I was standing before my 4th grade class while the teacher took out the canned goods my parents had sent for the food drive.  We had always participated before, but never before had I brought such treasures.  All my fellow students oohed and aahed as the teacher pulled out beef stew, chicken noodle soup, Beanee Weanees, Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee, along with some fruit and applesauce.  I clearly had the best offering of the bunch, at least in the minds of children.  Even the teacher was impressed.  The only thing that confused me was her writing my name on each can with a big black marker, as she did for each student.  We took them to the shelves lining the back wall of the pink portable school room “until they’re needed.”

That same day our history lesson suddenly jumped forward a few hundred years to World War II.  The teacher said she had a surprise for us. “In the war, soldiers had to wear identification called ‘dog tags.’  While we study this section, you will get to wear your very own dog tags just like they did.”  And there they were, my own shiny silver dog tags hanging from a chain, with my name, my daddy’s name, our address and phone number (Cypress 3-3363, if I remember correctly), my birth date, and something odd up in the right hand corner that no one ever explained, O+.

I suppose the strangest part of this whole World War II study was the “You are there” experience.  The teacher said she wanted us to know what life must have been like for those poor people who lived in the war zone, so from then on, whenever she shouted, “Plane!” we would all dive under our desks with our hands clasped behind our necks until she gave the “all clear.”  Far from being frightened by all of this, we were thrilled.  As it happened, a couple of television series about the war were running that year, and it was like playing a part in it.  None of us had ever been touched by the horrors of a real war, so it was just a big game to us.

After a few days, our war study ended.  We were instructed to leave our dog tags at home, and, for some reason, the poor people no longer needed the food, so we all took our cans back home.  Why none of us questioned any of this is beyond me.  It was a simpler time, I suppose, when children just did as they were told without asking why.

I gradually forgot about that odd experience, but when I was a teenager studying American History I suddenly figured it out.  On October 14, 1962 American satellites had just discovered Soviet missiles carrying nuclear warheads on the island of Cuba, and the Cold War was on the brink of becoming the hottest war ever fought. 

We lived on the west side of Orlando, about halfway between Cape Canaveral and Strategic Air Command at MacDill AFB in Tampa, two prime targets.  Should we be attacked while in school, the dog tags identified us until a family member could be located, the blood type expedited care if we were injured, the food fed us a few days if it took that long to find us a place to go, and all that “war” practice was to keep injuries at a minimum—from the normal things anyway.  There was not much they could do about radioactive fallout.

I cannot imagine how it must have felt to send your child out alone in times like that, but, as I recall, no one stayed home.  We sat every day with our dog tags jingling as we jumped up and down to the shout of “Plane!”  My parents went to work every morning and so did the neighbors.  Life went on, but we took some pretty elaborate precautions—it would have been foolish to do otherwise.

Things are not really that different now.  We’re not afraid of bombs falling at any moment, but there are much worse things out there to harm our children.  Are you taking any precautions?  Do they know who they are and where they belong?  Do they know what to do in case their faith is attacked?

Send them out well-armed.  The doctrines of Satan, most notably humanism, lie between the lines of practically every school textbook. Look through them the first day they cross your threshold. “Values clarification” is just a fancy way of saying “situation ethics.”  You need to know the teacher who is teaching it, and her own moral code.  Talk to your children every night about things they have heard from teachers or friends.  Start doing this their first day of school.  If you wait till they are teenagers, it is too late.

The Cuban Missile Crisis lasted just a few days, but look how carefully the parents prepared “just in case.”  You have a crisis today that lasts far longer.  You need to prepare even more than those parents did.  The “just in case” is a whole lot more terrifying.

Give ear, O my people, to my law; incline your ears to the words of my mouth.  I will open my mouth in a parable; I will utter dark sayings of old, which we have heard and known, and our fathers have told us.  We will not hide them from their children, telling to the generations to come the praises of Jehovah, and his strength, and his wondrous works that he has done…that the generation to come might know them, even the children that should be born, who should arise and tell them to their children; that they might set their hope in God, and not forget the works of God, but keep his commandments, Psa 78:1-4, 6,7.

