ENDINGS

The cliched cartoons portraying December 31 through January 1st usually picture two figures. One's the bent-over, long-bearded old guy slumping off with his curved-blade scythe. The other: a pert, diapered infant toddling into the drawing. “All of life's a circle”--lyrics to a pop group's hit--come to my mind....until I'm reminded of how scripture pictures the transitions of life. It's not about an “old guy” going off life's stage. It's about the eternal One who formed us, purposed us, and has marked the day when “now” will become our “eternity”--“which” eternity being our choice.

I shake my head over how a midnight alcohol-fueled hoopla around a clock in New York City gets such big coverage. Instead of parties, a reconsideration of purpose should propel us into a new year. E.M. Bounds, author, attorney and minister (1835-1913) considered these issues, too. In Heaven: a Place, a City, a Home (Revell, 1921, p. 125) he wrote:

Heaven ought to draw and engage us. Heaven ought to so fill our hearts and hands, our manner, and our conversation, our character and our features, that all would see that we are foreigners, strangers to this world...Heaven is our native land and home to us, and death to us is not the dying hour, but the birth hour.

I rediscovered this Bounds quote in a book by a grieving father, Levi Lusko, Through the Eyes of a Lion (W Publishing Group, 2015, p. 171). Lusko, whose daughter died in childhood, wrote of life's brevity: “Far better than living in denial about the fact that our lives will end is facing up to it and living in light of it. The only people who are truly ready to live are those who are prepared to die.”

Lusko also reminded readers that Heaven isn't just about “getting through the gates” through faith in Jesus Christ. What happens in Heaven is connected to what happened on earth. He quoted 19^th century missionary-to-India and author Amy Carmichael: “We will have all of eternity to celebrate the victories, and only a few hours before sunset in which to win them.”

Half a century ago, “All of Life's a Circle” topped pop music charts. Perhaps that's true in why we call birth to death a “cycle of life.” But God's perspective is linear, not cyclical: birth to eternity—with two choices for the route. One ignores God or just gives Him lip service. The other is eternally purposed.

WHAM!

I didn't expect to encounter a “casualty” when I stepped off the front porch that day. Right below a large window lay a little bird. I picked it up and touched it, hoping to discern if it was breathing. But there was no reaction. Apparently a collision with the sky-reflecting window took the little bird's life.

 I guessed it was a sparrow—I'm not a bird expert but certainly know crows from robins!--and thought of how common sparrows were in Bible times, too. They built nests in the temple precincts. They could be purchased cheaply for temple sacrifices. In Jesus' time, a penny bought two. Yet, despite their “cheapness,” Jesus remarked, “Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father's care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows” (Matthew 10:29-31).

 Elsewhere, the Lord admonished His followers not to worry about everyday life and the need for nourishment and clothing. Life is more than that, He said. Then He added (and I wonder if His hand swept across the sky): “Look at the birds. They don't plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them. And aren't you more valuable to him than they are? Can all your worries add a single moment to your life?” (Matthew 6:25-27).

It's a bit of a jump from common birds to lambs, but I thought of lines penned by English poet William Blake (1757-1827). Writing as if a child talking to a lamb about its Creator, his poem begins:

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee,

Gave thee life, and bid thee feed...?

 It had been years (a college English lit class) since I first read those words. But as I scooped up the little bird and decided where to bury it, the lines returned, but with adjustment: “Little bird, who made thee?....Gave thee life, and bid thee feed?”

As I dug a hole under a nearby azalea, it was a sad but holy moment for me. Dust to dust we all return, people and creatures—except for those still alive when Jesus returns to earth again. But in my minutes-long bird-burying role, I answered Blake's poem. Do I know Who made me? Absolutely! Gave me food, clothing, voice. Blake's poem ends with a reference to Christ as the “lamb of God.”

He calls Himself a Lamb.

He is meek, and He is mild,

He became a little child

I a child, and thou a lamb,

We are called by His name.

Little lamb, God bless Thee!

Little lamb, God bless thee!

 And little bird, now blanketed by soil under the azalea, you mattered to your Creator. Hard to comprehend in this big world, but true.

