The beginning of the year is a good time to look ahead and to make some changes. In my case I decided that twelve years working in the same piano store in Poughkeepsie, New York was long enough.I had gone about as far as I could go working in this family-owned store. Besides, twelve years of upstate New York winters was enough. It was time to move to Florida. When I informed Jon Vincitore, the owner of the store, he urged me to stay one more year. I agreed to stay until the fall.
In the spring I attended a national conference and met the owners of a piano store in Sarasota, Florida. They invited me down to Florida for an interview. I told a regular customer and former employee of the Poughkeepsie store, John DelVecchio, that I was going to Sarasota.
“Maybe you’ll bump into my cousin, Ray White. He can play the drum, guitar and he can sing. You’ll like him. He is doing construction right now somewhere in the Sarasota/Bradenton area.”
“Do you have a number I can call or an address?” He had neither.
In July I flew to Sarasota for my interview with the principles of O’Lynn Callahan Piano and Organ at the Corner of Bee Ridge and Tamiami Trail. The interview went well and I followed them to look at their new store in Venice, a twenty minute drive south. Before the morning was over we agreed I would manage their Venice store in the fall.
On the way back up Route 41 I was driving through Osprey when I saw a sign “Condo for Rent.” I stopped and within an hour I had made a deposit on it. I now had a job and a place to stay when I returned. I had accomplished in a half day what I thought would take me several days. Now it was time to look around.
I drove into Sarasota Square Mall. Walking through that mall I ran across a piano/organ store with several young men taking turns playing an organ set up in front of the store. As I lingered to watch a little guy walked up to me and asked, “Can I help you?”
“Oh,” I said, “ I’m just looking around. I just flew down from Poughkeepsie, N.Y. for an interview,”
“Poughkeepsie Huh? Do you happen to know John DelVecchio?” he asked.
“RAY? RAY WHITE?”
I don’t know who was more surprised, Ray. or me. Turns out he had left construction recently and this was his second day at this store. While neither of us was particularly religious at that point we both agreed our meeting this way, “Must be a God thing.” I still get goose bumps when I recall that moment.
Before moving to Florida I set out to say goodbye to family and special friends living in New York and New England. However, saying goodbye to Uncle Dennis was going to be a challenge. No one knew exactly where he was living, somewhere in the Berkshires was what I was told.
One day while driving the Mass Pike to return to Poughkeepsie I intentionally pulled off at the Lee/ Barrington exit for the Berkshires to see if I could find a phone book and locate Uncle Dennis. Besides I was hungry and wanted something to eat. Coming off the exit there is a town to the left and one to the right. It didn’t seem to matter which way I went but something made me feel I should go right. I drove by several fast food drive-ins that I normally would have driven into and continued down main street to the end of the business district. There at the end was a diner with a single parking space open right in front.
As I walked up the steps to the entrance I saw there was one man sitting at the counter. The back of his head looked familiar. Could it be? It was him! I slipped in and sat beside the man at the counter and said casually, “Hello Dennis.”
He told me he lived in the town to the left of the exit but he often came to this diner. He especially liked the pies here. If I had tried to look him up in the phonebook I would not have found him. He didn’t have a phone. I had a nice visit with Dennis that day and actually returned two weeks later to his home where I presented him with a guitar that I knew he wanted.
Ray White and I became partners in a band and played together for several years in Florida. We also both became Christians and Ray is now a worship pastor at a church and goes on frequent missions trips to Africa. I play regularly at worship services for a church and I have also started my own company, Worship Media Solutions, helping churches with their sound and video needs.
As busy as I am, I try to stay attentive to any unexplained prodding or feelings. For example, the other day I left my house to get a haircut when I felt a strong urge to stop at the Living Word Book Store and see Jesse Ramos. So I drove out of my way to the bookstore. In the parking lot I passed a woman walking to her car. I felt I should speak to her but I didn’t know what to say and being basically shy I walked by as she stopped and opened the trunk of a car. As I walked into the store there was Jesse at the counter holding my calling card in his hand and waving his arm at me.
“Hey Rick, there was a gal in here whose church needs your services. She just left.”
“She’s there putting something in her trunk,” I said.
He looked out the store window, “Yeah that’s her how did you know?”
How did I know? How do I explain my bumping into Ray White out of the thousands of people who live and work in Sarasota County? What directed me to that diner in the Berkshires that afternoon I found Uncle Dennis? Why did needing to see Jesse Ramos come to my mind when I started off for a haircut?
Were these all chance meetings? I don’t think so, not for a minute.
Rick Furrow
Formerly Poughkeepsie, New York
now Sarasota, Florida
Friday, December 28, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Away at Christmas
December 22
My first Christmas away was courtesy of the U.S. Army. I was stationed in the tropics and it didn't look or feel like Christmas. For a Northern guy palm trees with lights, carboard snowman on lawns and temperatures in the 80's wasn't Christmas.
For me Christmas was the smell of evergreens, real snowmen, and a chilly breeze in the face. This soldier was homesick and having a real pitty party for himself. Christmas carols on the radio depressed me and the few Christmas cards I received made me feel worse.
Some enterprizing GI's had parked a tank near the commissary with eight jeeps in front of it simulating reindeer connected to the tank by ammunition belts. There was even a stuffed Santa
waving from the open tank turret. This really set me off.
On Christmas Eve I took my bad attitude and shuffled off to the post chapel. It was a candle light service with the singing of traditional carols and the reading of familiar passages from Luke.
I sat quietly through it all.
I exited the chapel into a perfectly clear warm tropical night with a gentle breeze. A small voice in my head said something that changed everything for me. It made me realize Christmas isn't the Currier and Ives pictures or any family traditions I remembered. These are not the reason for the season.
When I looked outside the chapel and saw all the stars I heard in my head, "Remember the first Christmas was in a desert."
I don't recall what the chaplain said that night but the message was loud and clear:
"Behold, there is great joy, for in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior who is Christ the Lord. Glory to God and peace on earth."
Charles Miller
Burlington, Vt.
My first Christmas away was courtesy of the U.S. Army. I was stationed in the tropics and it didn't look or feel like Christmas. For a Northern guy palm trees with lights, carboard snowman on lawns and temperatures in the 80's wasn't Christmas.
For me Christmas was the smell of evergreens, real snowmen, and a chilly breeze in the face. This soldier was homesick and having a real pitty party for himself. Christmas carols on the radio depressed me and the few Christmas cards I received made me feel worse.
Some enterprizing GI's had parked a tank near the commissary with eight jeeps in front of it simulating reindeer connected to the tank by ammunition belts. There was even a stuffed Santa
waving from the open tank turret. This really set me off.
On Christmas Eve I took my bad attitude and shuffled off to the post chapel. It was a candle light service with the singing of traditional carols and the reading of familiar passages from Luke.
I sat quietly through it all.
I exited the chapel into a perfectly clear warm tropical night with a gentle breeze. A small voice in my head said something that changed everything for me. It made me realize Christmas isn't the Currier and Ives pictures or any family traditions I remembered. These are not the reason for the season.
When I looked outside the chapel and saw all the stars I heard in my head, "Remember the first Christmas was in a desert."
I don't recall what the chaplain said that night but the message was loud and clear:
"Behold, there is great joy, for in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior who is Christ the Lord. Glory to God and peace on earth."
Charles Miller
Burlington, Vt.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Road Sign
I recently moved to Minnesota from Florida. As I was driving home from a job interview my mind started to wonder. I thought about my future in this new state. Lord am I suppose to take this job or the one I interviewed for yesterday? I was getting tired of waiting for what God has for me next. I could feel myself getting anxious as I was thinking about money. Can I afford to live alone? How much longer can I work just part time without health care benefits? How much time off will I get and what about the holidays, and on and on and on.
At this point I realized the beautiful city backdrop of buildings sparkling in the sunlight was behind me. Seeing the city skyline is one of my favorite views and somehow, as I looked at my new home city rushing past my car window, I had relaxed and been lost in my thoughts. I had missed my exit and was in unfamiliar territory. As I looked to get my bearings I saw a bright yellow sign ahead. I struggled to read it, and as I got closer, I thought I saw the word trust. I laughed out loud for there, in big letters, and I am not kidding were the words-”TRUST ME!” – God.
Even though I was traveling seventy miles an hour, I felt like time had just stopped. With a chuckle I let go of all those thoughts and decided to do what I was told and leave the details up to God and to TRUST HIM.
