A true story from the great mission field of America's Inner Cities

"God's Bumper Sticker"
By Mrs. Barbara McCain

Even though it was a hot July, we had planned for three days of apartment hunting to help our new missionary co-worker, Linda. With only two addresses left on our list of possibilities, we were almost ready to call it a day. As we drove down the street where one of the apartments was located, my husband spied a rarity in the inner city, an empty parking place. As the car slowed, I noticed a bumper sticker on the car parked in front of the space, and read it with surprise. "God is the Pilot, I'm just the Co-Pilot!"

In our American city, that had been without much of a true gospel witness for many years, it was unusual to see a "Christian" bumper sticker. "Look, honey, look at that bumper sticker. And oh, look the car is driving away! Quick, stop them!" "Right now, are you kidding?" asked my practical husband. "I just feel like you should!" "Okay, here goes," and with that my husband jumped out and ran alongside the car, tapping on the window as it started away. The driver brought the car to a halt.

As Linda and I watched from inside our car, we saw my husband leaning into the car window having an active conversation. Soon he was reaching into his pocket for a church tract. Little did we know he had stopped an armed constable on his way to serve a summons! But soon the man was out of the car, slapping my husband on the back and then turning, he yelled up to one of the open tenement windows bordering the street. A beautiful young woman holding a toddler leaned out the second story window and soon a stream of Spanish conversation flowed between the two adults. It took Linda and I a few sentences to realize we were instantly translating. We both spoke Spanish, but had been struggling with the Azorean Portuguese spoken more often in our ethnic city. The English translation was beautiful to our ears!

"Maria, guess what. This is a Baptist missionary! He has come to our city to start a church."

"Oh, Louie, how wonderful!" "Sweet wife, can we have the pastor and his wife over tonight?"

"Certainly!"

"And you call some people. Tell them we will have a good Bible question and answer time!"

"Okay," with that Maria flashed a big smile.

As quick as it had started, the encounter ended. Before our wondering gaze, the men shook hands and exchanged a few words. Louis jumped back into his car and drove off. "Did you hear that, ladies?" Brother McCain smiled really big, "We have us an invitation to their home tonight."

“Oh, we heard, tell us more," I said. "Seems this couple got saved in another city recently and don't really have a church to go to. So, they want us to come over tonight and answer some questions about the Bible, and about us! I'm sure glad you saw that bumper sticker and made me dash out in the street like that!" This was accompanied by a grin and a little squeeze of my hand.

The apartment listing for Linda was a disappointment, but we were not in the least bit disappointed in our prospects for the evening.

At 8:00 PM, as the sea breezes cooled the city, we parked our car on the same street. All three of us entered the small tenement and met Louie, Maria and their friends. For the next two hours, we shared our burden to start a church in their city. They heartily agreed that there was no Bible preaching church there. After giving their testimonies to us, Louie and Maria invited questions from their friends. About 10 PM., the friends left but we were asked to stay.

"Brother McCain, you can count on Maria and me to be at your services Sunday," grinned Louie.

"Praise the Lord, brother, we will be most glad to have you."

"And there is a nursery for your little boy," I added.

"I'll bring the other one along with me," laughed Maria as she looked down at her expectant motherly condition. "Oh, Louie, you should have Brother McCain go talk to Bud and Lauren!"

"Hey, that's a great idea, they really need to get saved."

"Great," said my husband, "When can we go?"

"What about right now! This is the best time to catch them at home," said Louie, " Oh by the way, he's a biker and - well can you go?"

"If Linda will take my wife home, I would love to go. It's almost 11 o'clock and the children are at home."

"Sure thing," answered Linda.

About 2:30 A.M., I heard the key in our back door and in a few steps my husband was into the bedroom.

"Honey, they both got saved!"

"Really, wonderful!" I was instantly awake.

"And they have a cute little baby boy, and you are going to meet Lauren tomorrow. And, honey, we're going to have our first church wedding! Boy, am I tired! It must be almost morning. I'm sure glad you saw that bumper sticker!"

When I met Lauren the next day, I offered to make her a wedding dress.

"Would you really do that?" she asked, her eyes misting, "Could it be old fashioned and lavender?"

"Of course," I laughed. The smile in response was worth all the labor I knew the dress would take.

Two days later, the phone rang. It was Lauren. "Mrs. McCain, could you come right away? Remember that friend I told you about yesterday, Marge? Well, I contacted her and I think she's desperate. In fact, I think she is on the verge of suicide. She agreed to talk to you first. Could you come? Here's her house number, she has no phone."

Linda and I quickly drove to the address and knocked on the door. We could hear scuffling and feet running, then doors shutting, but no one came. Knocking again, and getting no response, I pushed the door open. We walked into a large unkept room off of which all the other rooms to the tenement were joined. All the rooms had closed doors and behind the doors, unknown to us, were the people whose feet we had heard. In the middle of the room, seated at a table was a woman in her late twenties.

"Marge?" My voice spoke the question and seeing her head slowly nod, I advanced. "I'm Mrs. McCain, Pastor McCain's wife and Lauren said she told you I would come."

"I know," she answered without rising, "Won't you please sit down?"

I quickly moved to the closest chair at the table and laid my hand on her arm. "Marge, I know we haven't met before and maybe you won't understand this, but I love you." Her eyes turned towards me. "I have been praying for you since yesterday, you see. And God can give us a special love for people. Marge, wouldn't you like to hear how God could change your life?"

My hand pressed softly but firmly on her forearm, and suddenly she burst into quiet tears. "Oh, yes, I'm so glad you came. Yes, please tell me."

Quickly and sweetly, the joy of leading someone to Christ became a reality in that room, at that table, while behind every door ears were listening. When we were finished praying and crying, Marge shared with me her burdens and present life. Her husband had left, there was little money, and the children were a real challenge.

"Are your children behind the doors?" I laughed, "I'm brave enough to meet them!"

Now it was Marge's turn to laugh, "Come on out kids!" Then in a softer voice she said, "But my mom won't come out, she is very shy. Maybe next time." A large toddler boy, a blonde rosy checked nine year, and a tall twelve year old boy came out. Marge introduced us, and I invited them to Sunday School and church. The older accepted and I soon found they were quite good talkers.

"I'll check on you tomorrow, Marge, and we'll pick you up for church Sunday. How would you like my husband to find your husband? In fact tomorrow he will come with me to talk to you." The strong hug I received confirmed her gratefulness.

Linda and I stopped at Maria's tenement to share the news. Lauren was also there and when we told about Marge's conversion she cried. "I think I'll ask Marge to be my attendant!"

We had a warm feeling as we walked back onto the city sidewalk just as we saw Louie’s car turn the corner - bumper sticker plainly in view.

"And some people think America is not a mission field," laughed Linda, echoing our personal private burden for the many who had failed to understand our call to the inner city.

In the next three months, the witness as a result of the bumper sticker grew and grew. Marge's two older children were the next to be saved, then her brother and his wife, her quiet mother, her sister, and her mother-in-law and her boyfriend. Then that lady's best friend and two children. The crowning moment occurred several months later as the consistent and long witnessing to Marge's rebellious husband paid off. Right in the middle of the preaching service, Skip raised his hand and strongly asked, "Can I get saved now or do I have to wait until the invitation?" Not only was he saved then, but the family fully restored.

Oh, and also that summer, just three weeks after the first meeting, we held a Vacation Bible School in Maria's back yard for the neighborhood children. Ten were saved there, and at the end of the week two of the mother's prayed to receive Christ while we were in their home on follow-up. One of them tearfully confessed that her mother had been witnessing to her, her mother who had just moved into the city but had not found a church to attend. As that mother joined our church, she told us of her friend at work. We visited and she got saved, then her three children and her husband ....and the witness went on. Even all the smaller toddlers grew up to their ages of understanding and prayed to receive the Lord. Marge’s smallest son was the first to wear a real baptismal outfit in our church baptistry. And just weeks before we left the work as a self-supporting church, I had the joy of praying with Crystal, who had been that baby residing inside Maria that first summer day. Crystal's smile and nod of agreement to the call of Christ on her life caused tears to come to Maria's eyes as she picked her up at the close of kindergarten class and was told of the great event.

The missionaries are gone now, we are looking for other cities, but the ministry started that day will prayerfully go on and on. All because of a bumper sticker, God's bumper sticker. And, to think, Louie sold that car just two weeks after we met him.

The above story is entirely true and occurred in the lives of missionaries Dennis and Barbara McCain and Miss Linda Earnshaw who served in North American Church Planting under Baptist Mid-Missions. Theirs was a team ministry in the ethnic inner city of a major town in New England.A true story from the great mission field of America's Inner Cities

"God's Bumper Sticker"

By Mrs. Barbara McCain

Decisions

A short story by Barbara McCain, July, 2003

During World War II, my father’s unit occupied many islands in the Pacific. At the time that they landed in British Samoa he was a Buck Sergeant. The troops were taken to the back side of the island by sea. It was hot and humid at that time of the year, yet each man received only one canteen of water. Their objective was to scale the one large mountain in the midst and come down on the other side into the island proper. The first terrain that they encountered after the beach was a steaming swamp. Their uniforms were soon filled with sand and muck as the swamp reached deeper and deeper depths. Soon the heat began to affect them and every part of their body ached for water and relief. Yet they only had the one canteen and the mountain was still ahead.

The climb was very steep and when night fall came, each man had to cling to a tree in order to rest their weary bodies. Some must have thought that surely there would be fresh water, but that side of the mountain was devoid of any. By the time the men reached the peak and started down the other side, they were parched with thirst. All had run out of water.

Suddenly, a soldier spotted a pipe line. They all agreed that it must be a water supply for the plantations in the flat land below. One of the higher ranking sergeants suggested that they should shot a hole in the pipeline and each one be refreshed and refill their canteens. Several were very adamant that the plan should be followed. The lieutenant turned to my father and asked him what he thought.

"Well, Sir, I agree that it is a water pipeline. It probably supplies some of the needs of the people below. But, I do not think we should shoot a hole in the line and disrupt the flow to those people. It doesn’t belong to us and, besides, I do think we can make it, Sir."

The lieutenant gave the order. "Keep going men, and do not shot the pipe line. The Sergeant is right."

There may have been some grumbling thoughts, but they all obeyed the order. Soon the terrain became easier to traverse and they could see a plantation before. As they came within sight of the trees, the New Zealand owner, motioned to them.

