Second Chance
Illustration
Stories
Contents
"Second Chance" by David O. Bales
"And Under The Earth" by David O. Bales
Second Chance
by David O. Bales
John 21:1-19
Jeffry and his family had worshipped twice in Pastor Phil’s congregation and, as Jeffry did when his family moved to a new town, he now met to chat with the pastor. Over the first half cup of coffee he told Pastor Phil about himself, his family, job and why they’d moved to this remote mountain village. Then he was knocked back in his chair when he’d asked Pastor Phil what brought him to this congregation.
“I committed adultery.” Because Pastor Phil had explained it many times over the past 15 years, he could state it almost flatly. To Jeffry’s surprised look he continued, “It’s in the Bible you know; and I’m not exactly recommending it.”
After a moment or two Jeffry closed his gaping mouth yet found nothing to say. Such an admission doesn’t usually pop up with a new acquaintance, let alone with a pastor. Finally he was able to push out, “Really. I did wonder why a PhD would be here, especially after last Sunday’s sermon when you seemed to quote off the cuff a Roman Catholic saint, a Methodist missionary and a Presbyterian theologian.”
“Different, I know; but, it’s not just a matter of what I’ve done. It’s who I am: an adulterer.” He paused and looked down at his coffee cup. “I don’t mean to shock you. Sometimes the truth is hard to hear. Believe me, it’s still hard for me to say.”
“That’s why you’re here, in this tiny congregation.”
“And why I’m wearing this chafing clergy collar.”
“You tell everybody this?”
“Anyone who needs to know. It’s the information I drop into my confession on Sundays when we acknowledge our sins in ‘thought, word, and deed.’ I’m forgiven by God; but, even if everyone I’ve injured forgave me — and they didn’t — the consequences go darting into the world, crashing into innocent and guilty alike.”
The two sat silently, Jeffry looking as though he wished he could quickly get out of the conversation.
“If it would help you, I could tell you more of what led me here.”
“Well,” Jeffry said slowly, “If you want to.”
“Not a matter of my wanting to. I said if it would help you.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way.” Jeffry was leaning back, his chin tucked down. After a deep breath he said, “Yes. I think it would be helpful.”
Phil rearranged himself on his chair. “The PhD is an indication of my former drive. From the moment I entered seminary, I wanted to be the best — well, best preacher and theologian, if not pastor. Marjory was in agreement. We wanted the biggest congregation, not just the best salary but with the greatest influence in town. I’m not saying that was always most important. But it was always there, pushing it’s nose into every pastoral activity.
“We did okay in the success area. Paid off our student loans even while having our babies. Again, success wasn’t on the front edge of the brain every moment, but safely tucked in the mind’s back pocket. It mostly came out in our wanting more things. In search for more, I got my real estate license and showed houses once a week. That’s how we found the house we bought on the river. It was just what Marjory wanted. The kids grew up there and had only just moved away.
“But as the years went by, the ministry proved not to be what most satisfied me. I took more joy in selling a house than I did in teaching people about the grace of Christ. If I’d been wiser, or if I’d joined my fellow clergy to strengthen and encourage one another in the ministry, I might have dodged Satan’s bullet. As it was I kept showing houses and met a gorgeous younger woman, newly divorced, new to the town. Lonely…. You can fill in the rest.”
Jeffry leaned forward, “How did you find the time?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“You’re right,” Jeffry said, chastened. “Go on.”
“Our relationship progressed until we planned to escape together. She was a travel agent. She deposited some of our moneys into banks we could access outside the U.S. Through her travel contacts she received a job offer in the Dominican Republic and was assured I could get on with the same hospitality company when we arrived there. She’d even purchased the airline tickets. ‘Going to start a new life’ we said.
“That’s when the hurricane approached. My mind was somewhere else by then, the Dominican Republic. I was oblivious to the developing catastrophe. Drove home through the wind to snatch my final things and noticed a lot of activity on the other side of the houses on our street. I went through our house and looked toward the river. Marjory and the neighbors were over the lip of the bank sandbagging in the rain and wind. Here I was, peeking out the window, while they struggled to save the neighborhood. Marjory’s hat had blown away, hair plastered on her head. She strained with a shovel filling a sand bag. It was a terrible scene, but I hesitated only a moment. Grabbed my stuff and left.”
Jeffry gasped.
