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The Lord is near to all them who call upon
Him
Psalm 145:18
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Elizabeth writes a weekly devotional that can be delivered to your inbox. To view a sample, click here!
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 Footprints in History |
John Bunyan (1628-1699)
The
man who mended pots for a living had a problem. Actually, he had more than one,
but disregarding the poverty created by his profession, his blind daughter, and
his country being in constant political upheaval, there was a spiritual problem
that plagued him night and day.
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My Path |
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Have I Got the Perfect Career?
If there was ever a time when I didn't want to be a writer,
I don't remember it. I scribbled as a little girl, dreamed as a teen and as a
young mother sat up late at night scratching out stories intended for my eyes
alone working out characters and plots on school notebook paper with a #2
pencil. I even published. Occasionally. In tiny spurts.
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Modern Footprints |
The Greatest Favor Anyone Ever Did For You
I watched as the stranger scanned the room with dark,
knowing eyes. The guy wanted something that was for sure.
I pegged him as a
hustler who would pester those nearest him one at a time until he got what he
wanted. Avoiding eye contact, I moved closer behind my aunt. Whatever his
request, he was not going to nail me. It was bad enough being stuck in the
Emergency Room. Getting harassed by a stranger would be the last straw.
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Footprints in History, continued
John's
first wife had been an orphan whose entire dowry only consisted of two books.
These were sermons by a couple of Puritan preachers and John had little use for
the things of God. Cursing and gambling held more attraction. Yet, as he read
his wife's books he became more curious about spiritual matters and eventually came
to see his sinfulness and embraced the Christian faith. That was when his
biggest problem started.
Although
Bunyan had accepted Christ, he was not confident that Christ had accepted him. John
believed he had to hang on to Christ while destroying bad habits through his
own strength. It was a wearisome, empty effort. Day and night he struggled as
something deep inside tried to hold on while another large part of him just
wanted peace. He could hear voices echoing in his mind telling him that he
should "sell Christ" and return to his old life. At least things had been
easier then.
Round
and round the thoughts swirled, "sell Christ, sell Christ" until finally in
utter desperation he shouted "if Christ will depart, then let him depart!" That
should have put an end to the struggle. But it didn't.
Instead of rest, there was deeper anguish. Now, that he had given Jesus permission to
depart--indeed, had almost kicked him out-he felt he had committed the
unpardonable sin and would be forever damned to hell. There was no hope. His
torment didn't stop. It only took a new twist of deeper condemnation.
Then
one day while reading the Gospel of John the light of freedom dawned. His eyes
passed over the words, "and him that
cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out" [1] Bunyan would later write, "Oh! The comfort that I found from this word,
'In no wise!' As if he had said, 'By no means, for nothing, whatever He hath
done.'"
For
the first time, he understood. He had never been holding on to a reluctant Christ,
making Him stay. Instead, Christ had chosen to stay simply because John had
come. No one forced the Almighty. It was not John's weak, inadequate arm reaching
up, but God's gracious might reaching down that mattered. He didn't have to
hold on to Christ, because Christ was willingly holding on to him.
John
Bunyan found out he could simply trust Jesus and rest. So can we.
[1]
John 6:37
My Path, continued
But, life got in the way of being a "real" writer. There
were babies and job changes and finally a long stretch as cattle ranchers.
Then, Bill was killed and ranch duties fell to my shoulders. Who has time to
write when cows need to be fed and storms threaten summer hay production?
It turned out that ranching was an unstable income and full
of risks, so I went back to school for a Master of Counseling Arts degree. That
may not have been my dream of writing but, I thought, the income would at least
be steady. No one warned me that it takes years to establish a practice and counseling
work is often part time.
The desire to write was still a silent itch that had to
occasionally be scratched so through the years a few magazine articles and a
couple of books came along. On very rare occasions a group would ask me to
speak. But, writing/speaking as a career remained a misty dream. I often moaned
and wondered what it would be like if only I had had time to concentrate, if
only God would push one of my old books to the best seller list, if only I didn't
have to provide a living; the wish list was endless.
Too quickly, the years slipped away. Suddenly, I found
myself out to pasture and drawing a social security check. But, when the shock
of it all wore off, I was glad. Now, at long last, I could settle down and
become a "real" writer.
That was two years ago and a strange déjà vo is peeking
through the windows. It is like everything has changed, but nothing has changed
at all. Being a "real" writer was supposed to provide a steady income, free me from
impossible schedules and allow me to get off the steep learning curve that had
challenged most of my adult life.
Somebody messed with my dream.
Steady income? The keyboard shorthand LOL is the only
appropriate response to that fantasy. Writing is never any more secure than your
next contract. It is extremely difficult for those of us in the lower ranks,
but even the small percentage of highly successful writers at the top must contend
with the rollercoaster of monetary feast/famine. Budgeting and doubtful futures
are as much a part of the writing life as computer screens and rejections. Predicting
the price of cattle futures was easy compared to guessing when the next editor
will say, "yes." The most dependable gig I ever landed is Social Security and
with the current rate of government spending, that may not last as long as I
do.
Pressured schedules? As I've become acquainted with other
authors, I'm amazed at the burden of time pressure we all struggle beneath. Contract
deadlines and proposals that should have been on the road yesterday are some of
our realities, but personal issues like ageing parents, children still at home
and health concerns push from the outside, while self-imposed goals for daily
word count and guilt over unanswered emails push from the inside. The entire
house of cards would fall apart without schedules that are strictly adhered to
and there is no boss standing over you to make it happen. The discipline must
come from inside the writer.