"Come on, fellows. You all look parched. We have plenty of water here. We ran a pipe line from the only spring on the mountain. Come refresh yourselves. I’m so glad you came upon me, the water is flowing nice and fresh today."

While the men satisfied their thirst, the owner provided them with papayas and fruit that were cooling in the much needed water that the owner said he hoped to safeguard for the islanders. Soon he had the lieutenant on his contact phone to headquarters. The owner was a supporter of our troops. There were some sheepish glances passed amongst the men. The Buck Sergeant had been right after all.

The next day, safely at base camp, my father received a promotion and the "shot a hole in it" higher officer was suddenly missing from the detail. My father had chosen the correct and moral way, even in the midst of terrible thirst. For that he was rewarded, not only with new rank, but a lesson of a life time.

The swamps and the steep climbs of life are there for all of us. It may not be as humid as British Samoa, but it can be just as challenging. Even a little pipeline can result in opportunities for life altering decisions. The test is in the choices we make. The Psalmist said: I have chosen the way of truth: thy judgments have I laid before me. Psalm 119:30 To choose the right thing, even in what seems a small decision must be based upon the judgments of the way of truth. To "shot a hole in the pipeline," can mean shooting a hole in your opportunities to grow in character and strength.

Transverse the slippery place, claw the way up the mountain side, but remember to cling to the Tree of Life when your strength is weak. When you are parched with thirst, look for the fresh flowing Springs of God’s Word. Don’t settle for less, push on in truth. For on the other side may be an abundance of blessing, sweet springs of refreshment, rewards for faithfulness and, maybe even some fresh cool papayas.

My Friend Jesus

By Barbara McCain
August 1973

All my friends are gone today and there is no one to play with at all. Billy went to his neighbor’s house. Jimmy went to the store with his mother. Johnny had to go to the doctor’s office.

Even my big brother isn’t home. He’s riding his bicycle, and my baby sister is asleep. It can be very lonely when there are no friends around.

I think I’ll look for Mommy. There she is, sitting in the big chair, reading from the Bible. That makes me remember something Mommy told me - Jesus is my friend, too.

If Jesus is my friend, He might want to play with me! I wonder where He is? I know He isn’t in my bedroom because I didn’t see anybody there. Maybe He is outside. I’ll ask Mommy.

Mommy says, "You can’t see Jesus with your eyes, but He is everywhere, all the time."

"Outside even?"

"Yes, dear, outside even."

I still can’t see anybody outside, but if Mommy says Jesus is here, He must be.

Sometimes at night I can’t see my brother, but if I reach out my hand I can feel that he’s there. Maybe I can feel Jesus! If I just stretch out both of my hands far enough — but all I feel is the warm sunshine and the wind going through my fingers.

Maybe if I stand very still and listen very quietly, I can hear Jesus — but all I hear are the birds singing and the wind blowing.

Is he behind that tree? No — nobody is there.

Where is Jesus? I know that I looked hard enough. Mommy said He was everywhere. Does that mean all around me and right beside me? I think I know now, Jesus has been here all the time. I did feel Him, I did hear Him, and I did see Him.

You know what? I am not so lonely any more. I’m going to talk to my Friend Jesus, because friends are fun to talk to. And you know what I’m going to say to my Friend Jesus?

"Thank you, Jesus, for being right here beside me. I love You."

A God - Changed Life
By Mrs. Barbara McCain

Some of the alcoholics that had come to the rescue mission that night may have wondered what the young man about to preach could possibly say to them. After all, he was obviously different than they; how could he understand? And different he certainly was: well dressed, clean cut, tan, and healthy looking. Then there was the rumor, maybe whispered around, that he was a cop - a deputy sheriff, and that bulge under his coat was a Revolver. What right did he have to say he could understand and have an answer to their needs? But when he started to speak, he began with a story many knew very well. His was a story similar to many of their own, how a man can turn his back on all that is good for the sake of sin and alcohol. After several minutes they came to realize that it was the young man’s own story and the only reason he did not sit on their side of the pulpit was that God had intervened, Jesus had changed his life.

He told the story in the short, simple, direct way that was his custom after six years of writing police reports. The full story is of a man with everything to live for, who turned his back on God, his wife, and his family. He had seen saved at age fifteen, been a high school athlete, married his high school sweetheart, fathered two beautiful sons, and followed his chosen career as a peace officer, all by the age of twenty-two. A man with a bright future, some may have said. And yet there was something missing. Though saved as a teenager, he had never developed that deep reliance on God, an intimate knowledge of His word, or turned his total life over to the Lord. Though on the surface he had seemed to be a model Christian: a Sunday school teacher, youth leader, soul winner, in his own life he had never totally yielded to the Lord's strength, but had, for the most part, gone it on his own. So when the temptations came, there was not that deep strength in the Lord to resist. And the temptations did come - quickly and strongly. At first, he had withstood the teasing of the other deputies as they drank after work: names such as "The Kid," "The Milk Kid," "Preacher," and it seemed almost a compliment. But after awhile it seemed the only way to be accepted was to drink with his friends, go out with them, and not mention Christ, who might be an embarrassment to all concerned. The few drinks led to many and now, in retrospect, it is very easy to assume he could have become a full fledged alcoholic.

After three years of such life his personality suffered. While he had once desired to work with youth as a juvenile officer for Christ; now he was one of the hardest, toughest cops at the station, known as the most "gung ho" deputy. But the real change was in his relationships with Christ and his family. He changed from a regular church attender, supportive of all causes of Christ, to one who shunned the church and ridiculed his wife’s talks about the Lord. From a loving, gentle husband, he became cold, withdrawn, cruel, until he was able to date others while his own wife was critically ill in the hospital, never visiting her for two months. When the doctors asked him to comfort his wife, say he loved her, he refused, just waiting until she would die or recover sufficiently to proceed with a divorce. He went from proud, loving father, to an unpredictable one, leaving his own two sons, hardly five and three years of age, some days to wander the streets and care for themselves. At the same time he would stay out to avoid the feelings of guilt that came when he saw them. But then God started to work on his heart, and the work was one of convicting power. Truly though he had turned his back on God, God had never left him and now was ready to lead him back where he belonged.

The full cycle of return took six months. It started when he went to the hospital to urge the doctors to find the cause of his wife’s illness and treat it: after some urging from his wife, in laws and this new felt inner urging from the Lord. When he viewed her there, down to seventy pounds, he suddenly began to realize he had almost lost many of the things that had been formerly so precious to him, the things God had given him: wife, family, job. Days afterwards, he was able to send his wife flowers for the first time with a note saying simply "I love you," three words he would have been unwilling and unable to say a week earlier. God had indeed begun His loving work in this young man's heart. What had taken three and a half years of Satan's scheming, was slowly and painfully, at times, reversed. He felt he could handle even these problems on his own, without God's help. Being a father and husband again, seemed easy at first, but there were still the sinful desires, the lack of total communication. Nevertheless, great strides were made- as God was at work, the wife relied on the Lord for help, and many unseen prayer warriors prayed. But the alcohol was not so easily dismissed, it sought to regain its ground until only three months later, two times in a row, he had to be carried home senseless after drinking bouts. He was finally at his own low point, it was becoming obvious he could not solve all his problems on his own, though he tried. God was bringing him to the point where God's full work of renewal could be worked.

After moving to a new community, a sensitive, godly pastor learned of the young man, now 25+ years of age, and of his talent for singing. Taking a step of faith, the pastor told the young man he was on the program to sing Sunday night at church. It was at this church that several of the station deputies had recently been saved. By this time enough had been changed, his marriage, his drinking almost in control, that the man felt he could go back to church, especially if other deputies were expecting him, but not ready to admit he needed to turn his life over to God, to beg for forgiveness and have a complete spiritual rededication. But when he came to the pulpit that night to sing "It Took A Miracle," a burden lay so heavily on him that he could not sing, until in total humility he publicly confessed his sin and rededicated his life in front of that entire congregation. It was an emotional event. I know because I was there, and I lived through it all. That deputy sheriff is my husband, Dennis McCain. I felt the tears too deep for crying as he sang that song having declared that it would take a miracle to change him but he knew God alone could perform it. He also declared that while he had felt he had been a strong tough man, doing it on his own, all he had was practically lose all that was of any importance in his life. I experienced deep thanksgiving as I witnessed that public answer to five years of praying. I was also there three months later when God called Dennis to full time service, by his side when he went forward in answer to a call for mission service, and very proud when in May 1975 he graduated from Los Angeles Baptist College. But most importantly, I have been there to see God change a man. If I were to say God restored Dennis as a husband and a father, that would not be the complete truth. In actuality, God gave us more than our prayers - a new creation in Christ Jesus, a more loving husband, father and follower of Jesus than we had dared to pray for or had ever seen before. That is why the night he spoke in the mission he could seem so different. Not one man could have guessed that the story of the sinful lover of alcohol and hater of the things of God was the speaker’s former self. We can both say praise to God for His loving grace that can reach down and give us a new life in Christ Jesus.

Life and health was totally restored. And, praise the Lord, Dennis has never touched a drink since his rededication. Now he drinks of the deeper refreshing of God.

Homelessness
By Mrs. Barbara McCain

Recently, after viewing a commentary concerning the plight of one homeless family, I had a rather startling, but simplistic idea form within my mind, "Where are the grandparents of that family?"

The more I thought about that question, the more searching it became and the more it decried many facets of modern American life. The question enlarged itself and began to cry out, "Where are the grandparents, the parents, the aunts, the uncles, the sisters, the brothers and the children of these homeless?"

And added to that list was the nagging thought, "What has happened to American family love and loyalty?"

It was not too many years ago, that families were considered units of confirmed loyalty and permanence. During pioneer days if Uncle Howard's house burned down, he and his family lived with their relatives until the entire community could join together in raising the walls of a new home. It did not matter if Uncle Howard's brother had only a three room log house, room was found in that special condition called "togetherness" that tragedy and need often builds. No one begrudged the fact that the chicken had to be stretched further in a watery stew. They were just grateful to share. During times of early settlements, the fever ridden colonist knew their children would be cared for and taken into the home of another, just because of love, decency and honor, even if death were to make that taking permanent. On the plains, in the midst of winter, entire tribes shared equally so that all could survive. In the depression, many a young couple moved in with their parents and were never made to feel the worse for it. There was a source of dignity and pride that was called "unconditional love" that abounded in America. It encompassed a wide scope. It meant if little cousin Lydia's parents died out west, she was brought home with love and affection and made one of your own. It meant if Aunt Sally had an illness that caused her to lose all reason, she was patiently cared for and protected within the family and hopefully brought through the crisis. It even meant if Brother John became an alcoholic, you took off from work and spent anguished hours seeing him through the withdrawal and making certain he knew you were there for him to keep him straight. It meant if a son was "down on his luck," you flung open the doors of your home and welcomed him in with a warm embrace, no questions asked, until he was ready to receive your counsel and help to get his feet firmly planted on the ground again. Home was always the place you could "go home to," and family was always there to help.

