Scratching Where It Itches

By Rhonda Rhea –

I confess I don’t have the greenest thumb on the block. As a matter of fact, I was thinking it might be easier to just give up on all other greenery and grow a poison ivy garden instead. Except that at this point I’d have to start from scratch.

Scratch? Get it? Anyway, I decided it would probably be better not do anything that rash.

That’s because we really do have to be careful what we plant. We will reap what we sow. It’s right there in Galatians 6:7. And according to the verse that follows, not only should we be careful what we plant, but we’re told if we choose to live only to please our own sinful selves, we’ll reap a harvest of death and decay. I think I’ve grown that kind of plant before. But when we’re talking about what we’re growing spiritually, we’re talking about an especially ugly garden. Eternally worse than poison ivy. Don’t even bother with the weed-whacker. Round-Up won’t cut it either.

Take a look at the passage: “Don’t be misled—you cannot mock the justice of God. You will always harvest what you plant. Those who live only to satisfy their own sinful nature will harvest decay and death from that sinful nature. But those who live to please the Spirit will harvest everlasting life from the Spirit. So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up. Therefore, whenever we have the opportunity, we should do good to everyone—especially to those in the family of faith” (Galatians 6:7-10 NLT).

I love how Paul rounds out his point in verse 9 with the big “so.” “So let’s not get tired of doing what is good.” He lets us know that the harvest kind of thinking and learning to live to please the Spirit instead of the flesh leads to staying energized in doing good things for the Kingdom—to not give up. And that leads to a harvest of everlasting blessing.

Our gardening time here is short. We need to stay on task. Second Timothy 4:2-5 charges us to “Preach the Word; be prepared in season and out of season; correct, rebuke and encourage—with great patience and careful instruction. For the time will come when men will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear. They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths. But you, keep your head in all situations, endure hardship, do the work of an evangelist, discharge all the duties of your ministry” (NIV).

Instead of catering to the poison-ivy-itchy-ears of those who simply want the easy way, and instead of letting them distract us, we’re called to keep our heads and to steadfastly keep on working in whatever ministry God has called us to. The passages in Galatians 6 and 2 Timothy 4 are the kinds of sound-the-charge verses we can put to memory. They can remind us all along the way to stay tenaciously resolute in our service. It’s then that we can become more and more the kind of Christ followers who don’t just tickle itchy ears, but truly scratch those eternal itches.

So, ready to write down those passages? First you’ll need some scratch paper.

Rhonda Rhea is a radio personality, conference speaker, humor columnist and author of seven books, including High Heels in High Places and her newest book, Whatsoever Things Are Lovely: Must-Have Accessories for God’s Perfect Peace. You can find out more at www.RhondaRhea.org.

Some Days the Fish, Some Days the Bait

By Jodi Whisenhunt –

My husband and brother used to fish together. Used to, that is, until one day when the bait nearly hooked the wrong fish.

The two men waded chest-deep into a small stream. My husband held his reel, flipped it back to cast, and heard, “Yeeeow!” He had smacked my brother in the cheek with a bloody chicken liver. Fortunately, the hook did not set. My brother, however, did back upstream another twenty feet.

“‘Come, follow Me,’ Jesus said, ‘and I will make you fishers of men’” (Matthew 4:19 NIV). My husband must have taken that verse literally. I have to wonder, though, if Jesus had told them they’d be the bait, would the disciples so quickly have bitten the hook? It’s easier to tell someone about Jesus with words than it is to live out faith. It’s a lot easier to stand in front of a large crowd and speak than it is to lose an infant daughter, suffer disease, watch your mother die, and proclaim your love for the Lord while maintaining your hope in Him. It’s way harder to smile through pain than to say, “Jesus died for you.”

Bait. When you can be the answer to the question of how a loving God allows bad things to happen, you are the bait.

When men cast lures into the water, they can’t see the fish. They can’t see the fish. When you are in the midst of a trial, you’re often too submerged in murky misery to see what you’re fishing for. In those times, pray God will remove the cloudy me-ness and make apparent those who are missing His message. Find them in their hiding places, like the bass among the branches. They are often hard to spot through the fog of, “I’m fine,” but they hunger for the healing that only Jesus can provide. Sometimes living out faith is the only way to catch and relieve a desperate soul.