Phil cleared his throat, rubbed his hand over his forehead and continued. “Drove as fast as I could. I’d driven around that corner half a thousand times, yet here’s a tree blown down. In my guilty state of mind even in the last split second I felt it was God’s judgment attacking the front of the car. Spun me sideways and into the rail on the other side of the road. Bruised me a bit and sprung the doors open. I was defenseless to the sideways rain. I got out and hobbled against the wind into a clump of trees whose tops had blown off. Got in the lee and was there most of a day. Cell phone coverage was destroyed. Nearly died of hypothermia. My brain was still working, however, at least my conscience. It was eating me up.
“In a nutshell I admitted to myself that the adulterous relationship was wrong, also that our marriage had basically been over for years. Both proved to be true. When I confessed to Marjory, she got an attorney the next day. She died six years ago and as far as I know she’d never forgiven me. Our two kids are kinder to me as the years go by. But before I told Marjory, and actually the very first thing I did after I was rescued, I phoned our Presbytery Executive and confessed.
“I was immediately out of the house and out of the marriage and put on administrative leave by the presbytery. But I’d intentionally contacted the presbytery first and confessed. Their administrative commission soon set about heavy duty wrestling with me, determined to save my soul and to save my ministry. I took some real battering from people who cared enough for me and for the church that they made me face the truth about myself. Two years. Along with my minimal real estate sales, those two years took all the savings Marjory left me. The commission finally rehabilitated me provided I’d always be under direct contact — meaning monthly face to face — with the Executive Presbyter, only serve small congregations, and always wear this confounded clergy collar out of the house.” He stuck a finger under the collar and slid it back and forth. “The matter of the collar lets you know that every ecclesiastical group has its quirky people.
“Everyone knows that I ran away from my wife in her greatest need and abandoned my ministry. I’m now serving in the role of the Apostle John. He fled his master; yet Jesus granted him a second chance. So I’ve also been painfully reinstated. John wouldn’t be able to choose his attire. Neither do I. He wouldn’t be able to choose where to go. Neither do I. Yet I share the same grace Christ gave him.”
Phil threw his hands out to the side, “That’s it. That’s who I am and why I’m here. Now, Jeff,” Phil said as he clasped his hands on the table and pursed his lips, “do you want to worship in a congregation whose pastor is a well advertised sinner and only here because he’s been granted a painful, special second chance?”
Preaching point: All Christians, as did the Apostle John, live by Christ’s grace granting a second chance.
* * *
And Under The Earth
by David O. Bales
Revelation 5:11-14
The Comstock Lode in the present state of Nevada brought hordes of workers scurrying into settlements like Goldfield with its half dozen structures. Within weeks the place doubled, and doubled again and again. At first so many hopeful miners arrived that the large mining companies thought the supply of labor was endless. But soon the need for specialists under ground led one enterprising company to advertise in Wales for experienced miners who spoke English, offering to pay half their passage to the United States. That’s what brought Terrwyn, Ercwlff and Llywelyn to Goldfield. They arrived with little money left but they brought the Welsh heritage of mining and singing their faith.
The three now stood in the rowdy group of hopeful hirees clustered in front of Hatfield, a man with a dirty-orange hat, seated at a table near the mine’s mouth. “I’ve got your names written here,” Hatfield said, shaking his head, “but I won’t try to jerk them into American. We gotta’ call you something we understand. This one,” he said, pointing to a name on the paper in front of him.
Terrwyn leaned over to see. “That’s Ercwlff,” he said with a combination of sounds the boss had never heard before.
“Really?” he said. “Okay, he’s now ‘Eli.’ Which one?” Terrwyn gestured to Ercwlff.
“You’re now ‘Eli,’” Hatfield said. “You understand?” Ercwlff understood enough English to nod agreement. Next, Llywelyn instantly became ‘Lou,’ and Terrwyn ‘Tom.’
The three looked back and forth warily at one another. Terrwyn, now ‘Tom,’ raised a hand slowly as if to speak. But Hatfield wasn’t looking up. “You’ve signed your contracts. I’ve got your Xs here.” He plopped his hand on the papers and slid them to his left. “Over there,” he swept his hand to the right across the three, aiming them to a man handing out tools. “You tell him your American names and you’re the three from Wales and you’re getting a nickel a day more. When you get in the hole, tell the boss-man to put you on the shoring.” Other prospective workers immediately shuffled up and the three Welshmen had little choice but to move. As they walked away, Eli said something to Lou in Welsh. Hatfield, though not seeming to pay attention, heard it and turned, saying sharply, “American. Speak American. Same as the Bohunks and the Eyetalians.” He waved at the others waiting to get into the mine. “You get down in the bowels of the earth only to jabber your funny language, you won’t be in the habit of speaking American if there’s an emergency.”
