Pastoral Resources

There is a story about an old farmer whose mule fell into a well. After many unsuccessful attempts to haul the mule out of the hole, the farmer decided it was hopeless. With sadness, he instructed his boys to fill up several truckloads of dirt and just bury the old mule right in the well. Dutifully, the boys backed up the truck filled with dirt, and shovel by shovel, they began to fill the well and bury the mule. The mule didn't take kindly to this action. The first shovel of dirt hit him square on the head, got in his eyes and mouth, and made him sneeze.

Every shovel full after that hit him somewhere, causing the old mule to stomp around in the bottom of the well. Several truckloads of dirt later, the mule was still stomping and packing dirt firmly underneath his feet. Little by little, that mule was lifting itself out of the hole. Sure enough, about mid-afternoon that mule simply stepped out of the well and snorted at the whole business.

There are different ways people have of dealing with problems life throws at them. Some are constant complainers. They do not handle setbacks and upsets very well. Some of them cannot even handle normal events. Others are defeated at the slightest difficulty. Quite a few get confused, turned around and seem not to know what to do. Then there are a few who are unconquerable. They are like the mule. Problems can hit them square on the head, but they just stomp around enough until they actually use the problem to rise above it.

Look at the great heroes of the Bible. They were men and women who could match the occasion. Moses was that kind of man. Surely Joseph, who rose from the bottom of a pit to a leader of Egypt, was that kind of man. Could David have been anything other than the kind of man who rose above his faults and problems? Esther was surely the kind of woman who did not let problems paralyze her. On and on we could go, but you see the point.

How was all this done? The reason such people could rise out of the "wells" of life is because they all had a great faith in God. It is a childish attitude that says, "If God loved me, He would take away all these problems." Not so! The opposite is really true. If God loves you, He will reveal Himself to you through His Word and give you opportunity to let your faith lift you up. God wants us to learn how to do it. He wants us to work at it. When you realize that and accept it, it will give you a power to deal with living you never had before.

A group of expectant fathers were in a waiting room, while their wives were in the process of delivering babies. A nurse came in and announced to one man that his wife had just given birth to twins. “That’s quite a coincidence” he responded, “I play for the Minnesota Twins!” A few minutes later another nurse came in and announced to another man that he was the father of triplets. “That’s amazing,” he exclaimed, “I work for the 3M company.” At that point, a third man slipped off his chair and laid down on the floor. Somebody asked him if he was feeling ill. “No,” he responded, “I happen to work for the 7-up company.”

If someone with multiple personalities threatens to kill himself, is it considered a hostage situation?

A Christian traveler was once packing his suitcase when he remarked to a friend, "Well, I still wish to pack a guidebook, a lamp, a mirror, a telescope, a book of poems, a number of biographies, a bundle of letters, a hymn book, a sharp sword, a small library containing 66 volumes...."

"But," his friend interrupted him, "you've only got about six inches left in one side of your suitcase. How are you ever going to manage to get it all in?" The Christian smiled and his eyes twinkled, "That will be very easy," he said. "You see, all I have to do is put my Bible in the suitcase, for it is all the things that I have mentioned."

In the early morning hours of March 16, 1971, an enlisted man at the U.S. Army base in Bienhoa, Vietnam, cut a hole through the screen covering a window in the officers’ quarters and threw a fragmentation grenade inside. Two lieutenants—Richard Harlan and Thomas Dellwo—were killed. Pvt. Billy Dean Smith was arrested and court-martialed for the crime but later was declared innocent. The real murderer was never found.

If the class you want has room for ‘n’ students, you will be the ‘n+1’ to apply.

Class schedules are designed so that every student will waste the maximum time between classes.

When you are occasionally able to schedule 2 classes in a row, they will be at opposite ends of the campus.

A prerequisite for a desired course will be offered only during the semester following the desired course.

The one course you must take to graduate will not be offered your last semester.

If you’re confident after you’ve finished an exam, it’s because you don’t know enough to know better.