How many heartwarming stories have we read of the jobless GI and his bride living with Mom and Dad until they found a job and place of their own, even if a little one joined the group. Did that stop happening after World War II? Did it somehow become "unfashionable" to be lovingly supportive of each other? In my own family, I can not imagine one of my children not knowing that they could pick up the phone and place a collect phone call from anywhere, knowing that the voice on the other end would say, "I'll come and get you, son." That does not lower my expectation views of my grown children, or my desire for them to be independent, or their need to form their own identity. It does mean that family is always a reality, under girded by unconditional love and a common respect that says, "I will care for you." I also know that my parents would do the same for me. It is not a question of whether or not they would, I know.

No matter how poor we are, there should always be a place of caring and love that says, "I will be here for you. Come on in, we will share what little we have and survive together." It has happened for generations, it has been part of what made America the land it is today. Perhaps it should happen again. Have many of us forgotten that we are a land of immigrants, who were all "taken in" in time of need, if not by someone else, then by the land herself? To imagine myself sitting comfortably within four walls of my home, no matter how small or how large, and knowing that a son or daughter, aunt or uncle, mother or father, sister or brother, was out there without home or hope seems unconscienable. If it were my son, I could not rest a day until I had searched the highways and byways and found him to bring him home. But then, maybe I would not have to search, because with God's help, he would always know where to find me, where to find home.

It is wonderful to know that Jesus
Came down from Heaven above
To be born in a humble manger
Just because of His great love

Wonderful, Wonderful Jesus
He came for love of me.
Wonderful, Wonderful Jesus
He came to set me free!

It is wonderful to know that angels
Sang His glory that day.
And shepherds worshiped before Him,
The Babe in the manger hay.

Wonderful, wonderful Jesus
Was a Baby soft and sweet.
Wonderful, wonderful Jesus,
The One whom angels greet!

It is wonderful to know that Jesus
Is the Almighty King.
He’s my Friend, my Lord and Savior,
He’s the One of Whom we sing!

Wonderful, wonderful Jesus,
He is all the world to me!
Wonderful, wonderful Jesus,
One day His face I’ll see!

The Crock Pot
A Short Story
By Barbara McCain February, 2003

A recent article in the newspaper said that an old appliance is coming back into use. It seems a whole new generation of cooks are rediscovering the crock pot, or slow cooker. In our family, it was used years ago for many a meal of spaghetti sauce, stew, pot roast, stewed chicken or chili. Just as in many homes, the crock pot brings to memory a winter night’s hot dinner ready when we came home from work and school.

But in our family, the phrase “crock pot” served another purpose as well. That purpose was a spiritual one, a reminder of an important principle of Christian living. We had a little private family catch phrase, “Have you looked in the crock pot?” Interesting, you might say. Yes, just as interesting as the true story that caused that little sentence to remind each of us not to judge others, to have the spirit of love and forgiveness and to marvel in God’s grace.

The story began long ago on a seventeen mile stretch of road and in an old country church. The road ran next to a large river. It wound through a deep canyon and then opened into amazing vistas of countryside, with fertile farmland that climbed to lush green hills. Right in the middle of the stretch of road was a very old school house. Forty years before we came, a preacher had felt a burden to share the gospel with the river families and soon the school house had been converted into a church. Over the years, the wooden pews had been filled with smiling people, sharing together in the joy of their own church family. There had been weddings and funerals and all the other times of a church life. There were testimonies of salvations and memories of baptisms in the river across the road. But suddenly one day that all changed.

The old white building suddenly must have looked very lonely. For the pews were no longer filled and the sounds of laughter had departed. For the church on the side of the river road was right in the middle of a problem. That is when our family came into the story and learned our little phrase.

As missionaries in America, our job was not only to plant churches, but also be available for what was technically called “reconstruction.” That was a grand term for the needed work of rescuing a church. Our second ministry had been the “rescue” of another country church. It had been a wonderful time for us, as we had seen the church once again filled to overflowing with a strengthened congregation. So when the call came for help in the river road church, we were very excited.

The office of the mission had suggested we visit one of the church deacons who was in the hospital. They felt certain that Joe had not had a pastoral visit, because his heart attack had happened near the time the church trouble started. We drove to the big city hospital and met Joe and his wife, Carol. They were wonderful loving people. Joe had just undergone open heart surgery and was very appreciative of our visit.

“Pastor,” he said to my husband, “Don’t let the old church die. Our family has gone there for three generations. In fact, my parents were the first ones saved. Promise me you will try.”

My husband grasped his hand and promised.

We soon learned the sad story of the trouble that had caused almost all to leave the church. A young seminary student from the nearby big city Bible college had been sent to the little church on a preaching assignment for a year. For many years this plan had helped supply a preacher for the church and a ministry experience for the students. Everything seemed to be going great until one week the treasurer had discovered $400 missing from the church account. The $400 had been collected in the offering on a Sunday morning, counted and recorded by two deacons after the offering time, then placed in a bank deposit bag and taken to the church office. The $400 had never reached the bank. Everyone in the close knit church knew that not one of them would have taken the money. So all eyes had turned to the young student preacher. He firmly denied all wrong doing, but a report was made to the college staff and he was removed from the pulpit until the affair could be investigated. Sure enough, the money was missing. There was no explanation, but the suspicions of the people made the return of the student impossible.

We were told of the problem before we went. We made a decision to have the confidence that there was an error, that the student was innocent and that God would vindicate him. But we also knew we were called to minister to a group of injured, hurting and doubting people.

The first Sunday, we drove there early. As we followed the road, we instantly fell in love with the beautiful country side and the vistas of the large river that was like something out of a tale of long ago. When we came to the little community, we saw the old fashioned building and let ourselves in with the key we had been given. We sat on the old wooden pews, prayed for the congregation and for the pews to be filled once again. We also prayed for spiritual ears to hear the problems without making judgments.

That first morning there was only our family and four adults, including Joe’s wife and mother. It was a start.

Slowly we started to hear of each “count” that had been leveled by the members. The first was of the missing money, but it was just the beginning. After the offering problem, the church members started to notice other things. The roof that a Bible college employee had fixed the year before had sprung a leak. The employee had not returned to fix it. There were soiled ceiling tiles in the auditorium from the leak that everyone saw each time they came in for services. Resentment started to build. Since the church was technically a part of a chapel ministry of the college, everything that needed to be done was seen as related. One by one, people started to stay away. Every time they drove by the building, they noticed chipping paint, a broken window, and it all kept building up inside each one. Bitterness became like a growing illness affecting everything it touched.

We took home all the church records that first day. They had been stuffed into shoe boxes. My whole week was spent with the material from the boxes spread out on the floor in our home office. With a new accounting system the mission had given us, I started to enter records and file the items into sturdy file boxes. I was surprised to find an old savings account book that everyone had forgotten. With interest, it now had just over $400 in it. A significant amount, but I knew it still did not solve the missing offering problem. When I finished the book keeping, it was clear, the money was missing.

One night that week, my husband and I made a list of everything we had seen or heard that was a complaint. On Friday afternoon, we went to the building with our teenage children. We measured and counted, then drove back into town to the hardware store.

Early Saturday morning, we were back at the church. The boys and their Dad climbed up and put new flashing on the roof. Our daughter and I started to clean the inside of the building. Then the boys and Dad came inside and started to replace the soiled ceiling tiles. We knew that every time someone had looked up during a service, they had been a reminder. When the last tile went into place, we sat down on the pews and looked up.

“It needs some painting to cover the stains on the walls,” said my husband.

“Yes, and there is a broken window in the nursery.” said my daughter.

“Let’s get to the window first. We’ll get some paint next week.”

Just then the door opened and a man walked in.

“Hi there, you must be the missionary preacher. I’m Joe’s brother. See you are doing some work.” His eyes traveled upward to the ceiling, but he never said a word. “Going to fix the window are you? Need some help?”

“That would be great.”

Soon the men were working together as Shannon and I removed the old curtains. She knew we would go home and sew some bright new ones that evening. The window was soon in, but the man lingered.

“Plan on staying for a while today?” he said. “ I could introduce you to a couple of the families.” Looking at our work clothes and then his, we knew we were dressed just right for visiting. By the time noon arrived and the mist had cleared from the river, we were happily driving home. It had been a good morning.

That Sunday, twenty people were sitting in the pews when service started. Every eye traveled up to the clean ceiling tiles and there were lots of quiet smiles.

The next Saturday morning, we arrived early and painted the stained area. We once again went visiting homes, just introducing ourselves and inviting people to come to service the next day. The church had thirty-five people in it for service Sunday morning. Several people said something complimentary about the new paint. We did not say a word about the work we had done. When my husband finished the service one of the men asked if he would be there again next Saturday morning.

“I’m planning to be here about nine in the morning,” he said quietly.

At nine that next Saturday, one by one people started to come by.

“Got enough of that paint, preacher?” one asked. “The nursery could use a fresh coat.”

“I brought some tools to fix the lock on the front door, it always sticks in the bad weather,” said another.

“Thought you might like a cake to take home with you,” said one of the ladies.

“You know, preacher, we need to go out and clean up the picnic area we built last year,” said her husband. “We never really finished it. My wife thought if we did, we could have a welcoming dinner out there tomorrow.”

“I know where the materials are to finish the work,” said another man. “They’re stored in the back shed.”

At the service and dinner the next day, there were forty-five people. The singing was wonderful, the food was great, and the fellowship was warm. The church was on its way to recovery. Sunday after Sunday, more people came. Families were reunited in fellowship and joy was returning. But there was still the unsolved mystery of the $700 offering and the seminary student whose name needed to be cleared. We never said a word, but we prayed.

Joe had returned to services after recuperating at home. Often, we would walk the four houses down from the church building to his house to visit. Soon he was ready to take on some of his old deacon responsibilities. We knew that he was a very conscientious man.

“What did you usually do?” asked my husband one day.

“Well, one thing I always did was help count the offering. Then I would take it home and deposit it on Monday morning. Did it each week until the attack that last week in October.”

