I am sitting here on the back porch of my children's new home, less than ten miles from the place I spent most of my remembered childhood.  Funny how the memories come flooding back.
 
             The sun seems much brighter here than in north central Florida, where I have spent the majority of my married life.  This may be only 120 miles further south toward the tropics, but I can barely stand to even look out the window without sunglasses on down here.  I remember that bright sun reflecting off the pavement wherever we went.  It almost made you wish for black tar roads—until you tried stepping on those barefoot and came away with something much worse than a sunburn.

              The spring breezes down here are cool and pleasant, but without that underlying chill that demands a sweater at the ready just that little bit further north.  We reveled in those almost perfect days when I was young because all too soon they were gone. 

           The summer heat is still that brutal slam when you step outside, but even so much closer to the coast here in Tampa, the humidity is less than that smothering blanket in the northern interior.  I don't ever recall having to deal with pouring sweat at 8 am.  As a child, I never felt like I might drown if I took too deep a breath!

              And the clockwork arrival of a summer afternoon thunderstorm every day, usually at 4:00.  Gray clouds nearly as dark as night, lightning streaking across the sky, thunder like an explosion, winds that increased 20 or 30 mph and temperatures that dropped twenty degrees in mere minutes, followed by a deluge that had traffic pulling off the road to wait it out, and those unfortunate souls caught outside, drenched in only a few seconds.

              I remember all these things from a childhood of walking three blocks to and from the bus stop, standing outside the locked school doors waiting after the bus had dropped us off and returned for a second route, raking up lawn clippings after my daddy mowed the yard, and swimming at a friend's "lake house."  The feel of this place hasn't changed a bit.

              But the details?  The traffic is thicker and louder.  The outlying areas, including the trailer park where we spent our first year of marriage five miles "out of town," are more densely populated and congested.  What used to be pastureland or strawberry and tomato farms is now subdivision after subdivision, "walled off" from the highway by a white board fence.  As Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again," but really, you can, if your memories are strong, if you can sit still and think and feel all those things from so long ago.  That part hasn't changed a bit.

              I find myself remembering my early years more and more lately.  As good friends, some older but some exactly my age, pass on, those memories wake you up to what is really important.  Now I can look back and realize that I had a great childhood. 

             No, it wasn't perfect.  No, my parents did not do everything exactly right.  Neither did I as a parent.  But I am so grateful to them for teaching me right from wrong and respect for authority, for demanding I take responsibility for the things I said and did, for showing me how to keep on working until the task is done, for refusing to give in to pain, belittling comments from worldly acquaintances, and debilitating disease, but to keep on plugging for the Lord as long as you can draw a breath. 

            I am grateful that they made me go to church, do my homework, and even brush my teeth and clean my room.  I love that they taught me to treat honesty as a lifestyle instead of a sometime convenience, and that I learned from them how to manage both my time and my money.  I am grateful that I saw them respect others' opinions rather than running them down for doing things differently than they did and that they never thought the rules, even the unspoken ones, were for everyone else.  I was more than blessed in the age and place I grew up in to have parents who taught me to be color blind and to glorify God whenever an opportunity came to teach and/or help those who were different from us, and for showing me the examples of kindness and generosity, especially to the innocent and needy.  And most of all, I am indebted to them for raising me to be a God-fearing, obedient servant of the Lord.  I hate to think what my life would be like otherwise.

              And then—what my children's lives would be like otherwise, and my grandchildren's.  Don't ever think that what you view as a dull, routine life did not matter.  Your children and your grandchildren and, should you live that long, your great-grandchildren will carry the memories you helped them make.  It is gratifying that my grandchildren will have memories a whole lot like mine, based not only on where they live, but how they live. 

            And it all started generations before them with simple people struggling through as best they could and, we hope, will continue on for generations to come.
 
As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more.  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 103:15-18)

Dene Ward

It happened at a small country church nearly forty years ago, but it made enough of an impression that I was asked to talk about it here, and perhaps inspire a few Bible class teachers of this era.

