Lately the phrase “Gentle on my Mind” has floated in and out of my thinking. I’ve learned it’s a song popularized by many artists, but especially Glen Campbell. The lyrics are about a drifter’s long-ago love. But I’m drawn to the title for another reason: how hymns learned long ago come back to me—“gentle on my mind”—in renewed ministry.
As a young adult I began attending a church that sang lots of the old Gospel hymns. As a newcomer to the Gospel music culture, I embarrassed myself more than once as I helped out at the piano or organ. My mediocre keyboard skills were stretched by the tricky rhythms or fourteen sharps (or so it seemed). But one by one, those melodies and snatches of verses became a part of me, tucked away in some cerebral electrical compartment. Some rested unused for years, yet ready for retrieval if needed.
After my parents died when I was 31, I was drawn to Lina Sandell Berg’s hymn “Day by Day.” Its message seemed tailored for me with its reminder to find daily strength for life’s trials through trust in God’s wisdom and love. Later I learned that when only 26, she was on lake trip with her pastor-father when the boat lurched and he fell overboard and drowned. Her hymn came out of that incredible tragedy. And about a hundred years later it was “gentle on my mind” in my own loss.
Through the years, other hymns have drifted in during times of rejoicing or tragedy. This past week it happened again. On Monday, I was part of the family surrounding my mother-in-law, Doris, as she took her last breath. Seeing death happen for a faithful Christian woman drove home Paul’s proclamation: “Absent from the body, present with the Lord” (2 Cor. 5:8).
A lot went through my mind that day, but the next morning something I never expected was “gentle on my mind.” It was the chorus of one of those old peppy Gospel hymns—probably one that Doris had sung herself in her many years as a pastor’s wife: “O victory in Jesus, my Savior forever.” I grabbed a hymnbook, read all the verses and chorus—and I knew God had sent it special delivery.
I’m still singing it in my heart: when I wake up, when I drive to errands, and when I lie down at night. And I’ve put a hymnal by the chair where I often read and pray. When another hymn is “gentle on my mind,” I want to be ready to be blessed again.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
'Twas a dark and stormy night
‘Twas a dark and stormy night ....
It’s the classic opening line for a mystery novel. Even the aspiring author-dog Snoopy (of Peanuts fame) used it as he tapped out his best-seller on a typewriter balanced on top of his doghouse.
But it really was a dark and stormy night when Acts 28 opened. With a famous prisoner (the apostle Paul) aboard, bound to appeal his case to Caesar in Rome, a sailing ship found itself on the wrong side of the sailing season. Violently tossed for two weeks in a horrendous storm (offering another meaning to “think green”), the ship finally ran aground and broke apart. Miraculously, all made it safely ashore. But no luxury hotel awaited (nor even a Red Cross shelter), only a beach battered by the cold rain.
Word quickly spread among the locals, and they rushed to help out, building a fire for the bone-cold survivors.
Stop a minute here to consider Acts 28:2: “The islanders showed us unusual kindness” (NIV. RSV). Other versions call it “no little kindness” (KJV), “extraordinary kindness” (NASB), “unusual and remarkable kindness” (Amplified). It’s easy to skim right over this benevolent beach scene and rush on to the Hollywood moment of the chapter: the apostle shaking a poisonous viper off his hand (2:3-6).
Unusual kindness. Luke, the writer of Acts, didn’t just say “we got help.” He commended these strangers for helping above and beyond.
My eighty-something friend Mary, a remarkable woman who leads Bible studies in senior facilities, brought that verse to my attention and got me thinking. All around us, people are suffering in spiritual storms. They’re tossed on a lonely beach, battered by the wild winds of life. It’s not the script they would have written.
When I get around them and hear their pain, I want to jump in and fix everything. You know, “Extreme ship makeover” or something like that. But life is messy because we live in a fallen world. It’s “unfixable” until Christ returns again.
But we can do as the islanders, and show unusual kindness. People won’t forget it, either.
Case in point: Thirty years ago, I was tossed on a lonely shore by Hurricane Grief. My parents died six months apart, and I spent most of the next year cleaning out their home and preparing it for sale. One week I faced the task of changing living room walls from “Robin’s Egg Blue” (my parents were creative!) to a neutral, more sale-friendly ivory. The almost-empty room seemed as big as a gym as my energies flagged.
Then a single nurse from the church I’d started attending called. Help paint? Sure, she could spare an afternoon. And she did—her compassion and joy lifting my spirits. Yes, thirty years later, I still remember it—as I do other times people have helped me through a personal storm with the unusual kindness of a card, phone call, visit, hug, prayers, meal or practical help.
Memories of unusual kindness stay with you. Count on it. And keep an eye on the clouds. When you least expect it, some needy people may wash up on your day, needing the compassion of Jesus Christ, expressed through your hands.
It’s the classic opening line for a mystery novel. Even the aspiring author-dog Snoopy (of Peanuts fame) used it as he tapped out his best-seller on a typewriter balanced on top of his doghouse.
But it really was a dark and stormy night when Acts 28 opened. With a famous prisoner (the apostle Paul) aboard, bound to appeal his case to Caesar in Rome, a sailing ship found itself on the wrong side of the sailing season. Violently tossed for two weeks in a horrendous storm (offering another meaning to “think green”), the ship finally ran aground and broke apart. Miraculously, all made it safely ashore. But no luxury hotel awaited (nor even a Red Cross shelter), only a beach battered by the cold rain.
Word quickly spread among the locals, and they rushed to help out, building a fire for the bone-cold survivors.
Stop a minute here to consider Acts 28:2: “The islanders showed us unusual kindness” (NIV. RSV). Other versions call it “no little kindness” (KJV), “extraordinary kindness” (NASB), “unusual and remarkable kindness” (Amplified). It’s easy to skim right over this benevolent beach scene and rush on to the Hollywood moment of the chapter: the apostle shaking a poisonous viper off his hand (2:3-6).
Unusual kindness. Luke, the writer of Acts, didn’t just say “we got help.” He commended these strangers for helping above and beyond.
My eighty-something friend Mary, a remarkable woman who leads Bible studies in senior facilities, brought that verse to my attention and got me thinking. All around us, people are suffering in spiritual storms. They’re tossed on a lonely beach, battered by the wild winds of life. It’s not the script they would have written.
When I get around them and hear their pain, I want to jump in and fix everything. You know, “Extreme ship makeover” or something like that. But life is messy because we live in a fallen world. It’s “unfixable” until Christ returns again.
But we can do as the islanders, and show unusual kindness. People won’t forget it, either.
Case in point: Thirty years ago, I was tossed on a lonely shore by Hurricane Grief. My parents died six months apart, and I spent most of the next year cleaning out their home and preparing it for sale. One week I faced the task of changing living room walls from “Robin’s Egg Blue” (my parents were creative!) to a neutral, more sale-friendly ivory. The almost-empty room seemed as big as a gym as my energies flagged.
Then a single nurse from the church I’d started attending called. Help paint? Sure, she could spare an afternoon. And she did—her compassion and joy lifting my spirits. Yes, thirty years later, I still remember it—as I do other times people have helped me through a personal storm with the unusual kindness of a card, phone call, visit, hug, prayers, meal or practical help.
Memories of unusual kindness stay with you. Count on it. And keep an eye on the clouds. When you least expect it, some needy people may wash up on your day, needing the compassion of Jesus Christ, expressed through your hands.
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