God's Ledger
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"God's Ledger" by Craig Kelly
"A Deep Longing" by John Sumwalt
"The Birth of Precious Lord, Take My Hand" by Thomas A. Dorsey
What's Up This Week
We all know that times are tough and there are many folks having trouble making ends meet -- so how can we still be as generous when paying our own bills is a concern? Can we maintain our faith that God will provide? Paul exhorts us to find a balance between our abundance and the needs of others. But as Craig Kelly memorably portrays in the feature story of this edition of StoryShare, acting on our belief that God will provide isn't always easy. Psalm 130 speaks of a cry from the depths -- and John Sumwalt tells of a cat with a very deep longing and wonders if his rescue of the cat might have been an answer to feline prayer. Finally, we recount the crushing story of Thomas A. Dorsey's wife -- and how out of his deep sorrow came one of the most beloved of all gospel hymns.
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God's Ledger
by Craig Kelly
2 Corinthians 8:7-15
Darren's pen looped the last "l" in his surname on the signature line of the check. Ripping it carefully along the perforated line, he removed the check from his checkbook and handed it to the man across the counter.
"I'm telling you, Mr. Kimball, you don't have to do this. I heard about what happened to your business, and we would totally understand if you couldn't keep up your giving. Money is hard to come by these days. A lot of people are just trying to hold on to what they have."
Darren smirked as he slipped his checkbook back into the inside pocket of his brown Carhartt jacket. "I know, Mike," he said, "but I've found that if you hold onto something too tightly, it can tend to slip through your fingers. Besides, you folks here know as well as anyone why I have to keep giving. I can't afford not to."
Mike returned the smirk. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. With times being bad like they are, we have been seeing more guys coming into the mission lately. Guys lose their jobs, can't pay rent, sometimes they don't have any family to bunk with, so they end up coming here until they make ends meet." Mike sighed and looked down at Darren's check. "Well, Mr. Kimball, we've really appreciated how you and your wife have supported us so faithfully. I can only hope that we can do work here that's worthy of it."
"Don't worry, Mike. You guys are doing a great job." Darren turned and walked toward the door. "Just keep it up!" he called over his shoulder.
Later that night, Darren took two mugs of heated milk out of the microwave and stirred a packet of hot chocolate mix into each one. With a mug in each hand, he walked into the dining room, where his wife, Camille, sat at the table with her head bowed, squeezing the back of her neck, not wanting to look at the pile of bills in front of her. She still had her waitress outfit on, having returned from the diner not long before. She held the checkbook with her other hand, and she had no more desire to look at it than at the bills. Darren quietly walked up beside her and set one of the mugs down for her. He started to massage the back of her neck, but she moved his hand away.
"Darren, what's with this?" she asked curtly.
"I'm guessing you're talking about the check I made today to the mission," he quietly responded.
Camille set the checkbook down and rubbed her eyes in exasperation. "Yes, that's what I'm talking about," she said. She let out a long breath as she measured her words. "Honey, I knew when we got married that giving was important to you. I know your parents ingrained it into you, with tithing and everything. I've even grown to see the value of tithing myself. And when business was good, I had no problem with you wanting to add additional gifts on top of our regular tithing. But now…" She waved her hands over the bills in agitation, hoping that it would get the message across.
"Yeah, there are a lot of bills there," he said, still keeping his voice low.
"Yeah, yeah there are," she said. "Darren, we used up our entire rainy day fund trying to keep the contracting business going. But homes aren't the moneymaker they used to be. You know that better than anyone. And you also know that my hours got cut back at the diner! What I'm making now can't even begin to cover all of this!" She almost slammed her hand on the table as she grabbed a scrunchie and tied her disheveled hair back in a ponytail, grunting as she worked her hair through it. "We can't just keep giving like you still have a job!" She quickly rose from the table and began pacing. "We… we just don't have the money, Darren!"
Darren saw the tears starting to run down her face. He wanted to console her, but he knew she wasn't ready. After being her husband for five years, he knew that when she was upset, he needed to let her get everything out before he tried to make things better. Otherwise, she would just get angrier. He knew she was trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say in the most painless way. Finally, she just let it out.