              Acres of farmland surrounded the white concrete block meetinghouse which sat behind the church cemetery.  Woods to the east and a few live oaks dripping Spanish moss around the building were the only trees on this rolling green landscape.  The farmer who owned the surrounding land alternated each year between corn and pasture, so it wasn't uncommon on the alternate years for cows to add their lowing to the congregation's hymns drifting out the windows.

              Although you would think no one lived within twenty miles in the unpopulated countryside, every Sunday 80 or 90 souls swarmed out of the woods and down the dirt lanes between sections.  Yet even with that many, children were scarce.  When we first arrived, there were only two Bible classes—one labeled "children" and the other "teens."  After a few months we had grown to over 120 on Sunday mornings and had added a third Bible class.  We now had "toddlers," "grade school," and "high school," but attendance in each was six or less and the grade school class age span ran from 7 to 13.

              Most of these children were woefully ignorant of even the basics—Adam and Eve, Noah, Daniel, and Jonah.  Together, Keith and I put together a teaching program designed to cover the Old Testament in 6 months before moving on to the New.  As you can imagine, we were whizzing through.  I needed some way to keep these narratives fresh in their minds week after week until they finally became entrenched.  That is how our "Museum of the Old Testament" came about.

              I explained to the children that as we learned about Old Testament events we would be designing and creating exhibits for a museum.  After six months, we would open our museum to the congregation and they would be the tour guides for our visitors.

              With a lack of money and a talent-challenged non-artist for a teacher (me), our exhibits were simple and crude.  What did we have?  I cannot even remember them all, but here are a few:

              A wall map.  Somehow, somewhere, I managed to find a map geared to children—bright primary colors, simple line boundaries, large bold print for places that covered the gamut from the Garden of Eden to Egypt to Canaan to Babylon.  This became our "tour map," giving people a quick overview of where they were going.  We also graced our walls with large arrows to direct traffic around the room in a one-way traffic pattern that made for smooth entry and exit without running into one another. 

              Stone tablets.  I managed to find two appropriately and similarly sized flat chunks of concrete on which we printed the Ten Commandments.  Somehow during the handling, a small corner broke off of one.  We just propped it where it went, but as we ran our tours six months later, I overheard one of our more creative students telling his tour group, "And this is where it broke when Moses got mad about the golden calf and threw them down on the ground."

              An Ark of the Covenant.  A kids' size shoebox with dowels through rings glued on the sides, cardboard "crown molding" and cherubim on the top, all spray-painted gold.  Inside we placed small replicas of the tablets, the pot of manna and Aaron's budding rod.

              A Judges' mobile.  The point in the book of Judges is not really the exciting stories—it's the continuing cycle as the people refused to learn from their history.  Se we created a mobile out of coat hangers, yarn, and construction paper.  Around the top ran the cycle in a circle:  SIN>>OPPRESSION>>REPENTANCE>>PEACE>>, and it hung so it turned constantly at any passage of air through the room.  Hanging from the circle on separate strings were paper man cut-outs with the names of the judges, Othniel through Samuel.

              The handwriting on the wall.  This was the easiest one of the bunch.  Put some art paper on the wall and have one of the students finger-paint MENE MENE TEKEL UPHARSIN on it.  Then draw a large hand with a pointing finger and hang it by a stiff wire from the ceiling so that it touches the wall at one of the words.

              The Minor Prophets sheet game.  This one served as both a lesson activity and an exhibit.  Very few adults really know the Minor Prophets, so this was impressive to the parents.  I cut out about half of a full size sheet.  Then I wrote on it with a permanent marker the names of the Minor Prophets in a column on the left.  Across from that I wrote 18 things I had taught the children about those 12 prophets.  By the names of the prophets I sewed on a length (or 2 in some cases) of yarn.  By the identifying phrases I sewed a button.  The point of the game was to match the prophet to his identifier by wrapping his piece of yarn around the appropriate button.  As the tour group reached our game, the students had learned it so well that they could go through it in just minutes, showing the adults which prophet went with which description or activity.  Then it had to be "undone" before the next group arrived and everyone helped with that.

              I am sure we did more "exhibits" than these, but they have slipped my mind.  The last two classes before our "Grand Opening," the students took turns giving the tour to one another—once again cementing those facts in their minds.