Dene Ward

My grandmother crocheted a lace tablecloth for me many years ago.  She was quite a lady, my grandmother.  She was widowed in her forties, left behind with two of her five children still at home.  She met the bills by doing seasonal work in the citrus packing sheds of central Florida, standing on her feet 10-12 hours a day, 6 days a week in season, and then working in a drugstore, a job she walked to and from for nearly thirty years.  She delivered prescriptions, worked the check-out, even made sodas at the fountain.  
             
It was a small town and once, a woman whom my grandmother knew was not
married, came in looking for some form of birth control. My grandmother told her, “No!  Go home and behave yourself like a decent woman should."  No, she did not lose her job over that.  She merely said what every other person there wished they had the nerve to say back in those days.  She lived long enough to see the shame of our society that no one thinks it needs saying any more.
             
As to my tablecloth, most people would look at it and think it was imperfect.  She crocheted with what was labeled “ivory” thread, but she could never afford to buy enough at once to do the whole piece.  So after she cashed her paycheck, she went to the store and bought as much as her budget would allow that week and worked on it.  The next week, she went back and did the same, always buying the same brand labeled “ivory.”  Funny thing about those companies, though—when the lot changes, sometimes the color does too, sometimes only a little, but sometimes “ivory” becomes more of a vanilla or even crème caramel.  The intricately crocheted squares in my tablecloth are not all the same color, even though the thread company said they were.
             
Some people probably look at it and wonder what went wrong. All they see is mismatched colors. What I see is a grandmother’s love, a grandmother who had very little, but who wanted to do something special for her oldest grandchild.  I revel in those mismatched squares because I know my grandmother thought of me every week for a long time, spent the precious little she had to try to do something nice, and, as far as I am concerned, succeeded far beyond her wildest dreams.
             
If it were your grandmother, you would think the same I am sure.  So why is it we think Almighty God cannot take our imperfections and make us into great men and women of faith?  Why is it we beat ourselves to death when we make a mistake, even one we repent of and do our best to correct?  Do we not yet understand grace?  Are we so arrogant that we think we don’t have to forgive ourselves even though God does? Yes we should understand the enormity of our sin, repenting in godly sorrow, over and over, even as David did, but prolonged groveling in the pit of unworthiness can be more about self-pity and lacking faith in God to do what he promised than it is about humility.  The longer we indulge in it, the less we are doing for the Lord, and Satan is just as pleased as if we had gone on sinning. Either way helps him out.
             
The next time you look into a mirror and see only your faults, remember my tablecloth.  When you give God all you have, he can make you into something beautiful too.
 
And God is able to make all grace abound unto you, that you, always having all sufficiency in everything, may abound unto every good work,
2 Cor 9:8.  
  

Dene Ward

I don’t know what we would have done without hand-me-downs.  
 
Lucas survived his infancy on borrowed baby clothes, but that young
mother soon needed them again so there were no tiny clothes to pass down to Nathan.  At that point we were   living by a children’s clothes factory and could go to the outlet store and buy seconds for as little as fifty cents each. Each summer and each winter I dug my way  through a mountain of irregulars and managed to find three shirts and three  pairs of either shorts or long pants, according to the season.  Sometimes the colors were a little odd, like the “dress” shoes I bought   for Lucas when he was two—maroon patent leather with a beige saddle—but they   covered his feet for $1 and no one was likely to mistake them for another child’s shoes.

 Then, just as they reached school age, we found ourselves in a church
with half a dozen little boys just three or four years older than they.  Suddenly my boys’ closet was  bursting.  They were far better dressed than I was, and they had even more waiting to be grown into. They didn’t mind hand-me-downs and neither did our scanty bank account. Keith and I have followed suit. Probably 75% of my clothes are hand-me-downs, and the rest I picked up at consignment shops and thrift stores, with only a handful of things I bought new, always off a clearance rack. Keith has more shirts than he could wear in a month—we didn’t buy a one of  them.