A condemned prisoner awaiting execution was granted the usual privilege of choosing the dishes he wanted to eat for his last meal. He ordered a large mess of mushrooms.

“Why all the mushrooms and nothing else?” inquired the guard.

“Well,” replied the prisoner, “I always wanted to try them, but was afraid to eat them before!”

Legend has it that a German baron made a great Aeolian harp by stretching wires from tower to tower of his castle. When the harp was ready, he eagerly listened for the music. But it was the calm of summer, and in the still air the wires hung silent. Autumn came with its gentle breezes, and there were faint whispers of song. At length the winter winds swept over the castle, and now the harp answered in majestic music. This is a very good illustration of what our Lord meant when He said, "Blessed are the mourners." Their blessedness is more apparent at times when adversity and sorrow strike. If as a Christian you can laugh and be jovial when everything goes well, the world will think nothing of it. But they will be deeply impressed if you can sing in the time of storm. This is why the Lord associates blessedness with mourning and sorrow in this life.

Blaise Pascal observed that the people who have the greatest influence in shaping the hearts and minds of any generation are not the folks who write the laws, but those who write the songs.

Plato observed, Musical training is a more potent instrument than any other, because rhythm and harmony find their way into the inward places of the soul, on which they mightily fasten.

When I was in high school, musical car horns were popular. My mother’s deluxe model played the first line of 48 different songs. But when it was extremely cold, the horn sometimes developed a short and played on its own. I urged Mom to take it out of our car, but she refused to get rid of it.

That is, until the cold winter afternoon that Mom and Dad attended a graveside funeral service for an elderly aunt. As they were pulling out of the cemetery, the horn blared the first stanza of “We’re in the Money.” I never heard the horn again.

Early in my career as a doctor I went to see a patient who was coming out of anesthesia. Far off church chimes sounded. “I must be in heaven,” the woman murmured. Then she saw me. “No, I can’t be,” she said. “There’s Dr. Campbell.”

A man once testified in one of D.L. Moody’s meetings that he had lived “on the Mount of Transfiguration” for five years. “How many souls did you lead to Christ last year?” Moody bluntly asked him. “Well,” the man hesitated, “I don’t know.” “Have you saved any?” Moody persisted. “I don’t know that I have,” the man admitted. “Well,” said Moody, “we don’t want that kind of mountaintop experience. When a man gets up so high that he cannot reach down and save poor sinners, there is something wrong.”

A skeptical young man confronted an old Quaker with the statement that he did not believe the Bible. The Quaker said, "Dost thou believe in France?" "Yes, though I have not seen it, I have seen others that have; besides there is plenty of corroborative evidence that such a country exists." "Then you will not believe anything you or others have not seen?" "No, to be sure I won't." "Did you ever see your own brains?" "No." "Ever see anybody that did?" "No." "Do you then believe you have any?"

Winston Churchill at one time had a mustache. Soon after growing it, Churchill’s aunt remarked to him, “Winston, I don’t like your mustache or your politics.”

“Auntee,” he responded, “I see no reason why you should ever come into contact with either.”

I sinned. And straightway, post-haste Satan flew

Before the presence of the Most High God,

And made a railing accusation there.

He said, “This soul, this thing of clay and sod

Has sinned. ‘Tis true that he has named Thy name,

But I demand his death, for Thou hast said,

‘The soul that sinneth, it shall die!’ Shall not

Thy sentence be fulfilled? Is Justice dead?

Send now this wretched sinner to his doom.

What other thing can righteous ruler do?”

And thus he did accuse me day and night,

And every word he spoke, O God, was true!

Then quickly One rose up from God’s right hand,

Before Whose glory angels veiled their eyes.

He spoke, “Each jot and tittle of the law

Must be fulfilled: the guilty sinner dies!

But wait. Suppose his guilt were all transferred

To ME and that I paid his penalty!