              Finally the day arrived.  With the closing announcements, the congregation was invited to tour the "Museum of the Old Testament."  After the amen, the children rushed to our classroom and stood ready to be matched with a tour group of 3 or 4 adults.  You might think that only parents came, but you would be wrong.  Nearly every adult member showed up that morning.  It took nearly an hour to get everyone through and each child led a tour three or four times, but no one complained.  In fact, several adults thanked me in the next few weeks. 

              These children had never learned so much in such a short time, and not because of me.  These were starving little minds, like baby birds with their mouths open perpetually, waiting for food.  I hope this gives you a few ideas to use in the future.  There are hungry nestlings everywhere.
 
And when your children say to you, ‘What do you mean by this service?’ you shall say… (Exod 12:26-27)

And when in time to come your son asks you, ‘What does this mean?’ you shall say… (Exod 13:14)

“When your son asks you in time to come, ‘What is the meaning of the testimonies and the statutes and the rules that the LORD our God has commanded you?’ then you shall say…(Deut 6:20-21)

And he said to the people of Israel, “When your children ask their fathers in times to come, ‘What do these stones mean?’ then you shall let your children know… (Josh 4:21-22)

Dene Ward

I still have fond memories of Silas’s first solo visit with us out here in the country.  He was not quite four and stayed three nights alone, no mom and dad to get in the way and spoil the fun!  The first morning we had to assure him that walking outside barefoot was not a capital crime, but once his toes hit the cool green grass, he giggled delightedly.  “I like bare feet!” he instantly proclaimed, and took off running. 
 
             He was used to being inside all day, playing with his Matchbox cars, putting together puzzles, reading books, and watching his “shows,” educational though they might be.  Yet he found out there were a lot of fun things to do outside, especially when you have five acres to romp around in instead of a postage stamp-sized yard.  That’s all they give you in the city these days. 

              He and Granddad whacked the enemy weeds with green limb “swords.”  They pulled the garden cart up the rise to the carport and rode it down.  They dug roads in the sandy driveway and flew paper airplanes in the yard.  They played in the hose and threw mud balls at one another.  Every night this little guy went to bed far earlier than he usually did at home—it was that or pass out on the couch from exhaustion as we read Bible stories.

              My favorite memory is watching him as we walked Chloe every morning.  He begged for one of my walking sticks and I adjusted it to his height.  Then he ran on ahead, hopping and skipping along, holding granddad’s too-big red baseball cap on his head with one hand so it wouldn’t fall off, the walking stick dangling from the other upraised arm, singing and laughing as he went.  That picture of sheer joy will forever be etched in my memory.  He may have been too little to remember it himself, but someday I will tell him about it, someday when he needs a reminder of joy at a not so joyous time. 

              I remember that time nearly every morning when I walk Chloe, especially when we reach the back fence where Silas’s little feet suddenly took off on the straightaway and his laughter reached its peak.  And I wonder if God has anything etched in His memory, anything from that time in Eden when everything was perfect and his two children felt joy every day in their surroundings, in each other, and in Him.  Surely, the God who knows all has special memories of how it used to be.  Can you read the end of Revelation and not think so? 

              Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be anything accursed, but the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. And night will be no more. They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever, Revelation 22:1-5.

              Maybe God has recorded that so we, too, can be reminded not of what we have lost, but of what we have waiting for us.  Maybe He put it there for the times when life here is not so joyous, a picture of hope to carry us through.  It may not be etched in our memories—not yet—but the fact that He still remembers it and wants it, means someday we won’t have to count on etchings any longer.  Some day it will all be real once again.
 
Dene Ward

What does it take for me to finally wake up and repent, or just examine myself for faults that need correcting and then get to work fixing them?

              Raising children and now, interacting with our grandchildren, reminds us of a basic truth of childrearing—reward or punishment must immediately follow the deed.  A child’s attention span is short, and the younger he is, the more important the timing.  Even a child younger than one can quickly learn what “No-no” means when it is accompanied by consistent motivation. 