"You should have talked to me about this! I can't believe you would be this irresponsible! You can't just throw money around willy-nilly whenever it suits your fancy! Since the business went under, I have come home from work every night, racking my brain trying to figure out how to make ends meet, and now you've just cut me off at the knees!" She rubbed her forehead as she returned to her seat. "I just don't know how I'm going to be able to balance this budget. No, wait, let me rephrase that. I wasn't sure before how I was going to balance the books, but now, after your donation, I'm sure I can't!"
Darren stood there in silence, wanting to make sure that Camille had every opportunity to get everything off her chest. Satisfied that she was finished, he pulled up a chair next to her, sat down, and put his hand on hers.
"Camille, I know that when you grew up, tithes and offerings weren't emphasized at all. I know a lot of this stuff may have seemed a little radical at best, or kind of crazy at worst, but you decided to honor my wishes to tithe our income when we got married. For that, I am so grateful. I never want to fight with you, but I knew that giving was something I couldn't budge on. So thank you for going out on this financial limb with me these past five years." He gently brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Camille took another deep breath as calmness slowly began to return to her. "Like I said, Darren, I've been learning a lot about the need to give God our tithes, and how it brings its own benefits with it," she said slowly. "But the reality is, we just can't keep giving like we did. We just don't have the abundance to give anymore. We're going to have to face facts and not give. We're going to need every penny we have just to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table. I don't want to paint such a bleak picture, but that's honestly where we're at right now." She ran her hand gently down his cheek. "I'm sorry, baby, but we can't give for a while. I know what it means to you, but we just can't. I'm sorry. We just have too many worries of our own to help anyone else."
Darren reached up and wiped another tear from her face. He said nothing for a few minutes. Slowly, a smile started to form on his face. "Remember the Andersons?" he said. "After their house burned down, they had absolutely nothing. Joe started drinking, and it looked like their future was full of nothing but alcoholism and heartache. When the church talked about stepping up and helping them, I knew we had to give, so it was no problem for me to give them some startup money."
Camille interrupted him. "Yeah, you not only gave them money, but you also contracted the construction of their house for free! I couldn't believe it!" She laughed despite herself.
"Yeah, I still remember the look on your face," Darren said, sharing in the laugh. "But look at what happened to them afterward. Joe put down the bottle, and the whole family started coming to church. Now they're all faithfully serving God. In the natural, all we did was lose money. But what was gained is far greater than what we lost."
"Yeah, I suppose," Camille said. "I know Erin has become a good friend since then. But what's your point, Darren? Thanks to things like that, we don't have anything left for ourselves. And sure, we get some warm fuzzy feelings inside, but they don't accept warm fuzzy feelings at a Wal-Mart checkout! After giving so much, we have nothing left for ourselves." She threw her hands in the air. "Where does that leave us, Darren?"
Camille was surprised to see the smile remain on her husband's face. She declared outright that they were practically broke, and this man still had an idiotic grin on his face! She didn't know if she should laugh, cry, or punch him in the face. Maybe all three.
"I'm telling you, baby, if there's anything in this world that can truly change someone's perspective, it's faith," he said. "Don't you see? God used us, our giving, our generosity, to bless someone's life. Don't you think the one who crafted the entire universe, who keeps this world in orbit, who put each star in its place, would call on us to be a blessing to someone and somehow forget to make provision to take care of us?" He looked deep into his wife's eyes. "After all that God has done, do you really think he can't keep a ledger?"
"Well, uh…" Camille debated whether she could dispute the accounting skills of the Creator of the universe. "I suppose not. But how do you know for sure he'll even take care of us?"
Darren cocked his head to one side. "Camille Andrea Kimball, are you even listening to yourself?" he asked incredulously.
She chuckled. "You're right. Stupid question. But when will it happen? How?"
Darren sat back in his chair. "Well, I'm not sure exactly, but I will say one thing: I doubt that God gave me the corner market on blessing others financially. If he used us to help the Andersons, who's to say he won't use someone else to help us?"
Camille let out a long breath. "I suppose that's a possibility. I just hope he doesn't expect us to go begging in the street or anything. Because barring a miracle, that's what we could be looking at the way things are going."
"Good thing for us we have a God who knows a thing or two about miracles," Darren replied, his smile even wider than before.
