Flight Paths

Chloe is growing quickly.  She is now seven months old and about two-thirds the size of our seven year old Australian cattle dog Magdi.  Sometimes I have to look twice to tell which one I am looking at.  Yes, I know that does not mean much considering the state of my vision these days, but I know these dogs.
            Chloe, however, is still very much a puppy.  She will bring her small football to you to throw over and over, or her old rag to play tug-o-war again and again after she manages to yank it away from you.  You will always wear out before she does.  She prances and cavorts, romps and darts, and any other word in a thesaurus describing playfulness. 
            A few weeks ago she started chasing butterflies.  We have all sorts our here in the country, black and orange monarchs, yellow and black swallowtails, sapphire blue and black hairstreaks, and the ubiquitous canary yellow sulphurs that flit all over, changing direction almost faster than your eye can follow.  Those are Chloe’s favorites to chase, maybe because they are smaller.  Some of the swallowtails are nearly as big as her head.
            One morning, after Magdi had already left my side, and Chloe was still prancing along, another yellow butterfly flitted into our path.  Just as usual, Chloe chased it.  And then, when she least expected it, she caught it.  The look on her face was shock, then panic as the butterfly evidently kept on flitting inside her mouth.  Without hesitation, she opened her mouth and the butterfly flew out, none the worse for wear, and Chloe happily resumed the chase.
            I thought then, once again, of Jesus’ admonition to become as little children.  Was this yet another way that children are superior to adults, at least in the kingdom?  They do not realize that, with their feet firmly planted on the ground, they should not be able to catch something that can fly.  They do not know when something is supposed to be impossible.  They do not know the meaning of “illogical.”  They do not know what science has and has not discovered.  How often do we let our maturity in the world rob of us our childhood in the kingdom?  How often have I uttered that pessimistic comment, “It’ll never work?”  How often do we look at a new Christian, especially one who has come from a difficult background, and say, “He won’t last?”  How often do we look at the physical to judge the spiritual--placing our trust in things that look strong and effective on the outside, and never allowing childlike trust to take a chance on God’s power—and why, oh why, do we even consider that “taking a chance?”  Why do we refuse to pray for the impossible? 
            Magdi often plays with Chloe, especially in the cool of the evening, but more often she is content to sit and watch.  She keeps a good humor about her most of the time, but sometimes Chloe’s high spirits annoy her.  When Chloe is chasing a butterfly, not paying attention to where her romps take her, and she runs right over Magdi, she is often rewarded with a growl, or even a nip.  When Magdi actually snorts, it seems for all the world like a grumpy old woman saying, “When will she grow up?  She will never catch the thing, and she is always getting in the way and causing me trouble.”
            I suppose Magdi doesn’t remember the day she jumped over three feet off the ground and caught a bird on the wing.  I mourned the beautiful cardinal, but her form was beautiful, elegant, and to see a dog jump higher off the ground than she is tall and catch a flying bird is amazing.  You see, Magdi was a puppy once, too.
            Maybe only silly little puppies chase butterflies and birds; but then, only puppies catch them.
 
Woe to those that…rely on horses, and trust in chariots because they are many, and in horsemen because they are very strong, but they look not unto the Holy One of Israel, neither seek Jehovah, Isa 31:1.
 
Jesus, looking upon them said, With men it is impossible, but not with God; for all things are possible with God, Mark 10:27.        
 
