The elderly gentleman smiled as he pulled on a rope that lifted a gate on a stone canal and let the water flow. He stood there explaining the nature of the apparatus before us. It was a mill. A grist mill. The farmer put his grain into a bin that slowly, methodically let it flow into the path of a large stone. That stone pulverized the grain, producing a fine flour; the farmer was quite proud. The water turned a wheel, the wheel turned the gears, and the gears moved the perfectly round stones in such a way that the grain became flour.
I looked and felt that there was a true lesson in that. Sometimes we are visitors at the grist mill. We stand aside and witness difficulties in other's lives. But sometimes we feel like we are in the mill. We feel ground up. We feel like we are being pulverized.
Let's get real. Sometimes we are being pulverized. We are under the rollers, being pressed. Maybe not literally, but certainly emotionally and spiritually. Think about it; someone calls you with devastating news from a doctor. I read some news like that this very morning about a friend of mine. I was grieved for her. Someone calls in the middle of the night and tells you a loved one has died. I received that e mail this morning, too; one of my friends lost her father. That, along with many other things, has happened to most of us. If it has not happened to you, yet, hang on; it will.
The big question is, what will you do when you are in the grist mill? The purpose of the mill is to provide sustenance--nourishment--for others. Your crushed life can be something that helps someone else to grow and be more like Jesus. The one phone call that has impacted me most this year was from a friend in another South American nation. He told me that he was ready to quit, to pack it up and go home. But when we stayed in spite of the terrible, crushing blows that came our way a year ago, it inspired him and his wife. He said our "flour" was his nourishment and helped him to stay. I learned a lot from that single call. It was like a love letter from Christ to my heart.
That is not the only lesson for us. When life crushes you and me, others will see what is inside. They are supposed to see love, joy, peace, endurance, and a few other kinds of grain the Master has sown in our hearts. But sometimes others see weeds, don't they? Sometimes the cares of this world overtake the fruit of the Spirit. God shows us this so that we can correct the problem; and the problem would be that we are not walking in the Spirit.
Are you in the grist mill? Are you being crushed by life's pulverizing stones? Let the Master Miller make fine flour of your circumstance; then go feed others with it.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Monday, July 09, 2007
A Week of Miracles, part 2
This is the second installment on A Week of Miracles.
The 28-person volunteer group was a hard-working group. They started early and worked hard all day long. The bulk of the effort went into VBS and personal evangelism. There was a small carpentry team along who helped with some renovations to a community center the community loans us for our meetings.
What is so miraculous about that? Nothing, in and of itself. The miraculous happened before our eyes some 327 times. Yes, 327 people prayed to receive Christ. Some were delivered from a life of rank sin. Some were young, most were adults. We saw men, women, young people, and a few children older than ten who opened their hearts to Jesus.
It was miraculous that the men and women opened their homes to us. That is not the most common thing in these parts. They don't like people to come into their homes. But they did. The asked us in. And in we went. The floors were often just packed dirt. Sometimes the walls were made of woven mats; sometimes they were made of thin plywood. And sometimes they were made of a thin tongue-in-groove wood. Sometimes they would have a tin roof over their small hut; sometimes it was just a bit of plastic--plastic that leaked. But they all had one thing in common: there were two rooms: one for eating in and one for sleeping in.
In those primitive huts, with dangerous electrical connections and no running water or sewage of any kind, we sat (or stood stooped over because the ceilings were too low) and shared the love of Christ. They were so ready to hear the gospel. They responded with tears, with smiles, and lots of hugs.
Not all wanted Jesus. Some, like Jose, Manuel, and Naomi, rejected the Savior. They were happy in their sin. Even that was a miraculous thing. We parted as friends. The door is still open to share Jesus once again.
The fact no one was dog-bit, no one became ill from the exotic foods, no one came away with lice (which we really did see), or other potential problems was also an answer to prayer.
God was at work in our midst. For that, we give him praise and the spotlight shines on him.
The 28-person volunteer group was a hard-working group. They started early and worked hard all day long. The bulk of the effort went into VBS and personal evangelism. There was a small carpentry team along who helped with some renovations to a community center the community loans us for our meetings.
What is so miraculous about that? Nothing, in and of itself. The miraculous happened before our eyes some 327 times. Yes, 327 people prayed to receive Christ. Some were delivered from a life of rank sin. Some were young, most were adults. We saw men, women, young people, and a few children older than ten who opened their hearts to Jesus.
It was miraculous that the men and women opened their homes to us. That is not the most common thing in these parts. They don't like people to come into their homes. But they did. The asked us in. And in we went. The floors were often just packed dirt. Sometimes the walls were made of woven mats; sometimes they were made of thin plywood. And sometimes they were made of a thin tongue-in-groove wood. Sometimes they would have a tin roof over their small hut; sometimes it was just a bit of plastic--plastic that leaked. But they all had one thing in common: there were two rooms: one for eating in and one for sleeping in.
In those primitive huts, with dangerous electrical connections and no running water or sewage of any kind, we sat (or stood stooped over because the ceilings were too low) and shared the love of Christ. They were so ready to hear the gospel. They responded with tears, with smiles, and lots of hugs.