Tom had the presence of mind to ask, “Can we sing in Welsh?”
Hatfield grunted and tipped back his dirty-orange hat, “Sing?” He looked around smiling as though everyone shared a joke. “You talk, you talk American. You feel like singing down there. It’s not my problem. No idea what these others will think.” He grinned to the crowd in front of him and some of the men laughed, hoping to get in good with the big boss.
From the first day the three Welshmen worked the only way they knew: hard; but, the foremen soon realized the difference between coal mining in Wales and silver and gold mining in the Comstock Deposit. The Welsh didn’t know the new method of supporting huge caverns with square-set timbering. They could offer only a few tips on joining timbers, but they caught on fast and maintained their positions with the shoring crew—and their extra nickel a day. And when they were together, they sang their Welsh hymns.
The sounds were strange to the rest of the workers but no one usually disagreed, except when Hofmeister was their foreman. On their third day in the mine the three were hefting a beam and singing a Welsh hymn. First time they heard Hofmeister’s shrieky voice was, “Cut out that gibberish.” They thought he meant not to sing at that moment, but once again, when Hofmeister caught them singing Welsh, he reprimanded them. “American,” he screeched. “Keep it American.”
The next day, when they suspected Hofmeister would be their foreman, they thought they’d solved the problem by singing in English. He startled them by screaming up from 40 feet below, “Stop that racket.” They knew there was no discussion or possibility of compromise. They could only sing when Hofmeister wasn’t their supervisor.
At that time Lou, Eli and Tom were the only Welsh in the mine or the town and they were three of the few who joined for worship on Sundays. The small group met outside the village for their chapel service led by the town’s carpenter who was a Methodist preacher. That’s when the three Welshmen felt they could sing for all the people of Wales who’d arrived to this new world. Their singing in English helped Lou’s grasp of the language so the other two didn’t have to translate so many of the foreman’s orders.
Within half a year they’d settled in to the routine of the mine. They were especially aware of when Hofmeister would be near. But, as Lou said, “by everything’s luck,” they were belting out a great Welsh hymn as Hofmeister stuck his head out from behind a beam. “I thought I told you—” as the ceiling crashed down beside them. The shoring swayed side to side. Men screamed as the chamber filled with dust. Miners clung to the shoring and soon realized the structure was secure. Someone re-lit a lamp and shouting served to report that a total of twelve men were now imprisoned in this bubble beneath the earth. The damage seemed to have hit only on an empty space to the south. Their continuing danger was the few rocks that kept falling below them, so their safest place was on the shoring.
“They’ll be right in for us,” Hofmeister said, his voice becoming even higher as he tried to sound confident. “They can rescue us either from the north or the east. Happened before. We’ll put out the lamp, just to save our air. Won’t take long.”
But it did. All the men could do was sit in the darkness, shouting to those above or beneath them. Sometimes a man told a joke and the others laughed. By the second day the laughter was only hopeful and not full-bodied.
The chamber was giant but didn’t have unlimited air. They calculated they were three days in their dark prison, when Lou couldn’t wait any longer. He started to sing a hymn in Welsh. He began tentatively, Hofmeister being only a few feet away. Tom and Eli didn’t join right off. Tom, sitting next to Hofmeister quietly recited: “every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea, and all that is in them, singing.” Hofmeister didn’t reply, so Tom and Eli joined Lou in their Welsh praise.
No man made a noise until they’d completed their song. Then beside them, that squeaky voice they’d dreaded said gently, “American. Sing in American.”
So they did, and all the years of the praise of Wales echoed in their deadly chamber: “Rough our way and dark the night, Strong our foes but small our might, Prone to droop our faithless mind, Life before, but death behind: Sing we as we journey on—.”
“Down here!” the cry split through the song and all their thoughts. “They’re breaking through.”
The rescue was slow but certain, the rescue crew shoring their improvised shaft as they progressed. In the months to follow the story was repeated that their rescue was a miracle signaled by the Welshmen’s hymn. Some miners, even a couple rescued, claimed it was coincidence. But no one in any language could convince Tom, Eli, Lou … or Hofmeister otherwise.
Preaching Point: Praising God in all circumstances.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 5, 2019, issue.