Behold My hands, My side, My feet! One day

I was made sin for him, and died that he

Might be presented faultless, at Thy throne!”

And Satan fled away. Full well he knew

That he could not prevail against such love,

For every word my dear Lord spoke was true!

When Robert Kennedy was Attorney General he was reported to greet new young lawyers entering the Department with the following message: “This may appear to be a large organization, but when you do something well, I will hear about it and it will go on your record. I want you to recall that I was recently a lowly worker in the Justice Department myself, but that I now serve as Attorney General, due to perseverance, long hours, hard work, and the fact that my brother became President of the United States…not necessarily in that order.

Lord, I’m so discouraged

I don’t know what to do

I have so many burdens

And I gave them all to you.

But you didn’t take them Jesus

Will you tell me why that’s so?

The answer’s simply little one

Because you won’t let go.

“My car won’t start when I buy pistachio.” The manager of a Texas automobile dealership thought the woman who confronted him with this bizarre statement must be crazy. It seems that on hot summer days she would drive to a certain shop for ice cream to take home. It never failed, she said: the car would always start when she bought chocolate, vanilla or strawberry—but when she bought pistachio, she got stranded. The manager had to see this to believe it. He tried a chocolate trip, and the car worked fine. Vanilla or strawberry—no problem. Then came the trip for pistachio and, sure enough, the engine refused to start. It was an engineering troubleshooter whose insight solved the problem. He observed that chocolate, vanilla and strawberry were pre-packaged flavors, sold right out of the freezer. But take-home orders of pistachio were hand-packed at the shop. The time needed to have the pistachio packed was just enough for the car to develop vapor lock in the summertime Texas heat. The woman wasn’t crazy after all—her car wouldn’t start when she bought pistachio. Bulletin of the Greater New York Automobile Dealers Assn.,

I do not ask that you repay

The hours of toil and pain.

The sacrifice of youth and strength

Shall not have been in vain.

I do not ask for gratitude,

But only this, my child;

That you shall live your life so well,

My gifts be not defiled.

The nights I watched beside your crib;

The years of love and care will amply be repaid;

If once I see you standing there,

An upright and honest soul,

On whom success has smiled,

That I may say with humble pride,

That's my child!

Someone said, "My past is gone; my present is passing; my future is arriving."

The best thing about the future is that it comes upon us by degrees, a day at a time. We can manage that! Whatever it holds, my future is mine: if it be fair weather, let me bask in the sun; if it be storms, let me bend with the wind.

The future belongs to those who can make adjustments.

"Sanctify yourselves against tomorrow" (Num 11:18).

My life shall touch a dozen lives before this day is done;

Leave countless marks for good or ill, ere sets the evening sun.

This is the wish I always wish, the prayer I always pray:

Lord, may my life help other lives it touches by the way.

My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me.

I cannot choose the colors He worketh steadily.

Oft times he weaveth sorrow and I in foolish pride

forget He sees the upper and I the underside.

Not till the loom is silent and the shuttle ceases to fly

shall God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.

Your love, I know—I’ve seen your tears;

You’ve given to me my life.

You’ve walked through hours and days and years

Of heartache, toil and strife.

To see that I could have the best

That you could give to me,

You gave up needs and often rest—

You viewed eternity.

To do His will my highest call

And by your special care

I stood and walked and did not fall,

You held me up in prayer.

Though strands of gray may brush your hair,

And miles divide our way,

I know that by your quiet prayer

You’ve helped me day by day.

You’ve shown me how to give, to share

To put my own needs last.

You’ve helped me see and be aware

That life is so soon past.

To spite your love I would not dare,

For there’s not another

Who spreads her gentle love and care

Like you—My Loving Mother.

A little boy forgot his lines in a Sunday school presentation. His mother was in the front row to prompt him. She gestured and formed the words silently with her lips, but it did not help. Her son’s memory was blank. Finally, she leaned forward and whispered the cue, “I am the light of the world.” The child beamed and with great feeling and a loud clear voice said, “My mother is the light of the world.”