Suddenly something clicked in my memory. That was the date of the missing offering. After Joe left, I shared with my husband my idea and we made a plan. Soon our family was in Joe and Carol’s living room.

“Tell me about your heart attack, Joe,” said my husband. “When did it happen?”

“Well, it was on a Sunday morning, right during service.” My husband and my eyes met. We were both praying as we listened. “I started feeling funny right after we counted the offering and by the time the sermon started, I knew I was getting sick and told my wife I was going to walk home.”

Carol joined in. “Yes, Joe left and I stayed at church, but I started to feel very concerned for him, and followed. When I got here, he was on the floor in the kitchen. Praise the Lord, I got here in time and some of the people from the church had followed me. Joe doesn’t remember much of what happened after that.”

“I really didn’t know I was going to have a heart attack,” said Joe, “But I knew something was wrong. I didn’t want to frighten Carol or disturb service. I even carried my Bible and the offering bag home. I remember they started to get really heavy by the time I got in the door.”

It was my turn now. “What did you do with the offering, Joe?” I asked.

Suddenly, his face registered total surprise. “Oh, no,” he said. “I had forgotten! When I started to feel the pain in my chest, I knew it was serious and all I could think about was that I had the offering and I did not want it lost or taken. So I put it the one place I thought it would be safe and yet Carol would find it.”

“Where was that Joe?” asked my husband.

“In the crock pot she keeps on the top shelf.”

By now Carol was hurrying to the kitchen with one of our boys to help her. In a few minutes, our son placed the crock pot on the coffee table and my husband opened the lid. Inside was the money bag filled with the missing offering.

“Oh, Joe. I was so busy taking care of you, I just never used the crock pot since the heart attack that day.”

“I thought it was the safest place, but I guess I didn’t remember it until just now.”

“It’s okay, Joe, God knew where it was all along,” said my husband.

By that evening’s service, all the little community knew the story without us having to say a word. On Monday morning, a grateful seminary student received a personal visit from two of the deacons in the President’s office.

The church had a major revival. Tears and joy were joined together. In a few weeks the congregation doubled. Then there were salvations and even a baptism in the river. Soon they were ready to call their own pastor, one of the staff from the Bible college who had long had a burden for the ministry there. As far as I know, he is still there today.

But also there was a new saying and a revealed truth for our family. Whenever someone would bring up a question of doubt or an accusation, one of us would say, “Have you looked in the crock pot lately?”

Do you have a church problem or other areas of trouble in your life? Maybe you need to replace some flashing on your leaky relationships, or remove the tiles that are stained with the evidence of bitterness. A fresh coat of God’s forgiveness is better than white paint, it not only covers a stain, it cleanses it. But after all the obvious is done, just remember to lift the lid of remembrance and look in the crock pot, you might be surprised by God’s grace!.

The End

Side note: This is a true personal life story that happened in the missionary career of Dennis and Barbara McCain while serving with Baptist Mid-Missions on loan for a year to a smaller Baptist mission.

My Jewel Box

On this Mother's Day, many a woman will receive a shining ring or necklace to symbolize to her the gratitude of her family for her position as mother. I am a mother and I am also a missionary. Because of the combination of these two classifications, I probably will never have an overflowing jewelry box, nor do I desire one. But in my spiritual memory box, I can find precious bright jewels that time will not tarnish. Many of these are the treasures of remarks made to me by my physical and spiritual children. Come and share a glimpse of a few of these jewels with me and see if they don't shine and sparkle! Gaze into their depths and see if their many facets don't send out lights clear and true.

The first shining jewel was not spoken in words, but in a strange yet emotional bond of silence from which volumes seemed to have been written. It happened when the nurse laid my first born in the crook of my arm just a few hours after his birth. My first child had been several weeks late in arrival. Like most young mothers, I had imagined what the baby would look like. Being somewhat practical, I had realized that most newborns are not really altogether lovely and their eyes are not usually fully focused. So I was totally unprepared for the fact that my son was not ruddy and wrinkled. He had lovely smooth pale skin and rosy cheeks. But it was the look in his eyes that caught my breath away. Crystal blue and clearly focused, they stared straight into my eyes. After my shocked gasp, I quietly gazed back. For several moments, it seemed we looked only at each other, and in those moments something was sealed in my heart. It was an immense shining love for my newborn son, reaching to a life time of commitment. Still gazing into those clear blue eyes, I prayed out loud in quiet tones and gave that beautiful child back to God, dedicating him. And as I was to realize years later, in that moment I was also fully dedicating myself to motherhood. I can see that event in my memory box, even with my eyes wide open. The baby’s eyes turned green at age three and he is now a junior in college, but the commitment is still there and it extended to my other two babies who were both born somewhat ruddy and wrinkled.

The time passes five years and eleven months. The baby is now a sturdy little boy and for one solid week he has asked me one question after another about the Bible, the Gospel, Christ and salvation. I have led several Sunday School children to Christ in the Junior and Teenage departments, and many adults, but this is my own son. Suddenly, I am not so certain of myself and my heart is thumping, oh so loudly. After several days of this, I call my best friend to ask her advise. Her son is three months older than mine and recently saved. She drove straight over to my house that night to give me a little booklet that was shared with her son.

"I think I know how you feel. Are you a little afraid you won't do it right and that he will make a false profession of faith?" I quietly nod my assent. "1 felt the same way," she confides, "and another friend shared this little booklet with Jimmy. She told me to leave it in God's hands and trust Christ. Let's pray about it together."

The next morning I shared the booklet with my son and watched his eyes glow with an excitement I could not have imagined. He looked each page over with me and then quietly took it to his room. After half an hour, he brought the booklet back into the kitchen and asked me several questions about it. My heart thumped very loudly. Maybe this is the moment, I thought, but he just smiled and said, "Thanks, Mom," and returned to his room. Maybe another day, I thought. But late that evening, well after I had turned the light out in the room he shared with his little brother, I realized he was standing next to me as I was putting his baby sister to bed. Something in his eyes told me, this was a special moment.

"Mom, could you pray with me right now?"

"Of course, honey. Is it something special?"

"Oh, mom, if I were to die tonight, I know I would not go to heaven because I've never really confessed my sins and been saved. I'm not a real Christian. I want to pray and settle it right now. And, Mom, I want you to be with me. Can we pray, Mom?"

Over the gigantic lump in my throat I managed to say, "Of course."

I can see him right now. Dropping to his knees in the closet doorway, clasping his hands and praying in a clear strong voice, "Dear Jesus, thank You for dying for me. Please forgive me for my sin and please save me right now. Make me a real born again Christian. Thank You, God that You hear and answer my prayer. Amen."

We both stayed on our knees while I praised and thanked God. Then came the shining moment through my tears when my physical and now spiritual son ran into my arms for a hearty hug, the joy of which will last a lifetime.

Right next to that jewel of memory is another closely strung on a chain. It was several weeks later when Daddy and I were trying to explain why we called other saved people "Brother and Sister." We fell to the practical. "You know how Dennis is your little brother because he has the same father? Well, someday he will be your spiritual brother when he gets saved and God is his spiritual Father. Then he will be your brother in Christ, too."

"Oh, but mom, he already is," the room is quiet, "You see I just couldn't imagine heaven without my brother and I so wanted him to go, too, so one night after devotions I waited until you went to bed and then I explained it all to Dennis and we got on our knees next to the bed and he prayed, too. So you see, he is already my brother in the Lord!" The sparkle and shine in Sean's eyes had to be straight from heaven!

It seemed just the next week he brought his special school friend Tony home with him. "Mom," he smiled, "Can you tell Tony about Jesus, too?"

So for several weeks, I told Tony, usually at the kitchen table, with a shining Sean listening intently, but we had no solid response from his friend. We prayed together every day for Tony and finally his mother gave permission for Tony to attend an outdoor children’s rally, The day was windy and the desert sands were blowing in little swirls through the school yard that served as the meeting place. Realizing Sean, who had asthma, was starting to wheeze, I took him to the safety of one of the corridors where there was shelter from the wind. We told Tony to stay put with Dennis in the rally group. I was wrapping baby sister more securely, when I realized Sean was crying.

"What is it, honey?" I asked.

"Look, Mom," he smiled through his tears, "It's the invitation and Tony is going forward. I knew it! Jesus answered our prayers, Mom!" I forgot about the wind and the dust for several minutes it seems.

Oh, yes, here’s another. The little brother. So many doubted and then came the invitation at the evening service almost two years later.

A firm tug at my sleeve, "Mom."

"Shush, be quiet, son." (ever the motherly response)

Two lines of the hymn, then, "Mom?"

"Now son, you know better than to speak during the invitation."

Silence, then suddenly a realization. Looking down, I see two dark tear stained eyes. Finally, I listen to the Holy Spirit, "What is it, son?"

"Mom, isn't this when people go down to the front of the church if they need to talk to God about something special?"

The song goes on, but I hold my breath. "Yes, son."

Quiet waiting. "Mom, I want to make sure I'm saved." The song stops. "Can I go now?"

"Yes, of course you can."

The pastor is praying to close the service. Bravely and undaunted, my little son walks from the back row all the way down the aisle, and stops in front of the pastor, reaches up his hand to gently tug on the tall man's sleeve.

"Excuse me, sir, could someone pray with me to make sure I'm saved?"

"I'm sure we can arrange for that young man!"

A moment captured in time.

Time passed. The same dark eyed boy, bursting into the living room on a bright shiny day.

"Oh, Mom, Mom. Quick get ready," fast breaths and shining eyes greet me. "Oh, Mom, brother and I were walking through the woods with the new boy we met and I wanted so to tell him about Jesus. So when we saw the sun shining through the trees on the path looking like spots of gold, I told him about the streets of gold in heaven and what you have to do to get there and after a long time of talking, I prayed with him, Mom, like you taught me! But, oh Mom, Brother is bringing him here because I want you to make sure, because it is too important!"

A half hour later, I felt it was sure and sincere.

Much later the dark eyes caught mine again, "Oh, Mom, I've got my first jewel in my crown to give to Jesus, don't I?"

"Yes, son, I should say you do."

Then, little sister just turned three, suddenly turning to me. "Mommy, Jesus died for everybody in the whole world didn't He?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

Actual tears run down her cheeks. "Then why is it, not everyone loves Him, Mommy?"

"I don't know, child." Then quietly in my heart I whisper, "But I can see you have begun."

