The Holy

Never far from a dominant place in my mind is that of admiration for people who totally give themselves to the work of God: People who may forgo comfort and ease, who may move thousands of miles from their families, and who may assume simple and sacrificial ways of living. Sometimes these people are missionaries to foreign countries, sometimes they pastor or otherwise work in mission churches here in America. Some are called evangelists and they travel in motor homes or in trailers towed behind their cars, and that vehicle is their home, and sometimes they rear their babies in that way. They are the givers. The sacrificers. And there are others. We might never see them or know of them, for they work in the shadows, unseen, unnoticed, but they are there: They of the Holy.

Yesterday on Brother Daniel Scott’s facebook site, I saw this picture.
It struck me in my heart, and I typed in a comment to ask what this picture represented. This was Brother Scott’s response.

Sister Shirley: I am assuming you are speaking about the Album of the construction of the church in Quininde, Ecuador. This was the first church I constructed in Ecuador. The environment was very primitive at that time (today it is modern as anything in the United States). I created a church plan that I could present and solicit money for from my Partners In Missions, and know how much it would cost, what materials to purchase, etc. The previous church building is shown, and Paul Hosch from Dallas, Texas, sent me the money for this church. From there we duplicated the plan. To day those churches are running from many hundreds to such as the church in Quito, seating nearly 2,000, yet having to have three services each Sunday with firm request that no one attend a second time. Nice huh! Brother Battle and I worked very closely togather.

I cried when I looked at that picture for I knew it represented someone’s leaving their home to do God’s work, someone’s massive struggle, someone weeping in the night and working until their strength and their bodies were racked.That image haunts me and is etched in my heart

And then today I learned of Brother Willoughby’s death, and when I thought of the circumstances, I literally grew weak.

I have found a wonderful video, a tribute to the lives of Brother and Sister Willoughby. I post it here to honor not only them but Brother Scott, Brother Battle and their families, and you, and others of The Holy. You who give all.

Essence

In a conversation yesterday, someone noted that the UPCI–the ministerial organization with which my husband is connected–is now bigger than ever before, and “it literally has strengthened its financial position to a degree where we will soon began (begin) financing our efforts through the interest earned on our invested monies…”.

One of my sons is connected with the WPF, a ministerial organization that was founded a few years ago. I have friends in other ministerial organizations, and many friends, and family–also ministers–who choose to belong to no organization, but who are classified independent. Since many of those who formed the WPF came from the UPCI and the UPCI is now bigger than before, it seems to me that within the small circle of church work with which I am acquainted, the dividing and expanding has worked to grow the organism. I choose not to address my personal thoughts about all the ramifications of such a move for a couple of reasons: The primary reason being that I suspect few give a flip about my observations in that regard.

From the mix of the conversation yesterday came to me a reminder of the importance of doing the basic work of God wherever we are, however we can, and with whatever tools have been thrust our way. Humbly. Not as a peacock admiring his own tail feathers.

Within the minutiae of my notes, scribbled on a faded yellow lined scrap of paper in my handwriting is an account I read somewhere–who knows where?–I wish to share with you.

As the doctors were arguing over his care–who would put in the chest tube, the patient pled, “Somebody please save my life.

While the others argued, two other doctors took over and saved his life.”

To Lead a Child

Should one have perused the most exhaustive library known to man, scanned the shelves of each bookstore in existence,or “googled” every computer in the world, no more profound guidelines for rearing children would be found than these ancient, magnificent words God spoke to His own children. A most gripping passage of scripture, and one about which I have written before is in Deuteronomy 6:7.

And thou shalt teach them (God’s word) diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest in the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou riseth up.

A few days ago, we met our 10th great-grandchild, whose name is Robert Frances Beeso, but who will be called Franky. I watched Jerry bend down to look at the tiny little fella. I saw their eyes meet, and their fingers intertwine. and I was stricken with sadness as I thought of all Franky will face during his lifetime. Born into a floundering, imploding society, his only hope is that his parents, his grandparents, and those others about him, will take his hand–his tiny, trusting hand–and lead him into the paths of righteousness. May he ever have the words of God whispered into his ears, and the name of Jesus brushed over his lips.

The Profound Urge of Talent

“But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to each one for the profit of all:”
I Corinthians 12:7 NKJ

Not long after I planted flowers in our wooden barrels in one of our gardens, I noticed a different kind of plant had pushed up through the earth. I couldn’t identify it, but I didn’t think it was a weed, so I left it to grow. A couple of days ago, I was astounded when I saw the plant had put on an enormous yellow blossom, and it was then that I identified the volunteer plant as a squash.

