Unfairly Accused

People like US couldn’t help what we were. What we did flowed naturally from the characters we had been building in secret. And, of course, people like THEM didn’t know what they were talking about. What they said was unfair, totally inaccurate, and embraced only the tiniest little granule of truth. As so often is the case, that minuscule morsel was all that was necessary.

Looking back, I’m sometimes surprised at how easy it has been to leave certain behaviors behind. The old accusation has long since faded, and I sometimes marvel at how we ever managed such a feat.

Part of the fault could be pinned on youthful exuberance. Another blamed on our training. And maybe a small measure could be attributed to the weather and the landscape, whose not-so-subtle influences here truly cannot be overlooked. Honestly, “those people” just didn’t know what they were talking about. Really. At all.

Anyway, because we were a church group, we couldn’t help believing that, whatever else happened, God would naturally be on our side. He just wouldn’t be able to help Himself.

But we would never be the same afterwards. Looking into my friends’ eyes weeks later, I knew they were still thinking about it. If anyone from our group has finally finished mentioning this to themselves or a few trustworthy close friends after all these decades later, I’d be more than a little surprised.

Had our accusers known what kind of group they were dealing with, might their response have been different than the one they so eagerly served up? At this point, no one knows for sure. But I sometimes cannot help wondering what their reaction might have been had they known the truth. Perhaps, it was that very not knowing that actually saved us from something much worse later on.

It had been such a long week. More like a long spring, and an even longer summer, topped off by several labor-intense days of last-minute preparations, followed by about ten long, sleep-deprived days. Such was the nature of Mission Vacation Bible School. Our group of high school and college students, along with a handful of adult chaperones, had started preparing before school ended, participated in a “trial run” as teaching assistants under seasoned teachers in a Vacation Bible School at our home church, then we were finally launched, packing light and driving for a couple of days until we reached the small church we had hoped to encourage by putting on a “free” Vacation Bible School, for which all our target church needed to provide would be a building and food and lodgings for our group. No small task, all told. Still, since the recipients wouldn’t have to do any of the actual teaching and “production” work, they seemed more than happy to have us.

The Vacation Bible School was heavily advertised and well-attended. As our VBS schedule ran Monday through Friday mornings, we rose early, being careful to make our beds and straighten the rooms so generously provided for us by our host families, then hurried to breakfast, before converging at the church building, welcoming hoards of eager children, and starting our lessons and various other activities.

After the last (or, on some of the unexpectedly long days, most of the last) children had been claimed and taken home by their parents, our group trudged thankfully down to the church basement for a delicious lunch before we again busied ourselves in the early afternoons reviewing the next day’s lesson plans and making any necessary last-minute adjustments to our classrooms, then finding ourselves bustled off to one activity or another with our host families, or the church as a whole.

Decades later, much of those beautiful days has contracted into a peaceful, happy blur, punctuated by the occasional nap on church pews, hikes to the lake, and church-wide barbecues. Any spare time was usually shared with our host families, who were always delighted when we offered to help with kitchen clean-up after mealtimes. Smiles, laughter, favorite Bible verses, and secret dreams were shared and prayed over during that amazing week of service that somehow seemed less like work and more like an adventure by virtue of having been moved away from the familiar.

But even teenagers and twenty-somethings in good condition have their limits, and as the week wound down relentlessly to its predictably nostalgic end, we found ourselves collapsing into the unfriendly arms of exhaustion. I can only imagine how the adults in our group were faring by this time, but their enthusiasm and smiles kept going strong, fatigue notwithstanding.

Carefully repacking and inventorying our supplies, our leaders judiciously donated what everyone in our group hoped and prayed would enrich the church we had enjoyed for the past week, and after tearful hugs, prayers, and promises to write soon, we loaded up our bus and were soon on the road to one last adventure: the touring of a couple of large attractions, including a national park that I had been dreaming of visiting all my life.

Sleeping as the miles rolled by, and checking our film supplies at the scheduled rest stops, my friends and I oohed and aahed over breath-taking views, wildlife, and geysers, then stopped to devour over-priced brownies before taking a brisk hike. Perhaps it would not be an exaggeration to say that before suppertime rolled around, we were all starting to visibly sag.

But we had a solution that never failed to revive us, the same tactic we had fallen back on at the end of every long day at church. Forming a circle close to the picnic tables where we would eat later, we soon forgot ourselves, forgot our fatigue, and left every stress behind as we raised our voices heavenward in acapella four-, five-, and sometimes six-part harmonies and praised the King of the Universe with thankful hearts.

Singing God’s praises at the tops of my lungs, I could see that more than one of my friends was thinking the same thing I was: in heaven, we would someday be able to praise God like this forever without interruption. And somehow, the music there, in the land unstained by sin and perpetual failure, would be even more beautiful and compelling than our best dreams here. Secretly, I wished we could go ahead and beam ourselves up to heaven and get this party started already. But to my sorrow, like all good things, this beautiful time of worship eventually came to an end.