              But are we any better?  Peter tells us that when God delays judgment for sin out of longsuffering and patience but we don’t respond, that we “willfully forget” (2 Pet 3:5-10).  Paul says that when God forbears yet we do not repent, we are “despising his goodness” (Rom 2:4).  It isn’t that we have the attention span of a toddler—we’re just plain stubborn.

              Is that any more mature than a toddler?  We have all seen children who understand the consequences and take them anyway.  We cluck at their lack of common sense, their apparent unwillingness to learn any way but the hard way.  We wonder what sort of adults they will become.

              But you really don’t have to wonder.  You are surrounded by them.  Or, are you one of them?
 
Because sentence against an evil work is not executed speedily, therefore the heart of the sons of men is fully set in them to do evil. Ecclesiastes 8:11.
 
Dene Ward
 

Stomach trouble seems to run in our family.  I remember my Daddy eating Di-gel tablets like they were candy.  Then I inherited his problem and had my first ulcer at 23.  Way too much acid that was aided and abetted by carrying a 9 ¼ lb, 22 inch baby so high I looked like a walking beach ball.  My younger son picked up the acid problem with an acid level even higher than mine.  On my mother's side everyone had gall stones, so I followed suit as did my older son.
 
             No matter how healthy you are, stomach trouble can debilitate you, in sometimes embarrassing ways, and it is almost always affected by what we eat.  I remember introducing my first baby to sweet potatoes.  His little tummy rumbled and grumbled in such an alarming way that I was sure any second that child would launch out of the infant seat and orbit the kitchen.  He certainly had enough propulsion to do so.  At least that experience benefited his little brother.  I mixed his sweet potatoes with other mashed veggies the first time, like carrots or peas, though I would never recommend the color that peas and sweet potatoes make when mixed together for any painting project.

              As many times as the metaphor of eating is applied to the Word of God, those memories made me sit back and think a bit.

              God once told Ezekiel, “Son of man, eat whatever you find here. Eat this scroll, and go, speak to the house of Israel. "So I opened my mouth, and he gave me this scroll to eat. And he said to me, “Son of man, feed your belly with this scroll that I give you and fill your stomach with it.” Then I ate it, and it was in my mouth as sweet as honey. Ezek 3:1-3

              John had a similar experience.  So I went to the angel and told him to give me the little scroll. And he said to me, “Take and eat it; it will make your stomach bitter, but in your mouth it will be sweet as honey." And I took the little scroll from the hand of the angel and ate it. It was sweet as honey in my mouth, but when I had eaten it my stomach was made bitter. Rev 10:9-10

              Both of those prophets had a great respect and love for the Word of God.  That's where the "sweet as honey" comes in.  But neither one of them loved the message they had to deliver; John, one of an upcoming persecution greater than God's people had ever experienced, and Ezekiel, trying to convince a hardheaded people that Jerusalem would indeed be destroyed in a most horrible way and that they were the true remnant, the only hope for God's people and the World.  Yet both of those men, because of their devotion to God, fulfilled their missions.  Their abiding love for God made their prophecies palatable.

              I have heard both preachers and elders, lately, beg a congregation full of God's people to "get into the Word."  When we have to beg, when we have to bargain like a parent with a toddler—"Eat just one bite and you can have some dessert"—how much love for the Word are we exhibiting?  How much commitment to our Savior do we really have?

              If we are what we claim, we should long to fill ourselves with those words.  We should clamor for more.  If nothing else, like an adult we should understand that eating our vegetables is better for us than eating French fries, desserts, or candy, and do it without needing a bribe.  At least one has a hope of developing a taste for the profound, the spiritual, the Truth if he tries it once in a while. 

              My mother used to mash the carrots and potatoes from the pot roast and mix them together so I would eat the carrots.  Now I have matured and do just fine, thank you.  What won't you eat, even for the sake of saving your soul?
 