As I drove off the expressway and turned my car around to find my way back to a familiar highway, I knew it was no mistake that I had become lost and saw that yellow billboard. Also in that moment of quietness I recalled that in the morning I had asked God to reveal himself to me with this interview and to make it obvious what I was to do. He made it obvious. God continues to amaze and amuse me.
Beth Bishop
Minneapolis, Minnesota
At this point I realized the beautiful city backdrop of buildings sparkling in the sunlight was behind me. Seeing the city skyline is one of my favorite views and somehow, as I looked at my new home city rushing past my car window, I had relaxed and been lost in my thoughts. I had missed my exit and was in unfamiliar territory. As I looked to get my bearings I saw a bright yellow sign ahead. I struggled to read it, and as I got closer, I thought I saw the word trust. I laughed out loud for there, in big letters, and I am not kidding were the words-”TRUST ME!” – God.
Even though I was traveling seventy miles an hour, I felt like time had just stopped. With a chuckle I let go of all those thoughts and decided to do what I was told and leave the details up to God and to TRUST HIM.
As I drove off the expressway and turned my car around to find my way back to a familiar highway, I knew it was no mistake that I had become lost and saw that yellow billboard. Also in that moment of quietness I recalled that in the morning I had asked God to reveal himself to me with this interview and to make it obvious what I was to do. He made it obvious. God continues to amaze and amuse me.
Beth Bishop
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Saturday, December 8, 2007
A Healing in Providence
I was graduated from Holy Cross High School in Waterbury, Connecticut, Class of 1975. One of my best friends, Bobby Blacker heard there was going to be a faith healer appearing at the Providence Civic Center. A small group of us decide to make the trip from Waterbury to Providence Rhode Island to ask for a miracle of healing for Bobby’s brother who has been severely handicapped, physically and mentally, since birth.
The Providence Civic Center was packed by the time we got there. I couldn’t make it inside so I hung around one of the corner entrances hoping for a chance to gian entrance. Nearby a small group gathered in prayer.
I wandered over and listened to the young man who was leading the prayer. I also noticed a young woman standing in the circle who seemed to be pregnant but only on one side of her stomach. After the group prayed for some other people, the young woman spoke up and told the prayer leader that she had been suffering from a disease that had left a very large tumor in her abdomen. She said the doctors could not help her condition and she asked for healing prayers to be lifted up over her. I join the others in the prayers.
The prayer leader placed his hands on her abdomen and the group prayed out loud and silently for Jesus to heal the woman. To my amazement I watched as the tumor began to shrink and her stomach begin to flatten out. It must have been about ten minutes that we prayed for the woman, and by the time it was over, she was weeping and thanking everyone because her tumor had vanished.
I did make it into the Civic Center before the rally was over. Bobby’s younger brother was not healed, but I had witnessed a miracle healing that day. Praise the Lord.
Paul Boiano
Vernon, Connecticut
The Providence Civic Center was packed by the time we got there. I couldn’t make it inside so I hung around one of the corner entrances hoping for a chance to gian entrance. Nearby a small group gathered in prayer.
I wandered over and listened to the young man who was leading the prayer. I also noticed a young woman standing in the circle who seemed to be pregnant but only on one side of her stomach. After the group prayed for some other people, the young woman spoke up and told the prayer leader that she had been suffering from a disease that had left a very large tumor in her abdomen. She said the doctors could not help her condition and she asked for healing prayers to be lifted up over her. I join the others in the prayers.
The prayer leader placed his hands on her abdomen and the group prayed out loud and silently for Jesus to heal the woman. To my amazement I watched as the tumor began to shrink and her stomach begin to flatten out. It must have been about ten minutes that we prayed for the woman, and by the time it was over, she was weeping and thanking everyone because her tumor had vanished.
I did make it into the Civic Center before the rally was over. Bobby’s younger brother was not healed, but I had witnessed a miracle healing that day. Praise the Lord.
Paul Boiano
Vernon, Connecticut
Saturday, December 1, 2007
A Message for the President
We sometimes deprive ourselves of incredibly extraordinary experiences because we don’t believe they could happen; at least not to us. We underestimate what life has in store for us and what God is capable of accomplishing. With this in mind, I share my family’s experience in Washington, D.C. last June.
I had been invited to a medical meeting in our nation’s capital and my wife Lisa and our two younger children, Sam (11) and Lydia (7) came along to visit the monuments and see the sites.
The venue for the meeting was the St. Regis Hotel, two blocks from the White House. I thought, “wouldn’t it be something if somehow we could tour the White House and meet the President.” But I knew that would be impossible.
On our first full day in D.C. we walked from our hotel toward the White House. As we approached Lafayette Square, a block from the White House, we were struck by a small but quaint St. John’s church where every U.S. president since Madison has worshipped. It has come to be known as “the Presidents’ Church.” I was sensing a strange inexplicable compulsion to go inside.
No one was inside except an “official-looking” lady on a cell phone. She pointed out where the current president sat when he would occasionally visit. It was where his father sat. The lady asked Lisa if we would be in town Sunday morning. Lisa said, “Yes.”
“Well,” the lady said, “I just got the call. The President and Mrs. Bush are going to be here for the 7:45 service and take Communion.”
We were determined to be there Sunday. Sam was particularly excited at the thought of having his first Communion with the President of the United States. He had only brought jeans and felt they were inappropriate for church and asked that we buy him khakis. We did.
We awoke Sunday to thunderstorms and heavy rain. My first thought was that we were going to get soaked walking to church. I also thought the President might cancel because of the rain, or something important came up preventing him from coming. As these thoughts entered my mind I read from Sam’s Bible and prayed. I first read Proverbs 21:1, “The king’s heart is in the Lord’s hand and He directs it as a watercourse,” substituting “president” for “king.” As I was thinking about the President with all the challenges he faces, I felt a strong compulsion to read Psalm 21, which I rarely read. As I read, I experienced an overwhelming feeling I was to give it to President Bush when I saw him. The essence of this Psalm is the king’s (president’s) expression of trust and confidence in God to protect him and to deal with his enemies. He acknowledges God as the One who placed him in his present position of power. I did not share this with Lisa at the time but later, after the events of the day, she indicated she felt that morning I would be speaking to the President.
With borrowed umbrellas from the hotel, we proceeded to the church in the rain. The little church was literally “crawling” with secret service agents. We had to wait for bomb-sniffing dogs to finish their work before we went through security. Hardly anyone was there. We estimated 30 people; at least half were probably secret service
At 7:40, the President and Mrs. Bush came through the front door on the right. Proverbs 21:1 came over me in a surrealistic way. They walked across the front of the church, turned down the aisle on the left next to where we were seated and sat a row behind us across the aisle.
Early into the service, we were asked to stand and greet those around us. Lisa, Sam and I turned and greeted the President and Mrs. Bush with handshakes and exchanges of “Peace be with you.” At that moment, I did not think it appropriate to say anything else to the President.
Intermittently through the service, Sam would turn his head slightly to peek at the President. The President would note this, responding with a wink and a smile each time. The President took his church bulletin, signed it “Best Wishes”, and handed it to Sam. Mrs. Bush gave hers to the President informing him Sam had a sister. The President signed it and handed it to Sam saying, “Give this to your sister.”
We were invited forward to the alter to receive Communion. As our family proceeded down the aisle, a lady in a pew on the right appeared as if she wanted to be let in so Sam and I backed up to let her in. In so doing, unknowingly President and Mrs. Bush were placed in line behind us. Thus, when it came time to take Communion, we found ourselves kneeling with them to receive the wafer and wine. The order was Sam, I, Lisa, Mrs. Bush and the President.
Upon returning to our pew, I turned to seat myself and found the President right next to me. I said, “Mr. President this morning as I was praying for you, I felt moved to read Psalm 21. I would like to give it to you.” He thanked me and shook my hand.
When the service came to a close, the President and Mrs. Bush were escorted from their seats. He waved to us and said, “See you guys later.”
I said, “God bless you Mr. President.”
He replied, “Thank you sir.”
It all seemed like a dream except we had two signed church bulletins, which told us otherwise. We stepped out of the church into a deluge and arrived at our hotel soaked to the bone. We didn’t mind. We had just been showered with blessings from God.
I do not know if the President read Psalm 21. I do know a short time afterwards the President came under extreme criticism for his conduct of the war in Iraq and his popularity hit an all time low. I believe the Psalm would have been a great comfort to him.
Ronald Aung-Din
Sarasota, Fl.
I had been invited to a medical meeting in our nation’s capital and my wife Lisa and our two younger children, Sam (11) and Lydia (7) came along to visit the monuments and see the sites.
