The Good Little Girl
Stories
Contents
What's Up This Week
"The Good Little Girl" by Scott Dalgarno
"Adam and the Monsters of His Mind" by Ron Lavin
"From Mourning to Morning" by John E. Sumwalt
"Harold, the Angels, and the Lamb" by Ron Lavin
What's Up This Week
When Saul has a powerful vision on the road to Damascus in this week's reading from Acts, he is completely transformed -- in short order, he sheds his former identity as a zealous persecutor of Christians and becomes Paul, the tireless apostle of the Good News. This edition of StoryShare celebrates the power of personal transformation highlighted in this week's scripture texts, with our featured story by Scott Dalgarno telling of a proverbial "pleaser" who grows up and tries to be Superwoman... only to be crushed by the weight of her self-expectations -- and to experience a healing epiphany in her greatest moment of disappointment.
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The Good Little Girl
Scott Dalgarno
Acts 9:1-6 (7-20)
Kathleen had always been the good little girl, and it had nearly killed her. As a child she found that whatever she did to please her mother, it usually made her father mad. And it went the other way, too. She was an only child and her father wanted a son, so he did his utmost to make her into what pleased him. He took her shooting with him. He made her play baseball. She was no athlete, but she did her best -- and her best at baseball and target practice always left her mother cold. When her mother would dress her in gingham, her father looked as if she were a total disappointment. Poor Kathleen didn't know what to do. But instead of complaining she did her best to comply with everyone. And it nearly made her sick.
Her frustration at the impossible task of pleasing everyone wasn't enough to sink her. No, she managed to marry (twice, in fact), have three children, finish her M.B.A., and take care of the everyday operations of a medium-sized bank for years. And every day she ran a gauntlet at home and work -- because there is no way anyone on this planet can keep everybody in shouting distance smiling.
Still, she tried. There was the divorce and a remarriage, and still she set her sights on being the most compliant, most attractive, most nurturing wife and mother in the world. At work she put in 60 hours a week trying to keep everyone above and below her in a state of peace and productivity. She was good at it.
She had been a person of faith since childhood. Her mother's mother had seen to that, much to the chagrin of her father who wanted his daughter to be completely self-reliant, like he was. "What Would Jesus Do" was her motto; she thought of her home and office as her ministry, and viewed everyone around her as disciples who she felt she needed to keep clean and fed and on track.
"Give me strength, God" was her prayer every day -- and God seemed to give it to her every morning... until she was about 40. That's when the wheels started to come loose from the great enterprise of her life.
The bank, locally owned for the first ten years she worked at it, had been bought by a large conglomerate. New policy statements were sent to her by the dozen. Every day there were fresh complaints from the troops, and who did they come to? Kathleen, of course. She handled them as well as she could to begin with, but in a matter of months her resolve began to crumble. She'd wake at two in the morning night after night trying to find a way through the mess. But she felt like the Dutch boy who put his fingers in the dike -- new holes kept springing up.
When her husband Rick began complaining that things at home were not as they'd been, and their two children, Becca and Brandi, began acting out all over the place, Kathleen knew a reckoning was coming.
Still, she forged ahead with superglue and duct tape until the Easter afternoon of her 41st year. The neighborhood was always invited to Kathleen and Rick's for brunch after church on Easter. And in they came -- a score of them, with kids in tow. The smell of ham filled the house, but there had been a glitch. Kathleen's famous twice-baked potatoes were a total loss -- something about the sour cream being "off." Maybe it was that alone, or maybe it was the fight she'd had with Rick that morning before church about him playing golf instead of helping with setting up, or the fact that Becca's retainer was lost for the hundredth time -- whatever, Kathleen, for the first time in her life, melted down. She'd lost her temper before, of course. But this time there was a definite break going on. She walked right past Mary Patterson, ignoring completely her apology for bringing her cousin Ginny without calling ahead. With the house full she retreated upstairs to her office and sat herself down in her late grandmother's overstuffed chair, where she began to let herself come unglued.
A size seven, she suddenly felt heavy, pressed down by the weight of what she felt was an entire life of failure. She felt a failure as a mother, a failure as a wife twice, a failure as a manager, a homemaker, a daughter. Suddenly all the things she had ever accomplished meant nothing to her, and all the things she had wanted to do were like so much trash.