LIGHT-BEARER

My valley's skyscape one day seemed  appropriate for a March 19 Facebook entry I'd just read by a longtime writer-speaker friend. She  quoted  Eighteenth century English poet and hymnwriter William Cowper: “Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; The clouds you so much dread, Are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on Thy head.” Soon after, on March 25, my friend, Lucinda ("Cindy") Secrest McDowell broke through those "much-dreaded" spiritual clouds to eternal life.

Not long before, as I read Cindy’s month-earlier (Feb. 21) Lenten blog, I had no clue how deeply its truths would test her. Referring to the “Ash Wednesday” tradition, she wrote:

“Sometime today, you might find yourself hearing these words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” (Genesis 3.19), as an officiant traces ashes on your brow, made from burning last year’s palm branches. On Ash Wednesday, the church begins the 40-day season of Lent by reminding us of our mortality. While that may sound morbid, this holy practice can actually become a catalyst to pursue a deeper, more significant life…As Ash Wednesday launches the beginning of our journey towards Easter, I’m focusing on remembering the past, reflecting on the present, and relinquishing my future to a sovereign God.-- (From Feb. 21, 2023 blog at https://lucindasecrestmcdowell.com)

A month later, just weeks before her 70^th birthday, Lucinda (“Cindy”) Secrest McDowell died of just-discovered invasive cancer. Shocked in hearing that, I thought back to the 2023 life “focus word” she had chosen: the Hebrew word hineni (pronounced hee-nay-nee), meaning “Here I am.”  Used of responding fully to a divine call, its most memorable use is in Genesis 22. There, Abraham had traveled to a certain mountain to obey God’s command to sacrifice the miracle child of his old age, Isaac. But just before Abraham prepares to kill his bound son on an altar, God calls again. Abraham responds, “Hineni”—“Here I am.” At that crucial moment, God tells him to spare the son. He has passed the test of obedience.

A gifted, prolific writer, she and her retired-pastor-husband had  entered their golden years...but her writing and speaking continued. "Hineni"--"here I am."

What a resume she had! Growing up in south Georgia, she raced through high school and college, throwing in (like Catherine Marshall’s fictional “Christy”) a stint of ministry among impoverished Appalachians. She finished a master's at Gordon Seminary in Massachusetts while living (as a hired housemate-helper) with famed author Elisabeth Elliot. Editing and writing jobs, (including one with a world-wide evangelism conference), then a few classes at Wheaton Graduate School (where I met her) came next. From there, she served as a missions pastor for a California mega-church. And that’s where she encountered a widower serving a parachurch ministry in Seattle. His wife had died, leaving him with three young children.

Some of her books from my bookshelf

Fast-forward through a long-distance courtship and marriage, and they’d follow pastoral callings on the other side of the nation, have a child together, and finally settle in a historic New England church. Busy as a pastor’s wife and mom to four, she’d find the time to write 13 books, contribute to 30 others, do other writing, and speak at conferences.

An avid reader—fiction, devotionals, Bible study, classics—she recycled the lessons of great spiritual leaders into her own writing. She mentored other writers through support groups and conferences. Whew. A full life. But one ended just before age 70, mere weeks after cancer was diagnosed.

Several decades ago, on the East coast for a business trip, I took a bus to her home in Connecticut. Though she was ill with a bad cold, she was a gracious hostess. I visited her historic church “gathered” in the 1600s and where George Washington once visited and worshiped. Behind the church spread a huge historic cemetery—rows upon rows of gravestones. (See some old graves behind us.) A few, she admitted with a smile, marked the final resting place of other “Lucindas” from centuries earlier.

Her given name, Lucinda, means “light.” I was privileged to be a tiny part of her light-bearing life. I treasure her books. I will read them again this year, grateful for knowing a woman who lived out her name, “light,” by responding, “Hineni….here I am.”

Be blessed by checking out these links:

My Word for the Year is in Hebrew – Lucinda Secrest McDowell

What Elisabeth Elliot Told Me | Lucinda Secrest McDowell – "Encouraging Words" (wordpress.com)

GONE

I write at length this week to remember some remarkable friends. God teaches us through wonderful people we have known.

We hadn't driven west of our neighborhood for a while—east is the route that takes us to “town”--and were shocked by a gap just a block west away. An old house in that block was gone—torn down, most of the debris removed, only a derelict “free” refrigerator by the sidewalk. A couple decades ago it had been replanted there by house-movers who lugged it about a mile and a half from a high-profile spot near the town's major health clinic. Now, it was gone.