Gently reel if you feel a tug. Offer sincerity, or you’ll break the line. Reveal God’s provision. Be the bait, meet the fish’s need, and you will demonstrate that God works all things for the benefit of those who love Him and allow His control.

May it not hurt to be the bait.

Jodi Whisenhunt is an Amy Award-winning freelance writer and editor in McKinney, Texas. You can find her at www.jodiwhisenhunt.com or www.magicalmouseschoolhouse.com, where Disney IS school.

Times Are, Uh, Changing

By Lynn Rebuck –

I was on time for church Sunday. It was purely coincidental. It is that rare annual event that happens only on the unique fall morning that we are to set our clocks back one hour to end Daylight Savings Time.

I under-slept Sunday morning and ended up arriving fifteen minutes early for church. At first I was startled by the number of cars pulling into the parking lot. Next I was overwhelmed by the selection of parking spaces available. When I walked into the near-deserted building, I was fascinated by the rows of empty seats.

Mind you, I would adjust my watch to the correct time if I could, but it seems the people who wrote the miniaturized instruction leaflet are the same ones who inscribed the entire Bible on the head of a pin.

Here we are days past the shift in the time-space continuum, and not all of my clocks are adjusted. My kitchen stove claims one time, my car professes another, and my DVD player still innocently blinks midnight.

I am convinced that the old song by the band Chicago, “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” (which you will likely hum for the rest of the day now that I’ve mentioned it), was written just after the switch from Daylight Savings Time.

Yesterday I went watch shopping. The clerk approached me as I gazed at the timepieces in the case. “Can I help you find something?” she asked helpfully.

“Yes, I’d like to get a new watch,” I said.

“What features are you looking for?”

“It has to be accurate,” I replied.

“All of our watches keep time very well,” she said proudly. “Perhaps I can interest you in this one that is waterproof to a depth of ten meters.”

“Do I look like I dive for abalone? I only need one that’s waterproof to the depth of my washing machine,” I replied. My eyes kept searching the hopeful faces in the case.

Finally, I spotted it. “I’ll take that one there,” I said, pointing to a purple-faced watch that had a band larger than a collar for a St. Bernard.

“Which one, this one?” she asked, and then proceeded to tease me by touching every watch surrounding the watch I had selected. (I have found this to be a favorite game of jewelry store salespeople.)

She accidentally brushed the box of my chosen timepiece and I excitedly yelled, “That’s the one!”

“My,” she said, “you really seem to like this watch. It is an excellent choice, as it has a dual alarm, international time zones, a backlight, chronograph, split-lap stopwatch, is waterproof to 50 meters, and can even withstand severe shocks.”

“Severe shocks like being driven by your teenager? Great, I’ll take it.”

“Why did you choose this one?” she asked.

“It has the correct time on it.”

She rang up the sale and I snatched the bag from her hand. As I headed for the door I called back over my shoulder, “See you in the spring!”

Lynn Rebuck is an award-winning humor columnist, comedian, and speaker. She once tried to adjust a sun dial for Daylight Savings Time. Read her humor blog on www.LynnRebuck.com, fan her on Facebook, follow her on Twitter, and email her at LynnRebuck@gmail.com no matter what time it is. © 2010 Lynn Rebuck

Dying with Laughter

By Emily Parke Chase –

Beauty shops would curl up and face permanent ruin if they depended on customers like me for profits. I cut my own hair. I wear no make-up. My fingernails are short and stubby. My most recent experience (fifteen years ago?) with having my hair done professionally resulted in a wild tornado of hair that rivaled anything a half-hour ride in my clothes drier could produce. I arrived home from the beauty parlor fifteen minutes before my children got off the school bus. Afraid that they might mistake me for a raving maniac, I jumped in the shower and had safely returned to my suburban cookie-baking-mom alter ego by the time they walked in the door.

You can thus imagine my surprise when my friend Charise approached me about leading a Bible study for a group of her beautician friends all of whom worked in local salons. Charise sells shampoos, dyes, and other supplies to beauty salons all over our area. She also shares her faith openly and had personally led several of these women to faith in Christ. “Would you be willing to disciple them?”

The first time I walked into the room with these women, I felt I stood out like a cowlick on bald head. Their tresses were styled and gelled. Each cuticle was neatly tucked away and every eyebrow plucked. Each lip was carefully outlined and glossed. The only element out of place was me.

The first lesson was on grace: They accepted me.