Right there, on that Easter afternoon with a houseful of guests, Kathleen unloaded completely on God. She told God that she had done her best to be a good mother and wife, a fine employee, a caring daughter and aunt and neighbor -- and it all amounted to nothing. She was tired of trying. More than that, she was done with it. She no longer cared if the neighbors felt welcome in her home, no longer cared if her daughter's teeth were straight. It meant nothing to her that her husband loved her or that her son would pass the A.P. class she had tutored him in. She didn't care if her mother ever called, or if her boss praised her or fired her. She was exhausted in a way she had never known, and she was not at all interested in pleasing another human being for the rest of her life.
What surprised her was that she didn't feel the least bit guilty for her feelings, nor did she feel glad. In fact, she realized that she didn't feel anything at all. There, with the April sun streaming in on her from the skylight, she heard a line from St. Therese uttered in her grandmother's voice -- something she'd heard a hundred times but not for a dozen years -- "If you can serenely bear the trial of being displeasing to yourself, you will be for Jesus a pleasant place of shelter."
Now, for the first time in her life, she took these words to heart. She knew that they were absolutely true and true for her. And in the stillness of that moment with the murmur of Easter company below her, she began to breathe deeply and easily, and she also began to heal.
Scott Dalgarno is pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Ashland, Oregon. He is also an adjunct professor at Southern Oregon University, where he teaches Film and Ethics. His poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Christian Century, America: The National Catholic Weekly, The Antioch Review, and Alive Now.
Adam and the Monsters of His Mind
Ron Lavin
Acts 9:1-20
Adam Stanlowski lived a lonely life in Chicago. He often raged at those around him, especially his family. He was filled with resentment at those he perceived had hurt him. He sought revenge against former friends who had dropped him from their friendship circles. He was a complainer, and no one wanted to be around him. He was contemplating suicide when an Alcoholics Anonymous acquaintance stopped by his house to take him to an AA meeting.
At first, Adam refused to go. Harvey, the man from AA, insisted. Finally, Adam agreed to go, but he was sure he'd be turned off by the speaker for the night. The speaker began: "My name is Saul. I am an alcoholic." Then Saul said that he had begun his journey of recovery when he hit rock bottom and stopped trying to run his own life. "I had to learn the hard way that I was not in control. I had to learn that my Higher Power is in control, not me." Adam turned a deaf ear to the speaker.
Adam was a lot like Saul Kuhlman. Both men had trouble with the demons of drink. Both blamed wife, boss, and friends for their bad luck in life. But in one way, Adam was unlike Saul. Saul admitted his self-defeating ways and his inability to control his drinking. He now depended on God as the power under whom he had to live each day. "I am an alcoholic," Saul repeated, "and I cannot control my drinking. The demons of drink are stronger than me, but God is stronger than the demons."
Under his breath, Adam said, "So, who cares?"
In many ways Adam was like King Saul in the Old Testament. As far as we know, King Saul wasn't an alcoholic -- but he was stubborn to the core and compulsive. Adam and King Saul were both demonized by the monsters of their minds. These monsters dominated the behavior of both men.
Like King Saul, Adam blamed everyone but himself for his failures. Like the king, Adam turned against those who loved him. Like the king, Adam set himself up to lose time and again -- and lose he did. He lost his job. He lost his wife. He lost his children. King Saul was spiritually blind in one eye, and couldn't see out of the other. So was Adam.
During the AA meeting, Saul Kuhlman noticed Adam's body language -- arms folded tight, body slouched in the chair, eyes pointed downward, face grimacing. Once, when Adam briefly looked up, Saul noticed a look of despair on Adam's face. Just a few months earlier, Saul had passed by a mirror and noticed the man looking back at him was hopelessly possessed by that same demon.
After the AA meeting, Saul came to where Adam was sitting alone. "If you'll let me, I'd like to share a story with you," Saul said. "Would you be willing to have coffee with me tomorrow? Just give me 30 minutes of your time." Adam reluctantly agreed, but he was sure that nothing good would come of the meeting.