The symbolism of that neighborhood loss was stark for me, as within days three dear Christian friends died. Gone....to Heaven. But gone from earthly contact. All were role models for me. As I have processed their deaths—correction, their Home-goings—I have reconsidered the words of Moses in Psalm 90 as he anticipated his own death at age 120:

Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom....Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days....May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish the work of our hands for us—yes, establish the work of our hands. (Psalm 90: 12, 14, 17)

Longtime friends from our church, Al and Georgia Burgener were 95 and 90 when they died within a short time of each other on Sept. 15. Their daughters were with them as the end came in the comforting surroundings of their neat, cared-for home. Al was a worker-bee who lived quietly and diligently. After a career delivering milk, he went to work as a church janitor, serving way into retirement years. He kept their home's yard immaculate, even into this last year—with the concession of hiring out the lawn mowing. He also loved sports and sometimes shared watching games with my husband.

Georgia was the complement to Al's quiet demeanor. Outgoing, social, she made friends wherever she went. Neither she nor Al were Christians when they married. Four daughters came in rapid succession, and in the busyness of mothering Georgia felt her spiritual void. She visited a church—daughters in tow—and had a follow-up visit that led to her accepting Christ as Savior. She kept praying for Al, and in time, he, too, decided to follow Christ. A quiet man, he honored the Lord through his diligence and steadfastness.

As their daughters grew into beautiful, talented teenagers, the boys came around. She insisted that their dates be Christian young men. That meant that some heard her present the “Four Spiritual Laws.” As a result, lives were changed. Some ended up in ministry vocations. Her nest empty, she still impacted her world and growing “grand” family. Her outside-the-home interests—including “senior swims” at the YMCA and a weight-loss group—became platforms for her faith. I remember her joy when one of her swim-partners started coming to church.

I was about a decade older than her daughters, but she still scooped me into her friendship circle after my marriage. She modeled good people skills for me. She also modeled service. When I broke my ankle at a terribly inconvenient time (I was care-giving my mother-in-law, slipping into dementia), Georgia was among those who showed up with beautiful meals to help carry us through the worst of being “laid up.” Later I returned the favor a few times when they went through illness. By her reaction, you would have thought my plain cooking was something a gourmet chef whipped up.

For several years we exchanged the same silly “old-age” birthday card featuring birds known for their longevity. For example, the Algerian condor, 106 years. We'd add an appropriate note each year as we sent it back and forth. Georgia also did something nobody else had done for me: she put on a surprise birthday party for my 65^th birthday. She was 81! But I came to her house to find many dear friends gathered to celebrate me! I cry to even think about it. She'd asked the guests to bring something (like fabric or gift cards) to support my ministry of sewing baby blankets I donated to local hospitals for families in need. Imagine, a party honoring that! In subsequent years, she'd always ask, “How many blankets are you up to?” (I got to 1,400 when she died.)

More important, Georgia prayed. She knew the burdens of my heart. She prayed and checked up on the requests. About two weeks before her death, when Al was struggling to live, I called and asked if we could have a “two minute porch visit.” With Covid concerns (even though we'd both been vaccinated), she sat in a chair on the porch and I had a chair in the walkway. She, the encourager, now needed encouragement. Two minutes went to fifteen. I broke the “no-contact” protocol and hugged her when I left. I had no idea that in the next two weeks a cancer diagnosis and major stroke would end her life. How sweet that Heaven called both the same night.

Three days later, I got word that an incredible friend, Dan Miller, died at 84, his polio-damaged body just worn out. Some thirty years earlier, I heard him speak at a banquet honoring church volunteers, and it was a WOW! event. He was one of the last victims of polio in North Central Washington in 1955, just weeks after he graduated from high school as a decorated athlete. Yet, despite profound disability, he headed for college determined to major in physical education! As he put his dream before his college advisor, the wise man said, “Let's see what you can do.” And Dan did it, becoming (like my husband) an elementary physical education teacher despite significant paralysis. Plus, he taught himself to play guitar (holding it backwards to accommodate his disability) and played in a band. And, later, he got his pilot's license and even flew an ultra light.