Though humble and obscure below

My name is there in heaven, I know.”

Tis written by the hand of God—

‘Tis written with the Saviour’s blood.

‘Twas there before the day and night,

In beams of God’s unerring light.

By Jesus’ blood ‘twas crimson dyed

When He for me was crucified.

Who would erase it from that page,

Unspoiled by sin, undimmed by age,

Must Calvary’s marks from Him efface,

And change eternal truth and grace.

‘Tis there by Jesus’ worth alone,

For worth or credit have I none;

And nothing less than sin in Him

Can ever that inscription dim.

‘Tis ever there—O sweet the thought!

The space it fills by blood was bought.

‘Tis there by Grace, ‘tis there by right,

Unsullied in the Father’s sight.

Though I such love so feebly serve,

And daily worse than death deserve,

By oath, by blood, by priestly care,

My worthless name He keepeth there.

Let such as know no second birth

Labor to write their name on earth.

My joy is this, that Love Divine

On heaven’s scroll hath written mine.

- William Blane

Though humble and obscure below,

My name is there in heaven, I know.

‘Tis written by the hand of God—

‘Tis written with the Saviour’s blood.

‘Twas there before the day and night,

In beams of God’s unerring light.

By Jesus’ blood ‘twas crimson dyed

When He for me was crucified.

Who would erase it from that page,

Unspoiled by sin, undimmed by age,

Must Calvary’s marks from Him efface,

And change eternal truth and grace.

‘Tis there by Jesus’ worth alone,

For worth or credit have I none;

And nothing less than sin in Him

Can ever that inscription dim.

‘Tis ever there—O sweet the thought!

The space it fills by blood was bought.

‘Tis there by Grace, ‘tis there by right,

Unsullied in the Father’s sight.

Though I such love so feebly serve,

And daily worse than death deserve,

By oath, by blood, by priestly care,

My worthless name He keepeth there.

Let such as know no second birth

Labor to write their name on earth.

My joy is this, that Love Divine

On heaven’s scroll hath written mine.

- William Blane

My burdens keep me humble

And they teach me to pray.

If I murmur, if I grumble

Forgive the words I say.

Give me strength to just carry

My load day to day.

Just don’t take my burden

Or my cross away.

With the cross on my shoulder

My feet cannot stray.

For my cross leads me onward

To my home so far away.

And I’ll never question

The price I must pay.

But don’t take my burden

Or my cross away.

For I would grow careless

And idle I fear.

My eyes would be dry

I’d never shed a tear.

Lest I forget

That I need You today.

Don’t take my burdens

Or my cross away.

Suppose a visitor to our earth from another planet were to see a caterpillar on a rosebush, and a conversation could take place between them. It might go something like this: "How ugly you are and how gross, doing nothing but eat, eat, eat, all day long," says the visitor. "True," replies the caterpillar, "but I won't always be like this. Some day I'll have beautiful wings, and fly from flower to flower." "A likely story," says the visitor with a laugh. A few days later, this stranger finds a hard brown chrysalis on the rosebush and is surprised to hear the caterpillar's voice saying, "Now I'm worse off than before. You think I'm dead because I can neither move nor eat, but soon I shall have a resurrection and fly in the sun." "Poor deluded worm," says the visitor, "you'd better accept the fact that your life is over." But about three weeks later, the stranger, strolling in the rose garden, is surprised to hear the caterpillar's voice again. Looking for the chrysalis, he sees one beautiful wing and then another unfolding from its cracked shell. "You see," says the voice, "my resurrection has come," and spreading its wings the butterfly flits away to enjoy its wonderful new existence.

Lord, it belongs not to my care

Whether I die or live;

To love and serve Thee is my share,

And this Thy grace must give.

If life be long I will be glad,

That I may long obey;

If short--yet why should I be sad

To soar to endless day?

Christ leads me through no darker rooms

Than he went through before;

He that to God’s Kingdom comes,

Must enter by this door.