Dene Ward

My husband never knew this and now he will be impossible to live with on this day, demanding tomatoes at every meal, as well as snacks and desserts as a celebratory measure.  April 6th is National Fresh Tomato Day.  For 40 years he has planted enough tomatoes in our garden to feed the entire county.  To his credit, he has shared probably a literal ton with church members, neighbors, piano students, and doctors.  His favorite thing in the world is a platter of the things sliced several inches deep on the dinner table every night for as long as the season lasts.  And that means I have to do something with the ones that don't fit on that platter before they go bad.  So while the boys were still home, I canned forty quarts or more every year, plus a few pints of tomato sauce, plus tomato juice, and once or twice, even some ketchup and tomato jam.  All of those things involved a huge amount of work.
            Canning tomatoes is one of the more difficult garden season chores.  You wash each and every tomato.  You scald each and every tomato.  You pound ice blocks till your arms ache in order to shock and cool each and every scalded tomato.  You peel each and every tomato and finally you cut up each and every tomato.  Then you sterilize jars, pack jars, and process jars.  Only 7 jars fit in the canner at a time, so you go through that at least 6 times for canned tomatoes alone.
            And you will have more failures to seal with canned tomatoes than any other thing you can.  As you pack them in, pushing down to make room, you must be very careful not to let the juice spill over into the threads of the jar.  And just in case you did that heinous crime, you take a damp cloth and wipe each thread of each jar.  Tomato pulp will keep a perfectly good jar, lid, and ring from sealing.
            In order to have that many tomatoes you must be willing to cut up a few that are half-rotten, disposing of the soft, pulpy, stinky parts in order to save sometimes just a bite or two of tomato.  Now that there are only two of us, I usually limit myself to 20+ quarts.  I still put one in every pot of spaghetti sauce, one in every pot of chili, and one in every pot of minestrone, as well as a few other recipes, it’s just that I don’t make as many of those things as I did with two big boys in the house.  Now I can afford to be a little profligate.  If I pick up a tomato with a large bad spot, I am just as likely to toss the whole thing rather than try to save the bite or two that is good, especially if it is a small tomato to begin with.  Why go to all that work—washing, scalding, shocking, peeling, cutting up, packing—for a mere teaspoon of tomato?
            But isn’t that what God and Jesus did for us?  For narrow is the gate, and straitened the way, that leads unto life, and few are they that find it. Matt 7:14.
            The Son of God, the Lord of Lords, the King of Kings, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Phil 2:6-8.  And he did that for a half—no!--for a more than half rotten tomato of a world.  He did that to save a remnant, a mere teaspoon of souls who would care enough to listen and obey the call. 
            Sometimes, by the end of the day, when my arms are aching, my fingers are nicked and the cuts burning from acidic tomato juice, my back and feet are killing me from standing for hours, and I am drenched with sweat from the steamy kitchen, I am ready to toss even the mostly good tomatoes, the ones with only a tiny bad spot, because it means extra work beyond a quick slice or two.  Aren’t you glad God did not feel that way about us?  It wasn’t just a half rotten world he came to save, it was every half rotten individual in that world, of which you and I are just a few.
 
But what is God's reply to him? “I have kept for myself seven thousand men who have not bowed the knee to Baal.” So too at the present time there is a remnant, chosen by grace. Rom 11:4-5
 