The venue for the meeting was the St. Regis Hotel, two blocks from the White House. I thought, “wouldn’t it be something if somehow we could tour the White House and meet the President.” But I knew that would be impossible.
On our first full day in D.C. we walked from our hotel toward the White House. As we approached Lafayette Square, a block from the White House, we were struck by a small but quaint St. John’s church where every U.S. president since Madison has worshipped. It has come to be known as “the Presidents’ Church.” I was sensing a strange inexplicable compulsion to go inside.
No one was inside except an “official-looking” lady on a cell phone. She pointed out where the current president sat when he would occasionally visit. It was where his father sat. The lady asked Lisa if we would be in town Sunday morning. Lisa said, “Yes.”
“Well,” the lady said, “I just got the call. The President and Mrs. Bush are going to be here for the 7:45 service and take Communion.”
We were determined to be there Sunday. Sam was particularly excited at the thought of having his first Communion with the President of the United States. He had only brought jeans and felt they were inappropriate for church and asked that we buy him khakis. We did.
We awoke Sunday to thunderstorms and heavy rain. My first thought was that we were going to get soaked walking to church. I also thought the President might cancel because of the rain, or something important came up preventing him from coming. As these thoughts entered my mind I read from Sam’s Bible and prayed. I first read Proverbs 21:1, “The king’s heart is in the Lord’s hand and He directs it as a watercourse,” substituting “president” for “king.” As I was thinking about the President with all the challenges he faces, I felt a strong compulsion to read Psalm 21, which I rarely read. As I read, I experienced an overwhelming feeling I was to give it to President Bush when I saw him. The essence of this Psalm is the king’s (president’s) expression of trust and confidence in God to protect him and to deal with his enemies. He acknowledges God as the One who placed him in his present position of power. I did not share this with Lisa at the time but later, after the events of the day, she indicated she felt that morning I would be speaking to the President.
With borrowed umbrellas from the hotel, we proceeded to the church in the rain. The little church was literally “crawling” with secret service agents. We had to wait for bomb-sniffing dogs to finish their work before we went through security. Hardly anyone was there. We estimated 30 people; at least half were probably secret service
At 7:40, the President and Mrs. Bush came through the front door on the right. Proverbs 21:1 came over me in a surrealistic way. They walked across the front of the church, turned down the aisle on the left next to where we were seated and sat a row behind us across the aisle.
Early into the service, we were asked to stand and greet those around us. Lisa, Sam and I turned and greeted the President and Mrs. Bush with handshakes and exchanges of “Peace be with you.” At that moment, I did not think it appropriate to say anything else to the President.
Intermittently through the service, Sam would turn his head slightly to peek at the President. The President would note this, responding with a wink and a smile each time. The President took his church bulletin, signed it “Best Wishes”, and handed it to Sam. Mrs. Bush gave hers to the President informing him Sam had a sister. The President signed it and handed it to Sam saying, “Give this to your sister.”
We were invited forward to the alter to receive Communion. As our family proceeded down the aisle, a lady in a pew on the right appeared as if she wanted to be let in so Sam and I backed up to let her in. In so doing, unknowingly President and Mrs. Bush were placed in line behind us. Thus, when it came time to take Communion, we found ourselves kneeling with them to receive the wafer and wine. The order was Sam, I, Lisa, Mrs. Bush and the President.
Upon returning to our pew, I turned to seat myself and found the President right next to me. I said, “Mr. President this morning as I was praying for you, I felt moved to read Psalm 21. I would like to give it to you.” He thanked me and shook my hand.
When the service came to a close, the President and Mrs. Bush were escorted from their seats. He waved to us and said, “See you guys later.”
I said, “God bless you Mr. President.”
He replied, “Thank you sir.”
It all seemed like a dream except we had two signed church bulletins, which told us otherwise. We stepped out of the church into a deluge and arrived at our hotel soaked to the bone. We didn’t mind. We had just been showered with blessings from God.
I do not know if the President read Psalm 21. I do know a short time afterwards the President came under extreme criticism for his conduct of the war in Iraq and his popularity hit an all time low. I believe the Psalm would have been a great comfort to him.
Ronald Aung-Din
Sarasota, Fl.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Colleen's Premonition
One morning before leaving for high school, God put it on my heart that I was going to be in a car accident that day. I told my older sister who urged me not to go to school.
I told her I had to go today because if I was absent or late one more day I was risking being expelled. Besides I had stayed up late finishing the hair on my Raggedy Ann Doll for my Home Economics class that had to be turned in this morning in order to get credit.
My friend Robin drove up in her Riviera at the usual time. While my sister kept telling me not to temp fate by going to school, I prayed over the car asking God for his protection. When I got into the car with my books and Raggedy Ann doll I noticed a St. Christopher Medal hanging from the rear view mirror. It hadn’t been there before.
“Who gave you the medal Robin, your mother?”
“My grandmother.”
That’s neat I thought, we can use all the protection possible, especially today. Everything went well until we entered the Natchez Highway and Robin speeded up. We hit a patch of black ice and slid 457 feet across the highway and smashed onto a cement irrigation box that propelled the car backwards. We flipped over three times before coming to a stop on the passenger side. I passed out. I came too with Robin yelling my name.
I was crunched up against the mangled door and window that was shattered and bowed from the impact. Wedged between my head and the window was the Raggedy Ann Doll. The hair of the doll was caught at the top of the window and the doll acted as cushion for me preventing serious injury. I pushed Robin and she struggled to go out the driver's window above us. Then she reached back into the car to help me up and out.
Robin and I ran off to the first house we could see to call our parents. When we returned to the car a state trooper was standing by our wreck. He said when he saw the damage and nobody in the car he thought our bodies had already been taken to the morgue. He told us we shouldn’t have left the scene of an accident.
Our parents arrived and later they drove us to school but nobody ever said anything about being late that day.
Colleen Reilly
Yakima, Washington
I told her I had to go today because if I was absent or late one more day I was risking being expelled. Besides I had stayed up late finishing the hair on my Raggedy Ann Doll for my Home Economics class that had to be turned in this morning in order to get credit.
My friend Robin drove up in her Riviera at the usual time. While my sister kept telling me not to temp fate by going to school, I prayed over the car asking God for his protection. When I got into the car with my books and Raggedy Ann doll I noticed a St. Christopher Medal hanging from the rear view mirror. It hadn’t been there before.
“Who gave you the medal Robin, your mother?”
“My grandmother.”
That’s neat I thought, we can use all the protection possible, especially today. Everything went well until we entered the Natchez Highway and Robin speeded up. We hit a patch of black ice and slid 457 feet across the highway and smashed onto a cement irrigation box that propelled the car backwards. We flipped over three times before coming to a stop on the passenger side. I passed out. I came too with Robin yelling my name.
I was crunched up against the mangled door and window that was shattered and bowed from the impact. Wedged between my head and the window was the Raggedy Ann Doll. The hair of the doll was caught at the top of the window and the doll acted as cushion for me preventing serious injury. I pushed Robin and she struggled to go out the driver's window above us. Then she reached back into the car to help me up and out.
Robin and I ran off to the first house we could see to call our parents. When we returned to the car a state trooper was standing by our wreck. He said when he saw the damage and nobody in the car he thought our bodies had already been taken to the morgue. He told us we shouldn’t have left the scene of an accident.
Our parents arrived and later they drove us to school but nobody ever said anything about being late that day.
Colleen Reilly
Yakima, Washington
Saturday, November 17, 2007
It Began with a Shipwreck
“It began when I was shipwrecked off the coast of Africa.” This is how my dad started every bedtime story when my little sister and I were growing up. He always made the stories up according to his mood and while the stories were always different, the beginning was always the same; he was shipwrecked off the coast of Africa. We loved his stories.
He had lived a life full of both hard work and temperance. He was a stonemason, didn't smoke, and he drank only a tiny glass of family home-made wine occasionally. He walked about 5 miles daily to relieve the loneliness and grief after my mom died from cancer. My dad was a spirit filled man who prayed the Rosary daily on his knees.
Dad had been ill for about a year while hospitals misdiagnosed him. Finally we got him to Mass General Hospital where he was diagnosed with stage 4 leukemia. He was bleeding internally and that spiked the stroke that killed him. He was 75 when he passed.
I should tell you that in my family we always expect to get word that our loved ones “arrive safely.” So when my dad died my sister and I expected to hear from him.
