From Trash To Treasure

By Cheri Cowell

I know I’m my mother’s daughter because I have one secret habit that comes directly from her. This is indeed a dirty little secret that my husband wishes I didn’t have. I can’t help myself, but as I drive by homes on garbage day, I survey the trash. I’ve found chairs, lamps, bookshelves, silk trees, and even a perfectly good fruit tree. My husband was horrified the first time I made him stop beside a garbage heap while I jumped out of the car to retrieve something. Over the years, he’s learned to go along with my treasure hunts and has even begun to enjoy our excursions on garbage day.  

There are “hidden treasures” around us every day, people who have been tossed out on the trash heaps of mankind, labeled useless to society. These worthless rags, unseen and forgotten by the rest of the world, are seen by God. He has called us to be His treasure seekers, looking for the lost and reclaiming them for Him. Because of your faithfulness in seeing the trash heap of another as a place of buried treasure, generations after you will come to know Jesus. 

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Surrounded By The Garden Of God

By Peter Lundell

I whispered, “Speak to me, God.” And a whippoorwill sang. But I was hurrying between appointments. I shouted, “God, speak to me!” And thunder clapped from the sky. But I dashed inside to escape the rain. When the storm cleared I prayed, “God, I want to see you.” And the stars shone from behind the passing clouds. But my cell phone rang, and I didn’t want to miss the call. As the days passed, I asked, “God, show me a miracle.” And a child was born. But I only took photos and said a quick prayer. Finally, I raised my hands and pleaded, “Touch me, God.” And the wind caressed my face. But I turned away and put on a jacket, disappointed that God did not respond.

When we insulate ourselves from nature, we insulate ourselves from God as well, because God connects with us through the natural world. Earth is another word for God’s garden.

Our souls can become anesthetized. This happens when we drift into the artificial respiration of needing to be constantly busy or when we focus on something electronic.

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The Narrow Trail

By Virginia Smith

In Utah’s Wasatch Mountains just east of Salt Lake City there’s a trail I love to hike. It’s called Donut Falls. I drive up Big Cottonwood Canyon and leave my car at a small and often crowded parking area, lace up my hiking boots and take off. There are two trails – the first is wide enough for a car, though no vehicles are permitted up there. It is easy, with a gentle grade and few rocks littering the way. It’s a beautiful hike and leads to the top of the falls where I can see the donut, a giant flat rock with a round hole where thousands of gallons of rushing mountain water pour through.

The second trail isn’t so easy. It’s narrow, steep, and often jagged. I stop periodically to catch my breath, and at one place I have to climb down a six-foot muddy ledge, holding on to tree roots for balance. But it’s worth the extra effort, because the narrow trail ends below the falls instead of above it. All that water pours through the hole above me and thunders into a sheltered pool, refreshing me with a cool mountain spray as it rushes past me over a stunning rocky creek bed. The view from that angle takes my breath away. It’s well worth the struggle to get there.

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Justified

By Cheri Cowell

Recently several high profile court cases played themselves out in the media. Emotions were high on both sides, and depending on which media outlet you listened to, when the verdict was pronounced justice had prevailed or had been done a disservice. I wondered what it must feel like for the victims in each case, and what it must feel like to the accused when the jury finds them not guilty when they are, or guilty when they aren’t. It is difficult to imagine a verdict that is truly just.

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So Not My Gift

By Cynthia Ruchti 

I caught myself saying it again the other day as I cleaned up the church kitchen after helping to serve snacks during fellowship time following the worship service.

Choosing how much to purchase and prepare for an unknown number of congregants is “sooooo not my gift.”

The family of a newborn is counting on me to provide their supper on Wednesday night. Me? I can cook. It’s not that. I actually cook pretty well. But I feel so much more comfortable writing a clever little poem for a baby shower than I do providing a meal. I told the deaconess in charge of scheduling meals for situations like this, “I found it funny, considering my crazy life this week. Rather than saying yes, I should have requested meals for ME!”

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