That Sunday, the Kimballs walked into church, sitting at their usual pew. It was a rather ordinary service, nothing too exciting. After it concluded, Darren and Camille rose to leave when a lady walked up the aisle and tapped on Camille's shoulder. Camille turned and smiled.
"Erin, how are you?" They embraced warmly. "Everything going well at home?"
"Oh, wonderful, wonderful, thanks to you and everyone here," she beamed. "Joe just got a job at the stone quarry outside town. Isn't that great?"
Camille smiled even though she also felt a twinge of pain inside. "That is wonderful," she said, maintaining her smile. "I am truly happy to hear that." Well, at least most of her was.
"Thank you," Erin replied. "But hey, that's not what I'm here to talk to you about. Joe has been helping at the mission, talking with men there who have been having trouble with alcohol. Mike, the head of the mission, told him about how you and Darren have continued to try to give even after Darren lost the business." Erin started to tear up, and Camille felt those same tears forming in her eyes. "You both have given so much to so many," Erin said, her voice breaking. "We both knew that we had to do something to give back to you." She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. "Here you go. We want you to have this."
Camille opened the envelope. Inside was a check for $2,000. Camille let out a gasp.
"Erin!" she exclaimed. "Erin, we can't take this! Even with Joe's job, I know you guys are still getting on your feet! You need this for yourselves!" She started to hand the check back to Erin, who gently pushed Camille's hand away from her.
"No, Camille, we want you to have it," she said softly. "And besides," she added, "it wasn't just us. We talked to everyone at the church, and even some of the guys from the mission chipped in. God's used you both to bless so many others; now he's asked us to bless you."
They embraced again, both crying. "Thank you, thank you," Camille whispered.
"God bless you," Erin whispered back.
Darren walked up behind Camille and gently squeezed her shoulder.
"Well, lookie there," he said, looking over her shoulder.
Camille smirked, then quickly turned and smacked Darren in the midsection.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing.
A Deep Longing
by John Sumwalt
Psalm 130
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!
-- Psalm 130:1-2
We have been shopping for a new door for the garage that adjoins our 94-year-old farmhouse in southwest Wisconsin. The door came apart in my hands the last time I was trying to close it, leaving a six-inch wide gap at the bottom. This happened just as we were loading the car for the two-and-one-half-hour drive back to our city lives in Milwaukee, so I didn't take time to board up the opening. During the two weeks before we returned to mow the grass and have some much-needed R & R, I worried that someone or something might crawl through the breech and wreak havoc. Our ravenous raccoon neighbors and the woodchucks who claim squatters' rights in the backyard are notorious for destroying things that are precious to us.
When we arrived two nights ago, I was relieved to discover that everything seemed to be as I had left it. About an hour later, when I stepped into the garage to get a garden tool, an emaciated calico cat with an inch-wide wound around the center of her tail strode out from behind the stairs that lead up to the laundry room and gave me a "where have you been?" look. It was as if she belonged there and had been waiting impatiently for us to come home. Since we had never met I was not only startled by her presence, I was puzzled by this look of familiarity.
Just as I was about to call out to Jo to come quickly and see what I had found in the garage, two six-week-old kittens scrambled out from behind the cots we keep stored under the stairs for guests. It was love at first sight when Jo got a look at those kittens. And I have to confess, I was just as smitten. I ran into the house to get a bowl of milk and a can of tuna fish. The next day when I went in to town I stopped at cousin Chet's Seed & Feed and picked up a 20-lb. bag of cat food.
The kittens shied away from us at first, but the mama cat came right up and rubbed boldly against my leg as if we belonged to each other. Clearly she had belonged to someone before her single-parent life in our garage. She purred when I knelt down to pet her -- and then when I pulled my hand away after a few moments she let out a plaintive meow like I have never heard from any cat before. It seemed to come from the depths of her cat being. I felt in her cry a deep longing that moved me deeply. There was in that sound something I have known in my own times of distress, both what Paul called the "sigh too deep for words" and that long, anxiety-releasing sigh of relief that comes when an unbearable burden has been lifted.
Could it be that we were an answer to prayer? Does the Lord of the universe pay attention to the supplications of cats?
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt are the former co-editors of StoryShare, and John is the author of nine books.
