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
Saturday, November 24, 2007
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
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