A short while after the funeral my sister and I were driving separate cars in two different states (Connecticut and Massachusetts) and we happened to be listening to the same program on Public Radio. Faith Middleton was interviewing an author and asked him to read a page from his newly published book. His first words were, “It all began when I was shipwrecked off the coast of Africa.”
I called my sister that evening and we both knew that it was a message from our story telling dad.
I’ve had one other contact from my dad. There came a time several months after his death when I was overcome with grief and was weeping for him in my bed, calling him in fact, wanting him to be near. At the time, I was lying on my left side in the bed, my head on the pillow. I suddenly heard him call my name, loudly and directly, into my right ear as though he were standing next to me. After I heard my name, my right ear 'pinged' and a ringing sound began in an odd way. Not my left ear, nor did both ears 'ping' -- only the right one into which his voice came. I knew immediately it was my dad and I was at peace.
I hope that these stories I have shared give others as much comfort as I received experiencing them.
Diane Valentine Reading
Middletown, Connecticut
He had lived a life full of both hard work and temperance. He was a stonemason, didn't smoke, and he drank only a tiny glass of family home-made wine occasionally. He walked about 5 miles daily to relieve the loneliness and grief after my mom died from cancer. My dad was a spirit filled man who prayed the Rosary daily on his knees.
Dad had been ill for about a year while hospitals misdiagnosed him. Finally we got him to Mass General Hospital where he was diagnosed with stage 4 leukemia. He was bleeding internally and that spiked the stroke that killed him. He was 75 when he passed.
I should tell you that in my family we always expect to get word that our loved ones “arrive safely.” So when my dad died my sister and I expected to hear from him.
A short while after the funeral my sister and I were driving separate cars in two different states (Connecticut and Massachusetts) and we happened to be listening to the same program on Public Radio. Faith Middleton was interviewing an author and asked him to read a page from his newly published book. His first words were, “It all began when I was shipwrecked off the coast of Africa.”
I called my sister that evening and we both knew that it was a message from our story telling dad.
I’ve had one other contact from my dad. There came a time several months after his death when I was overcome with grief and was weeping for him in my bed, calling him in fact, wanting him to be near. At the time, I was lying on my left side in the bed, my head on the pillow. I suddenly heard him call my name, loudly and directly, into my right ear as though he were standing next to me. After I heard my name, my right ear 'pinged' and a ringing sound began in an odd way. Not my left ear, nor did both ears 'ping' -- only the right one into which his voice came. I knew immediately it was my dad and I was at peace.
I hope that these stories I have shared give others as much comfort as I received experiencing them.
Diane Valentine Reading
Middletown, Connecticut
Friday, November 9, 2007
Dad and Baseball
The Phone rings
" Hello. "
" Hi son."
" Hi dad. "
" How ya doing ?"
" Good dad, How you doing ?"
" Oh Ok, thought I'd call in my lottery numbers."
This is a typical call from dad. He's been calling me his lottery numbers to play twice a week for ten years because they don’t have a lottery in Alabama.
" Got em, I'll get those numbers for ya dad. "
" Geeze thanks so much Son, if you ever need anything let me know. I got that new TV you know, I've been watching my favorite baseball team, wow, you should see my TV, when they have the camera behind home plate and the pitcher throws the ball.. I duck.. It looks like he threw it right at me. "
" That’s funny dad "
" Are you still going to those meetings ? "
" Oh yeah dad, every day."
" Still every day, how long has it been now?
"Just over ten years dad."
" My, that’s amazing , I'm proud of you. If I can help with anything just let me know, ok ? "
" Ok dad. "
" Well I got to go now, thanks for getting the lotto numbers, love ya son.."
" Love ya dad "
My story is your average tale of the downward spiral of chemical addiction and alcohol, and the upward climb back towards normalcy. Millions of people share the same story. I started with pot and beer in early adolescence, by late teens it was hard liquor and narcotics, by 22 I was smoking crack cocaine every day and was in total denial of having a problem. I was a mess.
Its hard to briefly describe the damage… physically, psychologically, emotionally, spiritually, socially, economically, a ruined marriage estranged from my baby son and step daughter, being unemployable.
On 9-10-1993 I surrendered to the AA program and slowly worked my way back. By the grace of God and a Christian sponsor who gently helped me turn back to the Lord, I recovered.
I’ve come to realize that I didn’t get my old life back that I thought I was going to in the beginning of recovery- rather I’ve found working a recovery program has enabled me to start becoming a totally different person- the one God meant me to be.
Obviously living sober has its benefits; my family relationships have been repaired, I have a good job and I was able to obtain full custody of my son in that first year. What a blessing to see him grow into a wonderful young man free from the social trappings I fell into at his age.
I married a beautiful woman. She's in recovery also. We've built a life together that is more rewarding than I could have dared imagined. We’ve purchased a home, are active members in our church and are still very involved in the recovery community.
We work hard on our relationship. Both being in recovery means we perhaps have additional challenges. What successful marriage doesn't have challenges?
We sought out a Christian marriage counselor. During one of the counseling sessions the three of us were discussing- go figure- recovery and the counselor asked me; “So what in your childhood was so terrible that it made you turn to drugs and alcohol.”
WHAT ? That was all I could think, What ?
I had a great childhood… couldn’t remember anything that was all that bad…Then it happened. It just popped into my head.
When I was six I wanted to join little league baseball. I brought home the permission slips and brochure from school. I fancied myself becoming a great baseball player someday. My parents bought me a glove, bat, ball, and the uniform with cap and I was assigned to a team.
I especially remember going to that first practice, and how my dad drove me to the ball field…well, actually he only drove me to within seeing distance of the ball field. He pulled the car over to the curb explaining that he was dropping me off here and that I was to run across the block to the ball field and he would be right here to pick me up after the practice. I was confused but this was my turn to play and without any hesitation I was out of that car and running towared the ball field.
I went to a few practice sessions like that, each time my dad dropping me off a block away and being there to pick me up afterwards.
I recall one practice the ball coming my way in right field and not catching it like I was supposed to…scrambling, running to the missed ball while the other kids screamed, “throw the ball,” throwing the ball as hard as I could and seeing it fall to the ground only half way to the nearest teammate and rolling to a stop while the batter was running the basses and everyone was screaming at me.
I remember that first real baseball game getting dropped off a block away just like practice and sitting on the bench until my first chance at bat. I was thinking this is it. I am gonna hit a home run like Babe Ruth. Stepping up to the plate I hear the catcher say; "he's a whiffer, he can’t hit, strike him out" and a lump forming in my throat and tears forming after the first strike and not bothering to look back towards my team for support after the second strike because I knew my dad wasn’t there. When I struck out it seamed the whole world was screaming names at me, even my teammates. I was all by myself. The other kids' dads were there but mine wasn’t. Nobody stood up for me. I remember walking back to the bench with my head down, sitting and staring at the ground.
I made up my mind I was never gonna hear atta-boy from my dad because he wasn’t there, and I was never going to hear if I needed anything he'd be there for me. I made up my mind that I was gonna quit baseball. And that’s what I did.
Dad drove me to the coach’s house and he made me take the uniform up to the door and quit the team while he waited in the car.
I was sitting there in the counsellors office with my wife, tears rolling down my cheeks as I relived feelings I had buried as a six-year-old. The counselor asked, "So what are you going to do about it now ? " We agreed taking time to process was reasonable.
Some days passed. How could I start healing ? Dad and mom have been divorced 30 years now. Dad has lived in a mobile home in Alabama for 25 years. He is 77. How could I justify calling dad up, "Guess what I just remembered you did to me 36 years ago?" What would that accomplish? Would I really feel better bringing it up? Would he remember? Would I be creating more hurt?
Let me say here there is no way I blame my addictions due to this one thing. There are many reasons for my addictions and alcoholism.
I began wondering about all those phone conversations with dad these past ten years. How could my dad, who talks to me all the time about baseball, never misses a game on TV, not participate in baseball with me when I was a kid? It didn’t make sense.
I call my brother in Columbus and ask him.
He replies, “dad never mentions baseball to me, I don’t think he likes sports. "
I call my sister, same response - dad never mentions baseball to her.
So I ask my mom, “why dad didn’t do baseball with me.” She guessed maybe he didn’t want to be involved with the other fathers. She was sure it didn’t have anything to do with me.
So how was I going heal from a 36 year old hurt, as far as I could tell, was due to dad trying to avoid some kind of social interaction with other men
I thought, perhaps it is too late to try to heal by talking with dad but maybe I could help my son, who then was 16 and a sophomore in high school.