Months later, the same blonde curly top suddenly refuses to pray at home and stands herself in a corner during Sunday School. No one knows why. And then on a walk under a cloud filled sky she suddenly asks, "Mommy, will Jesus really come again in the clouds?"

"Yes, Honey."

"But what if He comes too fast, will He crash?"

"Oh, no," my laughter is stopped short by her serious face, "You see Jesus is God."

"And Mommy, He will take all the people that love Him with Him in the sky?"

"Yes."

"But Mommy, there are so many grown up saved people and I'm so very small. I'm afraid Jesus might drop me and I would fall and that would be awful."

"Oh, no, honey, Jesus will give you a special body and you will just go up like He does." "

Oh." Silence, then the heart of the matter, "But Mommy, I don't want to go to heaven because I don't want to get washed in the blood of the Lamb!" (Yes, we had been singing that song almost every Sunday.)

Somehow I was able to adequately explain this complicated spiritual truth to the sincere little girl beside me.

"Okay, Mommy, I think I'd like to go to heaven then, if only you will just ask Jesus not to make me ride on the back of a lion" (Oh, dear, we do have a picture of a little child with a lamb and a lion in the New Jerusalem.)

All Bible college training aside, down on my knees, eye to eye with this serious child, "Honey, I'll ask Jesus to let you be where the kitty cats and puppy dogs are, okay?"

Big smile, "Okay, Mom. Hey, can I pray for supper tonight?"

Time passes. A taller but still blonde little girl resolutely walks the aisle during Vacation Bible School, and asks to pray with her Mom.

"Mommy, remember those other times I prayed about getting saved? Well, I think I just wanted to tell Jesus I loved Him, but now I know I need my sin taken away. Can we pray together right now."

Oh, so many more jewels, so shiny and bright... I'm on deputation now, in a strange city, a new church. A large ten year old boy stays behind after the Sunday School class that I just taught.

"Ma'am, you said if anyone wanted to get saved, they could stay after. Well, I walked all the way down the hall and I knew I had to come back."

His eyes shine as I go through the gospel again. "Is there anything you don't understand?" I ask.

"Yes, just this one thing, how do they get sugar in marshmallows?" Even he seems surprised.

"Well now, I don't know, but I do know that Satan doesn't want a certain young man to get truly saved. Now what do you think is more important, marshmallows or getting saved?"

"Getting saved!" Back to the gospel, but afterwards a promise to find out how sugar gets in marshmallows.

Another meeting, and I'm all alone with a large children's church. Where are the adult helpers I asked for? Just one teenager. At the invitation six children come forward, all very young.

"Here lead the others in some songs," I say as I quickly hand the song sheets to the teen. "I'll deal with these."

Thinking loudly in my mind that I prefer one on one, I nevertheless deal with them all. Then I leave a short note in the pastor's office: "Please arrange for follow up with each child, dealt with in a group." (Have I forgotten Pentecost?)

That night in the greeting line after the service, an elderly woman with a babushka scarf over her head and a thick Russian accent lifts me off the ground ... soundly kissing both cheeks.

"You beautiful missionary lady," she says with tears running unchecked down her cheeks. "I left Russia to be able to worship my God and now today you lead my great granddaughter to the Lord Jesus. She came home and told me, 'Grandma-ma, the missionary lady, she prayed with me and five of my friends and I know I have Jesus in my heart!'"

(Lord, thank You, and help me never to doubt Your power.)

Oh, there are so many more:

I'm very ill, and awaken to hear my oldest child praying, "Please God, don't let my mother die, I need her so."

Still ill, I reach over and hug my youngest. She draws back in surprise, then hugs back, "Oh, Mommy, even though you are very sick, you are still my mommy!"

("Yes, dear")

Still ill and looking it, gently I feel a hand on my cheek, my second son. "You're so beautiful, Mommy."

("Thank You, Lord")

On the mission field, the ray of understanding suddenly in the Catholic boy's eyes as I teach the Resurrection. He jumps up in class, "Oh, teacher, you mean Jesus is really alive! Why that means He is not dead on the cross over my bed and if He is not dead, He can live in my heart! Can I ask Him in right now?"

("Yes, Anthony")

Leaving the mission station for the last time, after being hugged and kissed by five girls I had led to Christ during my ministry, standing back and suddenly realizing they were jewels in my crown for Jesus.

Oh, there are so many more jewels in my memory box, but then our time together today is almost over. I can open my treasure box up at anytime. But then I am certain that your memory box has some rare gems in it, too. Treasure them. Make them shine with continued use. And by all means, add to the jewels in your crown. Someday you will share it with your Lord.

In Remembrance
By Mrs. Barbara McCain

Most often we read articles of remembrance when a loved one has departed from this life in death, but I would like to take a moment to honor, in remembrance a dear friend who is embarking on a new life, a new beginning. On October 17, Baptist Mid-Missions' missionary, Miss Linda Earnshaw will be united in marriage to Dr. Kent Peterson and begin a new life of lay service beside her husband.

As a single woman missionary, "Miss Linda" served in Ghana, Africa, in the Spanish ministry in Philadelphia, in church planting in New England, and most recently worked with military wives and children in Virginia. She also was used of the Lord through many months of deputation ministries. Most importantly in my life, she was used as my co-worker and special friend. I could not have loved one woman more dearly than I have loved Linda in Christ.

The same week my husband and I requested a single woman to work with us in a team ministry of church planting, Miss Linda requested that she be assigned to work with a couple in just such an assignment. From the very beginning, it was clear that God placed us together. The Home Office requested that we read several books about single women missionaries. Perhaps it is for the best that we were never able to follow that request, because Linda taught us every right and good thing about such a person. Not only did she become my husband's trusted co-worker, and my children's close confidante, but she became my co-laborer, friend, and sister. Whatever false images others might convey about a single woman missionary on a mission team, Miss Linda certainly dispelled them all. In the ministry, she was a full co-worker, a vital part of the team. Without her, we truly were missing a functioning part. For every plan, program or ministry, she was ready, willing and able to be used of the Lord. Her character, convictions and commitments were a constant source of encouragement and reassurance to us as co-workers and to those she ministered to in the work.

As a single woman, Linda always met the Lord's goal for her in her personal life and ministry. Never once was there anything but harmony, support and loyalty in our relationship together within the team of three.

But Linda was more than just a team member to me personally. Because of her deep love for the Lord and her sensitivity to His leading, she was able to be used as a friend to me, the missionary wife, and as a sister in Christ to my missionary husband. She planned and dreamed with us, she prayed and cried with us, she worked and laughed with us. Through hard times and through victories, through achievements and conquests, Linda was always a loyal friend. I am glad I never read any books with warnings or suggestions, because Linda wrote her own epistle in Christ. She made our entire family upholders of the precious and unique contributions of the single woman in our mission family. Every memory I have of her is blessed. I trust and know that the Lord will give her a married life of blessed memories as His unique reward. Thank you Linda, for being all that God wanted you to be in your life and in mine.

Lonely Little Tomato Plant
By Barbara McCain

It was almost hidden amongst the tall grasses of the meadow across from our side yard. "Well, would you look at that," my neighbor exclaimed. Pulling aside the meadow grass, he pointed to a well formed tomato plant. He grinned and said, "Go get me a shovel and I'll move it to your garden." He helped me gently place the plant in its new home. The next day, after a light rain, it was standing tall, a promise of ripe red tomatoes to harvest!

My neighbor's grin and the tears in my eyes, would have told any passer-by that this was no ordinary tomato plant! It was like God's special "little" blessing, His amazing tender touch to my heart that day. It was like a sweet small whisper to my soul, "I know all your needs." It was a demonstration of My Father's loving mercies in my personal life. My neighbor had looked in amazement at the healthy plant, so out of place in the overgrown field. "Someone must have tossed a tomato, or piece of a sandwich out the window as they drove by, and a seed took root - That is really something!"

Yes, it WAS really something! But much more than a freak of chance to me, that little plant showed me my Father's care and knowledge of my life. Months before, in the earliest days of spring, I had planted tomato seeds in soil filled trays which I placed in a sunny window. Every day I checked their growth. They were the Father’s promise of my garden to be, in my new home in the country. A garden still made of dreams and drawings on my notepad. The new little church my husband and I had planted in the nearby town could not yet afford to "fully support" their pastor and I knew a garden would help with the grocery bills. But the garden was more than necessity to me, it was part of a dream, a desire. With me, a home had always meant family, love, security, shelter and a garden! This was to be our first "real" home after years of missionary service. The garden would be a promise to myself as I worked to build a home for my family.

In mid-spring, a persistent pain told me that something was wrong inside of my body. God’s gracious warning signals were all sounding. The week before we had planned to start the garden outdoors, I was having surgery. The land lay unplowed and sometime during the days in the hospital, the little plants in the window sill had withered and died. Everyone counseled that I should not attempt a garden that Spring. With a calm acceptance I agreed, though in the silent, secret place of my heart there was a dull ache. Then one morning, I looked outside to see my husband working far from the house, right where we had planned to have the garden. I went out to investigate. My husband smiled and greeted my questioning look with the answer, "I'm going to dig you a garden anyway!" No matter that it was weeks too late for the older farmers. No matter that we had no money for fertilizer, we were planting a garden! I went back into the house and found the seed packages. choosing only vegetables that would beat the Fall harvest deadline, I quickly drew a new planting chart. No matter that some would wait until next year, they could be the promise of an even bigger garden. And in the original corner where the tomato plants were to have gone, we could plant a second crop of spinach. We planted all but the last row that day. The next morning it poured the warm rain of June that helps little plants to grow. It was four days later when my neighbor found the lonely little tomato.

Across the road, a man on a tractor has been working for several hours, cutting dawn the tall grass nearest to the road. cutting down the area where the plant had stood yesterday. Yesterday was the last chance for that plant. It shouldn't surprise me to see one more example of God's care.

Months before I had known my need, somehow, part of a tomato had fallen by the roadside, just far enough off the road that it fell hidden amongst the thick grasses. Maybe it was from the lunch of the workers who laid the new water mains. The tomato decayed and fell through the grasses. Insects may have carried off the rest of the debris, but it would only take one little seed for my plant to grow. The snows of winter pushed it deeper into the soil. There, amid the tangle of the meadow grass, the little sprout shot up early in the Spring, just about the time I first felt the pain in my side. It's stem grew thicker and stronger and it kept pushing its way toward the sun. As the grasses grew all around, they stared to part just a little to allow the plant to flourish. And just that week, while I was recovering, it started to set its little buds, tomatoes in the process of meeting a promise. Even before I knew the need, God was gently preparing the answer, just across the road, hidden in the grasses.