Copyright 2019 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., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Second Chance" by David O. Bales
"And Under The Earth" by David O. Bales
Second Chance
by David O. Bales
John 21:1-19
Jeffry and his family had worshipped twice in Pastor Phil’s congregation and, as Jeffry did when his family moved to a new town, he now met to chat with the pastor. Over the first half cup of coffee he told Pastor Phil about himself, his family, job and why they’d moved to this remote mountain village. Then he was knocked back in his chair when he’d asked Pastor Phil what brought him to this congregation.
“I committed adultery.” Because Pastor Phil had explained it many times over the past 15 years, he could state it almost flatly. To Jeffry’s surprised look he continued, “It’s in the Bible you know; and I’m not exactly recommending it.”
After a moment or two Jeffry closed his gaping mouth yet found nothing to say. Such an admission doesn’t usually pop up with a new acquaintance, let alone with a pastor. Finally he was able to push out, “Really. I did wonder why a PhD would be here, especially after last Sunday’s sermon when you seemed to quote off the cuff a Roman Catholic saint, a Methodist missionary and a Presbyterian theologian.”
“Different, I know; but, it’s not just a matter of what I’ve done. It’s who I am: an adulterer.” He paused and looked down at his coffee cup. “I don’t mean to shock you. Sometimes the truth is hard to hear. Believe me, it’s still hard for me to say.”
“That’s why you’re here, in this tiny congregation.”
“And why I’m wearing this chafing clergy collar.”
“You tell everybody this?”
“Anyone who needs to know. It’s the information I drop into my confession on Sundays when we acknowledge our sins in ‘thought, word, and deed.’ I’m forgiven by God; but, even if everyone I’ve injured forgave me — and they didn’t — the consequences go darting into the world, crashing into innocent and guilty alike.”
The two sat silently, Jeffry looking as though he wished he could quickly get out of the conversation.
“If it would help you, I could tell you more of what led me here.”
“Well,” Jeffry said slowly, “If you want to.”
“Not a matter of my wanting to. I said if it would help you.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way.” Jeffry was leaning back, his chin tucked down. After a deep breath he said, “Yes. I think it would be helpful.”
Phil rearranged himself on his chair. “The PhD is an indication of my former drive. From the moment I entered seminary, I wanted to be the best — well, best preacher and theologian, if not pastor. Marjory was in agreement. We wanted the biggest congregation, not just the best salary but with the greatest influence in town. I’m not saying that was always most important. But it was always there, pushing it’s nose into every pastoral activity.
“We did okay in the success area. Paid off our student loans even while having our babies. Again, success wasn’t on the front edge of the brain every moment, but safely tucked in the mind’s back pocket. It mostly came out in our wanting more things. In search for more, I got my real estate license and showed houses once a week. That’s how we found the house we bought on the river. It was just what Marjory wanted. The kids grew up there and had only just moved away.
“But as the years went by, the ministry proved not to be what most satisfied me. I took more joy in selling a house than I did in teaching people about the grace of Christ. If I’d been wiser, or if I’d joined my fellow clergy to strengthen and encourage one another in the ministry, I might have dodged Satan’s bullet. As it was I kept showing houses and met a gorgeous younger woman, newly divorced, new to the town. Lonely…. You can fill in the rest.”
Jeffry leaned forward, “How did you find the time?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
“You’re right,” Jeffry said, chastened. “Go on.”
“Our relationship progressed until we planned to escape together. She was a travel agent. She deposited some of our moneys into banks we could access outside the U.S. Through her travel contacts she received a job offer in the Dominican Republic and was assured I could get on with the same hospitality company when we arrived there. She’d even purchased the airline tickets. ‘Going to start a new life’ we said.
“That’s when the hurricane approached. My mind was somewhere else by then, the Dominican Republic. I was oblivious to the developing catastrophe. Drove home through the wind to snatch my final things and noticed a lot of activity on the other side of the houses on our street. I went through our house and looked toward the river. Marjory and the neighbors were over the lip of the bank sandbagging in the rain and wind. Here I was, peeking out the window, while they struggled to save the neighborhood. Marjory’s hat had blown away, hair plastered on her head. She strained with a shovel filling a sand bag. It was a terrible scene, but I hesitated only a moment. Grabbed my stuff and left.”
Jeffry gasped.