 When you get a hand-me-down, sometimes you can’t wear it as is. Sometimes it’s my own personal sense of taste, meager though that may be. Sometimes it’s a size issue. I have been known to take up hems or let them out if the giver was taller or shorter than I.  I almost always remove shoulder pads.  I have wide shoulders for a woman and shoulder pads make me look like a football player in full gear.  If the collar has a  bow, a scarf, or high buttons, those go too—I hate anything close around my neck and it makes my already full face look like a bowling ball. So while I gratefully accept those second hand clothes, I do something to make them my own.

 Which brings me to handed-down faith.  Being raised in the church can be both a blessing and a curse.  Being taught from before you can remember means doing right becomes second nature. There is never any question where I will be on Sunday morning because I have always been there.  There is never any question what I will do when it’s time to make a choice that involves morals or doctrine.  There is never any question about my priorities—my parents taught those to me every day of my childhood, both in word and deed.

 Yet God will not accept any faith that is not my own. Yes, He was with Ishmael for Abraham’s sake, Gen 17:20; 21:13.  To those who are dear to His children, but who are not believers, God will sometimes send material lessings, 39:5, and physical salvation, 19:29, but He will not take a hand-me-down faith until it becomes personal, Ezek 18:1-4.  I have to reach a point where I know not only what I believe, but why, and that faith must permeate my life as I lead it, in every situation I find myself in, in every decision I must make, but at the same time come from my heart not habit. If I have not reached that  point, what will I do when my parents are gone?  Will my faith stand then? Or will I be like Joash, who did just fine as long as his mentor Jehoiada the priest was alive, but fell to the point of killing his cousin Zechariah, a prophet of God, when he was finally left on his own? (2 Chron 24)  
 
Pass your faith on to your children, but your job doesn’t end  there.  Help them make it their  own.  Let them tear out those  shoulder pads and lengthen those hems.  It really isn’t a compliment to your parenting skills if all they can do is mimic you while you are still alive to keep tabs on them. You might in fact be limiting them by demanding exact conformity to every nuance of your own faith.  Their  faith could very well soar farther than you ever thought about if you let them  fly.

 But the real test comes when you are gone. Can you rest well with the job you have done?

 I think it right, as long as I am in this body, to stir you up by way of reminder, since I know  that the putting off of my body will be soon, as our Lord Jesus Christ made  clear to me. And I will make every effort so that after my departure you may be able at any time to recall these things. For… we have something more sure, the prophetic word, to which you will do well to pay attention as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts -- 2 Peter 1:13-15, 19.

 Dene  Ward

It takes us three days to pack for a camping trip.  I have a list saved on the computer that I print out every time—three pages.  Yes, I said three pages.

Just for meals, for instance, I pack cups, mugs, plates, soup bowls, a measuring cup, grill tools, saucepans, skillets, the coffee pot, propane stoves, matches, gas canisters, coffee filters, a griddle, a folding grill, a mixing bowl, silverware, mixing spoons and spatulas, foil, Ziplocs for leftovers, a bacon drippings can, paper towels, dish soap, a dish pan, dish towels, hot pads, and trash bags, and that doesn’t count the food!  Now imagine things you need for every part of your day, from brushing your teeth, to hiking, to showering, to sitting around after dark reading, to going to bed, and you begin to see why the list is three pages long.

We use this list because I have found that if I don’t have it to cross off, I will invariably forget something.  From time to time we delete something on the list or add something as our situation changes.  When we were young we didn’t need to take two boxes of medications. 

We keep a backup disk of items saved on the computer.  That list is on it.  Should we ever lose it, I might even be tempted to never go camping again.  I cannot imagine having to remake the list from memory.  More likely, we would remake it around the fire the first night after discovering all the things we forgot.