It reminded me of something else we were growing that year, a little congregation, newly planted in straight rows on Sunday morning. Some of that group were mature, well rooted and firmly planted Christians. Others were new little plants, newly transplanted into the sunlight of God's love, reaching to draw nourishment from the rivers of water that flowed forth from every sermon from the Word of God. Our plans for the church had been mapped out in our minds and on paper. We had dreamed and planned. The promise of a harvest was in our hearts. Many things had happened to delay the growth, and progress seemed so much slower than we had planned. In our hearts there was an ache. Then the reminder of the little tomato plant. Somewhere, out on the highways and byways of our area, there had to be many little sprouts, maybe just little ungerminated "seeds" of promise, that were waiting to be transplanted by the Father's gentle guidance into the garden of His church. We had just to walk the pathways in His Light and look for those souls. Even if they are hidden in the tall "weeds" of the world, with God's help, the weeds could be parted to allow us to see the blossom of a life. God had given the dream of the church, He could give the harvest. He just expected us to work for Him to bring those by the wayside into His fold.

All through my Christian life, God has given me the little gentle blessings that encouraged my heart, or rebuked my discouragement. The unexpected and anonymous bag of groceries left on our doorstep in seminary, when we did not know where the next meal would come from, had reminded me that God knew our needs. The list could go on and on: the sweet hug and moist kiss of my little girl in the midst of a trying day, the one soul to come to the altar after a long week of Vacation Bible School, the gift of material from a lady in the church who knew I wanted to make my grandchildren Christmas gifts. God's loving reminders to me that He knows my heart's needs and desires. His "little" but persistent statements of care, things only God would know and only God could order and control to encourage the dreams of promise.

The rain that was falling earlier today has stopped and the sun is shining through the clouds. I think I will take a walk out to my garden and check on the tomato plant. While I go, I'll pray that God will replace the ache for the church with a fire in my bones and an excitement in my spirit to see the hidden little plants by the wayside join our straight rows on Sunday morning! I'll also ask His help in remembering not to miss His little blessings that speak so lovingly to my heart, even in the midst of trial.

UNEQUAL RIGHTS
By Barbara E. McCain

For years we have heard the cry for equal rights for women in America. Historically, it was a cry for voting rights, for legal representation, for protection under the law, for opportunities to develop educationally and occupationally. These were just and good rallying calls. These are just and good goals. The champions of these causes were brave and principled individuals. We have much to thank them for in our present life. The freedoms and the privileges that we exercise as women in America are unequaled in our history. We are indeed indebted to those who raised the banner for equal rights on behalf of the generations of American women that would be able to reap the rewards of the victories won.

The lack of equal rights is contrary to all that is good in our land and to the true embodiment of the ideals of this great country, the United States of America. To stand for equality is to personify all that is noble as citizens of our land. But let us be vigilant as we face the realities of some aspects of that which is called equal rights for women today. Let us exercise the freedom of examining the issue and allow our intellect to form the proper questions. As we look at the results of the movement, we begin to wonder where progress has really taken us. As honest Americans we need to ask ourselves: is everything that is happening today equal?

What is the meaning of equal rights for women today? Is it possible that the present definition of the term should be changed to "unequal rights?" This may not be a popular question, but it is one that is worthy of note. I do not ask this because I am against equal rights for women in America, quite the contrary. But I am appalled and insulted at the push for unequal rights that is happening everyday. Someone of our gender and generation needs to stand up and say, "Stop! Look at what is happening. Return to the dignity of American womanhood and be real women again!" It is not equality when a job position is granted to a woman, not because of her qualifications or resume, but to fill a quota or receive a rating advancement. I would be personally insulted to know I was granted a position for that reason. I should be appalled and grieved to learn that a man of higher qualifications, longer job experience and greater knowledge had been denied the job because to grant it to him would have made the company seem to be politically incorrect. That is not the American way. That is not the lesson of value and integrity that I want to pass on to my grandchildren. That is not equal rights, but unequal rights.

It is not equal rights when a woman in a divorce situation knows that she will gain the greater leverage, not because she needs to be protected, not because she has been an innocent party, but solely because she is a woman. How many men have seen their lives devastated because of the willfulness of a "modern woman" who has been unfaithful to the dignity of womanhood in her marriage. Many of these men have to suffer the penalties of the divorce resulting in less time with their children and higher financial commitments, not because they are not the most qualified in character and integrity, but just because they are not a woman. It is because the laws have been tipped on the scales of justice and now the judgments reflect unequal rights. We should be alarmed as a nation.

It is no wonder that there has ceased to be the feeling of everyone working together in a company, of trust and admiration for a job well done, by male or female. It is no wonder that distrust and competition are found in marriages all over the land. As women, we have been taught that we have to tread down the competition whether it be in the workplace or at home. What a tragedy. There was a time when men in the work force admired a woman who worked hard and achieved success. They would be the first to defend her. Now they cast a wary eye, fearing for their own success. There was a time when husbands and wives worked together, stood together, stayed together, because they had honor one for the other. Neither one was "lord" over the other, but a cooperative team. But now the team has gone into a scrimmage situation and constantly tries to gain the other’s territory. This is not equality, this is inequality.

As women of America, we should be on the alert to the potential destruction of the true spirit of freedom and justice for all. We should be able to stand tall and straight as the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, holding high the flame of equal rights and not muddying our hands in the poisonous pool of unequal demands. We should wake up to the fact that to demand more is not necessarily to gain more in dignity, respect and achievement.

It should be character, not chromosomes; dignity, not DNA, that determines advancements and accomplishments. It is an insult to my own self image to think it could be possible that I might be granted a job position, not because of my preparation, not because of my accomplishments, not because of my potential or abilities, but because I am a female. Equality demands that we each stand together, not resting on our laurels of gender, but working toward the common goal of liberty and freedom for all.

What has become of the days when American women were proud to stand beside their men in the pursuit of the great task of framing this nation, clearing the land, claiming the wilderness, researching ideas, raising the next generation? Now, instead of standing beside each other, it is more likely in this age for men and women to stand against each other in the pursuit of their own individual visions of greatness. That greatness is not necessarily one of the common patriotic pursuit but of self. In former times, it seems that women desired to stand on an equal plane with men. It was a plane of educational opportunity, voting rights, honor, dignity and justice. The plane stretched through a vastness of rich symbolic prairie lands of growth, lush with vitality, where we all worked together. But now we are being urged to climb up out of this plane onto the craggy peaks of success. To reach the top we must step on the heads and hands of those that would have climbed with us. It must be success at all costs. Success, we are told, in the name of womanhood. Once on the peak, we will often stand alone. The vistas may seem heady and grand, but the reality of where our feet are placed is a dangerous one. The rocks are slippery, the footholds tenuous, the atmosphere dangerous to our health. What did we climb up to this lofty position for anyway? After all, nothing grows on a mountain peak. Has the push for unequal rights left us barren and cold as the winds that whip around the hard, rocky sharpness of that place. Could we, as women of the year 2000, be willing to climb down from the superficial heights of unequal rights and get busy with the task at hand of living in equality on this plane called The United States of America?

We can be proud of our heritage and of our land. Women in our country are not mandated to wear a veil over their faces or cover their ankles and arms with black cloth. They do not have to walk ten paces behind their husbands nor cast downward, shamefaced glances when men enter a room. We do not have to sit in separate sections of a classroom or abdicate all rights of inheritance because of our sex. And it has never been so from the earliest time of our nation. Of this we can be proud. We can stand face to face with a man, let our hair blow in the wind and wear the current fashions of the day, without fear of being in violation of any law. We can have the privilege of walking side by side, hand in hand, with our mate. We can hold our head high with pride in being an American woman. My granddaughters can be assured of being able to pursue whatever vocation they desire as long as ability, diligence and accomplishment reinforce their desires. I want them to find the joy of being a woman, not the strife of being the woman in charge. I want them to be able to develop a pride in their accomplishments, not demand or expect reward at the cost of injuring others. I want them to be proud to be American women when they grow up. And as they grow, it is my prayer that our country will grow richer from their achievements, not because they are women, but because they are individuals of great worth.

Out of Russia - Because of Love
By Barbara McCain

Missionary deputation is an exciting time of ministry. Often there is a special "bonding" between the missionary and a guest church, that leads to years of financial and prayer support. Other times, needed love offerings help the missionary along his travels, and often churches are revitalized by the special speaker and his message. But the greatest excitement of all is found in changed lives and in souls that are saved for the glory of God. During our deputation days, God gave such a precious experience of soul saving excitement, that I will forever cherish its memory.

Our meeting that May weekend was at the First Baptist Church of Ferndale, Washington. While my husband preached the morning service, my assignment was in Children's Church. After the Sunday School hour, I made my way through the maze of a large construction project in the educational wing and found a smiling lady standing outside a large room quickly filling with children.

"Oh, you must be the missionary!" she said excitedly.

"And I hope you are the Children's Church director or else I have really lost my way!" I returned with laughter.

"You found us all right, and I was wondering, could you take the whole service?"

"Certainly," I replied, "I have songs and puppets, a flash card story and a Bible lesson."

"I was hoping you would say that. You see, I haven't been in the adult service for months and I really wanted to hear your husband preach. Would you really mind if I went into the church service?"

The hopeful look in her eyes made my decision. "Go on ahead, you just have time. Will there be anyone to help me if there are decisions after the lesson?

"There are two teens here to help." Just then we faintly heard the music begin in the church service.

"Go ahead," I said, "Don't worry, it will all be fine."

Inside the room, I was met by close to 50 smiling little faces and the two young teen girls. My puppets quickly got the attention they were meant to draw and broke down all the barriers a new and different teacher for the day can encounter. My five year old helped with a magic trick and then, with the puppet's help, the children all learned a new song. The missionary flash card story held them all spell bound, and when it was time for the spiritual application, every eye in the room was fixed on me. In the quiet hush of the room, I asked for every head to be bowed. I gave the invitation and ten little hands went up. Feeling I had to make certain that they had really understood, I reviewed the invitation and asked all those who really meant it to look up at me. Ten faces lifted up. For a second I thought, "What am I going to do? I don't have enough workers to deal with all these children individually, except the two teens who will have to stay with the others." But another quiet thought said clearly but softly, "Trust Me."

Quickly I called one of the teens to the front.

"Here, take the song sheets and lead then in a song or two and then give them their refreshments." She smiled and nodded.