Phil cleared his throat, rubbed his hand over his forehead and continued. “Drove as fast as I could. I’d driven around that corner half a thousand times, yet here’s a tree blown down. In my guilty state of mind even in the last split second I felt it was God’s judgment attacking the front of the car. Spun me sideways and into the rail on the other side of the road. Bruised me a bit and sprung the doors open. I was defenseless to the sideways rain. I got out and hobbled against the wind into a clump of trees whose tops had blown off. Got in the lee and was there most of a day. Cell phone coverage was destroyed. Nearly died of hypothermia. My brain was still working, however, at least my conscience. It was eating me up.
“In a nutshell I admitted to myself that the adulterous relationship was wrong, also that our marriage had basically been over for years. Both proved to be true. When I confessed to Marjory, she got an attorney the next day. She died six years ago and as far as I know she’d never forgiven me. Our two kids are kinder to me as the years go by. But before I told Marjory, and actually the very first thing I did after I was rescued, I phoned our Presbytery Executive and confessed.
“I was immediately out of the house and out of the marriage and put on administrative leave by the presbytery. But I’d intentionally contacted the presbytery first and confessed. Their administrative commission soon set about heavy duty wrestling with me, determined to save my soul and to save my ministry. I took some real battering from people who cared enough for me and for the church that they made me face the truth about myself. Two years. Along with my minimal real estate sales, those two years took all the savings Marjory left me. The commission finally rehabilitated me provided I’d always be under direct contact — meaning monthly face to face — with the Executive Presbyter, only serve small congregations, and always wear this confounded clergy collar out of the house.” He stuck a finger under the collar and slid it back and forth. “The matter of the collar lets you know that every ecclesiastical group has its quirky people.
“Everyone knows that I ran away from my wife in her greatest need and abandoned my ministry. I’m now serving in the role of the Apostle John. He fled his master; yet Jesus granted him a second chance. So I’ve also been painfully reinstated. John wouldn’t be able to choose his attire. Neither do I. He wouldn’t be able to choose where to go. Neither do I. Yet I share the same grace Christ gave him.”
Phil threw his hands out to the side, “That’s it. That’s who I am and why I’m here. Now, Jeff,” Phil said as he clasped his hands on the table and pursed his lips, “do you want to worship in a congregation whose pastor is a well advertised sinner and only here because he’s been granted a painful, special second chance?”
Preaching point: All Christians, as did the Apostle John, live by Christ’s grace granting a second chance.
* * *
And Under The Earth
by David O. Bales
Revelation 5:11-14
The Comstock Lode in the present state of Nevada brought hordes of workers scurrying into settlements like Goldfield with its half dozen structures. Within weeks the place doubled, and doubled again and again. At first so many hopeful miners arrived that the large mining companies thought the supply of labor was endless. But soon the need for specialists under ground led one enterprising company to advertise in Wales for experienced miners who spoke English, offering to pay half their passage to the United States. That’s what brought Terrwyn, Ercwlff and Llywelyn to Goldfield. They arrived with little money left but they brought the Welsh heritage of mining and singing their faith.
The three now stood in the rowdy group of hopeful hirees clustered in front of Hatfield, a man with a dirty-orange hat, seated at a table near the mine’s mouth. “I’ve got your names written here,” Hatfield said, shaking his head, “but I won’t try to jerk them into American. We gotta’ call you something we understand. This one,” he said, pointing to a name on the paper in front of him.
Terrwyn leaned over to see. “That’s Ercwlff,” he said with a combination of sounds the boss had never heard before.
“Really?” he said. “Okay, he’s now ‘Eli.’ Which one?” Terrwyn gestured to Ercwlff.
“You’re now ‘Eli,’” Hatfield said. “You understand?” Ercwlff understood enough English to nod agreement. Next, Llywelyn instantly became ‘Lou,’ and Terrwyn ‘Tom.’
The three looked back and forth warily at one another. Terrwyn, now ‘Tom,’ raised a hand slowly as if to speak. But Hatfield wasn’t looking up. “You’ve signed your contracts. I’ve got your Xs here.” He plopped his hand on the papers and slid them to his left. “Over there,” he swept his hand to the right across the three, aiming them to a man handing out tools. “You tell him your American names and you’re the three from Wales and you’re getting a nickel a day more. When you get in the hole, tell the boss-man to put you on the shoring.” Other prospective workers immediately shuffled up and the three Welshmen had little choice but to move. As they walked away, Eli said something to Lou in Welsh. Hatfield, though not seeming to pay attention, heard it and turned, saying sharply, “American. Speak American. Same as the Bohunks and the Eyetalians.” He waved at the others waiting to get into the mine. “You get down in the bowels of the earth only to jabber your funny language, you won’t be in the habit of speaking American if there’s an emergency.”