- Richard Baxter

The day is over, you are driving home. You tune in your radio. You hear a little blurb about a little village in India where some villagers have died suddenly, strangely, of a flu that has never been seen before.

It’s not influenza, but three or four fellows are dead, and it’s kind of interesting. They’re sending some doctors over there to investigate it. You don’t think much about it, but on Sunday, coming home from church, you hear another radio spot. Only they say it’s not three villagers, it’s 30,000 villagers in the back hills of this particular area of India, and it’s on TV that night.

CNN runs a little blurb; people are heading there from the disease center in Atlanta because this disease strain has never been seen before.

By Monday morning when you get up, it’s the lead story. For it’s not just India; it’s Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and before you know it, you’re hearing this story everywhere and they have coined it now as “the mystery flu.”

The President has made some comment that he and everyone are praying and hoping that all will go well over there.

But everyone is wondering, “How are we going to contain it?” That’s when the President of France makes an announcement that shocks Europe. He is closing their borders. No flights from India, Pakistan, or any of the countries where this thing has been seen.

That night you are watching a little bit of CNN before going to bed. Your jaw hits your chest, when a weeping woman is translated from a French news program into English: “There’s a man lying in a hospital in Paris dying of the mystery flu. It has come to Europe.”

Panic strikes.

As best they can tell, once you get it, you have it for a week and you don’t know it. Then you have four days of unbelievable symptoms. Then you die.

Britain closes it’s borders, but it’s too late. Southampton, Liverpool, Northhampton, and it’s Tuesday morning when the President of the United States makes the following announcement: “Due to a national security risk, all flights to and from Europe and Asia have been canceled. If your loved ones are overseas, I’m sorry. They cannot come back until we find a cure for this thing. Within four days our nation has been plunged into an unbelievable fear.

People are selling little masks for your face. Some are talking about what if it comes to this country, and preachers on Tuesday are saying, “It’s the scourge of God.” It’s Wednesday night and you are at a church prayer meeting when somebody runs in from the parking lot and says, “Turn on a radio, turn on a radio.” While the church listens to a little transistor radio with a microphone stuck up to it, the announcement is made, “Two women are lying in a Long Island hospital dying from the mystery flu.” Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the country.

People are working around the clock trying to find an antidote. Nothing is working. California, Oregon, Arizona, Florida, Massachusetts. It’s as though it’s just sweeping in from the borders.

Then, all of a sudden the news comes out. The code has been broken. A cure can be found. A vaccine can be made. It’s going to take the blood of somebody who hasn’t been infected, and so, sure enough, all through the Midwest, through all those channels of emergency broadcasting, everyone is asked to do one simple thing: “Go to your downtown hospital and have your blood type taken. That’s all we ask of you. When you hear the sirens go off in your neighborhood, please make your way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospitals.”

Sure enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night, there is a long line, and they’ve got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it.

Your spouse and your kids are out there, and they take your blood type and they say, “Wait here in the parking lot and if we call your name, you can be dismissed and go home.”

You stand around scared with your neighbors, wondering what in the world is going on, and that this is the end of the world. Suddenly a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He’s yelling a name and waving a clipboard. What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says with a grin, “Daddy, that’s me.”

Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy. “Wait a minute, hold it!” And they say, “It’s okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure. We want to make sure he doesn’t have the disease. We think he has got the right type.”

Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and hugging one another - some are even laughing. It’s the first time you have seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old doctor walks up to you and says, “Thank you, sir. Your son’s blood type is perfect. It’s clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine.”

As the word begins to spread all across that parking lot full of folks, people are screaming and praying and laughing and crying. But then the gray-haired doctor pulls you and your wife aside and says, “May we see you for a moment?

We didn’t realize that the donor would be a minor and we need . . . we need you to sign a consent form.”