Finally, when post-polio problems made his daily school-administrator-role harder and harder, he retired early, transforming his occupation into “inspirational speaker,” sharing through humor and honesty his life story of breaking barriers. Mostly through word-of-mouth, his opportunities exploded over the next twenty years. In more than 1,500 presentations, he spoke to thousands in 44 states and provinces. He had major appearances:

*8,000 at the “Million Dollar Round Table International Conference”

*6,000 at back-to-back services at Schuller's Crystal Cathedral

*12,000 at Gaither's 25^th Praise Gathering in Indianapolis. (Plus, featured in a Gaither Homecoming video.)

*13,500 at two California Christian school teacher conferences

Besides the mega-conferences, there were the smaller gatherings—like my church's “volunteer banquet.” After hearing him, I told my husband, I need to write up his story. Dan and his wife Judy were so gracious in that process, which eventually resulted in articles in major inspirational magazines. Then it went in a “Chicken Soup for the Soul” book. And finally, gathering together our notes, I helped him write his autobiography, Living Laughing and Loving Life. He self-published, selling or giving away an extraordinary 72,000+ copies. (The cover--reflecting Dan's sense of humor--showed his son cradling a fish like a baby and holding a granddaughter like a prize catch.)

Because of the friendship that developed through our interviews and contacts for the articles, it was a natural transition to help him prepare his autobiography—without charge. Asking for pay never was in my plan. I was simply glad to help spread his amazing life message. But Dan and Judy were givers. I needed a newer computer. He gave me his when he upgraded. Then came a traumatic year when we were nearly killed by a drinking driver. A few months later, Dan was speaking in our town and called our home. I was at the hospital with our son, who needed some treatment for his face scars from the wreck. My husband took the call; Dan told him to take me to a certain computer store. While in town, he had picked out a new system for me, paid for it, and told the salesman who to call. I wept over this extravagant gift—a boost to me and to our high school kids as the technological age took hold. For several years, they also sent unexpected/unsought checks of “appreciation”--sharing the blessings of his speaking ministry.

In our life journeys we will encounter difficult people and wonderful people. God knows we need the latter's encouragement. And as we have been blessed, we are in turn to bless others. How grateful I am for these “senior-than-me” folks who lived out in winsome ways the Lord's command to “love one another.”

I miss them. We will meet again. The house has left the lot. There's an empty spot on earth. But there's a new home, in Heaven.

WORTH IT ALL

Memorial Day is Monday, and my husband and his sisters will go to a little country cemetery to "take care of" their relatives' graves there. I cannot do the same for my parents, but from time to time I stop at our city cemetery to reflect at this grave marker for my "spiritual grandma," an older lady from my church who loved on me like the daughter she never had. She lived almost the same time as the author of a hymn about heaven that continues to comfort many.

On Wednesday, May 12, 2021, a 41-year-old Swiss man died soon after standing on top of Mount Everest. He had just achieved his goal of reaching the summit of all seven of the world's highest mountains. But he didn't live to come home and celebrate. And he wasn't the first to succumb to the mountain's thin air and brutal weather. Every year, the death toll rises.

Was it worth it all? Esther Kerr Rusthoi had her answer to that question, but it had nothing to do with mountain climbing. Instead, she was looking in the distance to that final breath between earthly life and eternal life. She had reason to wonder. Born in 1909, she suffered poor health and died in 1962 at 53. But her life was filled with more than illness. She was known as an author, poet, composer, singer, and evangelist. She served as an associate pastor at the Angelus Temple on Los Angeles. With her husband Rev. Howard Rusthoi, a military chaplain, she was known as a “revival broadcaster.”

Probably her best-known legacy, however, was a hymn that revealed her yearning for heaven. Its begins talking about days that are too long, trials too hard to bear, and the temptation to complain, murmur and despair. Except—someday, Christ will appear to take us away to our eternal home. The song's chorus broke out in victory:

It will be worth it all when we see Jesus!

Life's trials will seem so small when we see Christ.

One glimpse of His dear face, all sorrow will erase.

So bravely run the race 'til we see Christ.

Two more verses affirm the joy when we cross that “great divide to Glory, safe at last.”