When they met the next day, Saul began, "My mother was a Christian; my father was a Jew. I was named Saul for two famous people in the Bible, King Saul and the Pharisee Saul who became the apostle Paul. I didn't have much religious training as a child, except for the few times I want to Sunday School with a friend when I was 12 years old. In one of those Sunday School classes the teacher talked about the difference between the two men in the Bible named Saul. I didn't realize it then, but that teacher planted a seed. When my wife divorced me and I lost my job because of my drinking, I was at the bottom of the barrel with no place to turn. Then I remembered something that Sunday School teacher had said: 'The Saul in the Old Testament died a miserable old man, filled with hatred which destroyed him. The Saul in the New Testament was on the same track to misery, but something changed him. God converted the Pharisee Saul on the road to Damascus. He became Paul the apostle, the great witness for Christ.' "
Saul paused and looked into the eyes of Adam. "Then the teacher said something I'll never forget. 'If God could change Saul who persecuted Christians, He can change anyone.' That's what I remembered when I was lower than a snake's belly. That's what started me on the road to recovery."
"Yeah, I've heard those stories before," Adam said with a smirk. "I used to go to church, but I felt guilty all the time, so I quit."
"Sometimes we don't really hear what pastors and teachers are saying until later when we stop and think of the meaning of what they've said," Saul replied. "Those stories changed my life. There's one verse about Saul who became Paul that really helped me see things the way they really are: 'Saul got up from the ground, and though his eyes were open, he could see nothing' (Acts 9:8). That's how I used to be. Then I was blind. Now I see. Like Saul in the New Testament, I finally realized I couldn't win as long as I fought with God. I don't want to die a miserable, lonely, half-crazed old man, filled with hatred, like Saul in the Old Testament."
There was a long, awkward pause as both men sipped their coffee. Then Saul added, "I want you to think about what I've said. The monsters of my mind still haunt me from time to time, but they are no longer in control. My monsters are rage, resentment, and revenge. Maybe you are acquainted with them. I'll pray for you. Call me if you want to talk further."
Saul handed Adam his business card. He stood up to go. He smiled at Adam and started to walk away.
"Just a minute," Adam said. "Oh, never mind...."
The case is still out on Adam. He didn't call Saul, but he remembered what he said.
Ron Lavin is the award-winning author of more than 20 books, including Turning Griping into Gratitude, Way to Grow! and the popular Another Look series (CSS). He is the former Pastor-Director of Evangelical Outreach for the Lutheran Church in America, and pastored five thriving congregations, all of which grew substantially under his leadership. Lavin is a popular speaker and church consultant on the dynamics of small groups and evangelism.
From Mourning to Morning
John E. Sumwalt
To you, O Lord, I cried, and to the Lord I made supplication: "What profit is there in my death, if I go down to the Pit? Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness? Hear, O Lord, and be gracious to me! O Lord, be my helper!" You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and ashes and clothed me with joy...
Psalm 30:8-11
March 7, 1961, was by all appearances an ordinary day. My brothers and I were sledding just after dusk under the yard light on the small hill between the house and the barn. Mom and our little sister were in the kitchen fixing supper. We could tell something was wrong the moment Dad got out of the car. His shoulders sagged and there was no light in his eyes. "Daddy's gone," was all he said, his voice breaking and his eyes filling with tears, as he passed us on the way to the house. Two words, and my whole world collapsed. Death had come home for the first time in my life. I had seen cows die, buried favorite dogs and cats, and attended the funerals of relatives and neighbors, but I had never lost someone I couldn't imagine living without. Grandpa had just retired. "I'll have time to take you fishing now," he had said.
I had been pleading with God all day from the moment Dad got the call to come to the hospital, begging God to spare Grandpa. Even at ten years old I knew that God has power over life and death; I knew that if God could raise Jesus from the dead God could certainly keep my grandfather alive for a few more years. It seemed so unfair that Grandpa should die when he had so much to live for, and when I needed him so much. It just wasn't possible. It wasn't fair. I bargained with God -- offering to be a better person, to read the Bible more often, to pray every day if only God would hear my prayer. But it was not to be as I wanted it to be, and I was not mature enough to pray with Jesus, "not my will but yours be done" (Luke 22:42b).
I'll never forget that terrible day or the grief that overwhelmed all of us in the weeks that followed. I had never seen my strong dad so vulnerable, and would not see him like that again until I sat with him as he lay dying 37 years later.