I learned again a profound lesson. Learned again, I say, for I really know this story, but the squash plant in my back yard reminded me of a great truth. It is a story of abilities and of talents and that sometimes, in others, and even in ourselves, we fail to see the gifts that are present.

Unknown to me, in my back yard was an entity so gorged with the juice of life that it pushed its way through the dirt in my flower pot, poked out its little head and said, “I’m here.” It didn’t know it was a squash; I didn’t know it was a squash, but within a seed that somehow had found its way to me, God had placed an urge, a talent, a gift.

Let me encourage you today to see the gifts in those around you, to cultivate them, to water and dig about them. Let me urge you to recognize the talent that is uniquely yours. Offer it up. It will bless us.

Yes! Church in a Day

Just made national news on Fox–front page as I write: the United Pentecostal Church has done it again–built another “church in a day!” Love God! Love Home Missions. Love the United Pentecostal Church.

Read here and rejoice.

My Tribute to Warriors

I pay tribute today to those loyal and courageous men and women of the military forces who have died in defense of our exceptional country, the United States of America.

I pay tribute today to those loyal and courageous men and women who have given themselves in defense of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. . .

. . . . .such as Pastor Delmon Sansom of Phoenix, AZ. whom I observed last evening as he waged war against satan, a cruel enemy of Brother Sansom’s tiny daughter, Reannah. . . and of his son . . . and of your son . . .and your daughter. With heads bowed, we fight!

Blessings Today

Often, I consider how blessed I am. Today is no exception. This morning here at Christ Alive Worship Center in Lake Havasu, my youngest son, Andrew, will be the preacher. In Chula Vista, California in the church he pastors my eldest son, Stephen, will be the preacher. In our service here my middle son, Michael, will be the worship leader. How very blessed I am. Far beyond anything I at all deserve. I am thankful.

Besides that, merely lifting my eyes, engages me in spectacular scenery, and besides that someone gave me beautiful roses.

Happy Day!

The Worst Church in Town

Raging, the man looked at the few persons gathered for prayer.

“This is the worst church in town.” His flaming eyes swept across the stunned group. “Oh, not you.” He flailed his arms toward the leaders. “Not you. You’re good. . . but this church,” he continued. “It’s the worst in town. The scum, the lowdown, can’t trust anybody . . .”

As though a physical punch had knocked out her breath, the pastor’s wife trembled and caught for air. Her first impulse to shout “How could you say that about our dear church?” was repressed. She said nothing; hurt, defensive, shaking, a leaf in gathering storm.

Later, she came to understand. The man was right. It was the worst church in town– filled with lowly people, the pitiful, the addict, the undependable, the poor, the weeping, liars, and thieves. The beat up; the beat down.

She came to regard the man’s remarks as compliment. For had she not asked to be like Jesus, to take on His attributes, to enter into His mind? Had she not? Had not the leaders of the church proclaimed their wanting to be like Jesus? She remembered: Jesus once sat at a well with a prostitute; Jesus mingled with drunks; Jesus taught compassion and bandages for those who lie in bloody gutters; He held sticky messy children on His lap. He lived among the homeless. His group could not claim so much as a storefront, but a hillside must do for the church service some days. A small boat creaking in the water was the church platform more than once. Though He taught there every day, Jesus disdained lofty religiosity and once He went prowling about the elaborate temple where He ministered, and not liking what He saw, he silently plaited leather strips into a whip, then flying into the mess Jesus kicked over the tables, expelled the people and charged that His house should be called one of prayer. Jesus gathered an unlikely ragged group to work with Him and the lunatics followed along and the blind and the wretched.

Ours? The worst church in town? Could be.

Call

To My Children

(Sent by email today to my four children, their spouses, and some of my grandchildren.)

IMPORTANT, EXCITING NEW SUBJECT

In the middle of next week, Daddy and I are going down to San Diego where we will pick up our motor home and take it to Lake Havasu.

Those of you who read my facebook posts and/or my blogs know that last week we went to LH, and after the Sunday service, Daddy baptized four people in Mike’s pool. One of them received the Holy Ghost before he left the water. His name is DeWayne, and before we left town, he drove us to a magnificent piece of property in LH, that in the far distance overlooks the Colorado River. “If you want to, you may park your rig here at no cost to you at all.”

Unexpected is the way things have worked out for the church in Lake Havasu, what with Brother McDaniels staying only eight months, and our being unable after that to find a pastor for Christ Alive. In a remarkable way, though it was not planned as such, Michael has stepped up to the challenge and is serving the precious, needy people at Christ Alive. Daddy has retained his position as Senior Pastor.