But Esther's story is not complete without telling about her three-years-older brother, Phil Kerr, a music evangelist credited with more than 3,000 songs and choruses. The twosome were born to parents who did missionary work in Arizona and Old Mexico, and at San Pedro (Calif.) rescue missions. Esther and Phillip were exposed at young ages to informal evangelism through music. Their parents would invite neighbors over for a program that included music, games and Scripture quizzes.

After Phillip grew up to be a talented pianist and conductor, and an ordained minister, he found his niche in revival services and crusades. In 1945, Phillip started “Monday Musicals,” a Christian music talent show to encourage young Gospel musicians, held at large venues in southern California. He also gathered Gospel songs into a hymnal that sold more than a million copies. One of his books, Music in Evangelism (1939), was widely used as a text in music departments of Bible schools.

In 1949 Phillip and another Gospel musician were asked to help with music at the Christ for Greater Los Angeles crusade. It was the first big crusade for a young evangelist named Billy Graham, who would go from there to a life of worldwide evangelism.

Phillip died in 1960, two years before his sister Esther. One of his friends described the Gospel songs Phillip wrote as “light and lilty”--with titles like “Melody Divine,” “I'm Glad I'm a Christian,” “This Is Why I Sing,” and “I'm In Love with the Lover of My Soul.” And as Phillip “summited” at the door to Heaven, he probably would have agreed with his sister's lyrics: “It will be worth it all when we see Jesus.” 

Join a group singing this song at this website:

When We See Christ it will be worth it all! - Bing video

RENDER (Psalm 116)

I have one bed of iris that rarely bloom (blame my black thumb!), 

but this rogue lily yearly pops up in the midst of them. Being red,

they make me think of "the Lamb of God, who takes away

the sin of the World."

(Part of an ongoing series of the 48 psalms recommended for study during times of "feeling down," from pastor-counselor David Seamands' book "Healing for Damaged Emotions.")

A classic Peanuts cartoon shows Lucy harassing Linus.  He groans, “Aaugh!” and rips his shirt apart. In the final panel, he declares, “Thou hast caused me to rend my garment!” I’d call that “expressing anger” with, ah, destructive enthusiasm. Psalm 116 has one verse that could be described as “anger”—“all men are liars” (v. 11) but the rest of it hinges on a word close to “rend,” but with a different meaning: “render,” to give back or restore.

RESCUED

God probably hears many prayers that begin, “Things are a mess and getting worse. Help!” But here, instead of woe, the psalmist begins with wonder and praise:

I love the Lord, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy,

Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live.(vv. 1-2)

Pagan faiths don’t have such access to God. They hope their god(s) is(are) in a hearing mood when they do their sacrifices and routines. Our God doesn’t have office hours. He’s 24/7, anywhere.

The psalmist then relates a situation where his life was in danger. “The cords of death entangled me,” a metaphor also used in David’s Psalm 18:4, graphically depicts a desperate situation. But the psalmist’s reaction was to call “on the name of the LORD,” and he experienced God’s compassion in his great need. Significantly, he called himself “the simplehearted” (v. 6). Our inscrutable God is accessible to us, the “simplehearted”!  

RENDERED

News media sometimes relate how a stranger saved someone in a dangerous situation. The “rescued” wants to express deep gratitude to the “rescuer,” but has no name or contact information. The psalmist, however, knew just Who to thank for his “rescue.”   In  his time and culture there was a religious rite called the “fellowship offering” of meat, bread and wine to render thankfulness to God . (Explained in Leviticus 3, 7:11-21, it’s also called “thank offering” or “sacrifice of thanksgiving.”) Besides sacrificing an animal as a token of the person’s gratitude, the priest would pour out a portion of wine to symbolize a life poured out to God (the “cup of salvation,” v. 13). Part of this food offering was set aside for the person and his family to eat—truly a “thanksgiving” meal (without a turkey!).

RELEASED

For me, the most precious verse in this psalm is this:

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints. (v. 13)

I will never forget my dad sitting by my mother’s hospital bed in her last comatose hours before dying of cancer at age 59. Weary from his “last watch,” he opened a Bible and read this psalm aloud to her, not knowing if she could even hear. His voice broke at this verse. Such a hard, wrenching moment—yet it was “precious” in that this Christian woman would soon know “the other side” of being with the Lord.

