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This train of thought started when my daughter said, “I leave the dishes in the drain until they dry.” She said that after I started drying the dishes after supper. Why not? It’s habit. So how did this become a habit?

Speaking of drying dishes I remember an incident many years ago. My brother, ten years younger than me, came to visit us in Mississippi. Mother had told him to “help Ann.” So he thought to dry the dishes after meals would suffice. After a couple of days, as he was drying dishes and to impress me, he said, “If I were not here to dry dishes, you would have to do it yourself.” I replied, much to his chagrin, “No, I would just leave them in the dish drain until they dried by themselves.” The next day he got up from the table after lunch and began to follow Bill outdoors. Bill asked, “Aren’t you going to help Ann?” Tom said, as you have probably guessed, “No, I’m going to dry the dishes the way she does.” Out he went with Bill.

Why then do I dry dishes now? It’s because of Bill. After we both retired he started washing dishes. It was to get them ready to put in the dishwasher. Sooner than later I put an end to that process. Why clean dishes in preparation for the dishwasher? Only to have them sanitized?

So Bill washed the dishes and put them in the dish drain. I would busy myself with clearing and wiping the table, then putting leftovers away. Dishes piled up in the drain. Not good. Bill does not know how to stack higher than the back slats or a first layer. He wants dishes dried so he can add a pot or pan that doesn’t fit neatly in the drain. So I began to dry dishes, even to stack them on the counter before putting them away. I had to keep up with my favorite dishwasher.

Now that we are here together in our three-generation home, I love what Emily says: “Grandpa is the best dishwasher I’ve even known.” That’s because he takes it as his mission. When he had the flu last week his only complaint was that we would not let him wash or dry dishes. How’s that for an ingrained and thoughtful habit?

 

Others have written great tributes to Billy Graham, but I want to add my personal remarks. I heard Billy Graham several times during his crusades in New Orleans, Mobile, and Lexington. In one of those crusades I sang in the choir led by Cliff Barrows.

For the one held in Lexington, KY, I helped as a spiritual contact for children who went forward at the close of Graham’s evangelistic message. As I saw a child leave his seat, I would follow him to the front and talk with him about a decision to follow Christ. We would pray and then I would give him a booklet (provided by BGEA) about how to live out his faith. I would also direct him to a church in his neighborhood. During that crusade I had the privilege of praying with four children. With their permission, I sent a follow-up letter of encouragement. Years later I tried to contact each one to ask how that decision had changed their lives. I received a reply from one young man who gave witness to his Christian life.

But my most memorable connection with the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association and for which I am most grateful happens to be the time when my dad went forward during one of his crusades in New Orleans, LA. Before that, Dad attended church and served as treasurer. After that, Dad became a true believer and gave witness to a changed life. My mother, three siblings, and I saw that change at home. We began family devotions with Dad reading the Bible and praying. His was an attitude change in regard to being a faithful servant to his family and church. Because of his influence on my dad, I am forever indebted to Billy Graham and his consistent message of biblical truth.

 

“Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another, for whoever loves others has fulfilled the law” (Romans 13:8).

Trying to help people I’ve had questions. At the onset I must admit that my husband, Bill, is more generous than I am when it comes to helping those in need. In particular we gave aid (financial and material) to three women over a stretch of about ten years. I tried to understand but repeated Jesus’ words: “You will always have the poor with you” (Matt. 26:11). Their requests didn’t seem to end, and frankly I contended that we had better use of our money. I admit that my reluctance to help these women, needy as they were, rested in my fear for our own future.

Some irrelevant questions came to the surface: Does she deserve it? Will she appreciate it? I also knew the answers didn’t matter when it came to deciding about helping them.

Needs are transitory (tending to pass away). Help is temporary (lasting for a limited time). Yet the relevant questions remain about compassionate concern, ability and willingness to help. We have no lack of opportunity to help people, and often we argue against compassion and for discernment. Both are necessary. We can all look back on times when we were needy and someone helped.