How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth! Ps 119:103
 
Dene Ward
 

Four year old Silas and I were visiting one of the rooms depicting the ten plagues during Vacation Bible School.  Number seven was hail with thunder and lightning and fire running along the ground, the robed narrator told us as he stood before drawn curtains.  The lights were dimmed, one of the curtains pulled open, and suddenly white hail fell from the sky, and glowing fire ran along the floor.  The children oohed and aahed and squealed with delight.  Then the curtain was drawn again, but not quite before the lights came up and I saw white ping-pong balls scattered all over the floor.  The narrator quickly continued the tale, moving onto the plague of locusts depicted behind the other curtain in the room.

              Several minutes later we left for the next stop on our “journey” and, as we did, I leaned over and whispered to Silas, “Wow!  Did you see that hail?”

              “Yes,” he said, and then added, “Hail looks a lot like ping-pong balls, doesn’t it?”

              I wasn’t about to ruin the magic of the evening for him.  The point of the week was to learn that God was the only God and He protected His people, and the church was doing an admirable job of it.  Me?  I never would have even thought of using ping-pong balls. 

              But sometime in the future it will be time to teach Silas this lesson:  if someone tells you it’s hail, but it looks like ping-pong balls, check it out yourself!  Do you know how many people have been deceived by false teaching, even though the truth was plainly in front of them, just because they wouldn’t question their “pastor,” their “elder,” their “reverend,” or their “priest?”  Keith and I each have held studies where the student said, “Yes, I can see that, but that’s not what my _______ says.”  Before much longer, the studies stopped.  Why do we think our leaders are infallible?

              Look at Acts 6:7.  So the word of God continued to spread, and the number of disciples in Jerusalem continued to grow rapidly. Even a large number of priests became obedient to the faith.  The priests were teachers of the Jewish faith.  Yet even they could see when they were wrong and convert to the Truth.  Why not your leader, whatever it is you call him?  Instead, Keith was told one time, “How dare you argue with a priest!” 

              Paul was a man well-educated in Judaism, a man who lived “in all good conscience,” yet even he was convinced that he needed to change.  He was also a Pharisee, one who respected the Law and knew it inside out.  Many others Pharisees were also converted to Christianity (Acts 15:5).  Despite their advanced knowledge, they discovered they were wrong about something and had the honesty to change.

              God will hold you accountable for your decisions, for your beliefs, and for your actions.  Anyone who taught you error will also pay a price, but their mistake won’t save you.  Jesus said, If the blind guide the blind, both shall fall into a pit, Matt 15:14.

              Don’t believe everything you hear.  If it looks like ping-pong balls instead of hail, check it out yourself.  Don’t fall for a lie because of who told you that lie.  Doing so means you love that person more than you love God and His Truth. 
 
With all deceit of unrighteousness for them that perish; because they received not the love of the truth, that they might be saved. And for this cause God sends them a working of error, that they should believe a lie: that they all might be judged who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness. 2 Thes 2:10-12.
 
Dene Ward

“Buttons! Buttons! Read the buttons!” and so for the fortieth time that week I sit down with my two year old grandson Judah and read Pete the Cat and His Four Groovy Buttons.  And every time we reach the page where Pete loses his last button but doesn’t let it get him down because “buttons come and buttons go,” and where Pete looks down at his buttonless shirt hanging open and the author asks, “what does he see?” Judah springs up, holds his little arms high over his head with a big grin on his face and says, “His bel-ly but-ton!” with exactly the same amount of glee and excitement as the first time he ever heard the book read.
 
             He loves that book and the other two Pete the Cat books he has, as well as the one called Click, Clack, Boo, plus the one based on Ezekiel 37 called Dem Bones.  That week we babysat we learned by the third day to be careful what we said or it would remind him of one of those books and he would toddle off to find it and ask for it to be read not once again, but three, four, five times again.

              Yet here we sit with a shelf full of Bibles, every version you can imagine, amplified and not, written in and bare, paragraphed and versed, and now even some in large print, and do we ever have the same amount of desire to read it as a two year old who can’t even read it to himself yet?  He knows those “Pete” books so well you can leave off a word and he will fill it in.  You can say the wrong word and he will shout, “No! No! It’s ______!”  You can mention one word completely out of context and he will immediately think of that book and go looking for it. 