I’ve heard it said that a believer’s death is “not an accident but an appointment.” Psalm 139:16 says God has ordained all our days. Psalm 39:4-5 recognizes the fleeting character of life. Psalm 90:12 speaks of our numbered days. Our lifespan is in God’s hands.

What should be our response? To declare, as verse 1 says, “I love the Lord.” Life on this planet will never be perfect until God turns everything upside down at the end of time and brings forth the new heavens and new earth. But, for now, He bids us look around and recognize His hand of grace and help. 

The last line of this psalm is significant: “Halle lujah” (Hebrew for “Praise the Lord”). When life drags us down, we’re more apt to do the Linus shirt-ripping trick (“Aaugh!”). Psalm 116 reminds: don’t rend your garment.  Render praise.

Making 'Psense' of Psalms--Psalm 116: Precious

Delicate wildflowers, flourishing on the forest's decay,
a picture of new life from death

Part of an ongoing series on selected psalms.

It was the last place I wanted to be: beside my mother’s deathbed. She was only 59 as cancer knocked her down for the last time. My dad’s call had come that afternoon at my workplace, a three-hour drive away.  “Come as soon as you can,” he pleaded. When I reached home barely four hours later, a neighbor was waiting to take me to the hospital in the next city. Sometime during our death-watch that night, Dad opened a Bible and read to her. I’ve since learned that hearing is one of the last senses to go, so I believe she did hear his voice, though her struggle to breathe may have fogged the words. But these were words that I needed to hear as well:

What shall I render unto the LORD for all his benefits toward me?
I will take the cup of salvation, and call upon the name of the LORD.
I will pay my vows unto the LORD now in the presence of all his people.
Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints. (Psalm 116:12-15 KJV)
About 2 a.m. a nurse suggested we go home and get some sleep. “She could last another day,” the nurse said.  So I drove my exhausted father home. He went to bed, I settled on the couch so I could hear the phone. The nurse’s call telling of Mom’s death came about 4 a.m. Though I would have wished to be with her at the end, I knew that she was truly not alone.  Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints, and surely His presence was in that hospital room.

To this day, I cannot read Psalm 16 without tears. Yet I have discovered that it offers a good portion of hope and praise. It is positioned in the book of Psalms as one of the “Hallel” psalms, which includes Psalms 113 through 118.  “Hallel” means “praise,” and these psalms were intended to sung on holy days. Psalms 113-114 were sung before the Passover meal, and 115-118 as the meal closed. They were also sung at major Jewish feasts. Two gospels detail how Jesus led His disciples in the Passover meal (what we now call “The Last Supper”), and afterwards, “when they had sung  a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives” (Matt. 26:20, Mark 14:26). These psalms, including Psalm 116, were among the last to come from the Savior’s lips before His arrest, trials and crucifixion.  And truly, precious in the sight of the Lord was the death of His only Son.

The psalm hinges on two big ideas: deliverance and thanksgiving.

DELIVERANCE (VV. 1-11)

The opening verse sets the tone of gratitude for deliverance: “I love the LORD, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy” (116:1). He backs this up with descriptive language of a tough, even life-threatening situation: “cords of death,” “anguish of the grave,” “overcome by trouble and sorrow.” Some Bible teachers wonder if this might describe the sickness, perhaps an infected boil, that took King Hezekiah to the brink of death before the “poultice of figs” was applied (Isaiah 38).  The psalm doesn’t list an author, so that’s just conjecture. But it could represent any of us who walk in a doctor’s office to a sobering diagnosis, or have our lives flipped upside down in an accident.

The author spends little time on his ailment, but more on God’s perspective. “Then I called on the name of the LORD: ‘O LORD, save me!” In “calling on the name of the Lord,” he describes God’s character: gracious, righteous, full of compassion, protective of the simple-hearted (vv. 5-6). Praising God’s character lifts him above “demanding” prayer.

A word on “simple-hearted” (Hebrew: petî)—it refers to silly and gullible people. To say God regards the “simple-hearted” in their foolish or ignorant ways reminds us that we come to Him without any merit of our own, except through His Son.