I mourned Grandpa for a long time, and now I mourn other dear ones that I didn't think I could live without. The passing of each loved one is as soul-wrenching as the loss of Grandpa all those years ago. Each time I mourn for a long, long time, but slowly, and as surely as the sun rises over the horizon each morning, my mourning turns into dancing and my joy is restored.
John E. Sumwalt is the lead pastor of Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in suburban Milwaukee, and the author of ten books, including How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It to be released by CSS Publishing in May 2007. John and his wife, Jo Perry-Sumwalt, were the editors of StoryShare from 2004-2006.
Harold, the Angels, and the Lamb
Ron Lavin
Revelation 5:11-14
Harold was a choir member at St. Paul's Lutheran Church, a church on a hill close to Highway 5 in southern California. He didn't have a strong voice, but he loved to sing. He loved music, but was not a lead singer. He always tried to stand next to other singers who had strong voices. That helped him sing the right notes.
Stan, the choir director, was a genius. He started playing the piano and singing when he was five years old. He sang professionally as a soloist with well-known singing groups. His voice was melodious and soul-stirring. Harold marveled at the emotion in the congregation when the choir director sang. He also marveled at the music that Stan wrote.
As Holy Week approached, the large choir prepared to sing a soul-stirring cantata written by Stan. Practices were held every Wednesday and on several Saturday mornings before the Palm Sunday performance. At these practices Harold found that there was one number that really got to him. "Worthy is the Lamb" was based on Revelation 5:11-14. "That's my favorite," Harold told a friend. "That song touches the depths and brings us to the heights."
On Palm Sunday the performance went well. The choir director and singers put their hearts into singing the Holy Week story. The congregation was obviously moved by what they heard. The sanctuary was small, but was what musicians called "a good sound house," so the resonance was good and the words were clear. A new sanctuary was being planned by the growing congregation, but was not yet constructed. The Palm Sunday crowd was so large that the back doors of the church had to be left open to seat some worshipers outside.
Harold and the other singers could see the cars on Highway 5 coming and going in a steady stream, like ribbons on the road.
When it came time to sing "Worthy is the Lamb," Harold choked up. I hope I can get through this one, he thought. Then he looked out at the cars and the people rushing here and there, and he found himself thinking, I wonder who they are. I wonder if they know God. I wonder if any of them are going to church.
Worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy is the Lamb who was slain
to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might
and honor and glory and blessing.
Then I heard every creature in heaven and earth
and in the sea and all that is in them singing,
"To the one seated on the throne and to the Lamb
be blessing and honor and glory and might forever and ever."
And the four living creatures said, "Amen!"
And the elders fell down and worshiped.
It was like the angels in heaven were singing and the church choir was just accompanying their heavenly voices. At that moment Harold was lifted up to the heavens and could see the reality of Christ and the foolishness of people who ignored Him. Tears streamed down his face as he looked out the church door and saw the thousands of people driving on Highway 5 to the beaches or mountains of southern California. Maybe a few of them are going to church, he thought, but most of them are missing the most important thing of all!
Worthy is the Lamb
Who was slain....
Harold's emotions where like the point/counterpoint of a Bach cantata: joy at the heavenly vision of the way things really are, and sadness because so many people set the wrong priorities and miss the point of life.
Worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy is the Lamb who was slain....
Harold thought, What's the difference between them and Christians? They are sinners. So are we. They aren't perfect. Neither are we. They have conflicts. So do we. The only difference is that Christians know what to do with their sins, imperfections, and conflicts. We bring them to God. Christians aren't better than others; they are just forgiven.
Worthy is the Lamb...
who receives power and wealth and wisdom and might
and honor and glory and blessing....
The basses went low. The sopranos soared to the mountaintops of the rising music. Then the angels and the choir sang the repeated "Amens" of the cantata.
Worthy is the Lamb
Worthy is the Lamb
Worthy is the Lamb who was slain...
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Harold looked out the door at the multitude of cars and people passing by, out of the range of the message, and thought: You are so close, yet so far away from the message. The angels are joyfully singing about the Lamb who was slain, yet so many of you don't see reality as it is. The whole creation is singing and you are missing the point of life. So many of you are living as if this life is all there is. How can God get through to you?
Joy and sadness. Sadness and joy. Deep sadness at those who miss what life is all about, and exalted joy -- in heaven and on earth.