              Yet we seem loathe to pick up what is supposed to be our spiritual food and drink, the lamp that lights our way in the dark, and the weapon to fight our spiritual battles.  We moan over daily reading programs, especially when we get to Leviticus or the genealogies.  We complain when the scripture reading at church is longer than 5 verses, especially if we are one of those congregations that, like the people in Nehemiah, stand at the reading of God’s Word.  We gripe when the Bible class teacher asks us to read more than one chapter before next week’s class.  What in the world is wrong with us?

              This little two-year-old puts us to shame.  Just from hearing it read, he can quote practically a whole book, several of them, in fact.  His whole face lights up when you read it to him yet again.  I have to admit, Keith and I would occasionally try to hide those books by the end of a day.  We may not do that with God’s Word, at least not literally, but leaving it to sit on the shelf and gather dust isn’t much different.
 
I rejoice at your word like one who finds great spoil. I hate and abhor falsehood, but I love your law. Seven times a day I praise you for your righteous rules. Great peace have those who love your law; nothing can make them stumble, Psalms 119:162-165.
 
Dene Ward

The car hummed along the highway as we carried our two grandsons to our home while mommy and daddy were away for a few days.  They slept away most of the two plus hour long trip, waking in time to see the unfamiliar countryside sweep past on the last road “over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house.”

              They played the rest of the afternoon away, digging in the sand, chasing bubbles, and swinging on the old oak tree (the same one Daddy fell out of and broke his arm).  Dinner came only after a bath for those two dirty-faced, dirty-footed little fellows, a tub full of bubbles and cups and pitchers to pour over each other.  After their favorite mac and cheese, chicken nuggets and applesauce, it wasn’t long until their eyes were drooping and they were ready for bed.  “The tired-er the better,” we thought, especially for that first night. 

              They fell asleep quickly, twenty-month-old Judah in the “Pack and Play” and four year-old Silas by his own choice next to his little brother on the twin-sized airbed.  We listened through the rest of the evening, but never heard a peep. 

              However, at 4:52 a.m. I sensed something by my bed and woke to a small figure standing there in the starlight filtering through the curtains.  Dark in the country is not like dark in the city.  We have no streetlights—unless you live entirely too close to an uprooted city slicker who thinks he needs one, and we don’t.  We have no concrete to reflect the moonlight either.  When it’s dark, it’s dark, and if you are not used to navigating by God’s natural night lights, you think you woke up in a tomb.

              “Silas,” I whispered, “what’s wrong?”

              “All this dark is keeping me awake,” he said quite seriously, and even though I was sleepily thinking, “All this dark is supposed to keep you asleep!” I knew exactly what he meant.  Even though we had left a nightlight right by his bedroom door, it was far darker than he was used to, and when he woke it troubled him.

              By then Granddad had wakened as well, and he took him back to bed and lay with him until he was once again snoring his soft little boy snores, not much more than five minutes afterward.  He slept another three hours with no problem at all.

              I thought sometime later that week that this little boy had it right.  The dark should be keeping us awake.

              Even the Old Testament faithful understood the concept of walking in the light.  O house of Jacob, come let us walk in the light of Jehovah, Isa 2:5.  It seemed natural, then, for the Son to claim to be the light as well.  I am the light of the world.  Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life, John 8:12.  And so, as children of God, we, too, are lights.  For you are all children of light, children of the day.  We are not of night or of darkness, 1 Thes 5:5.

              Unfortunately, the light has come into the world and the people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil, John 3:19.  As “children of light” we should be opposite the world.  We should not love the darkness; we should hate it. 

              This will come more naturally if we mature to the point that we don’t just walk in the light and not walk in the darkness.  Look at Eph 5:8:  for at one time you were darkness, but now are light in the Lord.  Do you see that?  Light isn’t just something you walk in, it is something you become.  Just as at one time you didn’t just walk in the darkness, you were darkness.  We have completely changed our essence.  No wonder we are supposed to hate the dark.  No wonder the mere presence of it in the world, among our neighbors, our friends and even our family, should be keeping us awake at night.

              All this dark is keeping me awake Lord, should be a lament on every Christian’s tongue.  Not only that, we should be actively trying to rid the world of that very darkness.  Have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, Yes, rather, reprove them, Eph 5:11. 