You begin to sign and then you see that the number of pints of blood to be taken is empty. “H-h-h-how many pints?,” you ask. And that is when the old doctor’s smile fades and he says, “We had no idea it would be a little child. We weren’t prepared. We need it all!”

“But -but...” “You don’t understand. We are talking about the world here. Please sign. We - we need it all -we need it all!”

“But can’t you give him a transfusion?”

“If we had clean blood we would. Can you sign? Would you sign?”

In numb silence you do. Then they say, “Would you like to have a moment with your son?” You go into that room where he sits on a table saying, “Daddy? Mommy? What’s going on?”

Can you take his hands and say, “Son, we love you, and we would never ever let anything happen to you that didn’t just have to be. Do you understand that?”

When that old doctor comes back in and says, “I’m sorry, we’ve -we’ve got to get started. People all over the world are dying.” Can you leave? Can you walk out while he is saying, “Dad? Mom? Why - why have you forsaken me?”

And then next week, when they have the ceremony to honor your son, some folks sleep through it, and some folks don’t even come because they go to the lake, and some folks come with a pretentious attitude.

“MY SON DIED! DON’T YOU CARE?”

Is that what God may be saying? “MY SON DIED. DON’T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE?”

“Father, seeing it from your eyes breaks our hearts. Maybe now we can begin to comprehend the great love you have for us. Amen “

I thirst, but not as once I did,

The vain delights of earth to share;

Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid

That I should seek my pleasures there.

It was the sight of Thy dear cross

First wean’d my soul from earthly things;

And taught me to esteem as dross

The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.

I want that grace that springs from Thee,

That quickens all things where it flows,

And makes a wretched thorn like me

Bloom as the myrtle, or the rose.

Dear fountain of delight unknown!

No longer sink below the brim;

But overflow, and pour me down

A living and life-giving stream!

For sure of all the plants that share

The notice of thy Father’s eye,

None proves less grateful to His care,

Or yields him meaner fruit than I.

Last Sunday was my turn in the nursery to work.

My heart wasn't in it; my feelings were hurt.

A child from its mother did not want to part

And it cried a lot with its broken heart.

I prayed that soon the hour would end,

That I would relax-no more children to tend.

Soon the hour was over; it felt good to be free.

I said, "Once a month was too much for me!"

The very next Sunday as I sat in the pew

Heard a very good sermon, but visitors were few.

But down came a woman and her soul was saved.

She was the mother of that crying babe!

Then it dawned on me that I had been a part

Of one being saved-giving God her heart.

From that day on I would never dread

Working in the nursery while souls are fed.

No chance has brought this ill to me;

‘Tis God’s sweet will, so let it be,

He seeth what I cannot see.

There is a need for each pain;

And He will one day make it plain

That earthly loss is heavenly gain.

Like as a piece of tapestry

Viewed from the back appears to be

But tangled threads mixed hopelessly,

But in the front a picture fair

Rewards the worker for his care,

Proving his skill and patience rare.

Thou are the workman, I the frame;

Lord, for the glory of Thy name,

Perfect Thine image in the same.

There were two lines of husbands in heaven, one for the dominant husbands and one for the passive, submissive husbands. The submissive husband line extended almost out of sight. There was one man in the dominant husband line. He was small, timid, appeared anything but a dominant husband.

When the angel inquired as to why he was in this line, he said, “My wife told me to stand here.”

Howard Hendricks was speaking at a conference in Dallas, and asked the question of the audience of 2000, “Do you know someone who is perfect?” He was about to go on, when he noticed a lone hand raised in the back of the auditorium. Hendricks asked, “Are you perfect, or do you know someone who is?”

The man replied, “Oh, no, I’m not perfect. But as far as I can tell, my wife’s first husband was.”

How do I know my youth is all spent?

Well, my get up and go has got up and went.

But in spite of it all--I’m able to grin

When I think of where my get up has been.

Old age is golden, so I’ve heard it said,

But sometimes I wonder as I get into bed--

With my ears in a drawer, my teeth in a cup,

My eyes on the table until I wake up—

Ere sleep dims my eyes I say to myself,

Is there anything else I should have laid on the shelf?