I had made many mistakes raising my son especially in his early life as my brain wasn’t all that clear even after I was sober. Maybe I can make sure my son didn’t find himself at 40 years old crying in a counseling session and wondering what his dad had done to him.
So every chance I had I told my son how much I loved him, how proud of him I was and that he could depend on his dad. I began wondering if he was getting it. Was he hearing me?
That’s when it happened. I heard in my mind all those phone conversations between me and my dad and what I heard wasn’t conversations about baseball. What I heard at that moment was the other part where for ten years my dad was saying, " Son I'm so proud of what you’ve been doing with your life… Son, if I can help you with anything just let me know… Son I love you…"
My son wasn't the one not hearing. It was my dad’s son who wasn’t hearing, I was the one with the hardened heart
Thirty six years ago a six-year- old boy made up his mind he was never going to hear his father’s praise, would never be able to depend on his dad and was determined he wasn’t going to feel his dad’s love.
The healing I neeeded wasn’t from what my father did. The healing I needed was from what I did to myself-that little boy-a life time ago… I made a decision back then, and the result was that I stopped hearing. Even cold sober for ten years and in my right mind I was deaf to what my father had been saying.
Finally I heard all those times my father said I'm proud of you, I'm there for you , I love you.
I cried for three days.
I was crying with joy because I heard him…and I was crying with some sorrow that I hadn’t heard him for so long… and all these emotions were flooding through me… and I felt elated.
I called my wife to tell her and left her a message and I called my counselor and I think he was crying with me as I explained my revelation.
He asked, "did you call your dad ? '
"Oh no…no… I couldn’t possibly call dad"
“You know you have to,” he advised.
It took me three hours to get myself together to make that call to dad. I didn't get into the baseball thing with him. Between sobs I just explained that I now understand and feel he loves me, he's proud of me and would do anything for me.
After a few days I thought, wow, if I cut off my ability to hear my earthly father like that- how much have I cut off from hearing my heavenly father?
It has been a little over three years now. Dad still calls in his numbers twice a week, I never hear him mention baseball anymore. I'm not really sure if dad even likes baseball.
Been hearing God lately?
Patrick Smith
Sarasota, Fl.
" Hello. "
" Hi son."
" Hi dad. "
" How ya doing ?"
" Good dad, How you doing ?"
" Oh Ok, thought I'd call in my lottery numbers."
This is a typical call from dad. He's been calling me his lottery numbers to play twice a week for ten years because they don’t have a lottery in Alabama.
" Got em, I'll get those numbers for ya dad. "
" Geeze thanks so much Son, if you ever need anything let me know. I got that new TV you know, I've been watching my favorite baseball team, wow, you should see my TV, when they have the camera behind home plate and the pitcher throws the ball.. I duck.. It looks like he threw it right at me. "
" That’s funny dad "
" Are you still going to those meetings ? "
" Oh yeah dad, every day."
" Still every day, how long has it been now?
"Just over ten years dad."
" My, that’s amazing , I'm proud of you. If I can help with anything just let me know, ok ? "
" Ok dad. "
" Well I got to go now, thanks for getting the lotto numbers, love ya son.."
" Love ya dad "
My story is your average tale of the downward spiral of chemical addiction and alcohol, and the upward climb back towards normalcy. Millions of people share the same story. I started with pot and beer in early adolescence, by late teens it was hard liquor and narcotics, by 22 I was smoking crack cocaine every day and was in total denial of having a problem. I was a mess.
Its hard to briefly describe the damage… physically, psychologically, emotionally, spiritually, socially, economically, a ruined marriage estranged from my baby son and step daughter, being unemployable.
On 9-10-1993 I surrendered to the AA program and slowly worked my way back. By the grace of God and a Christian sponsor who gently helped me turn back to the Lord, I recovered.
I’ve come to realize that I didn’t get my old life back that I thought I was going to in the beginning of recovery- rather I’ve found working a recovery program has enabled me to start becoming a totally different person- the one God meant me to be.
Obviously living sober has its benefits; my family relationships have been repaired, I have a good job and I was able to obtain full custody of my son in that first year. What a blessing to see him grow into a wonderful young man free from the social trappings I fell into at his age.
I married a beautiful woman. She's in recovery also. We've built a life together that is more rewarding than I could have dared imagined. We’ve purchased a home, are active members in our church and are still very involved in the recovery community.
We work hard on our relationship. Both being in recovery means we perhaps have additional challenges. What successful marriage doesn't have challenges?
We sought out a Christian marriage counselor. During one of the counseling sessions the three of us were discussing- go figure- recovery and the counselor asked me; “So what in your childhood was so terrible that it made you turn to drugs and alcohol.”
WHAT ? That was all I could think, What ?
I had a great childhood… couldn’t remember anything that was all that bad…Then it happened. It just popped into my head.
When I was six I wanted to join little league baseball. I brought home the permission slips and brochure from school. I fancied myself becoming a great baseball player someday. My parents bought me a glove, bat, ball, and the uniform with cap and I was assigned to a team.
I especially remember going to that first practice, and how my dad drove me to the ball field…well, actually he only drove me to within seeing distance of the ball field. He pulled the car over to the curb explaining that he was dropping me off here and that I was to run across the block to the ball field and he would be right here to pick me up after the practice. I was confused but this was my turn to play and without any hesitation I was out of that car and running towared the ball field.
I went to a few practice sessions like that, each time my dad dropping me off a block away and being there to pick me up afterwards.
I recall one practice the ball coming my way in right field and not catching it like I was supposed to…scrambling, running to the missed ball while the other kids screamed, “throw the ball,” throwing the ball as hard as I could and seeing it fall to the ground only half way to the nearest teammate and rolling to a stop while the batter was running the basses and everyone was screaming at me.
I remember that first real baseball game getting dropped off a block away just like practice and sitting on the bench until my first chance at bat. I was thinking this is it. I am gonna hit a home run like Babe Ruth. Stepping up to the plate I hear the catcher say; "he's a whiffer, he can’t hit, strike him out" and a lump forming in my throat and tears forming after the first strike and not bothering to look back towards my team for support after the second strike because I knew my dad wasn’t there. When I struck out it seamed the whole world was screaming names at me, even my teammates. I was all by myself. The other kids' dads were there but mine wasn’t. Nobody stood up for me. I remember walking back to the bench with my head down, sitting and staring at the ground.
I made up my mind I was never gonna hear atta-boy from my dad because he wasn’t there, and I was never going to hear if I needed anything he'd be there for me. I made up my mind that I was gonna quit baseball. And that’s what I did.
Dad drove me to the coach’s house and he made me take the uniform up to the door and quit the team while he waited in the car.
I was sitting there in the counsellors office with my wife, tears rolling down my cheeks as I relived feelings I had buried as a six-year-old. The counselor asked, "So what are you going to do about it now ? " We agreed taking time to process was reasonable.
Some days passed. How could I start healing ? Dad and mom have been divorced 30 years now. Dad has lived in a mobile home in Alabama for 25 years. He is 77. How could I justify calling dad up, "Guess what I just remembered you did to me 36 years ago?" What would that accomplish? Would I really feel better bringing it up? Would he remember? Would I be creating more hurt?
Let me say here there is no way I blame my addictions due to this one thing. There are many reasons for my addictions and alcoholism.
I began wondering about all those phone conversations with dad these past ten years. How could my dad, who talks to me all the time about baseball, never misses a game on TV, not participate in baseball with me when I was a kid? It didn’t make sense.
I call my brother in Columbus and ask him.
He replies, “dad never mentions baseball to me, I don’t think he likes sports. "
I call my sister, same response - dad never mentions baseball to her.
So I ask my mom, “why dad didn’t do baseball with me.” She guessed maybe he didn’t want to be involved with the other fathers. She was sure it didn’t have anything to do with me.
So how was I going heal from a 36 year old hurt, as far as I could tell, was due to dad trying to avoid some kind of social interaction with other men
I thought, perhaps it is too late to try to heal by talking with dad but maybe I could help my son, who then was 16 and a sophomore in high school.
I had made many mistakes raising my son especially in his early life as my brain wasn’t all that clear even after I was sober. Maybe I can make sure my son didn’t find himself at 40 years old crying in a counseling session and wondering what his dad had done to him.
So every chance I had I told my son how much I loved him, how proud of him I was and that he could depend on his dad. I began wondering if he was getting it. Was he hearing me?