Then I told the children that all those who really wanted to make a decision for Jesus could stand up and follow me. Ten little children stepped to the front and followed me out into the hall. I found an empty room nearby. It had a table with 12 chairs around it. Quietly we all set down, one empty chair next to me. All ten of the children turned serious and intent eyes upon me. In my mind I prayed a quick prayer, "Lord, You know I want to do this right, I need to make certain they all really understood, and Lord, You know I have to deal with them all together."

Very quietly I asked for all heads to be bowed. I asked how many had never asked Jesus to save them before. Six hands went up. I asked the other four to come over to me. They all told me they had been saved and needed to pray about the lesson of the story, which was "living all the way for God." One by one they sat in the empty chair and prayed with me. I told they to go back to the room. The other six kept their eyes on me. I went over salvation again and they all said that they needed to ask Jesus into their hearts. A little knock on the door let me know that time was up. I led in a prayer for salvation which they all repeated together. Writing as quickly as I could on the back of the bulletin, I got all of their names, hugged them and sent them out the door.

Later in the church office, a nagging sense of doubt was starting to work on me. I asked the Pastor for same decision cards, and after filling them out, I said, "Please have someone follow up on these this week. I had to deal with the children in a group and I didn't get to spend much time with them individually." He promised it would be done.

The evening service went very well. I could already tell in my heart that this church would be special to us. At the close of the service, the Pastor announced that we would stand at the back of the church and for each one to shake our hand on the way out. As the line moved forward, I noticed an excited older woman about half way down, pointing at me from time to time. The closer she got, the more interested I became. She was taller than I and wore a babushka scarf around her head. There was something unique about her. Soon she was standing directly in front of me.

She greeted me by grabbing my shoulders and practically lifted me off the ground, soundly kissing me on both cheeks. Drawing back, she spoke in a heavily accented voice, "You beautiful missionary lady, thank you."

I started to answer, but she continued to speak. "I can't hear you because I have bad hearing, but you just listen to me, you sweet missionary lady. I came from Russia many years ago because I wanted to worship the Lord and for all of my children to learn to love Jesus. It was a long hard struggle to get here, but I prayed, and today, sweet lady, you led my great granddaughter to the Lord. She came home after church and ran up to me and told me everything you said to her and how she prayed to ask Jesus in her heart. And I want to tell you: thank you, dear lady, for being used of God to answer my prayers. What a blessing! I lived to see my great granddaughter brought to Jesus!"

She kissed me again, but this time it was on cheeks wet with my tears and my hug was as strong as hers. She moved on and the line kept going, but that moment was forever sealed into my memory. Not only did I receive a tremendous blessing that day, but I learned a great lesson, too. I was just the instrument. God wanted me to be totally yielded to be used by Him. He knew each little heart. He did the calling and He did the saving. What I had seen were six little faces of six little souls, who had been prayed for by others and loved by God.

Pentecost had seen five thousand saved in one day, I had just seen six. God is mighty to save. I need never doubt, He is able to do His work. On the mission field, I would many times stand in front of 30-40 children in outdoor Bible schools under a tree. Some would pray to be saved whose parents would never allow them to come into our church. I would learn to trust them to Jesus.

Many years have passed. I heard that the Russian lady went to be with her Lord, and the little girl must be in her twenties by now. I wonder if in that church there is a small little great-great granddaughter starting to grow in understanding of the mighty love of God. I will never forget the lesson I learned that day from "my beautiful" lady who came from Russia for the love of her Lord, and, sweetly, of God's great love for us.

The Sun through The Clouds
By Barbara McCain

We were living in an high desert valley. To go out of the valley, one had to go over a mountain pass where, just past the crest, was a lake. Coming back home, the first view of the valley was always directly over that beautiful blue shimmer of water. There were trees around that desert lake but none on the arid mountains around it. The water always looked cool and restful to the eyes.

That fall, I was attending college part time and had to make many trips over the mountain on the long drive to school. Very early one morning, having just passed the summit of the pass and coming in view of the lake, a magnificent sight caught my attention. For just one moment, as I drove along, the entire scene was visible, yet it was indelibly imprinted on my mind. A desert storm was brewing and the thick clouds were building up rapidly. It was perhaps 30 minutes past sunrise, and the sun had just cleared the horizon on its upward journey. The scene was one of majestic breathtaking beauty. The lake, like a dark mirror, was the deepest blue, topped with white tufts of waves tossed by the wind. Exactly centered, over the lake, the sun shone through a break in the clouds and its rays were reflected in a direct path across the water in my direction. Rippled by the waves, the gold of the sun’s rays were perfectly reflected. The wind was driving the clouds, building the storm, yet in that one moment the picture I had seen was not one of a wild desert storm, but of serene startling beauty.

Having driven out of the bleakness of that early morning valley, that scene awoke me to the beauty that God had allowed me to glimpse and I voiced a thank you out loud to the Lord. That "Thank You" started a time of prayer as I drove along, one of my favorite times to converse with the Lord. After a few moments of prayer, I stopped to reflect, the scene still vivid in my mind. Why, Lord, did you allow me to glimpse that picture of majesty; was it just for its beauty and Your praise? There seemed to be a deeper lesson there. As I pondered, I realized what it was the Lord had wanted me to see and understand.

That one perfectly timed glimpse from just the right position had allowed me to see a scene of loveliness and controlled beauty. Through the storm, the brightness of the sun had shone, casting its rays over the stormy lake. The scene was not one of turbulence, but of control, serenity and brilliance. Yet if another had looked at the scene from perhaps a little different angle, what would they have seen - a dark ominous storm brewing, winds racing, blowing the waves ever higher, and the clouds obscuring the sun, making the morning darker and darker. The beauty of the scene depended on seeing the entire panorama, all the way across the arid mountain, past the lake, through the clouds, to the brilliance of the sun. If a person concentrated on just one feature; the dark sky, the wildly tossed lake, the desert valley beyond - all the sense of control and beauty would have been lost.

That is just the way it is with life. To an unsaved person, with no knowledge of God’s control and plan, life must appear as a senseless storm raging over the desert of their lives - no direction, no control. They could look on the problems of a Christian’s life and see only the problems, because they are unable to see the Son of God. God sends trials and circumstances, yes, even stormy days, into our lives to refine us, to make us more perfect reflections of His Son. Yet the critic, those of men who would seek to destroy us, will point out only the problems, only the situations without being able to understand that God is in control. What appeared as a majestic picture to me, would be viewed with dismay by such a critic. "Better watch out a storm is coming," they would warn; "How ugly and dangerous the lake is today." No sense of the beauty of the entire scene, because they would not see the sun shining through. Many times these people will be used to discourage Christians. Just remember, their perspective is limited. In trying to envision a world without God, they can not understand the Divine Plan working in your life.

Many times we Christians become like the person that only viewed one feature of the scene. When troubles and trials come on us, we become overwhelmed by the waves of turmoil, by the winds that blow contrary to our plans or the clouds that seem to darken the sky. Yet all along, God is there. He is in control and wants us to ever keep our eyes, hearts, and minds stayed on Him.

God wants us to see the entire panorama of life that only a Christian can understand. Remember Elijah on the mountain in I Kings 19:11-18. The wind raged and the earth quaked, and the fire came, but after the fire, the still small voice of God spoke gently to Elijah. God was in control. He was beyond and over all the forces that Elijah had viewed. Elijah had been undergoing fiery trials and storms of life, and all he had been able to see had been those trials and conflicts. Yet God had always been in control. He had to take Elijah up on that mountain to make him see and understand. Only by trusting God was Elijah allowed to lift his sight of eyes and heart beyond the circumstances and trials of his life to view God’s perspective and plan.

It is the same lesson that God gave to me with that beautiful scene. When trials and troubles seem to surround, look beyond to God’s working. God wants us to look beyond the turbulent waves of trouble, through the building clouds that may come into our lives, and see the brilliance of His Son, Jesus. God is in control, His light and love give meaning to every part of the vista of our lives. When you keep your eyes on the Son, no matter what comes, you can be in the serenity of His control.

A Mother’s Heart
By Barbara McCain
Notes from: Proverbs 31:10-12:25-31; Psalm 113

**Joyful mother of children - Answer to a mother’s heart found in Prov. 31

1. A heart of virtue: (treasure) excellence and praise. A mother is a treasure and out of heart responses you show what you are. Have you considered yourself a treasure or do you look upon yourself as common. Do you treat your mother as a treasure? Do you treat your daughter as a treasure?
2 Peter 1:3; Phil. 4:8-9; 2 Pet. 1:5-7

2. A heart of strength: Miraculous power to bear the burdens of life — difference being a Christian makes - same trial = strength - Ex. 15:2; 2 Sam. 22:33-34; Ps. 28:7; Isa. 12:2; Prov. 10:29

3. A heart of honor: to make weighty or very great. Ex. 20:12; Esther 8:16; Rom. 2:10; I Peter 3:7

4. A heart of wisdom: knowledge guided by understanding and experience. Prov. 9:10; 4:7-13; 8:11; James 3:17

5. A heart of industry: diligence in one’s work. I Thess. 4:11-12

6. A heart of blessing: James 3:10 - not double hearted! Deut. 30:19-20: He has given you the choice of life and the opportunity to be a blessing, and a bestower of blessings.

7. A heart of praise: Ps. 9:11; 34:1; 42:11 — at all times

8. A heart of love: Jn. 13:34-35; I Cor. 13:4-8

End with Eph. 5:1-4 — are you sweet smelling savor, have you given yourself as a sacrifice to God? For your husband and children?