The bottom line is that God hears the prayers of the helpless. This psalm’s writer found himself “in great need”—a tearful, stumbling, life-or-death matter. He had a miserable outlook, saying all men are liars (v. 11).  God saw through all that, and reached down to help him.

THANKSGIVING

As the writer considers what God has done for him, he responds with thanksgiving:
How can I repay the LORD for all his goodness to me; I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the LORD. (vv. 12-13)
This verse is a rhetorical question.  How can we “repay” God for His goodness? We can’t. It is impossible. But the psalm writer was compelled to express his thanks some way, and so he turned to a ritual of his time, described in Leviticus 7:11ff and Deuteronomy 12:17ff.  He would bring a “thank offering” (an unblemished animal) to the sanctuary for sacrifice. In part of the ritual, the priest would pour a portion of wine on the altar, symbolizing the worshipper’s life poured out before the Lord.  This is the “cup of salvation.”  The priest also kept back part of the meat from the slaughtered, sacrificed animal for the worshiper to share in a special joyful feast with family and friends. During that feast, he’d express public thanks for God’s mercy and love. 

Verse 15, which touched me so deeply at my mother’s deathbed, has prompted a lot of discussion among Bible teachers:

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints.
“Precious” also means “costly.” The death of a “saint” reminds us that sin brought death into the world, but Christ’s death brought eternal life to those who trust in Him.  His death (and resurrection) was costly beyond all understanding. A saint’s death is “precious” to God because it means that person will come to enjoy His presence. Like the psalmist, Paul wrestled with the possibility of dying soon when he wrote his letter to the Philippians. His only desire was that Christ be exalted either by his life or his death. “I desire to depart and be with Christ,” he said, “which is better by far” (Philippians 1:23). 

It is human to fear death. I will never forget the night a drinking driver nearly wiped out my family. But it is the privilege of a believer to trust God for the timing of death. He permits us to stay on earth until He sees that our work here is finished.  We may die of disease or an accident, but the timing is no surprise to God. And after that, “to live is Christ, and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21). That transition is precious to God.

And so the psalmist ends at this feast in which he praises God. Apparently it happens in the temple courts (v. 18), where his friends and family and more will hear his story. The psalm concludes, “Praise the Lord,” which in Hebrew is, “Hallelu-jah.” The phrase is common to all of the “Hallel” psalms (113-118) and that is appropriate.  For whether we are making a costly public declaration of faith (like the psalmist’s sacrifice-feast) or quietly witnessing the transition of earthly life to eternal rest, the focus of our hearts should be God Almighty, who loves to hear us lift up His name.

Next: Psalm 118

 

Suitcases

One thing that endears Corrie ten Boom’s writings to me is her use of simple, memorable props. One comes from a story of speaking to war-weary Japanese soon after World War 2. Faced with a language barrier, she decided to use an object lesson: her suitcase. She asked them if their hearts felt like a heavy suitcase. They surely did. Then she pulled onto a table the heavy suitcase she’d taken all over the world. She told them her heart felt just as heavy the previous week. Then the Lord gave her a verse: “Cast all your cares upon Him, for he cares about you” (1 Peter 5:7).

Opening the suitcase, she began taking out its contents. Something represented her very tired co-workers. Another, her concerns about the next trip to a town where she knew nobody. Another item was her heavy heart for friends who were in a car wreck. Still another: a boy who refused to believe in Christ. Then she named the burdens of her own sins, including pride and self-seeking.

Finally, the suitcase empty, she declared “Amen,” closed it and walked out of the room swinging it. Her audience got the message: Cast all your care upon Him. Empty your “trouble suitcase.”

Recently my husband and I visited a friend who has an incurable, wasting disease. She is emptying her life’s suitcase and talks of going to Heaven soon. Her husband is also emptying a suitcase: that dream of growing very old together. On the way home, as I reflected on their life together, I thought of many burdens they’ve shared. They lost a baby. They went through a long season of care-giving. An adult child has struggled. There are other burdens that won’t go away during this lifetime. But God can carry them.

Many of us have a lot of stuff in our “trouble suitcases.” We may claim to “give it to God,” but we really haven’t. Even Corrie struggled in that area, as revealed in the second part of her story.