That’s when it happened. I heard in my mind all those phone conversations between me and my dad and what I heard wasn’t conversations about baseball. What I heard at that moment was the other part where for ten years my dad was saying, " Son I'm so proud of what you’ve been doing with your life… Son, if I can help you with anything just let me know… Son I love you…"
My son wasn't the one not hearing. It was my dad’s son who wasn’t hearing, I was the one with the hardened heart
Thirty six years ago a six-year- old boy made up his mind he was never going to hear his father’s praise, would never be able to depend on his dad and was determined he wasn’t going to feel his dad’s love.
The healing I neeeded wasn’t from what my father did. The healing I needed was from what I did to myself-that little boy-a life time ago… I made a decision back then, and the result was that I stopped hearing. Even cold sober for ten years and in my right mind I was deaf to what my father had been saying.
Finally I heard all those times my father said I'm proud of you, I'm there for you , I love you.
I cried for three days.
I was crying with joy because I heard him…and I was crying with some sorrow that I hadn’t heard him for so long… and all these emotions were flooding through me… and I felt elated.
I called my wife to tell her and left her a message and I called my counselor and I think he was crying with me as I explained my revelation.
He asked, "did you call your dad ? '
"Oh no…no… I couldn’t possibly call dad"
“You know you have to,” he advised.
It took me three hours to get myself together to make that call to dad. I didn't get into the baseball thing with him. Between sobs I just explained that I now understand and feel he loves me, he's proud of me and would do anything for me.
After a few days I thought, wow, if I cut off my ability to hear my earthly father like that- how much have I cut off from hearing my heavenly father?
It has been a little over three years now. Dad still calls in his numbers twice a week, I never hear him mention baseball anymore. I'm not really sure if dad even likes baseball.
Been hearing God lately?
Patrick Smith
Sarasota, Fl.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Long Distance Jump Start
My goal is to get around Washington DC before dark. I am heading south to deliver furniture to the kid in college in North Carolina. I notice the car is running a little hot towing the U Haul so I stop at a rest area in Maryland between Baltimore and DC.
I go to the bathroom, walk around some to stretch my legs and return to the car. I turn the key in the ignition-nothing. Try again. Dead. Now what?
These high tech cars stump me (mine is a ten-year-old 1989 Cadillac DeVille). I have no idea what to do next. I call my road service plan and they locate a towing service near the interstate.
“We’ll have to send two trucks,” a voice says, “One for your car and one for the trailer.” Looks like I will be spending the night nearby.
As I return dejectedly to my car. I say Lord I need help here. A voice in my head says try your spare key. I try the key and the car starts right up. I call my road guy, cancel the tow service and I head south.
I have no further problems. I should call those “Car Talk” brothers on PBS about this one.
Walter Holloway
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
I go to the bathroom, walk around some to stretch my legs and return to the car. I turn the key in the ignition-nothing. Try again. Dead. Now what?
These high tech cars stump me (mine is a ten-year-old 1989 Cadillac DeVille). I have no idea what to do next. I call my road service plan and they locate a towing service near the interstate.
“We’ll have to send two trucks,” a voice says, “One for your car and one for the trailer.” Looks like I will be spending the night nearby.
As I return dejectedly to my car. I say Lord I need help here. A voice in my head says try your spare key. I try the key and the car starts right up. I call my road guy, cancel the tow service and I head south.
I have no further problems. I should call those “Car Talk” brothers on PBS about this one.
Walter Holloway
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Making Plans, Taking Steps
I began preaching when I was twenty years old in a little church in Neapolis, Ohio. I was married that same year. Marilyn and I thought we would stay in that town all of our lives.
It was our hometown, our children were born there and our parents lived nearby. I said, “ I will never live in the city.” Be careful with the “nevers.”
In 1964 the Elders from North Highlands Church of Christ on Archer Avenue in Fort Wayne were determined that we were to come to this church. We prayed over it and felt God’s call, so we moved to Fort Wayne.
The Church flourished and grew and helped spawned Christ Church in Georgetown. We soon had outgrown our building so we made plans to build a million dollar building in the suburbs of Fort Wayne: North Highlands Community. We went to a bank that promised financing, we had plans drawn and we held a groundbreaking ceremony with the mayor there. There was even a picture in the newspaper and a contractor on the site. That year, 1973, was a severe downturn of the economy. When we went to the bank to obtain our loan for 800 thousand dollars we were told the money is no longer available. What do you do?
We had made plans and promises. What was God thinking? What did God want us to do?
I said, “We are going to prayer.” I had heard about early morning praying in Korea. I said, “we're going to go to prayer at 5:30 in the morning. and we're going to pray until we get an answer.” Do you know how early 5:30 in the morning is when you start praying at that hour for six weeks, seven mornings a week? I'm a morning person but I was never consistently up that many mornings, going to bed later every night.
One morning following prayer, I was with a group of pastors who heard the mayor of our city, Ivan Lebamoff , speak and challenge each of us to look at the downtown area of Fort Wayne, where everyone was leaving at that time in 1973. The mayor urged us to look at the downtown as a place of potential, of opportunity. God laid it on my heart to remember the empty church building at the corner of Broadway and Wayne, the old Wayne Street Methodist Church.
That morning I went to that building, opened the door, went in, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There before me was the floor plan that we were going to build and still intact since1871. It was constructed of sturdy oak, had stained glass, a pipe organ, a wood floor gymnasium, and a commercial kitchen. Altogether it was 48,00 square feet of usable building. For two hours I walked around in there with unbelief, arguing with God, saying, this can't be, how can we do this? I went home and I couldn't talk. Marilyn thought I had been in an some sort of accident.
That night as Marilyn and I walked I said, “Honey, I've dreamed a dream or seen a vision.”
After I shared with her my amazing discovery she said, “Bob I told you two weeks ago we should buy that building when we went past it.”
I hadn’t heard her but God did and the Broadway Christian Church was born.
I am retired from Broadway Christian now but we still live in Fort Wayne most of the year. I look back over 28 years at not only the growth in numbers (2,000 people and five services in two locations) but the organizations and churches that grew out of that one as we tried to be good disciples to our neighborhood and beyond.
It is obvious now what happened back in 1973 when the bank failed to give us a promised loan. God saved us from ourselves.
“A man’s heart devises his way; but the Lord directs his steps.” (Proverbs 16:9)
Pastor Bob Yawberg
Fort Wayne, Indiana
It was our hometown, our children were born there and our parents lived nearby. I said, “ I will never live in the city.” Be careful with the “nevers.”
In 1964 the Elders from North Highlands Church of Christ on Archer Avenue in Fort Wayne were determined that we were to come to this church. We prayed over it and felt God’s call, so we moved to Fort Wayne.
The Church flourished and grew and helped spawned Christ Church in Georgetown. We soon had outgrown our building so we made plans to build a million dollar building in the suburbs of Fort Wayne: North Highlands Community. We went to a bank that promised financing, we had plans drawn and we held a groundbreaking ceremony with the mayor there. There was even a picture in the newspaper and a contractor on the site. That year, 1973, was a severe downturn of the economy. When we went to the bank to obtain our loan for 800 thousand dollars we were told the money is no longer available. What do you do?
We had made plans and promises. What was God thinking? What did God want us to do?
I said, “We are going to prayer.” I had heard about early morning praying in Korea. I said, “we're going to go to prayer at 5:30 in the morning. and we're going to pray until we get an answer.” Do you know how early 5:30 in the morning is when you start praying at that hour for six weeks, seven mornings a week? I'm a morning person but I was never consistently up that many mornings, going to bed later every night.
One morning following prayer, I was with a group of pastors who heard the mayor of our city, Ivan Lebamoff , speak and challenge each of us to look at the downtown area of Fort Wayne, where everyone was leaving at that time in 1973. The mayor urged us to look at the downtown as a place of potential, of opportunity. God laid it on my heart to remember the empty church building at the corner of Broadway and Wayne, the old Wayne Street Methodist Church.
That morning I went to that building, opened the door, went in, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There before me was the floor plan that we were going to build and still intact since1871. It was constructed of sturdy oak, had stained glass, a pipe organ, a wood floor gymnasium, and a commercial kitchen. Altogether it was 48,00 square feet of usable building. For two hours I walked around in there with unbelief, arguing with God, saying, this can't be, how can we do this? I went home and I couldn't talk. Marilyn thought I had been in an some sort of accident.
That night as Marilyn and I walked I said, “Honey, I've dreamed a dream or seen a vision.”
After I shared with her my amazing discovery she said, “Bob I told you two weeks ago we should buy that building when we went past it.”
I hadn’t heard her but God did and the Broadway Christian Church was born.