Tom had the presence of mind to ask, “Can we sing in Welsh?”
Hatfield grunted and tipped back his dirty-orange hat, “Sing?” He looked around smiling as though everyone shared a joke. “You talk, you talk American. You feel like singing down there. It’s not my problem. No idea what these others will think.” He grinned to the crowd in front of him and some of the men laughed, hoping to get in good with the big boss.
From the first day the three Welshmen worked the only way they knew: hard; but, the foremen soon realized the difference between coal mining in Wales and silver and gold mining in the Comstock Deposit. The Welsh didn’t know the new method of supporting huge caverns with square-set timbering. They could offer only a few tips on joining timbers, but they caught on fast and maintained their positions with the shoring crew—and their extra nickel a day. And when they were together, they sang their Welsh hymns.
The sounds were strange to the rest of the workers but no one usually disagreed, except when Hofmeister was their foreman. On their third day in the mine the three were hefting a beam and singing a Welsh hymn. First time they heard Hofmeister’s shrieky voice was, “Cut out that gibberish.” They thought he meant not to sing at that moment, but once again, when Hofmeister caught them singing Welsh, he reprimanded them. “American,” he screeched. “Keep it American.”
The next day, when they suspected Hofmeister would be their foreman, they thought they’d solved the problem by singing in English. He startled them by screaming up from 40 feet below, “Stop that racket.” They knew there was no discussion or possibility of compromise. They could only sing when Hofmeister wasn’t their supervisor.
At that time Lou, Eli and Tom were the only Welsh in the mine or the town and they were three of the few who joined for worship on Sundays. The small group met outside the village for their chapel service led by the town’s carpenter who was a Methodist preacher. That’s when the three Welshmen felt they could sing for all the people of Wales who’d arrived to this new world. Their singing in English helped Lou’s grasp of the language so the other two didn’t have to translate so many of the foreman’s orders.
Within half a year they’d settled in to the routine of the mine. They were especially aware of when Hofmeister would be near. But, as Lou said, “by everything’s luck,” they were belting out a great Welsh hymn as Hofmeister stuck his head out from behind a beam. “I thought I told you—” as the ceiling crashed down beside them. The shoring swayed side to side. Men screamed as the chamber filled with dust. Miners clung to the shoring and soon realized the structure was secure. Someone re-lit a lamp and shouting served to report that a total of twelve men were now imprisoned in this bubble beneath the earth. The damage seemed to have hit only on an empty space to the south. Their continuing danger was the few rocks that kept falling below them, so their safest place was on the shoring.
“They’ll be right in for us,” Hofmeister said, his voice becoming even higher as he tried to sound confident. “They can rescue us either from the north or the east. Happened before. We’ll put out the lamp, just to save our air. Won’t take long.”
But it did. All the men could do was sit in the darkness, shouting to those above or beneath them. Sometimes a man told a joke and the others laughed. By the second day the laughter was only hopeful and not full-bodied.
The chamber was giant but didn’t have unlimited air. They calculated they were three days in their dark prison, when Lou couldn’t wait any longer. He started to sing a hymn in Welsh. He began tentatively, Hofmeister being only a few feet away. Tom and Eli didn’t join right off. Tom, sitting next to Hofmeister quietly recited: “every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea, and all that is in them, singing.” Hofmeister didn’t reply, so Tom and Eli joined Lou in their Welsh praise.
No man made a noise until they’d completed their song. Then beside them, that squeaky voice they’d dreaded said gently, “American. Sing in American.”
So they did, and all the years of the praise of Wales echoed in their deadly chamber: “Rough our way and dark the night, Strong our foes but small our might, Prone to droop our faithless mind, Life before, but death behind: Sing we as we journey on—.”
“Down here!” the cry split through the song and all their thoughts. “They’re breaking through.”
The rescue was slow but certain, the rescue crew shoring their improvised shaft as they progressed. In the months to follow the story was repeated that their rescue was a miracle signaled by the Welshmen’s hymn. Some miners, even a couple rescued, claimed it was coincidence. But no one in any language could convince Tom, Eli, Lou … or Hofmeister otherwise.
Preaching Point: Praising God in all circumstances.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 5, 2019, issue.
Copyright 2019 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., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