Working at the Crisis Pregnancy Center in Brazil, IN, we offered supplies to clients yet asked ourselves, “How can another visit bring any lasting good?” We doubted whether we could lift a girl out of her present state as we questioned our temporary help. I received help from something George MacDonald wrote:

“Some [people] are so pitiful over their poor neighbor, [for] they shall have the poor with them always, they will do for him nothing at all: ‘Where is the use?’ they say. . . . While the rich giver is saying, poor fellow, he will be just as bad next month or sooner!’. . . Help in such soil is a quick seed and of rapid growth. . . .  Everything in this world is but temporary: why should temporary help be undervalued?. . . Is help help or is it not?  If it be help then it is divine, and comes from God our Savior” (emphases mine). –from his novel Castle Warlock

I close with a quote from A. W. Tozer: “Find something to do for God and your fellow man.  Refuse to rust out.  Make yourself available to the one who is helping you grow in Christ and do anything you are asked to do. . . . Learn to obey.”  –The Knowledge of the Holy

 

 

Family and friends gathered Monday for what the bulletin titled: “A Service of Witness to the Resurrection and in Memory of Robert Dean Wood” (1928 – 2018). Bill and I attended because we had known Bob and Gene during our years in Wilmore, KY, and Greenwood, IN. At the start of the service Bob’s older daughter held up the letter her dad sent his four children – a detailed plan for his funeral service. Bob indicated not only what hymns should be included, but how they should be sung – with reverence for the majesty of God. We began with “Holy, Holy, Holy” and concluded with Charles Wesley’s “And Can It Be” accompanied on the organ in grand style.

Several people gave tribute to Bob, telling stories as well as giving thanks for his life. On the way to and from church I related to Bill two of my memories. Bob was my boss at both Good News magazine and One Mission Society, then known simply as OMS.

At Good News my office was located directly across the hall from Bob. I noticed how neat he kept his desk, not like the stack of mail and to-do projects piled on my desk. I asked Bob for his secret. I knew the executive director gave him projects, and he also received mail. Bob had one simple rule for whatever reached his desk. He would handle it once. When he read a letter and it needed an answer, he wrote it at once. If a project needed research, he filed it or started collecting data. If a circular had no significance, he tossed it in the ’round file.’ Bob did not put something aside for later consideration; he handled it promptly. That made good sense and I’ve tried to mimic his system, but not always successfully.

In Greenwood where we four worked for OMS, Bill would occasionally be called out of town to represent the mission. That gave Bob, Gene and me an opportunity to have a liver and onion dinner together with mashed potatoes and gravy. Liver is the one item of food that Bill will not eat, but the Woods and I loved it. We would trade off on whose home would host the liver dinner.

After we moved away from each other, we did not connect as we would have enjoyed. Only at Christmas we caught up with our lives by reading each other’s annual letters. No need to express regret; that’s the way life happens. During visitation before the memorial service we greeted three of the Woods’ children who had all attended Asbury College (along with at least one other relative) and who had “Doctor Coker” as their professor for Basic Christian Beliefs. That class served as Bill’s trademark, for what he taught then has formed the lives of this family and more.

It’s time to write a blog. Have you noticed how many times you say, “It’s time to . . .”? It’s time to get up . . . time to eat . . . time to read my Bible and pray (don’t forget that!). I could go on and on: it’s time to brush my teeth . . . time to exercise (getting back to that now) . . . time to eat again . . . and again . . . time to feed the puppy (new addition to the family) . . . and time to let the pup outside . . . and time to go to bed. Then I start the process over again the next day.

Time is important and essential to daily habits. It’s not a bad thing to regulate my time. I need that clock at times to discipline me. Without a time keeper, I’d not keep up with what’s next in my day. Now sometimes I don’t need a clock to tell me it’s time for lunch. I feel the rumbles in my tummy, as Pooh Bear would say. And often (perhaps it’s old age) I don’t need someone to say it’s time to go to bed. But too often these days I need to be nudged out of bed in the morning.

When we went to Hyderabad, India, to help with reconstruction, the leaders at the camp found out that our group included two preachers. They decided it’s time for an evangelistic service. They pitched a tent and moved chairs inside along with a platform. I don’t know how word got around and into the village, but somehow people knew and began to gather for the preaching, some of them bringing their home-made musical instruments. It wasn’t a matter of looking at a clock and knowing it’s time; it just happened. And as to quitting time, that’s whenever they wanted it. This was no ordinary one-hour service.