Dene Ward
 

Before one of the surgeries, Keith built a bird feeder outside the window next to my favorite chair--a metal trough about five feet long on a wooden frame.  I must admit I have enjoyed this thing a whole lot more than I expected to.  We keep it filled with birdseed and Keith hung a cylinder of suet over it as well. 
            First the cardinal couple came to dine. They spend their time in the trough with the seed.  The suet is not their cup of tea, so to speak, but several others seem to prefer it   A hummingbird came and hovered next to it, trying his best to figure out how to get the nectar out of it, but finally gave up and flew back to the hummingbird feeder on the other side of the house.
            Then the catbird came calling.  He stood under it, with the bottom of it just out of reach.  First, he tried the hummingbird’s trick, but a catbird cannot hover, he quickly found out as he fell with a splat into the trough.  Then he started jumping up and down, trying to peck when he reached the height of his jump, once again falling into the trough, this time nearly doing a backward somersault.  Poor bird, I hope he didn’t hear me laughing at him, but you never think about a bird being so awkward as to fall on his backside.  Maybe he did hear me, because he left and did not come back for a long time.
            The next morning I looked out and a wren had landed on top of the hanging suet and calmly leaned down, pecking away.  Every so often he looked around as if to say, “See?  This isn’t so hard.”  After a few days he had pecked away most of his sure-footing.  The top of the suet was no longer flat, so gradually one foot would slide down and hang onto the side.  Every morning he pecked away until finally there was no room at all on the top and both feet clung to the side of the suet.  Then came the day he got a little too self-confident.  I looked out and he was hanging upside down from the bottom of the suet.  His little feet curled in tightly and deeply and he seemed to have a good hold, but he had not reckoned with his desire to eat.  He pecked so hard that he pushed himself off the suet and he, too, landed on his back in the trough.  Was he embarrassed?  No way.  He just hopped back up on the side and kept pecking.  There are things more important than saving face.
            Along came a little gray titmouse with his gray crest, big ringed eye, and the slimmest breast I had ever seen on a bird.  He too, figured out how to land on the suet, hang on, and peck.  Then one morning the suet cylinder fell and lay across the trough.  Here comes the catbird ready for an easy meal. The titmouse arrived shortly after and must have known something about catbirds.  He sat in the azalea and squealed ferociously until he finally scared the catbird away.  As soon as the titmouse had eaten and left, the big coward came back, but not long afterward the cardinal couple flew at him and off he went again.
            All of this makes me think about our efforts to feast on the bread of life.  Do we mind looking a little foolish sometimes in our eagerness to learn and grow spiritually?  Do we give up after one or two tries if things are more difficult than we expected?  Are we too frightened to admit we live on the Word of God—afraid we won’t be accepted by our peers, afraid we will be ridiculed, afraid no one will like us any more, afraid it may cost us socially, economically, or maybe some day, even physically?
            The little birds at my feeder teach me profound lessons every day.  Sometimes I need a prod to be more like the feisty little titmouse or the ingenious little wren who couldn’t care less how his hunger for suet makes him look.  Sometimes I need to be reminded that there are more important things than what everyone thinks about me, and that fear of others can make you look the most ridiculous of all.  Indeed, if a tiny little titmouse can scare away a big old catbird all by himself, why can’t I make Satan’s minions run away, especially with all the Help I have at hand?
 
As newborn babes long for the spiritual milk which is without guile, that you may grow thereby unto salvation, 1 Pet 2:2.
 
Dene Ward
 

National Carrot Day was begun in 2003 in an effort to increase awareness of the beneficial compounds of carrots.  I am told it is celebrated around the world with carrot parties, featuring carrot dishes and guests dressed in orange or in some cases in carrot costumes.
            Carrots do far better up north than down here in Florida.  Whether it's the climate or the lack of nutrition in the sandy soil, I don't know, but we seldom bother planting them.  One year we did though, planting them late by Florida standards, so I was just pulling carrots the first week of June.  It wasn’t difficult; I pulled the whole row in about 15 minutes.  Still, it was disappointing—a twenty foot row yielded a two and a half gallon bucket of carrots that turned into a two quart pot when they were cleaned and sorted, cutting off the tops and tossing those that were pencil thin or bug-eaten.
            Then I thought, well, consider the remnant principle in the Bible.  Out of all the people in the world, even granting that the population was much less than it is now, only eight were saved at the Flood.  Out of all the nations in the world, God only chose one as His people.  Out of all those, only one tribe survived the Assyrians, and out of all those, only a few survived the Babylonians and only 42,000 of those returned to the land out of the 1,000,000 or so in Babylon.  What's that?  4.2%?
            Jesus spoke of the wide gate and the narrow gate.  Surely that tells us that though God wishes all to be saved, only a few will be.  So out of a twenty foot row of carrots, I probably threw out half.  Then we threw out a third of those that were too small to even try to scrub and peel.  Yet we probably did better with our carrots than the Lord will manage with people!  And I learned other principles that carrot-pulling day, too.
            When I pulled those carrots some of them had full beautiful tops, green, thick-stemmed, and smelling of cooked carrots when I lopped them off.  Yet under all that lush greenery several had very little carrot at all.  They were superficial carrots—all show and no substance.  Others were pale and bitter, hardly good for eating without adding a substantial amount of sugar.  Then under some thin, sparse tops, I often found a good-sized root, deep orange and sweet.  Yes, they were all the same variety, but something happened to them in the growth process.
            Some of us are all top and no root.  It always surprises me when a man who is so regular in his attendance has so little depth to his faith.  Surely sitting in a place where the Word is taught on a consistent basis should have given him something, even if just by osmosis.  But no, it takes effort to absorb the Word of God and more effort to put it into practice, delving deeper and deeper into its pages and considering its concepts.  The Pharisees could quote scripture all day, but they lacked the honesty to look at themselves in its reflection.
            And there are some of us who have little to show on the outside, but a depth no one will know until a tragedy strikes, or an attack on the faith arises, or a need presents itself, and suddenly they are there, standing for the truth, showing their faith, answering the call.  I knew one man who surprised us all with his strength in the midst of trial, a quiet man hardly anyone ever noticed.  Yet his steadfastness under pressure was remarkable.  I knew another who had been loud with his faith, nearly boasting in his confidence that he was strong, yet who shocked us all with his inability to accept the will of God, his assertions that he shouldn’t have to bear such a burden when he had been so faithful for so long.  Truly those carrot tops will fool you if you aren’t careful.  “Judge not by appearance,” Jesus said, “but judge righteous judgment.”  Look beneath those leafy greens and see where and how your root lies.
            Evidently the principles stand both for man and carrots.  Don’t count on your outward show, your pedigree in the faith.  Develop a deep root, one that will grow sweeter as time passes and strong enough to stand the heat of trial. 
            And don’t assume you are in the righteous remnant if that righteousness hasn’t been tested lately.  God hates more to throw out people than I hate to throw out carrots, but He will.  Don’t spend so much time preening your tops that your root withers.  And finally, only a few will make it to the table; make sure you are one of them.
 
Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. Revelation 3:20            
 
Dene Ward          

Out here in the sticks we are surrounded by hundreds of acres of pine woods planted by the paper companies.  Do not let anyone tell you that we are depleting our forests by using so much paper.  Old growth forests are not used for paper goods; they are used for that pretty furniture you own.  The paper companies regularly plant the trees they eventually send to the mills. 
            I always get a start when I pass a wooded section that has been standing for several years, and find that it has been taken down, soon to be replanted with small saplings.  And I have noticed several times that when the trees are removed, a rundown wooden shack sits in the open, formerly hidden by the rows and rows of sixty foot tall pines.  The porch sags, the roof waffles, the windows are paneless, with dangling shutters or none at all.  There are no power lines and no well tanks.  These dilapidated houses may have been empty nearly a hundred years.
            I find myself wondering who lived there.  None of these places could be more than twenty by twenty, many smaller, probably with one or two rooms, three at the most.  Kitchens were often on the back porch because of the heat and humidity in this area; families bathed in wash tubs in the kitchen or on the back porch, and outhouses were the plumbing of the day.  Did a young couple raise a family there?  In those days, they often had as many as nine or ten children.  When it rained they all had to play inside! 
            And when it rained the roof leaked.  When the winter wind blew, it seeped in between the board or log walls.  And no telling what might crawl in through the cracks in the floor boards—if there was even a floor.  Yet I know happy families lived there, and good citizens grew up from such poverty.  I know some of those elderly people and they talk of those days with a lot of smiles and chuckles.
            Yet here I sit, complaining because sometimes on a clear, still day in the country your electricity goes out for no apparent reason, and if the wind blows at all you can count on it.  No electricity means no air conditioning and no well pump.  Whenever a new neighbor moves in between me and the highway, the phone company will inevitably cut my line when they put in the new one.  And I don’t have a thing to wear!  Well, if I lost ten pounds I might.  I wonder if those folks who lived in that shack had enough food to even worry about getting too heavy. 
            These little shacks are reminders to me to be grateful for what I have, and not to covet the material blessings of another.  I can be happy anywhere.  I can raise godly children anywhere.  I can make a good marriage anywhere.  I can be a child of God no matter where I live or how.  But no mansion on earth will make me happy if that is all I care about. 
 
Godliness with contentment is great gain, for we brought nothing into this world for neither can we carry anything out; but having food and covering we shall with that be content. 1 Tim 6:6-8.
 
Dene Ward

Today's post is by guest writer Keith Ward.