The Birth of "Precious Lord, Take My Hand"
by Thomas A. Dorsey
Psalm 130
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!
-- Psalm 130:1-2
Back in 1932 I was 32 years old and a fairly new husband. My wife Nettie and I were living in a little apartment on Chicago's south side. One hot August afternoon I had to go to St. Louis, where I was to be the featured soloist at a large revival meeting.
I didn't want to go. Nettie was in the last month of pregnancy with our first child. But a lot of people were expecting me in St. Louis. I kissed Nettie good-bye, clattered downstairs to our Model A, and, in a fresh Lake Michigan breeze, chugged out of Chicago on Route 66.
However, outside the city, I discovered that in my anxiety at leaving, I had forgotten my music case. I wheeled around and headed back. I found Nettie sleeping peacefully. I hesitated by her bed; something was strongly telling me to stay. But eager to get on my way, and not wanting to disturb Nettie, I shrugged off the feeling and quietly slipped out of the room with my music.
The next night, in the steaming St. Louis heat, the crowd called on me to sing again and again. When I finally sat down, a messenger boy ran up with a Western Union telegram. I ripped open the envelope.
Pasted on the yellow sheet were the words "YOUR WIFE JUST DIED."
People were happily singing and clapping around me, but I could hardly keep from crying out. I rushed to a phone and called home. All I could hear on the other end was "Nettie is dead. Nettie is dead."
When I got back, I learned that Nettie had given birth to a boy. I swung between grief and joy. Yet that night, the baby died. I buried Nettie and our little boy together, in the same casket. Then I fell apart.
For days I closeted myself. I felt that God had done me an injustice. I didn't want to serve Him any more or write gospel songs. I just wanted to go back to that jazz world I once knew so well. But then, as I hunched alone in that dark apartment those first sad days, I thought back to the afternoon I went to St. Louis. Something kept telling me to stay with Nettie.
Was that something God? Oh, if I had paid more attention to Him that day, I would have stayed and been with Nettie when she died. From that moment on I vowed to listen more closely to Him. But still I was lost in grief.
Everyone was kind to me, especially a friend, Professor Frye, who seemed to know what I needed. On the following Saturday evening he took me up to a neighborhood music school. It was quiet; the late evening sun crept through the curtained windows. I sat down at the piano, and my hands began to browse over the keys.
Something happened to me then. I felt at peace. I felt as though I could reach out and touch God. I found myself playing a melody, one that came into my head -- it just seemed to fall into place:
Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn,
Through the storm, through the night,
Lead me on to the light,
Take my hand, precious Lord,
Lead me home.
As the Lord gave me these words and melody, He also healed my spirit. I learned that when we are in our deepest grief, when we feel farthest from God, this is when He is closest, and when we are most open to His restoring power. And so I go on living for God willingly and joyfully, until that day comes when He will take me and gently lead me home.
Thomas A. Dorsey was probably the seminal figure in the creation of the black gospel music genre -- and should not be confused with Tommy Dorsey, the popular white big band leader. A prolific and versatile composer whose material shifted easily from energetic hard gospel to gossamer hymns, Dorsey penned many of the best-known songs in the gospel canon, and he was also a pioneering force in the renowned Chicago gospel community, where he helped launch the careers of legends including Mahalia Jackson and Sallie Martin. Dorsey had a moderately successful career during the 1920s as a jazz and blues musician, but by 1930 he renounced secular music to devote all of his talents to the church circuit. During the 1930s, Dorsey's songs became enormously popular not only among black churchgoers but also among white Southerners; by 1939, even the leading white gospel publishers were anthologizing his music. That year, he composed "Peace in the Valley"; although written for Mahalia Jackson, its greatest success was in the white market -- both Elvis Presley and Red Foley, among others, scored major hits with the song. Dorsey remained among the most revered figures in spiritual music until his death on January 23, 1993. If you ever get a chance to see the mid-1980s documentary Say Amen, Somebody, you should do so -- it's a wonderfully joyful celebration of traditional black gospel music, and one of the film's central figures is a vital, octogenarian Thomas Dorsey.
Click here for a more detailed account of Dorsey's career:
http://music.barnesandnoble.com/search/artistbio.asp?userid=2TS3SUIC2H&c...