When we had boys with us, I had other things on the list that were equally important.  In fact, I was probably more careful about their things than mine.  I wanted them to have enough clothes, especially enough warm clothes.  I learned that lesson the hard way when we woke up by a mountain stream one June morning to fifty degree temperatures and they had nothing but shorts and tee shirts to wear.  Fifty degrees in June?  As a Florida native I didn’t even know that was possible, and I felt horrible, quickly mixing up some warm oatmeal and hot chocolate while Keith built a campfire for them to huddle around as they ate.

We are all on a trip every day of our lives.  What have you packed for your children?  Too many parents just let life happen without a plan.  Do you teach them?  Do you talk with them every chance you get about a God who loves them, who made them, and who expects things of them?  Do you discuss the things that happen in their lives and the decisions they made, or perhaps should have made?  Do they know that those decisions will affect their eternal destiny?  Do you allow them to pay the consequences for their mistakes, or do you shelter them?  Do you tell them what the world is really like out there, how to recognize the traps, the enemies in disguise and the true values of life?  Are you sure you have everything they could possibly need to assure their eternal destiny?

Maybe you need to make a list.

We will not hide them from their children, but tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the LORD, and his might, and the wonders that he has done. He established a testimony in Jacob and appointed a law in Israel, which he commanded our fathers to teach to their children, that the next generation might know them, the children yet unborn, and arise and tell them to their children, so that they should set their hope in God and not forget the works of God, but keep his commandments; Psalms 78:4-7.

Dene Ward

I wonder how many of us are so enamored by what we consider a “beautiful” love story, that we miss an even better one.  It really should tell us something when we read that Jacob loved Rachel because of her looks.  Since when do we teach our children that outer beauty is all that matters?             

After the marriages, Leah had children almost immediately.  Rachel, of course, wanted children too.  Her first resort was to demand them of Jacob, Give me children or else I die!  Gen 30:1, as if a man who had already fathered at least four were at fault.  Am I being overly critical or doesn’t she sound as childish as a little girl threatening to hold her breath if she doesn’t get her way?

Then she gave her handmaid to her husband (v, 3) for in that culture, the children of one’s handmaid were legally your own, and the family already had precedent for such a thing in Hagar.  Of course that was less than satisfying, especially since her sister could do the same. 

Then she resorted to mandrakes, the local aphrodisiac of the area, v 14, not too surprising from a woman who would steal her father’s household gods, I suppose.  As you go through chapter 30, pay special attention to the names of the children, what they mean, and what each mother said when they were born.  That speaks volumes in itself. 

Finally Rachel went to Jehovah.  We really have no record of her doing that, but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt since the scriptures do say and God hearkened to [Rachel] and opened her womb, v 22.  Still, her attitude is shown when she greets that child with Jehovah, give me another one! and names her son that very sentiment, “Joseph,” may God add, v 24.  Compare that to Leah who, when she named Judah, and called to her son every day afterward, was “praising” Jehovah.

Is that how we treat prayer as well, a last resort?  Does God only hear from us when we get desperate or scared or so distressed that we finally realize we have no other hope for a happy ending?   Do we demand help from God, then angrily complain when that prayer, which may be the first we have prayed in a week or a month or even longer, does not accomplish what we want?  And when we finally do get the desired answer, do we act entitled and fail to express any gratitude at all?  After all, we serve God and therefore He is supposed to take care of us, right?  If we don’t get what we want, why should we bother?

Ultimately, Jacob seems to have learned who the better wife was.  When Rachel died, she was buried where she fell, even though it was only a day’s walk from the family burial plot at Machpelah.  Jacob himself expected his sons to carry his body back all the way from Egypt.  And hear what he says about that:  there they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife, and there they buried Isaac and Rebekah his wife, and there I buried Leah, Gen 49:31.  Jacob wanted to be buried next to Leah, the woman he had chosen to place in the family tomb.  Finally, he could see a beauty that mattered.  I imagine his change of heart had a lot to do with their shared faith in God, and their recognition that He was responsible for every good thing they had.  (Study those names!)  And didn’t God choose Leah as well?  For it is evident that our Lord has sprung out of Judah, Heb 7:14, who was Leah’s son.