I am retired from Broadway Christian now but we still live in Fort Wayne most of the year. I look back over 28 years at not only the growth in numbers (2,000 people and five services in two locations) but the organizations and churches that grew out of that one as we tried to be good disciples to our neighborhood and beyond.
It is obvious now what happened back in 1973 when the bank failed to give us a promised loan. God saved us from ourselves.
“A man’s heart devises his way; but the Lord directs his steps.” (Proverbs 16:9)
Pastor Bob Yawberg
Fort Wayne, Indiana
Saturday, October 20, 2007
The Lost Wallet
Jim lost his wallet and that affected the whole family. It happened sometime Sunday although he didn’t realize he had misplaced his wallet until he was getting his things ready Sunday night for the morning commute.
He had washed two cars and detailed them Sunday afternoon so that was the first place he looked. The rest of us started the search inside the house, starting with the obvious places like the nightstand by the bed and the buffet in the dining room. We progressed to feeling in the crevasses of the cushions on the couch and inside the levels of the Lazy Boy chair. Soon we were trashing the house. All was for naught.
Monday morning Jim drove off to work without his wallet and of course without his license. I prayed the wallet would be found. Monday night we resumed the search perhaps more frantically than the day before. Jim and the kids went out and checked the cars again and I looked around inside revisiting many of the same places I had searched before. No wallet. I prayed some more
Tuesday Jim was obviously still upset and began grumbling about the prospect of having to apply for a duplicate license and calling the credit card companies to close the accounts. As he stood by the door he said he was going to take my car this morning because the SUV was low on gas. I suggested we pray together, something we hadn’t done for awhile. So we did.
We didn’t ask for the wallet to be found but we praised the Lord for all that we did have confessing that we didn’t have to worry about these things but just give them all over to Him. I felt better after praying.
I walked him out to the car. As he opened the door he shouted, “There’s my wallet!”
I took a step forward and then I saw it too. It was on the floor in front of the back seat right in plain sight. He and the kids had searched both vehicles twice, most recently as last night. That wallet could not have been out in the open like that.
We looked at each other in disbelief. How did it get there? What if he hadn’t decided to take my car instead of his today?
Cathy Pansa
Shorewood, Illinois
He had washed two cars and detailed them Sunday afternoon so that was the first place he looked. The rest of us started the search inside the house, starting with the obvious places like the nightstand by the bed and the buffet in the dining room. We progressed to feeling in the crevasses of the cushions on the couch and inside the levels of the Lazy Boy chair. Soon we were trashing the house. All was for naught.
Monday morning Jim drove off to work without his wallet and of course without his license. I prayed the wallet would be found. Monday night we resumed the search perhaps more frantically than the day before. Jim and the kids went out and checked the cars again and I looked around inside revisiting many of the same places I had searched before. No wallet. I prayed some more
Tuesday Jim was obviously still upset and began grumbling about the prospect of having to apply for a duplicate license and calling the credit card companies to close the accounts. As he stood by the door he said he was going to take my car this morning because the SUV was low on gas. I suggested we pray together, something we hadn’t done for awhile. So we did.
We didn’t ask for the wallet to be found but we praised the Lord for all that we did have confessing that we didn’t have to worry about these things but just give them all over to Him. I felt better after praying.
I walked him out to the car. As he opened the door he shouted, “There’s my wallet!”
I took a step forward and then I saw it too. It was on the floor in front of the back seat right in plain sight. He and the kids had searched both vehicles twice, most recently as last night. That wallet could not have been out in the open like that.
We looked at each other in disbelief. How did it get there? What if he hadn’t decided to take my car instead of his today?
Cathy Pansa
Shorewood, Illinois
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Shift Lanes
When I was 19 years old I lived in Tracy, California, and had been out with some friends in Stockton, about 20 miles away. I was driving home alone about 2 a.m. on old Highway 50. The highway splits into two high narrow bridges over the San Joaquin River, one for north bound and one for south bound traffic. The bridges are steep so that you can’t see the other side until you get to the top.
There was no traffic on the road at that hour and I was traveling the speed limit. I was in the left hand lane going up the south-bound bridge when, for some unexplained reason, I steered into the right hand lane. A moment later I was in the middle of the bridge when out of nowhere, a car came speeding the wrong way in the lane I had just left.
If I hadn’t changed lanes there would have been a head on collision in the middle of that high and narrow bridge. There was nowhere to go except over the edge into the river below. I know that I would not have survived the crash or the river.
Decades later I still shiver at the thought of what could have happened that night. There was no reason for me to change lanes. I was saved by an angel that night, I’m absolutely sure.
“For he shall give his angels charge over you,
to keep you in all your ways.” Psalm 91:11
Mary (Kiser) Bartlein
Panther Ridge, Florida
There was no traffic on the road at that hour and I was traveling the speed limit. I was in the left hand lane going up the south-bound bridge when, for some unexplained reason, I steered into the right hand lane. A moment later I was in the middle of the bridge when out of nowhere, a car came speeding the wrong way in the lane I had just left.
If I hadn’t changed lanes there would have been a head on collision in the middle of that high and narrow bridge. There was nowhere to go except over the edge into the river below. I know that I would not have survived the crash or the river.
Decades later I still shiver at the thought of what could have happened that night. There was no reason for me to change lanes. I was saved by an angel that night, I’m absolutely sure.
“For he shall give his angels charge over you,
to keep you in all your ways.” Psalm 91:11
Mary (Kiser) Bartlein
Panther Ridge, Florida
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
A Raging River
It is June and time for our annual family reunion camping along the banks of the Raven Fork River. Only this one will change the course of my life.
On the drive from Florida to Cherokee, North Carolina my wife and I talk about the offer made by the pastor of our church in Sarasota. He wants me to serve as Interim Children’s Director on a six-month trial basis. I have served the children’s ministry as a volunteer for several years while my paying position is managing a restaurant for a national chain. My heart is with the children but my head and my wife are saying it would be financially irresponsible to take an interim position for six months while a committee searches for a director. Besides, I would have to take a pay cut and with a wife and two children to support that would be financial stupidity.
We arrive at the campsite in a steady drizzle. Most of the families are gathered under a large tent fly. After lunch I decide to go fishing and thinking. The Raven has eight-foot banks opposite the campground and is relatively shallow ranging in dept from calf deep to waist deep. I put on waders and rain gear and proceed into the calm water. Most of the adults are playing cards under the tent fly while Pete, my brother-in-law, watches me fish from the bank.
I was so engrossed in fishing that I didn’t notice what was happening around me. I should have known if it is raining here it is pouring up river in the mountains. Within minutes the river rises from waist deep to chest deep and the water turns brown. Finally I realize what is happening and I turn toward the near bank. This is a big mistake. The river is deeper on this side and my waders quickly fill with water and drag me under like a sinker. My waders hold me down while the rushing river pushes me downstream. I am struggling to regain my footing and get to the surface. Suddenly I hit a rock with such force that it pops me upright like a bobber. I stand there, breathing heavily and deliberately leaning forward with the water pushing against my chest. I am unable to move. This is serious.
My brother-in-law is frantically yelling for the other men who soon appear on the bank above me. They lower an inflated tube with a rope tied to it but it doesn’t reach. me.
Next they throw the inner tube but it blows past me and is punctured downstream when it hits a sharp rock or pointed stump. Someone finds another piece of rope and ties it to the first rope. The men lower a now deflated tube tied on the longer rope. After a couple of attempts this one reaches me and I wrap the rope around my hand. When the men pull on the rope I am immediately projected prone in the water and with the river pushing me and with my extra weight my rescuers are nearly pulled in on top of me. It takes all the strength of those ten men and older boys to hold me against the current. Gradually they ease me to the bank, which is terraced with rocks held in place by a wire mesh. I am able to grab a tree growing out of the bank and I hold on while some men crawl gingerly down the bank and help me out of the river.
Later standing on top of the embankment several of us watch logs, branches and other debris being propelled down river by the rushing water. A large log shoots right over where I had been standing helpless against the river. Ouch, that would have hurt. I learned first hand the power of water and how fast things can change. I see now how people can be caught in a flash flood.
Pete interrupts my musings.
“Chris you have to see this,” he says holding the rope in his hands, “this is how close we came to losing you.” What had been my lifeline is frayed so badly that the rope in one spot is down to a single strand that my brother-in-law proceeds to snap with his fingers.