Dazed but hungry, we started setting out food for supper, soaking up the lovely view, and dreaming of future worship times. Enjoying good food and conversations, we were surprised to see Terry, our youth minister, come lurching toward the tables, his eyebrows, cheeks, and other facial features dancing in some sort of new, utterly foreign pattern. Though we knew it was unspeakably rude, we couldn’t help staring.

Something important had happened, and if we waited long enough, Terry would surely tell us. But he seemed to feel no hurry to share. Before he even began, our leader knew that no matter how he managed to phrase his next words, every single person in our group would take them exactly the wrong way. And he wouldn’t blame anyone for the strong opinions that would naturally arise. So, he hesitated, waiting until all eyes were on him, knowing that his words would have maximum impact if he could say them only once and be done with it.

Having already run through his repertoire of practical jokes during the course of the week, Terry was clean out of jokes he could surprise us with. These words he was speaking had to be the truth. One look at Terry’s strangely bemused face assured us this was no joke. He was both telling us the truth, and telling us what others had assumed to be the truth.

After he had made quick eye-contact with each and every one of us, our youth minister finally divulged the words that as the years went by would be constantly pondered and occasionally shared: “Hey, guys! I, um, I just got back from conferring with one of the game wardens who was telling me about a complaint that someone lodged against our group. Not to worry. We’re not in trouble. And we’re not going to be in trouble because I assured him it wouldn’t happen again.” As he paused temporarily, we racked our brains for any clue that might shed some light on whatever unpardonable sin we had unknowingly committed. None came, and lowering his voice, our fearless leader continued, “Someone said we were playing our radio too loud.”

I’m sure that our complainant never meant those words to be the supreme compliment we immediately framed them as. The radio in the bus worked so poorly that we hardly bothered with it, and under the best of circumstances, we could count on only a low, scratchy sound. Sharing secret smiles, we wolfed down the rest of our suppers, then packed up the leftovers before piling back into the bus and rolling on down the road.

Gwennon
September 13, 2018

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God Directs Us Not Man

This is a message we all need. Please be sure to thank Desiray for crafting it in the first place.

via God Directs Us Not Man

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+C

Here is an amazing new lens through which to view the world. If you like it, please be sure to thank the author.

More Oeuvre

by Lara Jahzeel I. Onato

Have you ever heard of differential equations? Mathematically speaking, they are equations with a function and its derivatives. Unlike algebraic equations, differential equations are not just numbers. They revolve around functions and are essential in all sciences, engineering, and other areas of study.

Wait, do not bid farewell yet. I will not let your brain drain, I promise. Forgive me for speaking mathematical for a jiffy. I will skip the details and get to my point.

Differential equations are equations that describe how things in the world change. When you solve a differential equation, you will get a general solution. General solutions always have a +C which simply indicates a constant. That +C is necessary in all general solutions of differential equations because it is of crucial importance in finding particular solutions.

Okay, that was a bit mind-numbing. Alas, my point is that +C is…

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baby animals

Isn’t this the cutest?

Cool Fur Babies

baby animals

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Photo of the Week: May 16, 2018

Something I haven’t seen to this degree….Be sure to thank the photographer for sharing such beauty with the world.

TLP

Spring on the Mississippi

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Something Else!

 

If he could just make her understand that he knew what she needed, they might not be having this problem.

 

Squawking! Always this horrific squawking! If only she would just shut up for a while!

She was going to die. Not because he wanted her to. Not because she herself really wanted to leave this life. Nevertheless, if something didn’t change, death would be unavoidable. And at the rate she was going, the process wouldn’t take very long.

The father looked tenderly at his little daughter. She had been growing. A little. He could see that she had been becoming just a little stronger than she had been.

But all this strength had only enabled her to squawk more. She wanted this. She needed that. This needed to change. That did, too. But it needed to happen all at once. And to her exacting specifications.

He stifled a sigh. If she had only known what she really needed, he might have been inclined to give in to her whims. But her wants were endless. She seemed trapped at the bottom of a chasm of wants that went on forever.

Examining her surroundings, he wondered if there was more that he ought to be doing: beautiful, warm, cloudless sky. She wanted snow. Her bed was just uncomfortable enough to encourage her to get out more. She wanted a softer, more comfortable nest. From time to time, a few of the friends who loved her stopped by to chat or eat with her.

But she wanted more: more friends (some of whom would just end up using her for their own purposes), more freedom (though she hardly knew the dangers outside her protected world), more attention (even if it was the wrong kind), food that tasted better (whether it was good for her or not!).

He had much more patience toward her than she realized. But, in her excessive demands on him, she hardly realized how much—how extravagantly—he invested in her life every single day.