God will notice our faith, our desire to talk with Him, our recognition of His providence and care.  Prayer is not about entitlement, but gratitude. 

Oh give thanks unto Jehovah, for his lovingkindness endures forever.
Oh give thanks unto the God of gods, for his lovingkindness endures forever.
Oh give thanks unto the Lord of lords, for his lovingkindness endures forever.
Psalm 136:1-3

Dene Ward

 We put up several new feeders recently, along with some new bluebird houses and a couple of small birdbaths.  We hoped to increase both the numbers of birds visiting us, as well as the varieties, and we succeeded.  The very first day our usual birds had multiplied and there on the ground was a new one.  It didn’t take long to find him in the bird books I have—a brown-headed cowbird.

The cowbird is a member of the blackbird family, and it is easy to think him some sort of blackbird.  That brown head is not obvious at a distance.  He stretches 7 to 8 inches from head to tail, glossy black with a chocolate brown head and a pointed gray bill.  Cowbirds do, however, have a negative trait—they lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, then go off and expect that bird to raise their young.  Sometimes the host bird will destroy the unfamiliar eggs, but far more often, they will raise the cowbird nestlings, often neglecting their own.  Cowbird chicks are so much larger than the hosts’ chicks that they take most of the food and leave the others hungry.

Do you know what they call birds that steal nests and abandon their young to others?  Parasite birds.  I had never thought of it that way, but it is a legitimate biological classification.  Cuckoos do it.  Wood ducks do it.  In fact, about 750 species of birds do it.

Humans wouldn’t do that, would they?  We wouldn’t ignore the sanctity of marriage between one man and one woman, breaking up a home at will just because “I want him now,” or “I don’t love her any more.”  Why can’t I steal someone else’s nest if I want it?

I have things I want to do, a career that makes me important.  I’m not made for taking care of children--I shouldn’t be saddled with these kids.  Why can’t the government raise them for me?  Why can’t I hire someone to do the dirty work?  Why can’t I lay my eggs in someone else’s nest and expect them to be responsible for my children?

Why do I have to work to support my family?  Why should I have to control my physical hungers?  Why can’t I live as I want and not have to bear the responsibility of what follows?  Why can’t I deposit my burdens in someone else’s lap to pay for and tend to?

I wonder if biologists have a class of human called “parasitic.”  “Entitlement” comes to mind; “selfishness” as well, not to mention “irresponsibility.”  God holds us accountable for our lives, for our health, for our families, for all the privileges we claim, especially in the most blessed society in the world.  He expects us to exercise self-control.  He expects us to be mature in our choices and responsible for them.  He expects us to be considerate of others in those choices too.

Now that I have about 95% of you agreeing with me, let’s take it one step farther.  What about Christians who deposit their children in Bible classes and expect the church to teach them?  Sometimes parents will see that the child does his lesson, but sometimes the teachers are lucky if a workbook accompanies a child at all, much less one that has been well-studied and filled out.  The Bible tells us that parents are to teach their children, not the church.  It is certainly commendable to take them to Bible classes, but the example they see many, many more hours a week at home is the one that they learn from.

The brown headed cowbird is one of the most disapproved of birds in the avian world.  Why is that we think the same sort of behavior, in any of its manifestations, should be acceptable, even applauded, in ours?

But understand this, that in the last days there will come times of difficulty. For people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without natural affection, unappeasable, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not loving good, treacherous, reckless, swollen with conceit, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power. Avoid such people. 2 Timothy 3:1-5

Dene Ward

Not long before my first grandchild arrived in this world I told my daughter-in-law, “One day after he is born, maybe a week, maybe a month, and maybe more than once, you are going to sit down and bawl your eyes out.  You won’t know why and you will think, ‘What’s wrong with me?  This is supposed to be the happiest time of my life, and here I am crying.’ 