              If the darkness in the world isn’t enough to keep a “child of light” awake, perhaps he has become something else.
 
Arise, shine; for your light is come, and the glory of Jehovah is risen upon you. For, behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the peoples; but Jehovah will arise upon you, and his glory shall be seen upon you. And nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your rising. Isa 60:1-3.
 
Dene Ward

Andrew Jackson Dowling was born on October 31, 1815.  Although he had many interests, including horticulture and landscape design, he is also known for his designs in Gothic Revival Architecture, which first introduced American architects to the importance and necessity of a front porch.  Porches had been in existence for millennia in the forms of porticos, verandas, piazzas, and loggias, but they had never been "in demand", especially among the wealthy, and never among Northerners, until the work of Dowling.  He made the "sitting porch" popular, usually an integral part of the architecture on the front of the house, ornately decorated with framer, posts, rails, lattices, brackets and aprons.

               Both of my grandmothers had front porches, but nothing as elaborate as all that.  I remember visiting them when I was a child, sometimes just a day, sometimes a weekend, and once or twice a whole week after we moved a distance away.  It was usually summer and neither of them had air conditioners, and though I know it was as hot as it is nowadays, I don’t remember it.  I sat on their front porches much of the day, the swing making its own breeze as I dangled my bare feet over the cool, smooth, gray-painted plank floor.

            One porch was out in the country next to a grove of oranges and kumquats with horses grazing in the pasture behind it.  The other was in the middle of town, its steps fronting on Main Street, and we would watch people go by as we hid in the cool shade behind a morning glory vine growing up and across the porch posts and over the roof.

             My grandmothers never tired of talking to me, answering every question I asked, telling stories of “the olden days” that fascinated me because they seemed so foreign to my life.  I couldn’t imagine a house with no electricity and no running water.  I couldn’t imagine life with no television set droning on in the background. 

              I enjoyed those times with my parents too, their stories of playing without real toys, Christmases that brought an orange and some nuts and maybe a little hard candy in a stocking, and washing clothes with a wringer washer.  I remember my mother telling about her grandmother, a woman who rose before light to make a breakfast of pork chops, eggs, grits, gravy, and biscuits every morning while the men were out doing the first chores, a meal filling enough to last them through a day of hard farm work in southern Georgia. 

              My own boys liked to ask about our childhoods while we sat shucking corn every summer.  Silking was their job, tedious work that invited a lot of talking and listening just to keep yourself going until it was done.   Their dad grew up on the side of a hill in the Ozarks in an old stone house without running water, only bare light bulbs in each room, and a bucket of drinking water in the kitchen on which his mother would sometimes have to break a layer of ice on a cold winter morning.  He could tell stories about milking cows before school at the age of 6, a small school where two grades sat in each class, about pushing his bed up against the chimney in the unfinished attic to stay warm, and taking baths on the back porch in the summer.

              Sharing these things is important.  This is the way one generation connects to the next.  Knowing where we came from answers many of the natural longings we all have, and helps us to find meaning in our lives.  I worry about the children now, who scarcely have any time with their parents at all, much less enough time for stories about their pasts and the questions that should instantly follow.  It also leads to questions and stories about more  important things, and makes them far more willing to listen to you when it
counts.

              God has always expected his people to make time to talk to their children.

              And when in time to come your son asks you, 'What does this mean?' you shall say to him, 'By a strong hand the LORD brought us out of Egypt, from the house of slavery. For when Pharaoh stubbornly refused to let us go, the LORD killed all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, both the firstborn of man and the firstborn of animals. Therefore I sacrifice to the LORD all the males that first open the womb, but all the firstborn of my sons I redeem.' It shall be as a mark on your hand or frontlets between your eyes, for by a strong hand the LORD brought us out of Egypt." Ex 13:14-16.

              And Joshua said to them, "Pass on before the ark of the LORD your God into the midst of the Jordan, and take up each of you a stone upon his shoulder, according to the number of the tribes of the people of Israel, that this may be a sign among you. When your children ask in time to come, 'What do those stones mean to you?' then you shall tell them that the waters of the Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the LORD. When it passed over the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. So these stones shall be to the people of Israel a memorial forever." Josh 4:5-7.