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StoryShare, June 28, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"God's Ledger" by Craig Kelly
"A Deep Longing" by John Sumwalt
"The Birth of Precious Lord, Take My Hand" by Thomas A. Dorsey
What's Up This Week
We all know that times are tough and there are many folks having trouble making ends meet -- so how can we still be as generous when paying our own bills is a concern? Can we maintain our faith that God will provide? Paul exhorts us to find a balance between our abundance and the needs of others. But as Craig Kelly memorably portrays in the feature story of this edition of StoryShare, acting on our belief that God will provide isn't always easy. Psalm 130 speaks of a cry from the depths -- and John Sumwalt tells of a cat with a very deep longing and wonders if his rescue of the cat might have been an answer to feline prayer. Finally, we recount the crushing story of Thomas A. Dorsey's wife -- and how out of his deep sorrow came one of the most beloved of all gospel hymns.
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God's Ledger
by Craig Kelly
2 Corinthians 8:7-15
Darren's pen looped the last "l" in his surname on the signature line of the check. Ripping it carefully along the perforated line, he removed the check from his checkbook and handed it to the man across the counter.
"I'm telling you, Mr. Kimball, you don't have to do this. I heard about what happened to your business, and we would totally understand if you couldn't keep up your giving. Money is hard to come by these days. A lot of people are just trying to hold on to what they have."
Darren smirked as he slipped his checkbook back into the inside pocket of his brown Carhartt jacket. "I know, Mike," he said, "but I've found that if you hold onto something too tightly, it can tend to slip through your fingers. Besides, you folks here know as well as anyone why I have to keep giving. I can't afford not to."
Mike returned the smirk. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. With times being bad like they are, we have been seeing more guys coming into the mission lately. Guys lose their jobs, can't pay rent, sometimes they don't have any family to bunk with, so they end up coming here until they make ends meet." Mike sighed and looked down at Darren's check. "Well, Mr. Kimball, we've really appreciated how you and your wife have supported us so faithfully. I can only hope that we can do work here that's worthy of it."
"Don't worry, Mike. You guys are doing a great job." Darren turned and walked toward the door. "Just keep it up!" he called over his shoulder.
Later that night, Darren took two mugs of heated milk out of the microwave and stirred a packet of hot chocolate mix into each one. With a mug in each hand, he walked into the dining room, where his wife, Camille, sat at the table with her head bowed, squeezing the back of her neck, not wanting to look at the pile of bills in front of her. She still had her waitress outfit on, having returned from the diner not long before. She held the checkbook with her other hand, and she had no more desire to look at it than at the bills. Darren quietly walked up beside her and set one of the mugs down for her. He started to massage the back of her neck, but she moved his hand away.
"Darren, what's with this?" she asked curtly.
"I'm guessing you're talking about the check I made today to the mission," he quietly responded.
Camille set the checkbook down and rubbed her eyes in exasperation. "Yes, that's what I'm talking about," she said. She let out a long breath as she measured her words. "Honey, I knew when we got married that giving was important to you. I know your parents ingrained it into you, with tithing and everything. I've even grown to see the value of tithing myself. And when business was good, I had no problem with you wanting to add additional gifts on top of our regular tithing. But now…" She waved her hands over the bills in agitation, hoping that it would get the message across.
"Yeah, there are a lot of bills there," he said, still keeping his voice low.
"Yeah, yeah there are," she said. "Darren, we used up our entire rainy day fund trying to keep the contracting business going. But homes aren't the moneymaker they used to be. You know that better than anyone. And you also know that my hours got cut back at the diner! What I'm making now can't even begin to cover all of this!" She almost slammed her hand on the table as she grabbed a scrunchie and tied her disheveled hair back in a ponytail, grunting as she worked her hair through it. "We can't just keep giving like you still have a job!" She quickly rose from the table and began pacing. "We… we just don't have the money, Darren!"
Darren saw the tears starting to run down her face. He wanted to console her, but he knew she wasn't ready. After being her husband for five years, he knew that when she was upset, he needed to let her get everything out before he tried to make things better. Otherwise, she would just get angrier. He knew she was trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say in the most painless way. Finally, she just let it out.