“There is nothing wrong with you.  You are simply exhausted and overwhelmed.  You have carried a child nine months, you haven’t slept enough, not only since he was born, but for awhile before that because you were so uncomfortable.  You haven’t sat down except to feed him.  Yes, you love him with a ferocity you have never felt before, but he is one demanding little creature, and you will wonder, ‘What in the world was I thinking?’ which only adds to the guilt you feel.  If you don’t suddenly burst into tears a few times, you aren’t normal, and it doesn’t mean you are a bad mother.  In fact, it probably means just the opposite.”

I told her all that because I wished someone had told me when I sat down and burst into tears one afternoon long ago.  We do our brothers and sisters no favors by pretending that life is one big fairy tale.  Instead, we seem to bottle up our own emotions and deny they ever existed, while telling them to “Shape up!”

God put us here to help one another, and it is no help at all to act like we never had these problems.  Babies do not lie down and go to sleep when you need them to.  One word “fitly spoken” will not unravel a tangled conflict.  Sometimes spouses are inconsiderate and unkind and have no interest in talking about the problem and fixing it.  We have lived too long with sitcoms that solve all difficulties in less than thirty minutes and Lifetime movies that depict one intervention mending a twenty year rift in a relationship.  In real life it doesn’t happen that way.

We once spent an hour with a man who thought himself “the dream husband,” trying to get him to see that his actions were nothing more than abusive control.  The hour ended with him in tears, determined to be better.  The next morning he was again blaming his wife for her lack of gratitude for all his “care.”  That is real life.  Problems that took years to develop will not disappear in a minute, or an hour, or even a week. 

Our children learn nothing when we hide our disagreements.  Keith’s parents once said, “We never argue.”  When he was finally old enough to figure things out, he answered, “That’s because you both clammed up and walked away, not because you never got mad at each other.”  Children need to see how to resolve conflicts in a godly manner, or even how to apologize when the manner was less than godly. 

When a young person struggles with sin and we tell him he never truly repented, when someone who is seriously ill becomes depressed and we say, “Where’s your faith?” when another is beset by tragedy and in her grief asks, “Why?” and all we can do is scold, we have failed them.  A brother is born for adversity, Prov 17:17.  When I do not comfort my brother in that adversity, when I am too proud to share the wisdom that has come from mistakes I have made, I have not fulfilled my purpose for being.

It’s time we older Christians stopped endorsing fairy tales.  It’s time we told it like it is.  Life can be hard and it doesn’t necessarily mean you are at fault. Even when you are at fault, it doesn’t mean you are worse than anyone else, no matter what image others try to present.  Older Christians must realistically prepare the younger for life, and comfort them during their trials.  Job said that when we do not comfort those who need it our very relationship with God is in peril, 6:14,15. 

God told Ezekiel, Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel… and say to them…The weak you have not strengthened, the sick you have not healed, the injured you have not bound up, the strayed you have not brought back, the lost you have not sought…therefore you shepherds hear the word of the Lord…I am against the shepherds and I will require my sheep at their hands…Ezek 34:2,4,7,10.  He feels the same way about older Christians who present unrealistic expectations to the younger and then do not comfort and console when difficulties arise.

I must stop pretending I am completely put together so I can help those whose lives are falling apart.

Dene Ward

I picked up the phone and within ten seconds wished I hadn’t.  I was a new bride and it was my first experience with a telemarketer. I couldn’t fathom someone who had an answer for every reason to say “No.” 

I’d been taught to always be polite so as long as he talked I listened.  Finally I said, “I couldn’t spend this much money without talking to my husband first anyway.”

Yes, he even had an answer for that one.  “Don’t you think it’s about time you learned how to make decisions on your own?”