We are intrigued when we read missionary stories of people who give themselves to a Cause, when we read history books of pioneers who endured hardships to settle our country and our churches, when we learn of a particular serviceman who gave his life for his country, or when we know of people who go into the ghettos or other unappealing places and provide charity services. Sometimes, though, the sense of glamor, and everyday pride in Mission may be missing if we are the ones who are called to make the sacrifice, to endure the hardship . . . to give our lives . . . or if it should be our parents . . . or other loved ones who are so called. I understand, fully, I do.

Christ Alive is a unique church; it’s core being extremely needy people, most of whom have been won through the Christian intervention classes Mike has taught. Most of them are/or have been unstable, have no jobs, have addiction problems, poor family connections, etc. At this point, Mike is handling everything himself–teaching two Christian Intervention classes a week, teaching mid-week Bible study for the church, preaching on Sunday morning, doing all the book work, being responsible for church bills, doing all the counseling, planning the services, the music. . .(no one to play any instrument). Melina is making a huge sacrifice by having Mike “spread so thin.”

So, because we have the motor home, now have a place to park it with no charge, and because we can take some of the burden from Mike, Daddy and I are going to Lake Havasu for a few months, totally in a supportive role. I know you’ll all be concerned, and I love you for it.

Please pray for us. Let’s all make new commitment to pray for each other, for our churches, and for our ministries.

Love you so very much.

Mom

This Brother Business

Genesis 4

The lesson is pungent, and though told from antiquity, those who seek truth and who strive to live righteously clutch the story, delve deeply into its essence, and insist on knowing the significance to their own lives. The book of beginnings–the Genesis–had taken scant time to make the metamorphosis from paradise to murder, for in verse 8 of chapter 4 are the chilling words ” . . .Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.”

Think about it. These are children of the first humans, Adam and Eve who were created in the image of God, and by Him, were given dominion over the earth. Now, a few years later, one of their sons killed the other. It worsens. Verse 9 sees God staring at Abel, if you will, calling him to account: “. . . Where is Abel thy brother?”

who? Me? Talkin to me? Stammered and stuttered about no doubt, then finally through his lying arrogant lips, Cain spoke back to God. I don’t know. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

Oh, Friend, what bloody words are those, for rising as a toxic cloud from a tainted mass sound the cries of Abel, spiraling upward so that it was God who heard those awful sounds.

Cursed, Cain. You are cursed. ” . . . a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.” verse 12

But what does that mean to me, you ask? I have no inclination to kill anybody, much less my brother. What do these words mean to me? While I don’t purport to have anything approaching a full understanding of Scripture, I submit there may be no generation more in need of understanding the lesson–indeed the warning–in this account than we who currently populate the earth.

Wider in scope than the mandate against physically killing one’s brother is the clear implication here and in other scripture that God will call us to accountability concerning the treatment of our brother.

Our brothers’ keepers? Are you kidding? This is the ME generation, I’m busy, I’m stretched thin already, have my own close ones to care for, my own home to maintain, my job, my own church commitments . . .Things are tight, don’t have a lot of money, need to work more . . .need more education, must attend another conference, concerned for my own children, am stressed, need a vacation . . .

During the past few years I have attended home mission churches more than at any other time during my adult life, and this has no doubt contributed to my deep sense of the neediness of our brothers in small churches. Do we understand what a blessing it is to these congregations to just show up? Can we possibly know how it feels to have 20 or 30 members, and then have a family from another church decide to visit a mid-week service or a revival service at the home missions church? To see an unfamiliar car pull into the parking lot, a smiling family emerge, then join in with the singing, the praying, the worship is as brilliant light shafted against a cloud-darkened day. Ever think of asking your pastor if you can help out in one of these churches for six months or so? Ever think of offering to take care of a Christmas program or an Easter program or a children’s choir or a youth outing for a home missions church . . .? Ever think of skipping a restaurant meal and giving the money to a small church, or offering your skills to the pastor for a needed project? (While in particular, I am speaking of ministering to home mission churches today, I believe this scripture has a wide arm and would include our neighbors, a stranger on the street, welcoming new people in very large churches, etc.)

Many of you have tended your brother. I know it. Not long ago, a home missions church in Arizona had a particular desperate need; some of you learned of the situation, and immediately tended that brother. I wept when I heard it, and I weep now on recalling your generosity.

Are you my brother? I ask myself today. . . and do I care at all? Later this afternoon as I walk about my village, God help me to look into the eyes of those with whom I come in contact and to fully understand this issue of brotherhood, and to altogether comprehend my crucial and personal responsibility.

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New post on my main blog here and on my photography blog here.