Learning curve? Don't even talk to me about that one! The
marketing skills, computer skills, language expertise and salesmanship I've had
to learn in the past two years have been enough to make my head explode. The
only other time I felt this challenged I was working on my doctorial
dissertation while holding down a full time job. Nothing about writing is either
consistent or easy and the learning curve never stops.
I changed careers to follow a dream trusting that many of
the problems that plagued me in the outside world could be left behind. Wrong.
When being a "real" writer finally came through the front door; it let familiar
problems through the back door just to keep us company.
All of this could be very discouraging. That's when I take a
deep breath then pause to study the other side of the coin and remember the
rewards of where I've been.
There was a restful satisfaction on the ranch as I watched an
autumn morning grow lighter while the thin veil of mist lifted from the valley
and a long line of cattle snaked its way up the hill. The ranch depended on me
and it was good knowing I had done my job well. As a counselor, I'd sometimes
see a client for whom, frankly, I had little hope. Then something would click
and they would smile and "get it." Their life would turn the corner toward home
and it was good to know the Lord had used me to make a difference.
Those same rewards follow me as I write. I still find the satisfaction of job well done and the joy
of impacting another life. These may not be the same rewards I
dreamed about before the computer took over my life, but I am content. After all,
endless struggles as well as silent rewards that slip generously from my Lord's
hand are what being "real" is all about.
If you have a comment, click here. I would love to hear from you!
Modern Footprints
Usually I avoided hospitals with a passion but when the stroke
patient is your grandfather it's rather hard to remain elusive. Various
relatives and friends had spent the past eight hours sitting in plastic chairs,
eating stale sandwiches from vending machines, and pacing the short distance to
the nurses' station while the situation drifted from crisis into a tiresome
vigil. Now, we were tired beyond words. We knew grandfather would live but
arrangements for his continual care still needed to be made, so we waited. I
watched the stranger through peripheral vision as his latest target, a
thirty-something male, turned him down.
There are times when being an evangelist has its benefits.
This was not one of them. The family kept looking my direction for prayer
support and expecting me to say something spiritual. All I wanted was out of
the room. And, I wanted to avoid the stranger who was working his way toward
our group.
I mentally formulated my answer even though I didn't yet know his
request. Years in the ministry had taught me to avoid getting sucked into fruitless
situations. I could handle this. He wouldn't nail me.
Unfortunately, my cousin had no such skills. He was a naive,
second-year Bible college student who didn't know there were folks out there
who took advantage of Christian charity. Ken had the open, honest face of a
kid fresh off the farm. The rough looking stranger instantly labeled him as a
soft touch and as he walked our way my aunt's eyes widened. He approached the boy
then after a moment's conversation Ken headed our way.
"Mom," he innocently said, "This guy needs a ride. He says
it's not far, so I'm gonna drive him to his friend's house. Okay?"
Her wide eyes turned to me and it wasn't hard to read their
request. The mental picture of her young son alone with this obviously
homeless, tattooed, unshaven, muscle-bound stranger was frightening. I cleared my throat. "Hey, Ken, why don't we
both go? We'll take my car." I was nailed.
When I first noticed the stranger drifting from one person
to the next, I felt a twinge deep inside. After all, I was an
evangelist. Week after week I stood in church pulpits pleading with sinners to
give their life to God. From one town to the next, I talked about how the love
of Jesus was so wide it extended to the most lost and so strong it could change
even the most hardened. Did those hopeful statements apply to this man?
I pushed the feelings aside. I wasn't in the pulpit now and
there was no need to be involved. This man probably didn't care about the
gospel. If he wanted to be saved he could go to church. My excuses for not
telling the stranger about Jesus' love multiplied as I argued with the Holy
Spirit. Ken had said that the trip would be short. There would not be enough time
to explain the gospel. I hoped.
That was when the train got in my way.
The stranger led us through crooks and turns that I never
knew existed in our town. It seemed like forever when he finally said that our
destination was just over the tracks. I nudged the car up the incline, but red
lights began to flash and crossing bars descended to block out way. We sat. Ken made small talk.
While they bantered,
I battled with the Holy voice inside my head. "How can you be such a hypocrite
as to preach the love of Jesus in church yet avoid sharing it one-on-one?" I
defended myself. "It's easy. He doesn't smell good. And, he wouldn't understand
the gospel, anyway." The pressure inside my chest increased.
Train cars kept on rolling by. I looked as far down the
track as I could see. There must have been at least a thousand cars waiting in
line. I suspected if I continued to resist the Lord, it would probably stop on
the tracks and slowly back up. We could be here all night. I sighed as the threads
of my resistance began to come unraveled.
"Lord," I prayed at last. "I'm sorry. You know I am tried,
but that is no excuse. You know I have little faith that anything I can say or
do will make a difference to this man. But, because You called me to share the
good news of Your forgiveness, I will open my mouth and obey."
The caboose came into sight. One more block and the stranger
said, "That's the house. You can stop here."
I applied the break and the car rolled to a stop. "Would you
wait a moment?" I asked as he reached for the handle of the door. "You know, we did you a
favor today, but would you be willing to listen while I tell you about how Jesus did you the greatest favor anyone could ever do?"
Perhaps it was only a sense of obligation, yet there seemed
to be a hint of genuine curiosity in his eyes as the stranger slowly nodded. I
borrowed a Bible from Ken. A sensation of peace and hope filled the car as the
three of us when over scriptures that Christians for generations have called
"The Roman Road." I could not make new
life inside the stranger, but I could show him the way. And, that was all God
expected.
Author requests anonymity
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