He had finally gone too far.  “How we run our marriage is our business, not yours,” I replied and hung up.  He found out in short order that my acceptance of my husband’s authority didn’t mean I was spineless.

Too many women today seem to think it does, and worse, care far too much about what other people think about them.  I feel the same way about that as I do about men who won’t help with child care and housework because, “That’s woman’s work.”  Shakespeare put it best:  “Methinks thou doth protest too much.”  It takes strength to submit; weakness cannot overcome the natural tendency to want attention and power.

Sarah comes to mind.  In a misguided attempt to help God fulfill his promises to Abraham, she and Abraham arranged a surrogate mother.  Hagar was “her handmaid,” Gen 16:1,3, a personal servant of Sarah’s, not a simple slave girl who would have been under Abraham’s authority (Growth of the Seed, Nathan Ward).  When Hagar’s attitude toward Sarah eroded into hateful disrespect—“her mistress became despised in her eyes” v 4—Sarah was ready to throw her out.  At that time, in that culture, Hagar as her handmaid was her business, not Abraham’s.  Yet Sarah, in her submission as a wife, still went to Abraham first.  Even he said, “Behold, your maid is in your hands.  Do what you think is best,” v 6.

Please note, the surrogacy arrangement did not change Hagar’s status.  She is still called “handmaid” by the writer and by God (21:12), and the angel of Jehovah told her she was wrong to have fled, that the right thing was to return to her mistress (16:7-9), just as it was for Onesimus to return to Philemon.  Sarah did not have to ask Abraham for permission, but she went the extra mile in her submission to him.

So how am I doing at this submission business?  Do my friends know that my husband is the head of the house, or would they throw their heads back in gales of laughter at the very thought?  Am I embarrassed to say, “I need to talk with my husband,” before making a major decision?

Even the New Testament recognizes that a woman has a realm of authority in the home.  Widows are to remarry and “rule the household,” 1 Tim 5:14.  That word “rule” is not the same Greek word as the one in 3:4, elders should “rule well their own household.”  The word in 5:14 is one that means “manage [the home specifically] under a master.”  Just as the store manager does not expect to be micromanaged by the owner of the business, he still understands that he must ultimately answer to that owner.  Would anyone expect otherwise?

It is time to stop being cowed by our increasingly godless culture, afraid to admit that we actually believe what the Bible says about unpopular things.  The next time someone insults you for your voluntary subjection to your husband, show them just how much spine you do have.

For this is how the holy women who hoped in God used to adorn themselves, by submitting to their own husbands, as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord. And you are her children, if you do good and do not fear anything that is frightening, 1 Peter 3:5-6

Dene Ward

Someone recently asked me what I thought a kindergarten aged child should know about the Bible.  All I can tell you is from my own experience. 

I believe they should know about God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit—and that all of those beings love him no matter what.  They should know every major Bible story, and be able to name the books of the Bible, the apostles, the sons of Jacob, and the judges.  They should have some major memorizing done, individual verses here and there, and larger passages as well, e.g., the 23rd Psalm, the beatitudes, scriptures like Rom 12:1-3 and good old John 3:16.  And those things should be explained as well as a five or six year old can understand them, which may be more than you think.  They should have a large repertoire of spiritual songs, not just children’s songs, but some of the hymns from the songbook as well.  They should be praying several times a day.

The person who asked looked at me, dumbfounded.  “That’s impossible,” he said.  No.  It’s not.  I could do most of that, and my children could do all of it.  I can still hear five year old Lucas reciting the twenty-third psalm, and three year old Nathan singing all five verses of “Twust and Obey.”

What’s that? “It isn’t about learning facts.”  Of course, it isn’t.  But tell me, which do you teach first, critical analysis of the poetry of Keats versus that of Milton, or memorizing the alphabet?  They will never understand faith till they see it working in the life of Abraham; or courage, until they know the stories of David and Esther; or unselfish devotion until they hear about Ruth gleaning in the field.  Isn’t that why God put those facts there in the first place? …things…written aforetime were written for our learning, (Rom 15:4).