So while we judge most of what we do by the clock – when it’s time to do this or that, we can include in our daily habits a time to be quiet, listen, converse, and enjoy life – each other, nature, and how God has designed a regular schedule into His creation: “And God saw that it was good. Evening came and then morning: the third day” (Gen. 1:12, 13). Take time to thank God for time.

 

Memories bump around in my mind and have little connectors or themes except that they represent family. The back of Nanny’s house, the yard, orchard, and creek provided sweet retreats and a playground that changed seasonally.

I used to stand on the high porch outside the kitchen and I would call the Bobwhite quails who would answer back. From that porch I saw the Dachshund next door grab and “eat” one of Nanny’s many kittens. That was a bad memory which, praise God, has been erased with time. I cannot now visualize it and the pain is gone. I wonder now if the dog did eat the kitten but only mauled it.

Back to the fun and good times: My sister Minnie and I played in the creek (probably off limits), but we waded through it and collected stones. We also helped Nanny harvest from her orchard and garden. She would scoop up produce into her large white apron while we filled buckets with pecans and fruit. That orchard is now a thing of the past as over the years new construction has taken over the area.

Our favorite times involved playing in the ivy around the big oak tree in the front yard. I know today I’d be afraid of snakes in the ivy, but that must not have been a concern then. Rocking chairs lined the front porch where the family gathered. At night we kids would put lightening bugs (fireflies) in jars and hurry to the porch to show off our collection to the adults.

Scenes inside Nanny’s house included the front stairs and the combination hat rack and bench in the entryway. I wonder what happened to that huge antique. In the kitchen I sat on a high stool while Mother rolled my hair with brown paper rollers or she would curl my hair by the stove with the original curling iron. I called my curls ‘ringlets.’

 

“Words, words, words.” William Shakespeare wrote about their power and he also used them well. Words have the power to heal and to harm. Words are spoken in love, in mistrust, in jest, in kindness, in anger, and are either truthful or false. Bill’s Uncle Bud (Rev. W.C.M. Baggett) defined words as the clothing of thought.

Pearl Strachan wrote, “Handle them carefully, for words have more power than atom bombs.” My mother and dad taught their children the careful use of words. They gave me the right principles for not only the spoken words but also for the thought-patterns which govern what I say out loud.

The principle I remember most regulates my vocabulary, especially for those expressions of meaningless interjections. “Expletives” are “added merely to fill out or to give emphasis” (Webster). My expletives don’t get much use and don’t go much further than “shoot” or “good night.” And maybe I can work on those also.

When I hear others use words that even the dictionary calls “vulgar,” I am thankful that my parents taught me “not to use any unnecessary words.” Even words which are not vulgar but useless add nothing to the thought and meaning of what’s being said. So I have this ingrained “thought patrol” (Joni Tada) which, while it is superintended by the Holy Spirit, has been trained from childhood.

I thank my parents for training me up right, in the way I should go, even in controlling my thoughts and spoken words.

 

From a journal dated August 7, 1996

A girl asked me if being in Israel was the best thing that has ever happened to me. While high on my list, I can’t say it was the best. Even relating it to other trips abroad makes it more of a contrast than a rating scale. The emphasis of a trip to Israel means relating it to The Land, not the people; whereas in India we associated with people of the land. In Israel we studied more history than current affairs. I did not relate or get to know any of the “natives” as I’ve done in other countries. I got to know The Land, its biblical, historical, and geographical significance. I saw how The Land affects the people – of Bible times and presently. I saw plenty of people but I did not relate to them.

I believe the most important aspect of the trip happens as I study my Bible, then relate and associate what I learned and saw. Note these examples:

“Give us this day our daily bread” (Matthew 6:11). The pita bread we had for our lunches tasted so much better there than in the States. I asked why we can’t get it that good and the answer was because it is made and bought daily. It’s fresh. God gives us His grace and mercy daily; it’s fresh. “His mercies are new every morning” (Lamentations 3:22-23). We ask for daily bread, for strength equal to each day’s need. Just as housewives go to market for fresh pita bread on a daily basis, so we go to God for a fresh supply of grace and mercy each day. And it’s available; His supply never runs out.