Growing up, I thought of the Passover Feast as a memorial primarily of God's mercy.  God sent the Angel of Death to punish the wicked, and the righteous marked themselves by putting blood on the doorposts of their houses.  When the Angel saw the blood, he passed over that house, sparing those inside.  The Passover feast would therefore be a quiet feast, a somber feast commemorating God's great, and undeserved, mercy.
            Reading through the Hallel Psalms (113-118), which were traditionally sung at the Passover feast, shows us that the ancient Hebrews saw this feast very differently.  The Passover feast was a time to rejoice, a time to remember a great victory and to praise God for a great salvation.  For example, Ps. 116 begins in verse three, “The cords of death compassed me and the gates of Sheol got hold of me.”  Then the writer records their plea for help, and we see God’s response in verses 5-8.  “Gracious is Jehovah and righteous, Yea our God is merciful.  Jehovah preserves the simple:  I was brought low, and he saved me.  Return unto thy rest, O my soul, For Jehovah hath dealt bountifully with thee.  For thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from tears.”  Verses 12-13 praise God for his salvation. 
            Psalm 118 is nothing but a paean to God for the victory he brings.  “Out of my distress I called upon Jehovah, Jehovah answered and set me in a large place,” verse 5.  Verses 10-13 speak of being surrounded by enemies, but easily destroying them, “They compassed me about like bees; they are quenched as the fire of thorns:  In the name of Jehovah I will cut them off,” verse 12.  God is joyfully praised throughout this Psalm for the salvation he brings to his people. 
            Psalm 114 portrays the almost arrogant boasting of a people who had just escaped from generations of slavery because their God had set them free.  God was on their side, they knew it, and who could stand in their way?
            So it is obvious that the Passover was more than a solemn dinner, it was a joyous feast celebrating the wonderful victory God had wrought to free his people from bondage to the Egyptians.   It was not a memorial to not being killed; it was a celebration of being set free to live!
 
            Sometimes we turn the Lord's Supper into the same solemn, somber feast I had mistaken the Passover for.  We huddle soberly and focus on the horrible suffering Christ went through on our behalf.  We literally bow under the burden of guilt, knowing it was our sins for which he died.  The Lord's Supper thereby becomes a sad, almost depressing reminder of the monumental sacrifice our Lord made for us when we did not deserve it, not even a little.
            Wait a moment!  The Lord's Supper was built out of the Passover feast.  That's what Christ and his Apostles were eating when he instituted the new feast.  Christ was declared to be our Passover in 1 Corinthians 5.  Our feast ought to resemble the celebration we have just learned about, should it not?  Just like the ancient Hebrews, we were enslaved to a horrible enemy, in our case sin.  Just like them, the gates of Sheol had hold of us.  As we were being overwhelmed, God sent his Son to work an awesome salvation.  Instead of being freed from slavery we have been freed from sin and the paralyzing fear of death.  The Hebrews writer calls God's efforts on our part a “great salvation.” (Heb 2:3)  Paul revels in our victory over death in 1 Cor. 15: 53-57 “For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.  But when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written, 'Death is swallowed up in victory.'  'O death, where is thy victory?  O death, where is thy sting?'  The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law, but thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 
            Isn't it obvious that our Passover feast should be a jubilant celebration, just as the shadow feast of the Old Law was?  Our God, through his great love for us, had mercy on us, sacrificed his Son for us, and defeated all our enemies.  We stand clean from the filth of our sin due to the magnitude of this victory.  As the psalmist boasts in 118:6, “Jehovah is on my side, I will not fear.  What can man do to me?”  Or Paul in Romans 8:31, “If God is for us, who can be against us?” 
            Instead of continually mourning our old ways of life that made God and Christ's sacrifice necessary, let us rather rejoice and celebrate the new life we are privileged to live because God won so great a victory.
 
For I through the law died unto the law, that I might live unto God.  I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I that live, but Christ lives in me: and that life which I now live in the flesh I live in faith, the faith which is in the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself up for me (Gal 2:19-20).
 
For God appointed us not unto wrath, but unto the obtaining of salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us, that, whether we wake or sleep, we should live together with him (1 Thess 5:9-10).
 
the mystery which hath been hid for ages and generations: but now hath it been manifested to his saints, to whom God was pleased to make known what is the riches of the glory of this mystery among the Gentiles, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory (Col 1:26-27).
 