The Emancipated Woman
By Barbara McCain

I found the slightly yellowed paper, tucked away in an old file folder. When did I write this, I wondered. Was it twenty five years ago? Twenty eight, perhaps. I suddenly envisioned the slim, dark haired young mother that had been me. Somehow, I couldn’t separate her from the little boys running in and out of the back door diverting her attention from her writing desk. It was so long ago. Through the mists of time, I tried to recall what had prompted this article, typed on a pre-computer machine. Had it been a reaction to a women’s "lib" campaign, a magazine article, the trends of the day, or was it just the off handed comment by another woman supposed to challenge my seeming complacency with life as a happily married woman? I could not remember. Had I meant it for publication or just for my own exercise of putting my thoughts on paper? That, too, had slipped away. The motivation and the moment may have been lost in the multitude of events of my then young life, but the thoughts on the page were crystal clear. Surely written in the early 70's, the words were just as relevant to me this year before the 21st century. Composed as a young mother, it was just as true in my heart now that I was a middle aged grandmother. Though the paper looked old, the message was just as pertinent. My older eyes read with agreement what I had written that day:

THE DECLARATION OF AN EMANCIPATED WOMAN

A statement of a feminine woman in answer to the plea of women feminists

I am proud to be a woman. A feminine woman is beautiful. I am glad that although I am not physically beautiful, my husband tells me that I am, and thankful that he can see beauty in me. I do not resent the time I spend trying to improve my appearance for him, but rejoice that I have the desire to do it. I pray that I can develop the inner quality of lasting beauty that will endure beyond the physical. I will endeavor to cultivate my femininity through time and effort. I do not resent that from my earliest moments there has been someone to cherish me singularly because I was a female. I cherish the remembrance that I was "Daddy’s little girl" and that I was treated differently than if I had been a boy. This did not inhibit my ambitions or lower my standards, but helped me conceive of my femininity as something in which to be proud. I am thankful I had a mother who was proud of herself as a woman, and had developed her self-esteem and ambition sufficiently to allow me to glimpse the type of woman I could be. Furthermore, I rejoice in the type of family love I had that allowed me to develop my own sense of self-worth and the desire to serve a family of my own.

I am glad for my position of service to my family. I recognize the awesome responsibilities and influence that God has given to me as a wife and mother. I pray that I may temper my position of disciplinarian and counselor with wisdom, always mindful of my children’s growth. I also pray that I will not become overcome at the thought of this influence and responsibility toward my family, but be given the strength to carry out my duties. I am grateful, that in His wisdom, God has given me glimpses of the tender and humorous, even in times of turmoil and chaos in my everyday encounters with childish misbehavior. I am also thankful for the indescribable joy and sense of accomplishment bearing children has given me and for the totally sentimental and tender feeling of holding that newborn child to my bosom.

I am constantly grateful that as a woman in our culture, I can express such a wide scope of emotions. I can revel in sentimentality or overflow with tears, I can enjoy day dreams and yet become totally absorbed in the practical. I am not ashamed that at moments I may desire to feel totally dependent and cherished as a weak little woman and yet proud that, after all, there are so many things that only I as a woman can accomplish. I am relieved that I do not have insecure drives to do all things as well as or better than a man and thankful I was given a man who does so many things for me.

I am thankful for the loving man who raised me to the status of wife. I am constantly surprised that he can see me in all phases of order and disorder and still say he loves me. I do not reject, but am glad in the fact that I am the sexual object of his affections. I am glad that the complexity of our love can be fulfilled not only in the sexual act but in the sexual moments that are expressed by only a look or a gentle touch while the busy day goes on around us. I am satisfied to let him feel he must shelter and protect and provide for me even in areas where I could fare reasonably well myself. I am not envious of his masculinity but awed by the delicate, yet vital interaction of it upon my femininity. I am indeed pleased that my sons have always treated me differently from their father, as it is an assurance that they are aware of the wonderful differences of the sexual roles. Furthermore, I look forward to the time they will feel compelled to protect and shelter me after so many years of my doing the same for them. I am hopeful that the way they treat their own wives may be an outgrowth of their respect for me.

I shall strive for a vision of my individual responsibility to the world. I hope for healthy involvement to make that world a better place for all children to grow up in, mindful of the many seemingly small acts I can perform in my own home and community. As I strive for this involvement, may I never lose sight of the fact that my family is my own special world. That only I, as a mother, may have that particular influence on my own children which no other woman can substitute. I am proud of the career I have realized as a wife and mother that is not insignificant but indeed very important. I am hopeful that if I had been given another career in addition to motherhood, that I would have had the wisdom to see it in its proper perspective, not frustrated in my desire for outside recognition but confident in my fulfillment as an individual woman in whatever position I might find myself at home or away. If I at anytime become envious of career women, God grant me the vision of my own prestigious realm of influence as a woman. When I become discouraged in my daily tasks and seem to fail with my children, may I be steadfast in my duties until they carry me through to a moment of triumph and accomplishment.

Finally, God, thank You for making me as a woman with all the many different implications of my unique role in life. Thank You for my responsibilities and thank You for the accomplishments they bring. Thank You even for the inadequacies that allow me to concentrate on those areas that only, as a woman, can I excel in. Thank You most of all for the love that is shown to me as a woman and for that unique brand of love only I, as a woman, can give. Make me sensitive to love and able to respond to it openly. And thank You, God, for the freedom of self-fulfillment that Love has given me. May I always be a feminine woman and proud to be one.

I quietly smoothed the page as I laid it on my desk. I thought of the many women I had met those years ago. Some had screamed protests of activism, of their own concept of equality, until they had shriveled into their own self consumed souls. Some had let the movement destroy their marriages and left their own daughters confused and falsely genderless. Others had harbored bitterness and striving that had made them strike out on their own, leaving many to empty shells of existence. Still, quietly, a vast number had continued on, enjoying their roles as wives, mothers, women, and ladies, finding sweet content in their unhighlighted, unheralded lives.

I raised my eyes to look around my home. Some might have called it an empty nest, I did not see it so. Though the little chicks had grown and flown away, the old parent birds still found warmth and companionship there. Did my life have meaning and purpose? My grown children constantly affirmed that it had and did. My grandchildren gave me worth by just saying, "Love you, Grandma." My husband still needed, wanted, respected and cherished me.

The boldly spoken words of the years before were now a quiet calm reality. I was indeed "The Emancipated Woman" of my declaration article, set free by my Lord to be uniquely and eternally His.

"Honey," called my husband’s voice from the back yard, "Honey, I need your help."

"I’m coming," I voiced back, "I’ll be right there to help you."

Joyfully, securely, freely, I rose from the desk and walked to the door.

“The Man Behind The Pulpit”
By Barbara McCain
A True Short Story

Six years is a long time. For some it may indeed seem as long as a life time.

It had been a full six years since we had been in the little country church that held so many memories for us. It had been a place of joy and victories. It had been a place of many firsts: our first pastorate, our first rescue work, and our first deacon, Reggie. What a blessing those “firsts” had been in our lives. Each one was full of fond remembrances. We were heading down the still familiar road for our first visit since leaving for the mission field. It was a time of furlough for our family. A time of reporting to our supporting churches and telling of the victories and challenges of that far away place of service and the people there. Our children were older and taller, and, though we hardly admitted it, we were older, too.

Of all the churches we would visit, that little church seemed to hold the most excitement for us. The bonds of love had been strong. We could still envision each face and each detail of the old building. It had been hard to leave. Only the persistent call of missionary challenge had given us the courage to drive away so many years before. And now we were coming back just for one evening. The folks had wanted to do something special. Instead of the normal Sunday meeting, they had planned a Friday evening service with an ice cream social. They wanted it to be like a family gathering, the family of our first church.

The junction in the road ahead alerted us to the fact that we were almost there. We took the time to prepare the children once again. We had to prepare them for meeting Reggie. This quiet, gentle man had been very important to all of us. To my husband, in his first pastorate, Reggie had been the perfect supply of support and encouragement, the embodiment of all the qualities that a deacon should possess. To me, he had been the potential for strength that young mothers often need in thinking ahead to the eventualities of the need for someone to help in that unforeseen emergency if a husband is not there. Thankfully, I had never had to use Reggie for that purpose. But just to know he was available had given me peace. To my children, he had become an almost substitute grandfather. His farm had held happy times for them. His warm supportive smile had given them joy. His love had been demonstrated in practical ways. There had been the new tires delivered for our old car, just so he would have the peace of knowing our children were riding in a safer vehicle. There had been the sharing of a financial windfall, which he said was in response to the Lord’s leading to help put food on our table. It was the supply of a very great and unspoken need at the time. We knew that the children had many fond memories of Reggie. But the last letter from his wife, Edith, had said Reggie was changed. We needed to prepare the children, and we needed to prepare ourselves. It would be our first encounter with an Alzheimer patient.

“Reggie might not know who you are,” my husband said. “Edith says he does not always know who she is.”

“And he might act differently, “ I added.

“That’s okay,” said our littlest, “We’ll just love him anyway.”

One more turn in the road and the white farm house came into view. We were to have dinner with Edith and Reggie before the meeting. There was the same barn, the same side door and then the same country kitchen we had eaten in many times before. Edith’s smile was just as welcoming and her hug as firm as in the past. But our eyes were seeking out Reggie. Slowly he came into the room. His walk was with a slight shuffle, he looked older. We all greeted him and then we knew, he did not know us or why we were there.

The next hour gave us a lot of insight and burden for prayer. Ever the kind and gracious host in the past, the same character was demonstrated as he would constantly walk over to my husband and ask, “Would you like some coffee?” The question was asked again and again. And then he started to add another comment. He would look steadily at my husband and say, “I should know, I should know.” Over and over, we softly told him who we were, but his eyes did not register any recognition.

Edith reminded us that it was time to leave for the church. Once there we would enjoy the ice cream social and then share our slides and testimonies of the mission field. Edith said she would bring Reggie, but they would sit near the back of the church in case he had any problems. It was great to see so many of the congregation waiting at the church. We all laughed and fellowshipped and ate together in the social hall. I noticed Reggie walked around a lot and that several times he looked at us again. Twice, he came over to my husband and said, “I should know, I should know.”

Finally, we all went into the church auditorium and sang a few songs together, then showed the slides. Reggie and Edith sat on the back row and my attention was now on all the other people. After the last slide was shown, my husband asked for the lights to be turned back on and he stepped up to the pulpit to share the blessings of the last years on the mission field. It was the same sturdy pulpit from which he had preached when he had pastored the church. I knew that being there held many warm memories for him. I found I had unconsciously taken the same seat that I had usually occupied when we had been in the church before. It was a very joyous moment.

After a brief prayer, my husband opened his Bible and started to share the testimony he had planned. Suddenly, I heard a quiet shuffling noise from the back of the auditorium and turned to see Reggie getting up and walking down the aisle toward the front of the church. Everyone was very still, watching him. He walked slowly but steadily to the front, then up the steps of the platform and to his former Pastor’s side. His arm went around my husband’s shoulders and he said, “I know, I know. You’re my Pastor.”

There was not a dry eye in the auditorium. My husband hugged Reggie and stood holding him for a moment. Once again, his deacon had encouraged him. In that brief moment of time, this man robbed of so many memories had recognized his beloved pastor when the Bible had been opened. The faithful deacon had not forgotten the man behind the pulpit.