  This was the sound I had become so enamored with?  It had never dawned on me that a bird could make more than one sound.

So blue jays were not the kindest birds in the forest.  I loved hearing that loud, clear call of theirs, and the fact that a blue jay could make such a lovely sound was strangely uplifting. I knew I would miss it if suddenly it disappeared.

How many times do we let our judgment of people, especially people we disagree with or have dealt with in less than ideal circumstances, keep us from seeing anything good about them?  How many times do we filter our views, not through the rose-colored glasses of kindness, but through a specialty lens we grind ourselves, one of malice that blocks out the good and magnifies the bad?  Ounce for ounce, hummingbirds are among the most vicious creatures on earth, actually attempting to impale one another on those long, sword-like beaks as they fight over the feeders we humans put out, yet we ooh and aah over them.  I really don’t think that the people with whom I have personality conflicts are actually out to murder me, so why can’t I see any of the pluses in their characters?

Isn’t there a human blue jay in your life?  Find that person today and take off the blinders.  Do something kind; say something kind.  Instead of pushing the button that releases a squawk, push the button that brings beautiful music.  Give him a chance to show his good side.  Isn’t that what you wish he would do for you?

The wicked one craves evil; his neighbor gets no mercy from him, Prov 21:10.

Love suffers long and is kind…does not behave itself unseemly, seeks not its own, is not provoked, does not keep track of evil…bears all things, believes all things, and hopes all things…love never fails, 1 Cor 13:4-7. 

Dene Ward

We were only in that big old frame house for 5 months, but I will never forget it.  Uneven flooring, tall drafty ceilings, and, when we moved in, no heat and no running water.  It was January 1st.  We sat around the table in hats and coats eating oatmeal or soup for every meal, and hauling water in buckets.  Eventually the truck company next door let us hook our garden hose to their well spigot.  We pulled the hose through an inch wide gap under the kitchen window and ran it into the sink beneath, which at least made the haul shorter. 

After about a week the well man came out and fixed the pump, and the gas man filled the tank.  Still it wasn’t warm.  Room-sized gas space heaters in the bathroom, kitchen, and living room did little to mollify the effects of fifteen foot ceilings and cracks between the planks in the floor through which we could see the ground three feet beneath.  It was the coldest winter I remember in this area—but maybe it was just that house.

When early spring rolled around I remember standing on the back stone steps in the sun—probably for the warmth.  Keith was on his haunches petting the dog, a black and brown mixed breed we had picked up at the pound a year earlier and named Ezekiel.  The boys were standing next to him listening, probably to some daddy advice.  They were 4 and 2, oblivious to our living conditions, and perfectly happy. 

Suddenly the breeze picked up and over the house something floated down out of the sky and landed across Keith’s shoulders, hanging down on each side of his chest.  It was a snakeskin.  When we figured out what it was, he couldn’t get it off fast enough.  It must have been four feet long, with perfect scale imprints all along its length.  It creeped me out, as the kids say these days.  I still shudder when I think of it.  Maybe that’s why I still remember that house so well.

I remembered that house and that event again recently when we passed a fifty gallon drum by the woodpile and there lying across it was another perfect snakeskin, three feet long, hanging over each side of the barrel.  They still give me the creeps when I see them, or the heebie jeebs, or whatever you choose to call that horrible feeling that runs down your spine and makes you shiver to your shoes.  Maybe it’s because I know that somewhere nearby there is a real snake.  I can’t pretend there aren’t any out there simply because I haven’t seen one lately.

I’m sure you could make of list of things that give you that feeling.  What worries me is that nowhere on anyone’s list is the three letter word “sin.”  It ought to give us the creeps to be around it, to see its effects on the world, people fulfilling their every lust, their hearts full of hate and envy and covetousness, lying as easily as they breathe.  It ought to make us shiver to hear the Lord’s name taken in vain from nearly every mouth, even children, or the coarse, crude, vulgar language that passes for conversation—and entertainment!-- these days.  Why?  Because you can be positive the Devil is somewhere nearby.  He’s just waiting to drop out of nowhere and drape his arm around your shoulder.  Before you know it, you will be dressing like everyone else, talking like everyone else, and acting like everyone else.  In short, you will be like everyone else, walking around swathed in snakeskin, hugging it to yourself instead of ripping it off in disgust.  

Don’t think it can’t happen to you, especially if sin doesn’t give you the creeps to begin with. 

The fear of the LORD is hatred of evil. Pride and arrogance and the way of evil and perverted speech I hate... Seek good, and not evil, that you may live; and so the LORD, the God of hosts, will be with you, as you have said. Hate evil, and love good, and establish justice in the gate; it may be that the LORD, the God of hosts, will be gracious to the remnant of Joseph…Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good, Prov 8:13; Amos 5:14,15; Rom 12:9.

Dene Ward