In spite of recent growth, she still wasn’t strong. Both of them knew that. Early in her life, she had been hen-pecked until she almost couldn’t move. When he stepped in, she could barely take one or two painful steps, or occasionally, a small, pitiful hop. Even under the best of conditions, which he was trying to create, it would be some time until she could really stretch her wings and fly—really soar above her circumstances and live the life he had created her to live.

This waiting, which was supposed to give her protection and strength, seemed rather to be wearing her out. He wanted to be able to explain his purposes to her. If she were only able to understand. Instead, he ended up just holding her gently against his chest where she could listen to his strong heartbeat while she cried herself to sleep.

While she sought ways to entertain herself and pass the time, he was out chasing away hungry predators, and seeking friends that could both build her up, and be blessed by what she had to offer.

And he brought her food. Constant supplies of food. But she turned away from most of it.

He brought her first of all food that her stomach could handle. It was soft and mushy, and already partially-digested. She choked on it, and blinked in surprise at some sort of strong taste she found offensive. “Eat it, Little One!” he urged her.

Turning slightly away from him, she found something else to do.

“Come on, now! You know you have to eat!” he cajoled.

“It tastes bad!” she spat back at him. “I can’t eat that stuff!”

For a few hours, he decided to just let her stomach do the talking. When he returned, with more of the same stuff, she balked at first. Then, tearfully, she allowed herself to be fed a small portion of the nasty-tasting stuff.

He smiled into her dripping eyes. “This is going to make you so strong!  You’ll see.”

She sadly shook her head, but continued eating, however slowly and reluctantly.

After a full night of restful sleep, she awoke feeling a little stronger than she had the previous day.

But she used that extra strength to complain.

He stifled a sigh, while offering her a slightly different food. This one tasted better, he knew, but did not contain nearly the accessible nutrients that the first offerings had contained. Nevertheless, she managed to choke it down, all the while telling him how it might be improved in the future: “I like it crunchy, Papa!” she squawked. “It needs to be crunchy!”

The next dinner was a little bit too crunchy. He had allowed her to select this one from a small list of limited choices that he knew she might be able to eat by now. She made a bit of a flap about it. “Too crunchy, Papa!” she screeched, leaving part of a wing and several legs, after timidly nibbling only the center portion.

She was weakening again.

“You need to eat a little more next time, my baby,” he told her.

She blinked and turned away. He was right, of course. But this food he was giving her! It was just too much! Too sweet! Too sour! Too big! Too small! Too chewy! Too dry! Too wet!

Anyone observing them would have noticed that any food he offered her would have fit comfortably into at least one of these categories.

To get her mind off her constant worries, he sang her one of his favorite songs. And tried to teach it to her. To drown out the many complaints she preferred to practice, he brought others to her side who could sing this song with him. Just in case she caught the joy and beauty of it and decided to join in herself.

She didn’t. The one song she preferred to sing was a dirge cataloguing the many sorrows of her short life. She had sung it so often and so loudly, that most of her friends—and a few of her neighbors—also knew it by heart, though not by choice. It was a very gloomy song. He wished she’d stop singing it.

And she continued losing strength, in spite of his best efforts to get her to eat, to take an interest in something outside herself, in a word, to do anything besides wallow in her old sorrows.

Perhaps there was one other thing he could do to liven up her dreary mealtimes. Swooping into the nest, he brought her a dinner that was still partly alive: a little earthworm that she could play with for a little while before swallowing whole, or in just a few small pieces.

But even this didn’t make her happy.

“No! No! No, Papa!” she squawked, almost as loudly as she could. “You’ve brought me the wrong worm!”

This night, he was the one crying himself to sleep. For he had done all he could to protect and strengthen his weakened little bird-daughter. But because she had constantly refused his help, as she drifted off to sleep, resting under the shelter of his tender wings, her little heart had slowed, then finally stopped. He could no longer hear her shallow breathing, and he sorrowfully realized that there was nothing more he could do.

The End

by Gwennonj

February 13, 2018

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Which Clothes Will You Wear Today?

Here is a compassionate but challenging article I hope you will enjoy as much as I did. Please be sure to thank the author for writing it.

Rejoicing In Hope


“My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever.” Psalm 73:26

If we are born-again Christians, we have two robes we can choose to put on.

One is the new robe – the glorious garment of grace personally gifted to us by our Heavenly Father. It was fashioned by loving hands to empower us to live as the child of the King that we are. With it, we publicly proclaim“I am loved, I am free, I belong!” And we can choose to wear this robe all day – every day – and it will never wear out.

But how often do we instead reach for that robe of flesh hanging in the back of our closet? You know the one. It’s a little grungy and baggy and frankly it looks like something better suited for the burn pile. But still…

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