And you know what works even better?  Learning about the generosity of Barnabas and then seeing a father like mine, who gave so generously that the IRS audited him.  And learning about the compassion of Dorcas and then a seeing a mother like mine, who took food off her table to give to a neighbor whose husband was killed in an automobile accident, and then organized a food drive for that same neighbor and her five small children.   

And as to the amount I think a child should know so early?  The problem is not a child’s capacity.  The problem is adults underestimating their capacity. And maybe the problem is we do not want to spend the time it takes to do this.  This is not something you accomplish in 15 minutes a day of “quality time,” that great myth that has been foisted on American parents.  God never expected that meager amount to be the time we spend teaching our children. 

Hear, O Israel:  Jehovah our God is one Jehovah.  And you shall love Jehovah your God with all your heart and with all your soul, and with all your might.  And these words which I command you this day shall be upon your heart; and you shall teach them diligently unto your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise up.  And you shall bind them for a sign upon your hand, and they shall be for frontlets between your eyes, and you shall write them on the doorposts of your house, and upon your gates.  Deut 6:4-9.

I think that pretty well covers it all, don’t you?

Dene Ward

The one and only time I went to the Florida College Summer Camp was when I was 8.  It was held on campus and I had the first floor dorm room in Sutton Hall that looks out toward what I knew later as Upper Division Dorm. 

The last night of camp, when all the parents came to pick us up, the counselors staged a “Bible Bee.”  We all stood in a circle, beginning with the youngest on to the oldest.  Someone asked Bible questions around the circle and if you missed the question you sat down.  After about 30 minutes there were five of us left—me, all alone on the “kiddy” side of the nearly depleted circle, and, on the other side, 4 teenagers who looked as big as adults to me.

I only remember one question.  I was flabbergasted when a 16 year old could not answer, “Who was thrown into the lion’s den?”  The question came to me next, and I actually felt embarrassed for the boy when I answered, “Daniel.”  That was as far as I got.  You would think I would remember the question that did me in, but I don’t.  I do remember that I could hardly comprehend what was being asked, so it must have been a doozy. 

Eventually, one of the older teenagers won the bee, and I could not understand why so many people came up to me saying how impressed they were.  Except for that last question they were all so easy.  You see, it had absolutely nothing to do with me, and everything to do with my parents.

My sister and I were raised knowing the importance of Bible knowledge.  My mother was a first generation Christian and back then did not have the teaching resources I had available when I was raising my children.  But judging by that “bee,” she and my father, who was only second generation himself, did a much better job of teaching than most who had more advantages.  They answered all the questions we asked, helped us when we needed it, and made sure we did our Bible lessons. They bought us a big beautiful Bible story book.  I did not realize then how expensive it was, but now I can look back and appreciate how lavishly they spent on us and why, especially given our un-lavish lifestyle.  They even allowed us to stay up 15 minutes late so we could read it every night, and later our own Bibles, before bed.  That certainly instilled its importance to me.  Because of their diligence, I cannot understand parents who allow their children—no matter how old they are--to get in the car on Sunday morning without checking to see that they have their lesson books and their Bibles, and without making sure the lessons were done the night before. 

Something just as important--I always saw my parents doing their own lessons, whether it involved doing a workbook or reading a passage of scripture.  Their Bibles and class materials always had a special place on the shelf by the carport door.  If it was not there, they were studying, or they were at class.  None of this “I forgot” business.  And they talked about the scriptures on days other than Sunday and Wednesday.  We grew up knowing that you were supposed to think about these things every day.

That is how I did so well at the Summer Camp Bible Bee.  Like I said, it really had nothing at all to do with me.

…having been reminded of the unfeigned faith that is in you, which dwelt first in your grandmother Lois, and in your mother Eunice, and I am persuaded in you also. 2 Tim 1:5

Dene Ward