              When your son asks you in time to come, 'What is the meaning of the testimonies and the statutes and the rules that the LORD our God has commanded you?' then you shall say to your son, 'We were Pharaoh's slaves in Egypt. And the LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand. Deut 6:20-21.

              What happens when a generation arises that doesn’t know these things? And also all that generation were gathered unto their fathers: and there arose another generation after them, that knew not Jehovah, nor yet the work which he had wrought for Israel. And the children of Israel did that which was evil in the sight of Jehovah, Judg 2:10,11.

              That’s why this is so important.  Talk to your children today, or your grandchildren, or even your neighbor’s children.  Make a connection to them that will bring them closer to you and through that, closer to God.  If you think you don’t have the time, then give something up.  Providing them a physical inheritance isn’t nearly as important as providing them a spiritual one.

              Find yourself a “front porch” and make use of it before it’s too late.
 
Telling to the generation to come the praises of Jehovah, And his strength, and his wondrous works that he has done. That the generation to come might know, even the children that should be born; Who should arise and tell it to their children, That they might set their hope in God, And not forget the works of God, But keep his commandments, Psalm 78:4,6,7.
 
Dene Ward

I have mentioned the two weeks we spent babysitting and the fairly comprehensive study I did of David with our two grandsons, Silas and Judah, culminating in "The David Game."  (See the right sidebar and click on Children.)  As the first week of lessons wore on, you could see David growing into a bona fide Superhero in their eyes.  Every day they eagerly awaited the next adventure.

              Then we reached 2 Samuel 11.  As I went through the narrative in terms I thought they could understand—David stealing both a man's wife and then his life—they became quieter and quieter.  Their little blond heads dipped until their chins nearly touched their chests as they wrestled with the concept of a good guy who acted like a bad guy. 

              "Uh-oh," I thought.  "Have I ruined everything?" 

              As it turns out, I hadn't.  We were able to talk about good people making bad mistakes and how God always forgives and takes us back as long as we are truly sorry, willing to say, "I was wrong," and try our best not to sin again.  Their spirits lifted.  After all, they got in trouble now and again too, didn't they?  Here was proof that they were still loved.  David was once again a Bible hero.

              The story of David—of Judah and Peter, too—is an inspiration and a warning to every Christian.  No matter how well you have done for how long, you can still fall, but no matter how far you fall, God will take you back.  But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin. (1John 1:7)  We all hunger for that forgiveness and revel in its comfort.

              Yet I have seen too many adults who, when they realize their heroes are not perfect, refuse to give that same forgiveness.

              All children grow up thinking Mommy and Daddy are Superheroes.  Sometime around middle school the luster begins to fade.  By high school, parents are so often "wrong" they can barely be tolerated.

              And the truth is, parents are ordinary people.  They do make mistakes, sometimes big ones.  They have annoying habits and less than stellar character traits--just like every other human on the planet.  The larger problem is they have children, sometimes grown children, who won't accept anything less than perfection.

              When God tells us to forgive one another (Col 3:13 among a host of others), that goes for parents too, and any other person we have expected perfection from—mentors, teachers, preachers, elders, etc.  We have no right to sit in judgment over their apologies, deciding whether or not they are sincere based upon nothing but our own arrogant expectations.  We certainly have no right to ruin a relationship they might have with someone else.  I have seen grandparents have no opportunity for a relationship with their grandchildren because their unforgiving children hold on to grudges from the past.  Meanwhile, those same unforgiving children are making their own mistakes as parents because no parent does it all right—no, not even them, no matter what they might think otherwise.  I have seen the same things happen to elders and preachers by an unforgiving congregant who spreads his ill will everywhere at every opportunity.  Ruining another's perspective somehow validates his own.

              Forgiveness isn't just for strangers or people we aren't particularly close to.  The mistakes of a parent, mentor, or teacher may be more difficult to bear, but an unforgiving child or student  or spiritual dependent is devastating to everyone.
 
Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you. (Eph 4:31-32)
 
Dene Ward