Years later in Europe she was approached by a Japanese gentleman who remembered her speech about the “trouble suitcase.” Unfortunately, he didn’t remember the “emptying,” but instead how after the meeting she reloaded that heavy suitcase and dragged it away, as tired and burdened as when she came in.

That afternoon in the privacy of her room, Corrie thought about whether she practiced what she preached. She realized how in her morning prayer time, she might unpack the “trouble suitcase.” But throughout the day, she often took back the very things she had entrusted to her Heavenly Father.

A few hours after visiting the dying friend, I called on someone else who often precedes a conversation with, “I’m so worried about….” Repeatedly I remind this person to trust God instead of worrying. But the admonition inevitably boomerangs to me, causing me to ask, “How heavy is my own trouble suitcase? What can God carry lots better than I can?”

We know the answer: everything.

Paraphrasing a well-known credit card ad: what’s in your suitcase?

This fragile grass

My husband is a substitute teacher, and one recent snowy day he went to the tiny rural school at Palisades, about a 40-minute drive from here. It’s at the end of a narrow coulee carved long ago in the Ice Age. Part of the coulee has been scrubbed of sagebrush for alfalfa fields and orchards. Coming home from teaching, he passed dozens of deer foraging where they could. Going back up there the other day, we counted probably five dozen, chewing what they could out of the frozen turf.

I’d been thinking a lot about Psalm 90 recently, and those hungry deer reminded me of verse 5: “You sweep men away in the sleep of death; they are like the new grass of the morning—though in the morning it springs up new, by evening it is dry and withered.”

Talk about a downer verse! A little background may help. This is the only song by Moses included in the book of Psalms. Though he wrote other songs (like the epic one in Deuteronomy 32), this one must have been significant enough to pick for an ancient hymnal largely featuring the songs of King David.

We’re not told when he wrote it, but I imagine it was near the end of his life as the Israelites finished forty years of wandering before entering the Promised Land. Moses wouldn’t go with them, a consequence of dishonoring God with a temper tantrum at Meribah (Numbers 20). Plus, as judgment on unbelief and cowardice after spies checked out Canaan, all but two who left Egypt (the believing spies, Joshua and Caleb) would miss out on the Promised Land. Thousands of graves dotted the landscape of their wanderings around the Sinai. Now only descendants remained.

If I were in Moses’ sandals, I probably would have said this, too: “All our days pass away under your wrath: we finish our years with a moan” (v. 9).

Psalm 90 has been on my mind in part because of people we care about “finishing their years.” In some cases, it’s been when they’re too young¸ like a talented violinist who befriended my daughter at college. She married a widower with child, had two more children with him, and is now gone in her thirties—of colon cancer. A friend our age is slipping away with ALS. Another couple we know nearly lost their son to a dying heart until a heart transplant gave him extra years. He married, and last week his wife (age 36) had her life turned upside down by strokes.

Three weeks ago I helped an older friend with Alzheimer’s navigate the curb to a car; her funeral is Friday. This week someone died as a result of an accident barely a block away in early December. I remember coming home at dusk after my walk and seeing the red lights of emergency vehicles just beyond my street. A 79-year-old man who lived alone in a little cottage was struck when he jay-walked across the street. He was walking home from the grocery store, as he had done hundreds of times—sometimes nodding to my “hi” when we passed. The police markers of where he landed reminded me how life can change in an instant. I could sing a duet with Moses: “Relent, O Lord! How long will it be? Have compassion on your servants!” (v. 13).

Psalm 90 has this discouraging “you-live-and-then-you-die” tone to it—unless you hear the “Hallelujah Chorus” ringing behind stanzas like this: “Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days” (v. 14). In this I hear echoes of the Westminster confession: “The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.”

Moses would have had a different song if he knew what we now know: that Jesus changes things. And that includes death. Our earthly bodies may be as grass, vulnerable to the day’s heat and dryness (or to the nibbling of starved deer). But Christ has “destroyed death and has brought life and immorality to light through the gospel” (2 Timothy 1:10). We have the assurance that “to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21) and being with Him in Heaven will be better by far (v. 23).

Moses almost got it all correct. “May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us,” he wrote (90:17)—and indeed it does, for those who believe in Christ, and who express that through growing love and service in His name, for however many days allotted on this planet. And then, for God’s children—better by far!

Gentle on my mind

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.