"You should have talked to me about this! I can't believe you would be this irresponsible! You can't just throw money around willy-nilly whenever it suits your fancy! Since the business went under, I have come home from work every night, racking my brain trying to figure out how to make ends meet, and now you've just cut me off at the knees!" She rubbed her forehead as she returned to her seat. "I just don't know how I'm going to be able to balance this budget. No, wait, let me rephrase that. I wasn't sure before how I was going to balance the books, but now, after your donation, I'm sure I can't!"
Darren stood there in silence, wanting to make sure that Camille had every opportunity to get everything off her chest. Satisfied that she was finished, he pulled up a chair next to her, sat down, and put his hand on hers.
"Camille, I know that when you grew up, tithes and offerings weren't emphasized at all. I know a lot of this stuff may have seemed a little radical at best, or kind of crazy at worst, but you decided to honor my wishes to tithe our income when we got married. For that, I am so grateful. I never want to fight with you, but I knew that giving was something I couldn't budge on. So thank you for going out on this financial limb with me these past five years." He gently brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Camille took another deep breath as calmness slowly began to return to her. "Like I said, Darren, I've been learning a lot about the need to give God our tithes, and how it brings its own benefits with it," she said slowly. "But the reality is, we just can't keep giving like we did. We just don't have the abundance to give anymore. We're going to have to face facts and not give. We're going to need every penny we have just to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table. I don't want to paint such a bleak picture, but that's honestly where we're at right now." She ran her hand gently down his cheek. "I'm sorry, baby, but we can't give for a while. I know what it means to you, but we just can't. I'm sorry. We just have too many worries of our own to help anyone else."
Darren reached up and wiped another tear from her face. He said nothing for a few minutes. Slowly, a smile started to form on his face. "Remember the Andersons?" he said. "After their house burned down, they had absolutely nothing. Joe started drinking, and it looked like their future was full of nothing but alcoholism and heartache. When the church talked about stepping up and helping them, I knew we had to give, so it was no problem for me to give them some startup money."
Camille interrupted him. "Yeah, you not only gave them money, but you also contracted the construction of their house for free! I couldn't believe it!" She laughed despite herself.
"Yeah, I still remember the look on your face," Darren said, sharing in the laugh. "But look at what happened to them afterward. Joe put down the bottle, and the whole family started coming to church. Now they're all faithfully serving God. In the natural, all we did was lose money. But what was gained is far greater than what we lost."
"Yeah, I suppose," Camille said. "I know Erin has become a good friend since then. But what's your point, Darren? Thanks to things like that, we don't have anything left for ourselves. And sure, we get some warm fuzzy feelings inside, but they don't accept warm fuzzy feelings at a Wal-Mart checkout! After giving so much, we have nothing left for ourselves." She threw her hands in the air. "Where does that leave us, Darren?"
Camille was surprised to see the smile remain on her husband's face. She declared outright that they were practically broke, and this man still had an idiotic grin on his face! She didn't know if she should laugh, cry, or punch him in the face. Maybe all three.
"I'm telling you, baby, if there's anything in this world that can truly change someone's perspective, it's faith," he said. "Don't you see? God used us, our giving, our generosity, to bless someone's life. Don't you think the one who crafted the entire universe, who keeps this world in orbit, who put each star in its place, would call on us to be a blessing to someone and somehow forget to make provision to take care of us?" He looked deep into his wife's eyes. "After all that God has done, do you really think he can't keep a ledger?"
"Well, uh…" Camille debated whether she could dispute the accounting skills of the Creator of the universe. "I suppose not. But how do you know for sure he'll even take care of us?"
Darren cocked his head to one side. "Camille Andrea Kimball, are you even listening to yourself?" he asked incredulously.
She chuckled. "You're right. Stupid question. But when will it happen? How?"
Darren sat back in his chair. "Well, I'm not sure exactly, but I will say one thing: I doubt that God gave me the corner market on blessing others financially. If he used us to help the Andersons, who's to say he won't use someone else to help us?"
Camille let out a long breath. "I suppose that's a possibility. I just hope he doesn't expect us to go begging in the street or anything. Because barring a miracle, that's what we could be looking at the way things are going."
"Good thing for us we have a God who knows a thing or two about miracles," Darren replied, his smile even wider than before.