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StoryShare, April 22, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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What's Up This Week
"The Good Little Girl" by Scott Dalgarno
"Adam and the Monsters of His Mind" by Ron Lavin
"From Mourning to Morning" by John E. Sumwalt
"Harold, the Angels, and the Lamb" by Ron Lavin
What's Up This Week
When Saul has a powerful vision on the road to Damascus in this week's reading from Acts, he is completely transformed -- in short order, he sheds his former identity as a zealous persecutor of Christians and becomes Paul, the tireless apostle of the Good News. This edition of StoryShare celebrates the power of personal transformation highlighted in this week's scripture texts, with our featured story by Scott Dalgarno telling of a proverbial "pleaser" who grows up and tries to be Superwoman... only to be crushed by the weight of her self-expectations -- and to experience a healing epiphany in her greatest moment of disappointment.
* * * * * * * * *
The Good Little Girl
Scott Dalgarno
Acts 9:1-6 (7-20)
Kathleen had always been the good little girl, and it had nearly killed her. As a child she found that whatever she did to please her mother, it usually made her father mad. And it went the other way, too. She was an only child and her father wanted a son, so he did his utmost to make her into what pleased him. He took her shooting with him. He made her play baseball. She was no athlete, but she did her best -- and her best at baseball and target practice always left her mother cold. When her mother would dress her in gingham, her father looked as if she were a total disappointment. Poor Kathleen didn't know what to do. But instead of complaining she did her best to comply with everyone. And it nearly made her sick.
Her frustration at the impossible task of pleasing everyone wasn't enough to sink her. No, she managed to marry (twice, in fact), have three children, finish her M.B.A., and take care of the everyday operations of a medium-sized bank for years. And every day she ran a gauntlet at home and work -- because there is no way anyone on this planet can keep everybody in shouting distance smiling.
Still, she tried. There was the divorce and a remarriage, and still she set her sights on being the most compliant, most attractive, most nurturing wife and mother in the world. At work she put in 60 hours a week trying to keep everyone above and below her in a state of peace and productivity. She was good at it.
She had been a person of faith since childhood. Her mother's mother had seen to that, much to the chagrin of her father who wanted his daughter to be completely self-reliant, like he was. "What Would Jesus Do" was her motto; she thought of her home and office as her ministry, and viewed everyone around her as disciples who she felt she needed to keep clean and fed and on track.
"Give me strength, God" was her prayer every day -- and God seemed to give it to her every morning... until she was about 40. That's when the wheels started to come loose from the great enterprise of her life.
The bank, locally owned for the first ten years she worked at it, had been bought by a large conglomerate. New policy statements were sent to her by the dozen. Every day there were fresh complaints from the troops, and who did they come to? Kathleen, of course. She handled them as well as she could to begin with, but in a matter of months her resolve began to crumble. She'd wake at two in the morning night after night trying to find a way through the mess. But she felt like the Dutch boy who put his fingers in the dike -- new holes kept springing up.
When her husband Rick began complaining that things at home were not as they'd been, and their two children, Becca and Brandi, began acting out all over the place, Kathleen knew a reckoning was coming.
Still, she forged ahead with superglue and duct tape until the Easter afternoon of her 41st year. The neighborhood was always invited to Kathleen and Rick's for brunch after church on Easter. And in they came -- a score of them, with kids in tow. The smell of ham filled the house, but there had been a glitch. Kathleen's famous twice-baked potatoes were a total loss -- something about the sour cream being "off." Maybe it was that alone, or maybe it was the fight she'd had with Rick that morning before church about him playing golf instead of helping with setting up, or the fact that Becca's retainer was lost for the hundredth time -- whatever, Kathleen, for the first time in her life, melted down. She'd lost her temper before, of course. But this time there was a definite break going on. She walked right past Mary Patterson, ignoring completely her apology for bringing her cousin Ginny without calling ahead. With the house full she retreated upstairs to her office and sat herself down in her late grandmother's overstuffed chair, where she began to let herself come unglued.
A size seven, she suddenly felt heavy, pressed down by the weight of what she felt was an entire life of failure. She felt a failure as a mother, a failure as a wife twice, a failure as a manager, a homemaker, a daughter. Suddenly all the things she had ever accomplished meant nothing to her, and all the things she had wanted to do were like so much trash.
