One morning before leaving for high school, I had the distinct feeling 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 off the highway and smashed onto a cement irrigation box that propelled the car backwards. We flipped completely over three times before coming to a stop right side up. 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 a cushion for me preventing serious injury.
Robin and I crawled out of the car and 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 Jorgenson
Veradale, Washington
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
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 have MANY instances of contact from "the other side" so we always expect to get word that our loved ones “arrive safely.” So when my dad died my sister and I anticipated hearing 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 started 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 have MANY instances of contact from "the other side" so we always expect to get word that our loved ones “arrive safely.” So when my dad died my sister and I anticipated hearing 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 started 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
Saturday, November 8, 2008
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 imagine. 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 say. 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 and saying; "Guess what I just remembered what 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 know thathe 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? How about you, been hearing God lately?
It has been a little over four years now. Dad still calls in his numbers twice a week, I never hear him mention baseball anymore. You know, I'm not really sure if dad even likes baseball
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 imagine. 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 say. 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 and saying; "Guess what I just remembered what 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 know thathe 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? How about you, been hearing God lately?
It has been a little over four years now. Dad still calls in his numbers twice a week, I never hear him mention baseball anymore. You know, I'm not really sure if dad even likes baseball
Patrick Smith
Sarasota, Fl.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Jump Start from a Distance
My goal is to get around Washington DC before dark. I am heading south to deliver furniture to the kid in college. 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 that key and the car starts right up. I call my road guy, cancel the tow service and head south.
I have no further problems. I should call Click and Clack, 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 that key and the car starts right up. I call my road guy, cancel the tow service and head south.
I have no further problems. I should call Click and Clack, those “Car Talk” brothers on PBS about this one.
Walter Holloway
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
Saturday, October 25, 2008
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 “never’s.”
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.”
That went on for six weeks. 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, which had been 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 since 1871. 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.
About eighty families, approximately 300 people came with us from the suburbs to the city. The people who came interestingly enough were mostly the ones who came to Christ during my nine years at North Highlands. Our first service at Broadway Christian was held on January 6, 1974.
I began preaching on discipleship and what it means to seriously follow Jesus. I preached two and a half years on that theme. I preached for seven consecutive Sundays on repentance. I had never done that before in my life.
On one of those Sunday mornings our Church School superintendent came with his wife at his side weeping and he confessed he was a closet alcoholic. His Sunday School class with an elder leading them surrounded that man and vowed to stay with him until he was sober. That morning was a high water mark spiritually for the people knew then it was a safe place to confess sins.
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 “never’s.”
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.”
That went on for six weeks. 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, which had been 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 since 1871. 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.
About eighty families, approximately 300 people came with us from the suburbs to the city. The people who came interestingly enough were mostly the ones who came to Christ during my nine years at North Highlands. Our first service at Broadway Christian was held on January 6, 1974.
I began preaching on discipleship and what it means to seriously follow Jesus. I preached two and a half years on that theme. I preached for seven consecutive Sundays on repentance. I had never done that before in my life.
On one of those Sunday mornings our Church School superintendent came with his wife at his side weeping and he confessed he was a closet alcoholic. His Sunday School class with an elder leading them surrounded that man and vowed to stay with him until he was sober. That morning was a high water mark spiritually for the people knew then it was a safe place to confess sins.
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 11, 2008
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 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 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 watched logs, branches and other debris being propelled down river by the rushing water. A large log shot right over where I had been standing helpless against the river. That could have been fatal. 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 proceeded 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 me in my distress. As I thought about my life ending in that river I asked myself, did I want to be just a restaurant manager or did I want to be 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 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 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 watched logs, branches and other debris being propelled down river by the rushing water. A large log shot right over where I had been standing helpless against the river. That could have been fatal. 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 proceeded 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 me in my distress. As I thought about my life ending in that river I asked myself, did I want to be just a restaurant manager or did I want to be 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)
Friday, October 3, 2008
"Bob"
Incredible true stories that touch the heart and tug at the soul. Are they chance or destiny, coincidence or fate? Do you have your own Go Figure story? Want to share it? E-mail us at gofigureamerica@yahoo.com
“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.
“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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)