At the end of that initial class, I gave the women an assignment to complete at home.

“Homework?” Charise gasped. The women looked at each other in consternation.

My expectation that they would do the assignment shocked them as much as their manicures awed me, but over the next months we began to relax and enjoy our times together. We studied scripture. We laughed as they shared stories from their salons. And we prayed for each other.

One day we were meeting in the home of Debbie. The shrill ring of a phone interrupted our study, and Debbie excused herself to answer the call in the kitchen. A few minutes later she burst into the room. “Praise the Lord!” she shouted to everyone. “I’ve got five corpses!”

The other women exploded with excitement and crowded near to congratulate her.

I sat back in astonishment. What was going on? Were my friends part of some secret Aztec cult that sacrificed beating hearts on an altar? What kind of group rejoices over five corpses?

Charise looked over at me and observed my confusion. Smothering her laughter and recovering her breath, she explained that fixing the hair, nails and make-up of a person who had died brought in extra income. A corpse could be prepped at the stylist’s convenience, after normal business hours, even at midnight. And the best part? These clients never complained about how long the beautician took or if she pulled a hair or two too tight. Five corpses was a windfall for my friend.

Me? I still cut my own hair. I still don’t use lipstick or foundation. So when I die, don’t allow someone to paint me like Madonna. My new friends would die with laughter.

“Charm is deceptive, and beauty disappears, but a woman who honors the Lord should be praised” (Proverbs 31:30 GNB).

(See Emily for yourself! Visit the author at www.emilychase.com.)

Milking the Bull

By Emily Parke Chase –

“Does that chicken lay eggs?”

Pushing back the brim of my bonnet, I look up at the tourist and then glance at the hen coaxing her young brood across the barnyard before I answer, “You think she just lays chicks?”

“Can you tell me where Herb’s garden is?” another visitor asks.

Pointing to a garden full of parsley, basil and oregano, I sigh and reply, “You’ll find Herb over there.”

A husband and wife point at a team of oxen. “Look! They have a male and a female!”

Do modern biology classes never mention that an ox is a castrated steer? That means no females.

As a seasonal guide at a reconstructed historical village, I have grown accustomed to tourists who ask unusual questions. Many of our guests, growing up in cities, have no idea that milk comes from anything other than a carton or that the cotton in their tee shirts once grew on puffy plants. Only at a place like Williamsburg, Plimoth Plantation, or Old Sturbridge Village will you find a crowd of adults focusing their cameras on a costumed worker unloading a pile of manure from an ox cart. Where are those light meters and flashbulbs when I’m turning over my compost pile in my back yard?

Other visitors to our village are experts in their fields. A few specialize in guns, some in early American pottery. Their questions are welcome and get accurate answers, but I discover that guides on tour from other historical villages take diabolical delight in testing my knowledge. They ask for obscure details about wallpaper designs or flower arranging, not because they care but because they want to see if they can catch me in ignorance. Here comes one of those visiting guides with a question. “Excuse me, miss. That desk over there across the room…can you tell me if it was made in eastern or western Massachusetts?”

I scratch my head and furrow my brow before answering. “It all depends on your perspective. If you are standing on the New York border, then it was made in eastern Massachusetts. But if you are standing on the tip of Cape Cod, it was made in western Massachusetts.”

“Ah, thank you.” The guide nods solemnly and moves on to harass the next staff person.

When tourists are not in sight, we staff members create our own entertainment. My friend “Betsy” is working upstairs in a museum area that few people visit. Bored, she writes a note, “Help! I’m being held prisoner in the lighting exhibit.” She rolls the note into a scroll and pushes it through a knothole in the pine floor. She has most sincere regrets when it falls to the head table in the formal dining room below, in front of one of the members of the board of trustees. From then on, Betsy decides to let tourists—only tourists—provide the fodder for her wit.

The next day a man wearing an MIT sweatshirt approaches. After watching our farmer use the ox to plow a field, he asks, “Does that ox give milk? Does it taste like cow’s milk?”

Hard to tell. You see, I only milk the bull.

“If any among you thinks that he is wise by this world’s standards, he should become a fool in order to be really wise. For what this world considers to be wisdom is nonsense in God’s sight” (1 Corinthians 3:18, 19, Good News Bible).

Want to schedule the author as a speaker? Interested in learning more about her books, including Why Say No When My Hormones Say Go? Visit her at emilychase.com.

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