Keith Ward

I wish I had a dollar for every hour I have sat in waiting rooms in the past five years, especially at the eye clinic.  I had a 3:30 appointment once, and finally saw the doctor at 7 pm.  Then there was the time we discovered that I needed an emergency procedure.  My appointment had been at 11:00.  I was finally pronounced fit to leave at 5:30. 
            The shortest amount of time I have ever spent at the clinic is two hours.  Sometimes the doctor is overbooked because he has critical patients who simply must be seen that day; I have been one of those patients.  Sometimes he runs late because an emergency arrives that must be worked in; I have been one of those emergencies.  I can hardly complain when someone does it to me.
            Yet, even the night I had to wait until 7:00, I never doubted that I would be seen.  I have never worried that someone would forget I was there and the doctor would leave.
            It makes no sense to doubt God either.  Sometimes we must wait a long time for the answer to a prayer, but it will come.  Sometimes we must endure a trial far longer than we ever expected, but He has not forsaken us.  How long did those faithful Jews wait for their Messiah?  I have never waited that long for God, have you?
            The world thinks that because the promised second coming has not happened in 2000 years it won’t happen at all.  They think that proves God doesn’t even exist, completely ignoring the evidence of His existence all around them.  That makes about as much sense as me deciding my doctor doesn’t exist because I have been sitting here waiting for three hours now, and my fellow patient in the next seat has waited four.
            My doctor is worth the wait.
            If ever anyone was worth a longer wait, it’s God.
 
Knowing this first, that in the last days mockers shall come with mockery, walking after their own lusts, and saying, Where is the promise of his coming? For, from the day that the fathers fell asleep, all things continue as they were from the beginning of the creation. For this they willfully forget, that there were heavens from of old, and an earth compacted out of water and amidst water, by the word of God; by which means the world that then was, being overflowed with water, perished: but the heavens that now are, and the earth, by the same word have been stored up for fire, being reserved against the day of judgment and destruction of ungodly men. But forget not this one thing, beloved, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.  The Lord is not slack concerning his promise, as some count slackness; but is longsuffering to you-ward, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance, 2 Pet 3:3-9.
 
Dene Ward

Do a little research and you will find that the term “comfort food” was added to Webster’s Dictionary in 1972.  It refers to foods that are typically inexpensive, uncomplicated, and require little or no preparation at all; foods which usually bring pleasant associations with childhood, just as an old song can remind one of a long ago romance, or a smell can instantly bring back situations both good and bad. 
            Comfort foods vary from culture to culture, but in our country usually include things like macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, fried chicken, ice cream, peanut butter, and brownies.  Folks tend to use comfort foods to provide familiarity and emotional security, or to reward themselves.  It’s not surprising that many of these are loaded with carbohydrates which can produce a soporific effect as well.  Comfort food followed closely by the comfort of sleep.
            Since it became fashionable I have tried to figure out my own list of comfort foods. Here is my problem:  my mother was such a good cook and so adventurous, trying many recipes day after day, that I never had one dish often enough to form an attachment to it.  One cooking magazine actually runs the column, “My Mother’s Best Meal.”  I could not possibly pick one.  I would need a whole page to list them.  So for me it isn’t comfort food, it’s comfort cooking.  When my mind is in turmoil, I cook all day long, trying, I suppose, to recreate the warm, homey, safe atmosphere of my mother’s kitchen.
            Comfort food works for the soul too.  The best part is, you don’t have to be a good cook.  You just open the word of God and feast.  You turn on the water of life and drink to your heart’s content.  You produce the fruit of the lips in praise to God whenever and wherever you desire.  You gather with your brothers and sisters and wallow in a fellowship that has absolutely nothing to do with coffee and donuts.
            You can get fatter and fatter with all that spiritual nourishment and still be healthy.  In fact, in this context at least, the skinnier you are, the sicker, the sadder, and the weaker you are.
            So grab a spoon today, and everyday, and dig in.
 
Work not for the food which perishes, but for the food which abides unto eternal life, which the Son of man shall give unto you: for him the Father, even God, has sealed, John 6:27.
 
