Our Little Town of Bethlehem

Most of us know at least in part the Christmas story if for no other reason we see Mary, Joseph, and the Baby in a traditional place in many homes this time of the year. Usually, not far from the manger scene is the wise men or magi, as some may call them. Baby Jesus was born in Bethlehem, and his mother was Mary. Since she was in the inn's stable, with animals all around, Mary placed her newborn in a manger, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Right? Well, let me tell you another story I witnessed many years ago. The manger was placed in the center of the stage in our sanctuary, made with crudely cut slats of wood and filled with fresh hay. The bewildered mother, Mary, fidgeted and patted, but she could not calm sweet baby Jesus. But in her wisdom, she got up and handed him to the Wiseman standing nearby. Knowing what to do, this Wiseman jiggled and consoled him for the next thirty minutes while the rest of the program went on at our church. You see, this beautiful baby Jesus was none other than Nicholas Drew, and that Wiseman was Larry, my sweet husband. This baby Jesus recognized the gentle touch and familiar rocking of one who loved him so much and knew what he needed. So in Wiseman garb, the man for the job in love comforted the wiggly infant. Sometimes, especially in these uncertain times, we are anxious and worried about what might happen next, whether it be with our job, our health, or our world as we have always known it. As you know, the roles in my little story are reversed. It is not Jesus who needs consoled or brought up to date. He is not confused or bewildered by the current circumstances we find ourselves in today. He is not racking his brain to develop plan B, nor does he need a Wiseman to consult with him. It is we, His children, who long for His touch. We find ourselves thirsty in a dry land, longing for relief that can only come from God’s Son, Jesus Christ. Our Nicholas is a grown man now and no longer needs to be consoled by us, but like all of us, he needs comfort when times are hard, and we find ourselves waiting, as they say, for the other shoe to drop in this uncertain world. I smile today with hope in my heart, thinking of this beautiful change that came to our “Little Town of Bethlehem.”

Gifts of a Bus Kid

Gifts of a Bus Kid Christmas is the season of “gift-giving”! We buy robes, PJs, and electronics galore and wrap them in colorful paper. Gift certificates in tiny envelopes are hung on the tree or put in stockings for those hard-to-buy-for people in our lives. I have read in the bible about the “gifts” or talents God gives to each of us. Some say they have no gifts, but the bible would disagree. Gifts are not all the same, just as the broad array under your tree is not the same. Some people can sing; some can preach; still, others teach. I knew a precious saint who had the talent to put a beautiful flower arrangement together to set on the piano for Sunday morning service. I loved the faithful one who cooked for big church gatherings as if cooking for two and the volunteer who welded together the very stage that held those who would minister in teaching, preaching, and bring us a song. Sometimes people don’t recognize these things as gifts, but they are just the same. Some days I doubt my worth in the Kingdom. I mull over my supposed “gifts” and wonder if they are from God. When I was younger, I fed babies in the nursery, taught 4th graders about Jesus, and was a clown named Cleofa at Bible School. All things I could see and touch. But now I write! Old fingers fly over the keys to type words on a page that flitters out of my heart and mind. Sometimes I feel very vulnerable putting my thoughts out there, not knowing if anyone will read them or like them. For the last several months, I have been planning to self-publish a book of devotions. I have over five hundred writings of the previous ten years and new ones that I try to write weekly. The enemy taunts me that I’m just a nobody and could never write a book that anyone would read. Even at my age, my mind can still go back to the days I climbed aboard any church bus that would take me to church. I knew nearly nothing of the God that I met in those tiny Sunday School rooms with brightly painted kid-sized chairs. I remember the first time I learned that I could pray to God; even as a child, it changed my life. I scribbled “oTeach Us To Pray” onto red construction paper, made crooked lips, and pasted them on my masterpiece. At times, I compare what others know of the bible and writing and wonder if I still belong in the tiny room with brightly colored chairs. But as my “big girl” self, I know the scripture in 2 Corinthians is true. Only God can qualify us and enable us to be ministers of his New Covenant. 2 Corinthians 3:5-6 It’s not that we think we are qualified to do ANYTHING (capitals mine) on our own. Our qualification comes from God. He has enabled us to be ministers of his New Covenant. As long as these fingers can plunk out a word to glorify my Lord, I will trust Him to give me the courage to do that in His name and for His sake.

Lord, I'm Coming Home

Lord, I’m Coming Home So he got up and went to his father. "But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him, and kissed him. Luke 15:20 When I was growing up, “coming home” didn’t mean too much to me. It usually meant a quick run from a neighbor’s house to mine or maybe coming home from my grandma’s house thirty miles away. My Aunts and Uncles and grandparents lived locally and never had to “come home.” Until my kids moved to other states all over the country, “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” meant no more than a whimsical tune that I liked to sing during the holidays. That same song now sometimes comes with great anticipation as I look forward to my kids coming home. Jesus told the best “coming home” story ever in a parable. It was about a young man who wanted to strike out and see the world past his father’s fence line. Things were old fashion, dull, with the excitement around there non-existent. However, there was a catch. He wanted his inheritance before his father had even died so he could enjoy it in his youth. Amazingly the father agreed, and off the prodigal son went looking for what he thought he couldn’t find at home. The wayward boy soon squandered the inheritance on wild living and was reduced to feeding pigs. It was then that the prodigal decided to go home to his Father, who ran to him with open arms. In my search, I found a slow and steady song with a rather solemn tone, “Lord, I’m Coming Home” by William J. Kirkpatrick, published in 1892. Kirkpatrick wrote these lyrics with a young soloist in mind. This boy sang his solo at the church where William was music director and then quickly left before the sermon. Upon finishing the song, he asked the young man to sing his new song. This evening he decided to stay for the sermon and found the Lord at an alter of prayer. Coming home can mean many things, but it seems that it always generates joy. Whether coming home to a childhood home at Christmas, returning to God as a sinner forgiven or the ultimate coming to our heavenly dwelling, the Father’s arms will be open wide to greet us. Open wide Thine arms of love, Lord, I’m coming home. Lord, I'm Coming Home Hymn Lyrics I’ve wandered far away from God, Now I’m coming home; The paths of sin too long I’ve trod, Lord, I’m coming home. Refrain Coming home, coming home, Nevermore to roam, Open wide Thine arms of love, Lord, I’m coming home. I’ve wasted many precious years, Now I’m coming home; I now repent with bitter tears, Lord, I’m coming home. Refrain I’m tired of sin and straying, Lord, Now I’m coming home; I’ll trust Thy love, believe Thy Word, Lord, I’m coming home. Refrain My soul is sick, my heart is sore, Now I’m coming home; My strength renew, my hope restore, Lord, I’m coming home. Refrain My only hope, my only plea, Now I’m coming home; That Jesus died, and died for me. Lord, I’m coming home. Refrain I need His cleansing blood, I know, Now I’m coming home; O wash me whiter than the snow, Lord, I’m coming home.