Right there, on that Easter afternoon with a houseful of guests, Kathleen unloaded completely on God. She told God that she had done her best to be a good mother and wife, a fine employee, a caring daughter and aunt and neighbor -- and it all amounted to nothing. She was tired of trying. More than that, she was done with it. She no longer cared if the neighbors felt welcome in her home, no longer cared if her daughter's teeth were straight. It meant nothing to her that her husband loved her or that her son would pass the A.P. class she had tutored him in. She didn't care if her mother ever called, or if her boss praised her or fired her. She was exhausted in a way she had never known, and she was not at all interested in pleasing another human being for the rest of her life.
What surprised her was that she didn't feel the least bit guilty for her feelings, nor did she feel glad. In fact, she realized that she didn't feel anything at all. There, with the April sun streaming in on her from the skylight, she heard a line from St. Therese uttered in her grandmother's voice -- something she'd heard a hundred times but not for a dozen years -- "If you can serenely bear the trial of being displeasing to yourself, you will be for Jesus a pleasant place of shelter."
Now, for the first time in her life, she took these words to heart. She knew that they were absolutely true and true for her. And in the stillness of that moment with the murmur of Easter company below her, she began to breathe deeply and easily, and she also began to heal.
Scott Dalgarno is pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Ashland, Oregon. He is also an adjunct professor at Southern Oregon University, where he teaches Film and Ethics. His poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Christian Century, America: The National Catholic Weekly, The Antioch Review, and Alive Now.
Adam and the Monsters of His Mind
Ron Lavin
Acts 9:1-20
Adam Stanlowski lived a lonely life in Chicago. He often raged at those around him, especially his family. He was filled with resentment at those he perceived had hurt him. He sought revenge against former friends who had dropped him from their friendship circles. He was a complainer, and no one wanted to be around him. He was contemplating suicide when an Alcoholics Anonymous acquaintance stopped by his house to take him to an AA meeting.
At first, Adam refused to go. Harvey, the man from AA, insisted. Finally, Adam agreed to go, but he was sure he'd be turned off by the speaker for the night. The speaker began: "My name is Saul. I am an alcoholic." Then Saul said that he had begun his journey of recovery when he hit rock bottom and stopped trying to run his own life. "I had to learn the hard way that I was not in control. I had to learn that my Higher Power is in control, not me." Adam turned a deaf ear to the speaker.
Adam was a lot like Saul Kuhlman. Both men had trouble with the demons of drink. Both blamed wife, boss, and friends for their bad luck in life. But in one way, Adam was unlike Saul. Saul admitted his self-defeating ways and his inability to control his drinking. He now depended on God as the power under whom he had to live each day. "I am an alcoholic," Saul repeated, "and I cannot control my drinking. The demons of drink are stronger than me, but God is stronger than the demons."
Under his breath, Adam said, "So, who cares?"
In many ways Adam was like King Saul in the Old Testament. As far as we know, King Saul wasn't an alcoholic -- but he was stubborn to the core and compulsive. Adam and King Saul were both demonized by the monsters of their minds. These monsters dominated the behavior of both men.
Like King Saul, Adam blamed everyone but himself for his failures. Like the king, Adam turned against those who loved him. Like the king, Adam set himself up to lose time and again -- and lose he did. He lost his job. He lost his wife. He lost his children. King Saul was spiritually blind in one eye, and couldn't see out of the other. So was Adam.
During the AA meeting, Saul Kuhlman noticed Adam's body language -- arms folded tight, body slouched in the chair, eyes pointed downward, face grimacing. Once, when Adam briefly looked up, Saul noticed a look of despair on Adam's face. Just a few months earlier, Saul had passed by a mirror and noticed the man looking back at him was hopelessly possessed by that same demon.
After the AA meeting, Saul came to where Adam was sitting alone. "If you'll let me, I'd like to share a story with you," Saul said. "Would you be willing to have coffee with me tomorrow? Just give me 30 minutes of your time." Adam reluctantly agreed, but he was sure that nothing good would come of the meeting.