Not all wanted Jesus. Some, like Jose, Manuel, and Naomi, rejected the Savior. They were happy in their sin. Even that was a miraculous thing. We parted as friends. The door is still open to share Jesus once again.
The fact no one was dog-bit, no one became ill from the exotic foods, no one came away with lice (which we really did see), or other potential problems was also an answer to prayer.
God was at work in our midst. For that, we give him praise and the spotlight shines on him.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
A Week of Miracles
This blog has been silent for the past week. It was not a "blog fast;" I am not into such designations. It was due to plain, hard work. It was plain fun, too. It was a week of miracles.
The smaller miracle was among the sadder things I have witnessed in my 29 years of Christian ministry. It began with a phone call from Pam, my bride of nearly 27 years. She had received a call from another part of this city of around ten million. The lady on the other end of the line was crying, unconsolably so. Her father had gone on a rampage. He beat his 16-year-old daughter. He beat he wife, breaking her arm. Mom and daughter locked themselves in a room upstairs, frightened.
What kind of man would do such a thing? What kind of man would beat his family? It enraged both Pam and me. It was worse by the knowledge that this man was a pastor. Yes, a pastor. A man of God. A preacher of righteousness. And here he was, acting in as heinous a way as one can imagine.
I was over 2 hours away. They wanted me to go and speak to the father. I did not know if I could leave 28 volunteers to do so. But God had supplied a need before we ever knew about it. One of the men was an orthopedist--an M.D. from MS. He asked if he could go with me. So did a young carpenter-turned-preacher who was with the group. The doctor had begun the trip by telling me that he did not know why, but he had brought casting supplies in case of broken bones. So off we went.
When we found the family, father included, there were tears enough to fill a swimming pool. I asked to see what the dad used to beat his family. I cannot do justice to the size of the piece of wood the man used. It was a 2 X 2, over 2 feet long. It was hard and heavy. And with that piece of wood this man beat his wife and daughter. The doctor was livid. He rebuked the man, with me translating.
After some time with the family, and after an examination of the daughter's leg, the doctor told them she should get an X-ray. His conclusion without the X-ray was that it was broken, just as the mother's arm had been broken (X-rays supported that already). All other tests showed the leg was broken; it seemed very clear to all of us there. Even the protrusion on the side of the leg warned of a break.
We laid hands on the girl and prayed for her, anointing her with oil. And we left them with strong counsel to get that X-ray. They did so the following day. And when they took it to the doctor, the place where there was supposed to be a break was fine. No breaks. No broken bones. The doctor grinned like a goat eating briars. The young preacher did, too. God had healed this young lady's leg. It was a true miracle.
We serve a God who delights in demonstrating his power. This was the smaller of the miracles of this past week. Tomorrow, I will share the greater miracles that we witnessed.
The smaller miracle was among the sadder things I have witnessed in my 29 years of Christian ministry. It began with a phone call from Pam, my bride of nearly 27 years. She had received a call from another part of this city of around ten million. The lady on the other end of the line was crying, unconsolably so. Her father had gone on a rampage. He beat his 16-year-old daughter. He beat he wife, breaking her arm. Mom and daughter locked themselves in a room upstairs, frightened.
What kind of man would do such a thing? What kind of man would beat his family? It enraged both Pam and me. It was worse by the knowledge that this man was a pastor. Yes, a pastor. A man of God. A preacher of righteousness. And here he was, acting in as heinous a way as one can imagine.
I was over 2 hours away. They wanted me to go and speak to the father. I did not know if I could leave 28 volunteers to do so. But God had supplied a need before we ever knew about it. One of the men was an orthopedist--an M.D. from MS. He asked if he could go with me. So did a young carpenter-turned-preacher who was with the group. The doctor had begun the trip by telling me that he did not know why, but he had brought casting supplies in case of broken bones. So off we went.
When we found the family, father included, there were tears enough to fill a swimming pool. I asked to see what the dad used to beat his family. I cannot do justice to the size of the piece of wood the man used. It was a 2 X 2, over 2 feet long. It was hard and heavy. And with that piece of wood this man beat his wife and daughter. The doctor was livid. He rebuked the man, with me translating.
After some time with the family, and after an examination of the daughter's leg, the doctor told them she should get an X-ray. His conclusion without the X-ray was that it was broken, just as the mother's arm had been broken (X-rays supported that already). All other tests showed the leg was broken; it seemed very clear to all of us there. Even the protrusion on the side of the leg warned of a break.
We laid hands on the girl and prayed for her, anointing her with oil. And we left them with strong counsel to get that X-ray. They did so the following day. And when they took it to the doctor, the place where there was supposed to be a break was fine. No breaks. No broken bones. The doctor grinned like a goat eating briars. The young preacher did, too. God had healed this young lady's leg. It was a true miracle.
We serve a God who delights in demonstrating his power. This was the smaller of the miracles of this past week. Tomorrow, I will share the greater miracles that we witnessed.
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