That Sunday, the Kimballs walked into church, sitting at their usual pew. It was a rather ordinary service, nothing too exciting. After it concluded, Darren and Camille rose to leave when a lady walked up the aisle and tapped on Camille's shoulder. Camille turned and smiled.
"Erin, how are you?" They embraced warmly. "Everything going well at home?"
"Oh, wonderful, wonderful, thanks to you and everyone here," she beamed. "Joe just got a job at the stone quarry outside town. Isn't that great?"
Camille smiled even though she also felt a twinge of pain inside. "That is wonderful," she said, maintaining her smile. "I am truly happy to hear that." Well, at least most of her was.
"Thank you," Erin replied. "But hey, that's not what I'm here to talk to you about. Joe has been helping at the mission, talking with men there who have been having trouble with alcohol. Mike, the head of the mission, told him about how you and Darren have continued to try to give even after Darren lost the business." Erin started to tear up, and Camille felt those same tears forming in her eyes. "You both have given so much to so many," Erin said, her voice breaking. "We both knew that we had to do something to give back to you." She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. "Here you go. We want you to have this."
Camille opened the envelope. Inside was a check for $2,000. Camille let out a gasp.
"Erin!" she exclaimed. "Erin, we can't take this! Even with Joe's job, I know you guys are still getting on your feet! You need this for yourselves!" She started to hand the check back to Erin, who gently pushed Camille's hand away from her.
"No, Camille, we want you to have it," she said softly. "And besides," she added, "it wasn't just us. We talked to everyone at the church, and even some of the guys from the mission chipped in. God's used you both to bless so many others; now he's asked us to bless you."
They embraced again, both crying. "Thank you, thank you," Camille whispered.
"God bless you," Erin whispered back.
Darren walked up behind Camille and gently squeezed her shoulder.
"Well, lookie there," he said, looking over her shoulder.
Camille smirked, then quickly turned and smacked Darren in the midsection.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing.
A Deep Longing
by John Sumwalt
Psalm 130
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!
-- Psalm 130:1-2
We have been shopping for a new door for the garage that adjoins our 94-year-old farmhouse in southwest Wisconsin. The door came apart in my hands the last time I was trying to close it, leaving a six-inch wide gap at the bottom. This happened just as we were loading the car for the two-and-one-half-hour drive back to our city lives in Milwaukee, so I didn't take time to board up the opening. During the two weeks before we returned to mow the grass and have some much-needed R & R, I worried that someone or something might crawl through the breech and wreak havoc. Our ravenous raccoon neighbors and the woodchucks who claim squatters' rights in the backyard are notorious for destroying things that are precious to us.
When we arrived two nights ago, I was relieved to discover that everything seemed to be as I had left it. About an hour later, when I stepped into the garage to get a garden tool, an emaciated calico cat with an inch-wide wound around the center of her tail strode out from behind the stairs that lead up to the laundry room and gave me a "where have you been?" look. It was as if she belonged there and had been waiting impatiently for us to come home. Since we had never met I was not only startled by her presence, I was puzzled by this look of familiarity.
Just as I was about to call out to Jo to come quickly and see what I had found in the garage, two six-week-old kittens scrambled out from behind the cots we keep stored under the stairs for guests. It was love at first sight when Jo got a look at those kittens. And I have to confess, I was just as smitten. I ran into the house to get a bowl of milk and a can of tuna fish. The next day when I went in to town I stopped at cousin Chet's Seed & Feed and picked up a 20-lb. bag of cat food.
The kittens shied away from us at first, but the mama cat came right up and rubbed boldly against my leg as if we belonged to each other. Clearly she had belonged to someone before her single-parent life in our garage. She purred when I knelt down to pet her -- and then when I pulled my hand away after a few moments she let out a plaintive meow like I have never heard from any cat before. It seemed to come from the depths of her cat being. I felt in her cry a deep longing that moved me deeply. There was in that sound something I have known in my own times of distress, both what Paul called the "sigh too deep for words" and that long, anxiety-releasing sigh of relief that comes when an unbearable burden has been lifted.
Could it be that we were an answer to prayer? Does the Lord of the universe pay attention to the supplications of cats?
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt are the former co-editors of StoryShare, and John is the author of nine books.