When they met the next day, Saul began, "My mother was a Christian; my father was a Jew. I was named Saul for two famous people in the Bible, King Saul and the Pharisee Saul who became the apostle Paul. I didn't have much religious training as a child, except for the few times I want to Sunday School with a friend when I was 12 years old. In one of those Sunday School classes the teacher talked about the difference between the two men in the Bible named Saul. I didn't realize it then, but that teacher planted a seed. When my wife divorced me and I lost my job because of my drinking, I was at the bottom of the barrel with no place to turn. Then I remembered something that Sunday School teacher had said: 'The Saul in the Old Testament died a miserable old man, filled with hatred which destroyed him. The Saul in the New Testament was on the same track to misery, but something changed him. God converted the Pharisee Saul on the road to Damascus. He became Paul the apostle, the great witness for Christ.' "
Saul paused and looked into the eyes of Adam. "Then the teacher said something I'll never forget. 'If God could change Saul who persecuted Christians, He can change anyone.' That's what I remembered when I was lower than a snake's belly. That's what started me on the road to recovery."
"Yeah, I've heard those stories before," Adam said with a smirk. "I used to go to church, but I felt guilty all the time, so I quit."
"Sometimes we don't really hear what pastors and teachers are saying until later when we stop and think of the meaning of what they've said," Saul replied. "Those stories changed my life. There's one verse about Saul who became Paul that really helped me see things the way they really are: 'Saul got up from the ground, and though his eyes were open, he could see nothing' (Acts 9:8). That's how I used to be. Then I was blind. Now I see. Like Saul in the New Testament, I finally realized I couldn't win as long as I fought with God. I don't want to die a miserable, lonely, half-crazed old man, filled with hatred, like Saul in the Old Testament."
There was a long, awkward pause as both men sipped their coffee. Then Saul added, "I want you to think about what I've said. The monsters of my mind still haunt me from time to time, but they are no longer in control. My monsters are rage, resentment, and revenge. Maybe you are acquainted with them. I'll pray for you. Call me if you want to talk further."
Saul handed Adam his business card. He stood up to go. He smiled at Adam and started to walk away.
"Just a minute," Adam said. "Oh, never mind...."
The case is still out on Adam. He didn't call Saul, but he remembered what he said.
Ron Lavin is the award-winning author of more than 20 books, including Turning Griping into Gratitude, Way to Grow! and the popular Another Look series (CSS). He is the former Pastor-Director of Evangelical Outreach for the Lutheran Church in America, and pastored five thriving congregations, all of which grew substantially under his leadership. Lavin is a popular speaker and church consultant on the dynamics of small groups and evangelism.
From Mourning to Morning
John E. Sumwalt
To you, O Lord, I cried, and to the Lord I made supplication: "What profit is there in my death, if I go down to the Pit? Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness? Hear, O Lord, and be gracious to me! O Lord, be my helper!" You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and ashes and clothed me with joy...
Psalm 30:8-11
March 7, 1961, was by all appearances an ordinary day. My brothers and I were sledding just after dusk under the yard light on the small hill between the house and the barn. Mom and our little sister were in the kitchen fixing supper. We could tell something was wrong the moment Dad got out of the car. His shoulders sagged and there was no light in his eyes. "Daddy's gone," was all he said, his voice breaking and his eyes filling with tears, as he passed us on the way to the house. Two words, and my whole world collapsed. Death had come home for the first time in my life. I had seen cows die, buried favorite dogs and cats, and attended the funerals of relatives and neighbors, but I had never lost someone I couldn't imagine living without. Grandpa had just retired. "I'll have time to take you fishing now," he had said.
I had been pleading with God all day from the moment Dad got the call to come to the hospital, begging God to spare Grandpa. Even at ten years old I knew that God has power over life and death; I knew that if God could raise Jesus from the dead God could certainly keep my grandfather alive for a few more years. It seemed so unfair that Grandpa should die when he had so much to live for, and when I needed him so much. It just wasn't possible. It wasn't fair. I bargained with God -- offering to be a better person, to read the Bible more often, to pray every day if only God would hear my prayer. But it was not to be as I wanted it to be, and I was not mature enough to pray with Jesus, "not my will but yours be done" (Luke 22:42b).
I'll never forget that terrible day or the grief that overwhelmed all of us in the weeks that followed. I had never seen my strong dad so vulnerable, and would not see him like that again until I sat with him as he lay dying 37 years later.