Dene Ward

I taught piano lessons (and later added voice lessons) for over 35 years.  By the time I had to quit due to my eye problems, I had a full studio with a two year waiting list.  My students participated in three competitions a year, and no less than four joint recitals, depending upon their ages and their pieces.  At the end of the year, we had what I billed as "the Spring Program," because most people considered recitals "boring" and our programs were anything but.  We put on a show and we had fun.  And afterward I handed out sometimes as many as 20 awards, including some state competition trophies.  Yes, it was a very big deal in our lives.
            "Our lives" because my boys were part of it.  I taught them both.  Lucas went on to focus on voice and theory, while Nathan stayed with the piano.  It's always satisfying to see your children follow in your footsteps.  One day Nathan and I sat down and sightread duets for a half hour or so.  I don't know about him, but I had a blast.  He had grown and learned enough that we could share on an equal footing, a truly exhilarating experience.
            And now, thanks to seeing Daddy play at home, my grandson Silas has started piano lessons.  Last spring I went to his first recital.  He had wowed me all morning, playing a hands-moving-together piece at a difficulty that no 6 year old student of mine had ever reached—with only 8 months of piano under his belt.  We not only practiced his piece, but his bow as well. (Any of my old students reading this will understand.)  And so we all went to the auditorium and sat four rows from the front while he walked up to the grand piano and played his piece.  Perfectly.  With the classiest bow of the evening.  Just last week he did the same thing, this year playing three pieces—perfectly with an almost professional bow.
            I couldn't stop smiling.  And I also couldn't stop the tears from welling in my eyes.  Somehow I managed to get them under control before he saw them, and I gave him a huge hug.  "I am very proud," I said.  "You have made me very happy."
            As proud and happy as I was that day, there are a few other things that would make me even happier.  I doubt I even have to list them.  You know exactly what I am talking about because you wish them for your children and grandchildren too.
            I still help Silas with his piano practice.  With a new piece I often play the left hand while he plays the right, and then we swap places.  By then he can manage to put both hands together himself.  I still help with the theory homework, clapping out rhythms and asking questions that lead him to the right answers.
            But more often than that, we talk about Bible characters, narratives and principles.  We talk about God.  We pray together and sing together.  We memorize verses and recite them together.  Doesn't he get this from his parents?  Of course he does, but the more he gets from more different people—especially people who mean something to him—the more it will mean to him, and the better it will stick.  Just like his Grandma and Daddy playing the piano.
            That first recital was wonderful.  But a first public prayer, a first sermon, and of course, the first commitment--when the time is right--will be even better.
 
But the steadfast love of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him, and his righteousness to children's children, to those who keep his covenant and remember to do his commandments. (Ps 103:17-18)
 

In the past year I have heard of several who have found the Lord's body by remembering things from long ago.  Some of them were good memories about a group of God's people and others not so good, but both kinds had them searching out the Truth and they wound up finding it, obeying the gospel or coming back to the Lord, whichever fit the occasion.  Seeds planted long ago finally germinated, which reminded me instantly of I planted, Apollos watered; but God gave the increase (1Cor 3:6).  Again and again I remind myself to just plant the seed and don't worry about the results; that part isn't my business.
            All of that made me wonder why we so constantly judge a preacher or teacher's efforts by the numbers.  Is it really fair, when his part is to plant or water?  If you want to count the numbers, you should be counting how many he preached to, not how many times the water splashed.  That's what the inspired writer Paul said.
            Sometimes you can teach your heart out only to see a class steadily shrink in size.  You can invite everyone in your neighborhood to come hear the gospel, knock on doors until your knuckles chafe, and speak to every waiter, cashier, or repairman, and never see any of them show up on Sunday morning.  If you planted the seed, you did what you were supposed to do.  Sometimes it takes a while to sprout.  In fact, you may not live long enough to see those tiny green leaves push up through the ground.  Sometimes that's just the way it works.
            We must stop judging by the numbers, by how many have been baptized and how much the membership has grown numerically.  There may well be other growth going on that is not quite so obvious but healthy for the kingdom just the same.  When we do judge by numerical results, just who are we judging?  I think the Book says we are judging God.  After all, He is the one who gives the increase.  I am not real sure I would want to be standing in those shoes!
 
For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there but water the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it (Isa 55:10-11).
 
Dene Ward