I’m happy to say as I close my door

My friends are the same--only perhaps even more

When I was young, my slippers were red;

I could kick up my heels right over my head.

When I grew older my slippers were blue

But still I could dance the whole night through.

Now I am old--my slippers are black--

I walk to the store and puff my way back.

The reason I know my youth is all spent

My get up and go has got up and went!

But I really don’t mind, when I think with a grin

Of all the grand places my get up has been.

Since I’ve retired from life’s competition

I busy myself with complete repetition.

I get up each morning, dust off my wits,

Pick up the paper and read the “O-bits”;

If my name is missing, I know I’m not dead,

So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed!!

I have to live with myself, and so

I want to be fit for myself to know,

I want to be able, as days go by,

Always to look myself straight in the eye;

I don’t want to stand, with the setting sun,

And hate myself for the things I’ve done.

I don’t want to keep on the closet shelf

A lot of secrets about myself,

And fool myself, as I come and go,

Into thinking that nobody else will know

The kind of a man I really am;

I don’t want to dress up myself in sham.

I want to go out with my head erect,

I want to deserve all men’s respect;

But here in the struggle for fame and pelf

I want to be able to like myself.

I don’t want to look at myself and know

That I’m bluster and bluff and empty show.

I can never hide myself from me;

I see what others may never see;

I know what others may never know,

I never can fool myself, and so,

Whatever happens, I want to be

Self-respecting and conscience free.

I once led a man to Christ who loved the sunny country of common sense, but he could not put up with the mysteries of godliness. He kept shoving common sense at me, while I kept trying to show him that the mysteries held the meaning of faith. One day he said,

“Pastor, you know this new eternal life I have—well, I’ve been thinking about it. What are we going to do all day long for eternity?”

“We’ll praise the Lord,” I said.

“Forever—for ten million years we’re going to stand around and praise the Lord?”

“Well, yes,” I said, although heaven was beginning to sound like cable television.

“For millions and millions of years?” he said. “Couldn’t we just stop now and then and mess around a while?”

I kidded him about his “dumb questions,” but I have to admit similar questions of my own at times. How meager our understanding of praise—and heaven!

- Calvin Miller

Did you ever raise a radish? You put a small black seed into the black soil, and in a little while you return to the garden and find the full grown radish. The top is green, the body white and almost transparent, and the skin a delicate red or pink. What mysterious power reaches out and gathers from the ground the particles which give it form and size and flavor? Whose is the invisible brush that transfers to the root, growing in darkness, the hues of the summer sunset? If we were to refuse to eat anything until we could understand the mystery of its creation, we would die of starvation-but mystery, it seems, never bothers us in the dining room; it is only in the church that it causes us to hesitate.

Sister Carol Anne O’Marie is a nun in Oakland, California, who writes mystery novels about an elderly nun playing detective. According to Leigh Weiners of the San Jose Mercury, Sister O’Marie was once approached by a Hollywood company to turn her novels into a television series.

She was told that it would help dramatically if the central character were younger, had a drinking problem, and perhaps had an illicit love affair before she donned the habit. When the author declined to contemplate such changes, the television producer tried the ultimate argument:

“You’re turning down a chance, Sister, to make a lot of money.”

“What would I do with it?” replied the nun, who had taken a vow of poverty, “I’m not going to live in a nicer convent.”

The mystery of the humanity of Christ, that He sunk Himself into our flesh, is beyond all human understanding. - Martin Luther,

A young man who was tired of the monotony and the restrictions of home decided to leave, to go to a place where he could wander and be free. He got fed up with that, however, as he realized it was not what he had dreamed it would be. He decided to write to his mother and tell her that he was going to take the train back home. He told her that if she still wanted him, she should hang a white handkerchief on top of the tree in their yard which could easily be seen before the train stopped at the little home-town station. How amazed the wandering young man was when he found that his mother had used every available handkerchief to hang on the various branches of the tree. He could not understand how his mother could continue to love him. It was a mystery to him that his mother's love had increased instead of diminished. It is so with the love of God for the wandering child.

