Week of Feb. 1
When I was 24 and single, I was working at a dead-end job and in debt. In an attempt to get a handle on my spending I attended a Good $ense Finance course at my church (Willow Greek in Barrington Illinois, a suburb northwest of Chicago.)
I volunteered for Willow’s cars program, which repairs used, donated cars and made them available for single moms. I like working on engines and besides my old Honda was on its last legs and I hoped to get some tips on how to keep it going.
About this time I received in the mail a promotion from my credit union informing me that I was pre-approved for a car loan up to $7500. The wheels in my head began to turn. I figured if I were going to get a better job I would need a better car. Armed with my car loan approval, I drove off to a used car dealer. I showed the promotion flyer to the salesman and we went off into the lot. Funny how every car he showed me was for sale at $7500.
I came home excited about the prospect of buying a better car. That week at church I shared my excitement about buying a better car with my Good $ense teacher. I told him about the $7500 loan
approval and I showed him a car I had circled in the Auto Trader.
“God does not want you to go further into debt,” my teacher said, “why don’t you trust him for the car.”
His words, while spoken softly, hit me like a cold shower. I bristled but he was right, I had agreed not to take out any more loans. At the Good $ense course I had developed a spending plan which was designed to help me live within my income and to pay down debt. We were taught that good stewardship of the resources we have honors God.
When I returned home I threw the Auto Trader in the trash. I was going to trust God. At that moment I felt God was in the next room whispering, “I love you.” He didn’t solve my car problem that day but He showed His presence to me.
The next day I received a call ‘out of the blue’ from the leader of the Cars Team who said he was calling to see how I was doing.
That weekend I volunteered at the church cars program and I mentioned to the chief mechanic how my transmission was slipping and I was having a hard time getting in or out of second gear. I also mentioned I didn’t have any money for a better car right now and I wondered if he could help me fix my old Honda.
I was surprised when he didn’t ask me for more details about my aging wreck. He just walked off motioning with his arm for me to follow. We went to the back of the lot and we stopped at an old rusted out twelve- year- old Buick station wagon.
“It’s not pretty,” he said “And it is too far gone to give to a single mom to transport her kids. But it has a strong engine, reasonably good tires, and the transmission still works. Why don’t you drive it home.”
God did provide. I ended up driving that car for nearly two years until I could afford a better one.
Peter Buchan
Sarasota,Fl.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Paul and "Bob"
Week of January 24
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 out 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 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 great 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 when I heard the shuffling of 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. God manifested his love to me that night and comforted me through the tendereness of a little boy.
Joyous H. Salter
The Meadows
Sarasota
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 out 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 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 great 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 when I heard the shuffling of 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. God manifested his love to me that night and comforted me through the tendereness of a little boy.
Joyous H. Salter
The Meadows
Sarasota
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A Raging River
Week of January 18
It is June and time for our annual family reunion camping along the banks of the Raven Fork River in North Carolina. Only this one will change the course of my life.
On the drive from Florida to Cherokee, N.C. my wife and I talk about the offer made by the pastor of our community 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 walk into the calm water. Most of the adults are playing cards and the children board games under the canvass. Pete, my brother-in-law, stands on the bank and watches me fish.
I am so engrossed in fishing that I am oblivious to what is happening around me. The flow of the water picks up and quickly the color changes to a muddy brown. The river rises rapidly from waist deep to chest deep. Now I sense the danger.
I turn toward the near bank. This is a big mistake. The river is deeper on this side and my waders instantly fill with water and drag me under like a sinker. I’m held down by the weight while the rushing river propels me downstream. I am struggling to regain my footing and get to the surface. Suddenly I hit a rock or stump with such force that it pops me upright like a bobber. I stand there gulping in air with the water pushing against my chest. I am unable to move.
My brother-in-law is frantically yelling and the other men soon appear on the bank above me. They lower an inflated tube with a rope tied to it but it doesn’t reach. Then they throw the inner tube but it blows past me and is punctured downstream when it hits a sharp object. Someone finds another piece of rope and ties it to the first rope. The men lower a 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 against me and with my extra weight from my water-filled waders, 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 mesh 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 could have been disastrous.
I see first hand the power of water and how fast things can change. I realize now how people can be caught in a flash flood and carried away. Pete’s voice interrupts my musings.
“Chris you have to see this,” he says holding a rope in his hands, “this is how close we came to losing you.”
What had been my lifeline is frayed so badly that in one spot is down to a single strand. Pete snaps it with his fingers. I can only stare at the broken strand in a sobering silence.
I could easily have drowned this afternoon if I hadn’t hit that object, which stood me up providing time for others to help me in my distress. As I think about my life ending in that river I ask myself, do I want to be remembered as a restaurant manager or do I want to be known as a teacher of God’s children?
I decide to step out in faith and take the position of Interim Director of Children’s Ministry at South Shore Community Church.
Chris Cahill
Bradenton,Fl.
It is June and time for our annual family reunion camping along the banks of the Raven Fork River in North Carolina. Only this one will change the course of my life.
On the drive from Florida to Cherokee, N.C. my wife and I talk about the offer made by the pastor of our community 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 walk into the calm water. Most of the adults are playing cards and the children board games under the canvass. Pete, my brother-in-law, stands on the bank and watches me fish.
I am so engrossed in fishing that I am oblivious to what is happening around me. The flow of the water picks up and quickly the color changes to a muddy brown. The river rises rapidly from waist deep to chest deep. Now I sense the danger.
I turn toward the near bank. This is a big mistake. The river is deeper on this side and my waders instantly fill with water and drag me under like a sinker. I’m held down by the weight while the rushing river propels me downstream. I am struggling to regain my footing and get to the surface. Suddenly I hit a rock or stump with such force that it pops me upright like a bobber. I stand there gulping in air with the water pushing against my chest. I am unable to move.
My brother-in-law is frantically yelling and the other men soon appear on the bank above me. They lower an inflated tube with a rope tied to it but it doesn’t reach. Then they throw the inner tube but it blows past me and is punctured downstream when it hits a sharp object. Someone finds another piece of rope and ties it to the first rope. The men lower a 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 against me and with my extra weight from my water-filled waders, 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 mesh 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 could have been disastrous.
I see first hand the power of water and how fast things can change. I realize now how people can be caught in a flash flood and carried away. Pete’s voice interrupts my musings.
“Chris you have to see this,” he says holding a rope in his hands, “this is how close we came to losing you.”
What had been my lifeline is frayed so badly that in one spot is down to a single strand. Pete snaps it with his fingers. I can only stare at the broken strand in a sobering silence.
I could easily have drowned this afternoon if I hadn’t hit that object, which stood me up providing time for others to help me in my distress. As I think about my life ending in that river I ask myself, do I want to be remembered as a restaurant manager or do I want to be known as a teacher of God’s children?
I decide to step out in faith and take the position of Interim Director of Children’s Ministry at South Shore Community Church.
Chris Cahill
Bradenton,Fl.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Chance Meetings?
Week of January 3, 2010
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/Venice 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 that 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 passed 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 proddings 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 at me.
“Hey Rick, what timing. 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
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/Venice 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 that 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 passed 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 proddings 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 at me.
“Hey Rick, what timing. 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
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