The Birth of "Precious Lord, Take My Hand"
by Thomas A. Dorsey
Psalm 130
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!
-- Psalm 130:1-2
Back in 1932 I was 32 years old and a fairly new husband. My wife Nettie and I were living in a little apartment on Chicago's south side. One hot August afternoon I had to go to St. Louis, where I was to be the featured soloist at a large revival meeting.
I didn't want to go. Nettie was in the last month of pregnancy with our first child. But a lot of people were expecting me in St. Louis. I kissed Nettie good-bye, clattered downstairs to our Model A, and, in a fresh Lake Michigan breeze, chugged out of Chicago on Route 66.
However, outside the city, I discovered that in my anxiety at leaving, I had forgotten my music case. I wheeled around and headed back. I found Nettie sleeping peacefully. I hesitated by her bed; something was strongly telling me to stay. But eager to get on my way, and not wanting to disturb Nettie, I shrugged off the feeling and quietly slipped out of the room with my music.
The next night, in the steaming St. Louis heat, the crowd called on me to sing again and again. When I finally sat down, a messenger boy ran up with a Western Union telegram. I ripped open the envelope.
Pasted on the yellow sheet were the words "YOUR WIFE JUST DIED."
People were happily singing and clapping around me, but I could hardly keep from crying out. I rushed to a phone and called home. All I could hear on the other end was "Nettie is dead. Nettie is dead."
When I got back, I learned that Nettie had given birth to a boy. I swung between grief and joy. Yet that night, the baby died. I buried Nettie and our little boy together, in the same casket. Then I fell apart.
For days I closeted myself. I felt that God had done me an injustice. I didn't want to serve Him any more or write gospel songs. I just wanted to go back to that jazz world I once knew so well. But then, as I hunched alone in that dark apartment those first sad days, I thought back to the afternoon I went to St. Louis. Something kept telling me to stay with Nettie.
Was that something God? Oh, if I had paid more attention to Him that day, I would have stayed and been with Nettie when she died. From that moment on I vowed to listen more closely to Him. But still I was lost in grief.
Everyone was kind to me, especially a friend, Professor Frye, who seemed to know what I needed. On the following Saturday evening he took me up to a neighborhood music school. It was quiet; the late evening sun crept through the curtained windows. I sat down at the piano, and my hands began to browse over the keys.
Something happened to me then. I felt at peace. I felt as though I could reach out and touch God. I found myself playing a melody, one that came into my head -- it just seemed to fall into place:
Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn,
Through the storm, through the night,
Lead me on to the light,
Take my hand, precious Lord,
Lead me home.
As the Lord gave me these words and melody, He also healed my spirit. I learned that when we are in our deepest grief, when we feel farthest from God, this is when He is closest, and when we are most open to His restoring power. And so I go on living for God willingly and joyfully, until that day comes when He will take me and gently lead me home.
Thomas A. Dorsey was probably the seminal figure in the creation of the black gospel music genre -- and should not be confused with Tommy Dorsey, the popular white big band leader. A prolific and versatile composer whose material shifted easily from energetic hard gospel to gossamer hymns, Dorsey penned many of the best-known songs in the gospel canon, and he was also a pioneering force in the renowned Chicago gospel community, where he helped launch the careers of legends including Mahalia Jackson and Sallie Martin. Dorsey had a moderately successful career during the 1920s as a jazz and blues musician, but by 1930 he renounced secular music to devote all of his talents to the church circuit. During the 1930s, Dorsey's songs became enormously popular not only among black churchgoers but also among white Southerners; by 1939, even the leading white gospel publishers were anthologizing his music. That year, he composed "Peace in the Valley"; although written for Mahalia Jackson, its greatest success was in the white market -- both Elvis Presley and Red Foley, among others, scored major hits with the song. Dorsey remained among the most revered figures in spiritual music until his death on January 23, 1993. If you ever get a chance to see the mid-1980s documentary Say Amen, Somebody, you should do so -- it's a wonderfully joyful celebration of traditional black gospel music, and one of the film's central figures is a vital, octogenarian Thomas Dorsey.
Click here for a more detailed account of Dorsey's career:
http://music.barnesandnoble.com/search/artistbio.asp?userid=2TS3SUIC2H&c...
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StoryShare, June 28, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