A psychiatrist who visited a rescue mission listened intently to the testimonies of many converts. The superintendent asked him if he would like to say a word. This is what he said: "Tonight I have been given an opportunity to observe something I did not know existed anywhere. It has been my privilege to listen to the testimony of men who were glad to witness to what Christ had done for them. I know nothing about that, but I confess I cannot otherwise explain what has taken place in their lives. A few of these men I recognize. As drunkards, even as dope addicts, some of them have come under my observation at the hospital. But here they are, alive, well-dressed, delivered, and in their right minds. I do not know how the miracle has been wrought, but of one thing I am confident-nothing in science can account for this change in them. That kind of gospel is worth preaching to anyone, anywhere."

That Man is the product of causes which had no prevision of the end they were achieving; that his origin, his growth, his hopes and fears, his loves and his beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations of atoms; that no fire, no heroism, no intensity of thought and feeling, can preserve an individual life beyond the grave; that all the labors of the ages, all the devotion, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius, are destined to extinction in the vast death of the solar system, and the whole temple of Man’s achievement must inevitably be buried beneath the debris of a universe in ruins—all these things, if not quite beyond dispute, are yet so nearly certain, that no philosophy which rejects them can hope to stand. Only within the scaffolding of these truths, only on the firm foundation of unyielding despair, can the soul’s habitation henceforth be safely built...Brief and powerless is Man’s life; on him and all his race the slow, sure doom falls pitiless and dark. Blind to good and evil, reckless of destruction, omnipotent matter rolls on its relentless way; for Man, condemned today to lose his dearest, tomorrow himself to pass through the gate of darkness, it remains only to cherish, ere yet the blow falls, the lofty thoughts that ennoble his little day;. . . proudly defiant of the irresistible forces that tolerate, for a moment, his knowledge . and his condemnation, to sustain alone, a weary but unyielding Atlas, the world that his own ideals have fashioned despite the trampling march of unconscious power.

Children will turn out well if they have “good” parents. Parents are a vital factor in a child’s development, but they are only one influence among many, including school, the media and a child’s peer group. The goal of parents is to teach strong values and reinforce positive behaviors in the hope that their children will use them in their own lives. But there are no guarantees. One of the most important things you, as parents, can do, is to insure that you have a strong marriage and are setting a good example for your children.

Children improve a marriage. Rearing children is a team effort. The bond between partners can intensify as a couple raises children together. But, children also tend to put enormous strain on an intimate relationship.

Couples without children are frustrated and unhappy. Most couples without children are very happy and content. However, many of them do have close relationships with children of extended family members or friends.

Having only one child is too few. Although many believe that only children are spoiled and selfish, that’s not necessarily true. Studies show that there can be advantages and disadvantages to this. One child is less expensive and demanding on parents, and typically receives more attention. However, parents may focus too much attention on the child or overprotect them, and only children may experience loneliness.

Children appreciate the sacrifices their parents make and the advantages they provide. Most parents want appreciation for the sacrifices they make for their kids. Unfortunately, children often take their parents for granted until they get on their own. Parents need to focus on the everyday pleasures and satisfactions of raising their children and appreciate the small thanks they get along the way.

Parenthood receives top priority in our society. Unfortunately, making money, not parenting, receives top priority in our society. Parents are pressured to put their jobs first in order to get promotions, and in some cases, just to remain employed.

Love is all it takes to be a good parent. Love helps parents put up with the many difficulties they encounter in child rearing, but success also requires hard work and sound parenting skills.

Parents alone should rear their young. Parents are ultimately responsible for raising their children. But, it’s helpful to have extended family and friends for support. Society has a stake in the outcome and will benefit from supporting parents through this challenging process.