“Ho! Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters” (Isaiah 55:1). “Blessed are those who thirst for righteousness for they shall be filled” (Matthew 5:6). “He shall be like a tree planted by rivers of water” (Psalm 1:3). Water is essential for life. In the land of Israel so much emphasis is put on water, the wellspring of life. In a land where barren places abound, irrigation is essential. The rainy season and dry season (no rain between July and September) affect the times of harvest and even where people live. “The land of milk and honey” referred to green pastures for sheep and goats and bees, a fertile land, true only in some areas.

One more: “Come, buy, and eat” (Isaiah 55:1) reminds me of the shop venders calling out. But in Isaiah 55, God calls us to Himself.

At Christmas we talk about Jesus coming as a baby and growing up as a man who lived, died and rose from the grave. But there is more to the Christmas story about our Savior taking on flesh, being fully human and fully divine. Sometimes we forget that Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit. The angel visited Mary and told her that she was to be the mother of the Messiah.

“Now listen: You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you will call His name Jesus” (Luke 1:31). When Mary objected because she had “not been intimate with a man” (v.34), the angel assured her that “the power of the Most High will overshadow” her (v. 35).

I’m not a medical person, but I know the facts of gestation. Let’s relate those to Jesus as the “the Word made flesh” (John 1:14). Life begins at conception. That’s an indisputable medical fact. Day one: Jesus, like any other human being, began life smaller than a grain of salt. Everything was in place. Nothing more had to be added. After fertilization the zygote traveled down the fallopian tube to imbed himself into the wall of Mary’s womb. There Jesus, this developing human, drew nourishment from his mother. On day 21 his heart began to beat and the foundations of the brain, spinal cord and nervous system were established. At one month gestational age this unborn human is 10,000 larger than the original size of the zygote. At week 11 this fetus is about 2 inches in length. Only time and nourishment were needed until his time of birth, when we call him ‘baby Jesus.’

So the next time when you think of the Christmas story, back up to the true beginning. That’s where the angel announced to Mary, “You will conceive and give birth.” We celebrate the birth of Jesus, but let’s not forget that His story starts like every other human being – at conception. Yet Jesus’ conception is miraculous, as we state in the Apostles’ Creed: “I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary.”

 

Being here in Indianapolis means we are away from long-time friends made in Vigo and Clay counties. Compound that with the fact that I don’t like to drive the Interstate any more. So we are dependent on friends to visit us. One pastor/friend promised that the next visit he would bring his wife and take Bill and me out to lunch. He kept that promise last week. After a tour around our house for Jan, we sat and visited for a while. Our daughter suggested Cheddars for lunch and so I guided Paul as he drove. I’m getting used to the south part of town so I was confident in my directions. As we chatted over lunch we noticed that all our selections satisfied what each person ordered. That’s not always the case at a restaurant. On the return trip I noticed that Paul had his GPS on and it confirmed my different route back to the house.

That same week my BFF came to spend time with us. The weather was cool and rainy, but Donna Dene ventured out simply to keep in touch. We sat in the sunroom and made good use of blankets and lit candles. As it was a good day for soup, I prepared French Market Bean Soup, a recipe from Sonya, another Clay county friend. Bill joined us for supper, and then it was time for our guest to return home before it got too dark.

Of course personal face-to-face visits are not the only way we stay connected with friends. We recently got a postcard from a friend in Oregon. Diana updated us on their health issues and ministry plans. Last week we also received an early Christmas letter with a photo from the Frosts, a family we knew at our former church but who had moved to Iowa. I sent return notes to these friends.

Then yesterday I received a phone call from a member of the last church where we served (as volunteers). Mary Ellen updated me on the folks at FLCC and reported that she had sent the new issue of the Wesleyan devotional to us. We chatted nearly 45 minutes.

All these blessings of friendship have prepared me for Thanksgiving. I am grateful for friends in the past and I’m working on developing new friendships in our new community – mostly at church, for I’ve not ventured out to meet neighbors.

An added bonus to these out-of-town connections made me feel at home, like the house was mine, ours. We’ve concentrated on saying that around here. It’s not yours or theirs but our kitchen and our great room. But the true feeling of ours came when we could entertain our guests in our home. Thanks be to God from whom all blessings flow.