On reflection I think God was testing me that afternoon. I could easily have drowned if I hadn’t hit that rock, which stood me up providing time for others to help save me. As I thought about my life ending in that river I asked myself, did I want to be known as a restaurant manager or did I want to be remembered as a teacher of God’s children? I decided to take the position of Interim Director of Children’s Ministry.
Chris Cahill
Bradenton, Florida.
( He has been Pastor of Children’s Ministry at South Shore Community Church since 2003-Ed)
On the drive from Florida to Cherokee, North Carolina my wife and I talk about the offer made by the pastor of our church in Sarasota. He wants me to serve as Interim Children’s Director on a six-month trial basis. I have served the children’s ministry as a volunteer for several years while my paying position is managing a restaurant for a national chain. My heart is with the children but my head and my wife are saying it would be financially irresponsible to take an interim position for six months while a committee searches for a director. Besides, I would have to take a pay cut and with a wife and two children to support that would be financial stupidity.
We arrive at the campsite in a steady drizzle. Most of the families are gathered under a large tent fly. After lunch I decide to go fishing and thinking. The Raven has eight-foot banks opposite the campground and is relatively shallow ranging in dept from calf deep to waist deep. I put on waders and rain gear and proceed into the calm water. Most of the adults are playing cards under the tent fly while Pete, my brother-in-law, watches me fish from the bank.
I was so engrossed in fishing that I didn’t notice what was happening around me. I should have known if it is raining here it is pouring up river in the mountains. Within minutes the river rises from waist deep to chest deep and the water turns brown. Finally I realize what is happening and I turn toward the near bank. This is a big mistake. The river is deeper on this side and my waders quickly fill with water and drag me under like a sinker. My waders hold me down while the rushing river pushes me downstream. I am struggling to regain my footing and get to the surface. Suddenly I hit a rock with such force that it pops me upright like a bobber. I stand there, breathing heavily and deliberately leaning forward with the water pushing against my chest. I am unable to move. This is serious.
My brother-in-law is frantically yelling for the other men who soon appear on the bank above me. They lower an inflated tube with a rope tied to it but it doesn’t reach. me.
Next they throw the inner tube but it blows past me and is punctured downstream when it hits a sharp rock or pointed stump. Someone finds another piece of rope and ties it to the first rope. The men lower a now deflated tube tied on the longer rope. After a couple of attempts this one reaches me and I wrap the rope around my hand. When the men pull on the rope I am immediately projected prone in the water and with the river pushing me and with my extra weight my rescuers are nearly pulled in on top of me. It takes all the strength of those ten men and older boys to hold me against the current. Gradually they ease me to the bank, which is terraced with rocks held in place by a wire mesh. I am able to grab a tree growing out of the bank and I hold on while some men crawl gingerly down the bank and help me out of the river.
Later standing on top of the embankment several of us watch logs, branches and other debris being propelled down river by the rushing water. A large log shoots right over where I had been standing helpless against the river. Ouch, that would have hurt. I learned first hand the power of water and how fast things can change. I see now how people can be caught in a flash flood.
Pete interrupts my musings.
“Chris you have to see this,” he says holding the rope in his hands, “this is how close we came to losing you.” What had been my lifeline is frayed so badly that the rope in one spot is down to a single strand that my brother-in-law proceeds to snap with his fingers.
On reflection I think God was testing me that afternoon. I could easily have drowned if I hadn’t hit that rock, which stood me up providing time for others to help save me. As I thought about my life ending in that river I asked myself, did I want to be known as a restaurant manager or did I want to be remembered as a teacher of God’s children? I decided to take the position of Interim Director of Children’s Ministry.
Chris Cahill
Bradenton, Florida.
( He has been Pastor of Children’s Ministry at South Shore Community Church since 2003-Ed)
Monday, October 1, 2007
"Bob"
“Bob”
I was going through a really difficult time. I was recovering from a divorce, my daughter was living away from home at school and the bank I was working for was going under due to big mistakes in real estate lending.
Then the unthinkable happened. My male friend committed suicide. I found his body slumped over in his garage still in his car. He was a colleague at the bank and I cared for him deeply. I never felt more alone.
The following evening a dear friend from the bank, Noreen, came to my apartment with her husband David. They gathered up a few of my things, literally carried me to their car and drove me to their home.
Noreen was also a good friend of the man who had tragically taken his own life. She made a wonderful bed for me out of the couches in her living room, make a fire in the fireplace and instead of bringing me a box of tissues she brought me all her frilly hankies. She also made a pot of my favorite tea.
While Noreen and I talked about our deceased friend and some of the times we spent together, her son Paul, who was probably five or six at the time, kept coming in and out of the room. Each trip he brought a handful of toys or stuffed animals, which he lined up next to me on the couch. The more I thanked him the more things he brought me. Eventually the couch was filled up and he began placing the toys on the floor next to me. In his little boy way he was bringing everything he had to comfort his mother’s friend who obviously was crying and sad. Lastly he brought into the room his most precious possession-his baby blanket.
I’m a major baby blanket person. When I was a child I had a crib-sized blanket that was very much a part of my life until I was fourteen. I would hold it to my nose; suck my thumb, especially in turbulent times. That blanket brought me comfort and joy. It had been loved to death and by the time I was 14 it had been reduced to the size of a silver dollar.
I understand all things baby blanket. Those of us who were baby blanket people have a way of finding each other. We have a language that only we understand. So little Paul and I immediately had this bond and he showed me his baby blanket that looked like a large blob of shredded rags tied together in large knots.
He called his baby blanket “Bob.” We agreed that the very worse thing that can happen is when well meaning moms wash our baby blankets.It takes weeks to get them back in shape and to properly smell again.
After a while, Paul and “Bob” went off to bed.
When the house was quiet I began reflecting and I began to cry and even sob. My shaking with grief was interrupted by the sound of shuffling little feet. It was Paul walking towards me carrying “Bob.” Without saying a word, he gently laid “Bob” in my arms, turned and left the room, closing the French doors behind him.
At that moment, I knew that God was using this child to comfort me in my time of pain and sorrow.
To this day, I am blown away by that precious little one obeying the prodding of the Lord and lending me his most cherished possession that evening. God manifested his love that night to me.
Joy Holloway
Granby Ma.
I was going through a really difficult time. I was recovering from a divorce, my daughter was living away from home at school and the bank I was working for was going under due to big mistakes in real estate lending.
Then the unthinkable happened. My male friend committed suicide. I found his body slumped over in his garage still in his car. He was a colleague at the bank and I cared for him deeply. I never felt more alone.
The following evening a dear friend from the bank, Noreen, came to my apartment with her husband David. They gathered up a few of my things, literally carried me to their car and drove me to their home.
Noreen was also a good friend of the man who had tragically taken his own life. She made a wonderful bed for me out of the couches in her living room, make a fire in the fireplace and instead of bringing me a box of tissues she brought me all her frilly hankies. She also made a pot of my favorite tea.
While Noreen and I talked about our deceased friend and some of the times we spent together, her son Paul, who was probably five or six at the time, kept coming in and out of the room. Each trip he brought a handful of toys or stuffed animals, which he lined up next to me on the couch. The more I thanked him the more things he brought me. Eventually the couch was filled up and he began placing the toys on the floor next to me. In his little boy way he was bringing everything he had to comfort his mother’s friend who obviously was crying and sad. Lastly he brought into the room his most precious possession-his baby blanket.
I’m a major baby blanket person. When I was a child I had a crib-sized blanket that was very much a part of my life until I was fourteen. I would hold it to my nose; suck my thumb, especially in turbulent times. That blanket brought me comfort and joy. It had been loved to death and by the time I was 14 it had been reduced to the size of a silver dollar.
I understand all things baby blanket. Those of us who were baby blanket people have a way of finding each other. We have a language that only we understand. So little Paul and I immediately had this bond and he showed me his baby blanket that looked like a large blob of shredded rags tied together in large knots.
He called his baby blanket “Bob.” We agreed that the very worse thing that can happen is when well meaning moms wash our baby blankets.It takes weeks to get them back in shape and to properly smell again.
After a while, Paul and “Bob” went off to bed.
When the house was quiet I began reflecting and I began to cry and even sob. My shaking with grief was interrupted by the sound of shuffling little feet. It was Paul walking towards me carrying “Bob.” Without saying a word, he gently laid “Bob” in my arms, turned and left the room, closing the French doors behind him.
At that moment, I knew that God was using this child to comfort me in my time of pain and sorrow.
To this day, I am blown away by that precious little one obeying the prodding of the Lord and lending me his most cherished possession that evening. God manifested his love that night to me.
Joy Holloway
Granby Ma.
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