I mourned Grandpa for a long time, and now I mourn other dear ones that I didn't think I could live without. The passing of each loved one is as soul-wrenching as the loss of Grandpa all those years ago. Each time I mourn for a long, long time, but slowly, and as surely as the sun rises over the horizon each morning, my mourning turns into dancing and my joy is restored.
John E. Sumwalt is the lead pastor of Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in suburban Milwaukee, and the author of ten books, including How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It to be released by CSS Publishing in May 2007. John and his wife, Jo Perry-Sumwalt, were the editors of StoryShare from 2004-2006.
Harold, the Angels, and the Lamb
Ron Lavin
Revelation 5:11-14
Harold was a choir member at St. Paul's Lutheran Church, a church on a hill close to Highway 5 in southern California. He didn't have a strong voice, but he loved to sing. He loved music, but was not a lead singer. He always tried to stand next to other singers who had strong voices. That helped him sing the right notes.
Stan, the choir director, was a genius. He started playing the piano and singing when he was five years old. He sang professionally as a soloist with well-known singing groups. His voice was melodious and soul-stirring. Harold marveled at the emotion in the congregation when the choir director sang. He also marveled at the music that Stan wrote.
As Holy Week approached, the large choir prepared to sing a soul-stirring cantata written by Stan. Practices were held every Wednesday and on several Saturday mornings before the Palm Sunday performance. At these practices Harold found that there was one number that really got to him. "Worthy is the Lamb" was based on Revelation 5:11-14. "That's my favorite," Harold told a friend. "That song touches the depths and brings us to the heights."
On Palm Sunday the performance went well. The choir director and singers put their hearts into singing the Holy Week story. The congregation was obviously moved by what they heard. The sanctuary was small, but was what musicians called "a good sound house," so the resonance was good and the words were clear. A new sanctuary was being planned by the growing congregation, but was not yet constructed. The Palm Sunday crowd was so large that the back doors of the church had to be left open to seat some worshipers outside.
Harold and the other singers could see the cars on Highway 5 coming and going in a steady stream, like ribbons on the road.
When it came time to sing "Worthy is the Lamb," Harold choked up. I hope I can get through this one, he thought. Then he looked out at the cars and the people rushing here and there, and he found himself thinking, I wonder who they are. I wonder if they know God. I wonder if any of them are going to church.
Worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy is the Lamb who was slain
to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might
and honor and glory and blessing.
Then I heard every creature in heaven and earth
and in the sea and all that is in them singing,
"To the one seated on the throne and to the Lamb
be blessing and honor and glory and might forever and ever."
And the four living creatures said, "Amen!"
And the elders fell down and worshiped.
It was like the angels in heaven were singing and the church choir was just accompanying their heavenly voices. At that moment Harold was lifted up to the heavens and could see the reality of Christ and the foolishness of people who ignored Him. Tears streamed down his face as he looked out the church door and saw the thousands of people driving on Highway 5 to the beaches or mountains of southern California. Maybe a few of them are going to church, he thought, but most of them are missing the most important thing of all!
Worthy is the Lamb
Who was slain....
Harold's emotions where like the point/counterpoint of a Bach cantata: joy at the heavenly vision of the way things really are, and sadness because so many people set the wrong priorities and miss the point of life.
Worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy is the Lamb.
Worthy is the Lamb who was slain....
Harold thought, What's the difference between them and Christians? They are sinners. So are we. They aren't perfect. Neither are we. They have conflicts. So do we. The only difference is that Christians know what to do with their sins, imperfections, and conflicts. We bring them to God. Christians aren't better than others; they are just forgiven.
Worthy is the Lamb...
who receives power and wealth and wisdom and might
and honor and glory and blessing....
The basses went low. The sopranos soared to the mountaintops of the rising music. Then the angels and the choir sang the repeated "Amens" of the cantata.
Worthy is the Lamb
Worthy is the Lamb
Worthy is the Lamb who was slain...
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Harold looked out the door at the multitude of cars and people passing by, out of the range of the message, and thought: You are so close, yet so far away from the message. The angels are joyfully singing about the Lamb who was slain, yet so many of you don't see reality as it is. The whole creation is singing and you are missing the point of life. So many of you are living as if this life is all there is. How can God get through to you?
Joy and sadness. Sadness and joy. Deep sadness at those who miss what life is all about, and exalted joy -- in heaven and on earth.
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StoryShare, April 22, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 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.
