Mistaken Identity

By Kim Stokely –

Almost everyone who calls the home of a friend with teenagers has experienced something like the following:

(Sound of phone ringing)

Voice on the other end: Hello?

You: Hi Mary (or Alice or Karen…) Have you heard about the sale Kohl’s is having on bras? Buy two get one free. I remembered you saying yours are shot—your bras, not your—

Voice: Let me get my mom.

You: (Loud groan as you realize you’ve been talking to her thirteen-year-old daughter.)

My kids try and pick up the phones in our house that have caller ID so they can prep the person on the other end as soon as they answer. My son even goes to the extreme of sounding like we’re a mortuary or rehab center, “Hello, this is Ian of the Stokely House. How may I direct your call?”

The funniest mix-up happened a couple of years ago when we arranged to reunite with friends we hadn’t seen in over ten years. The restaurant we were meeting at was crowded so my husband and I saved a table while our kids, 14 and 16, went to place their order. My friends walked up to my son exclaiming, “John! You haven’t changed a bit since college.”

My son, with eyes like a deer in the headlights, stared at these strangers a moment before pointing behind him, “I think you want my dad.”

It’s been a fun journey, watching my children grow up into adults. They may not like being mistaken for their parents, but my husband and I take a certain pleasure in thinking at least our voices still sound young! Physically, the resemblances between us are becoming more prominent too. My son, fortunately, has inherited my thick hair. I’m sure he’ll thank me when he’s fifty and nowhere near balding. My daughter has my husband’s metabolism. She’ll never have to worry about gaining weight. (I’ll try not to hold it against her.)

It occurred to me the other day as I watched my son pass the phone to my husband after another case of mistaken identity, that I too, hope to be mistaken for my Father—my heavenly Father, that is. I hope that the words I say, and the things I do, might always be such a reflection of His truth that people see Him in me. It would be awesome to come to the end of my life and have God exclaim, “Welcome to heaven! I’d know you anywhere! You look just like me!”

Wicked Witch of the West

By Liz Cowen Furman –

If our little family motel by Yellowstone that we run each summer has done nothing else, it has given me much fodder for my articles. The other day was a doozy.

Rich (the bucket man) came with his “cherry picker” truck to help me fix up and light our sign, 30 or so feet off the ground in the Wyoming wind. Since it is $70 per hour, I was trying to hurry and I didn’t notice that I was down wind of the forest green spray paint we were painting the pole with.

When I said my face felt funny Rich looked at me and said “Oh Liz, I think you must have been down wind.” We finished the sign and Rich said he would come back later so I could pay him. I think he wanted out of there before I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. When I looked in the mirror I about died.

Can you say Wizard of Oz? I looked just like the wicked witch of the west…hair and all. My face, neck, ears hair—even teeth were a lovely shade of forest green. (I must have been smiling the whole time because I love the bucket truck.) Any exposed body parts were covered. It was hysterical! All I needed was a wart on my nose with hair growing out of it.

While I was figuring out what to do I took pictures of myself and am ever so thankful that we can’t include them here. How would I wait on my guests that would be arriving soon? How long would it take to wear off?

I was going to use mineral spirits but the smell about killed me so I decided to try coconut oil. Amazing, but it worked like a charm and in no time I was good as new. It only took me three times to lather up with oil and wipe it off with a paper towel, then shower. I was washed clean but not before I shocked the movie producer in Room 21 who has a new concussion from falling on the trail on the way to his shoot the previous day. I think he must have thought he was hallucinating. He looked at me funny and said, “You look a little green, Liz.” Must have affected his vision as I was much more than a little green.

Started me thinking about how sometimes our sin is out there for all to see. When we are walking in obvious sin instead of the Spirit, our witness takes a hit. Our credibility is lost. But the most amazing analogy for me was that in 1 John it says, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9 NIV).

And He does it faster than coconut oil. He will restore us to purity if we will confess and ask Him to. Thinking I am going to do that every time I find myself in sin, immediately, lest I begin to grow a wart with hair. That is such a bad witness. My dear friend always says, “You might be the only Jesus someone sees.” Oh how I long to represent Him well.

Are You Ready?

By Judy Davis –

It was 12:30 a.m. when I woke to the sound of a loud, screeching siren. I jumped up and started shaking my husband. “I think there may be a fire in the building,” I shouted as I grabbed my housecoat. Having recently returned from my nephew’s wedding reception, we had been asleep about an hour. It was our first trip to West Palm Beach, Florida, and one I will never forget.

I slowly opened the door to our hotel room. There were several people standing out in the hall. I asked if there was a fire, but no one knew. The siren was still blaring. I ran back into the room and called the desk clerk asking, “Is there a fire?” He told me the fire fighters were still checking and instructed me to stay put.

We were on the fourth floor and I realized I didn’t want to “stay put.” I went across the hall to my mother’s room. Her room adjoined that of my sister and brother-in-law. I kept knocking and finally woke all three of them. I told my sister to hurry because we had to go down four flights of stairs.

Needless to say, I was concerned about my mother who was 75 years old. As we were rushing down the stairs, I almost bumped into a fireman coming up the stairs. He asked what floor we came from and told us he believed the alarm was set from the second floor.

Outside, all we could see were people in robes and flashing red lights from the fire trucks. Later, we were told it was a false alarm. Now we had to climb those four flights of stairs, but we were so relieved there was not a fire. We were anxious to get back to our rooms and go back to sleep.

The next morning I read in my daily devotion God sends messengers in the form of pastors, prophets, and teachers who announce the present kingdom of heaven. It reminded me of the events of the night before and what could have happened. I realized how important it is to be ready to meet the Master at any time. “For you yourselves know full well that the day of the Lord will come just like a thief in the night” 1 Thessalonians 5:2.

Hamster Meets Mini-Houdini

By Connie Cavanaugh –

Our three-year-old granddaughter Madi’s middle name should be Houdini. The minute you turn your back on her, she floats away, opens a door more quietly than a safe cracker, slips out and flees! Several frantic searches over the last year have found her happily riding a tricycle down the middle of the street in winter wearing nothing but a diaper, exploring a neighbor’s backyard while frolicking with their dog, or nibbling a snack and playing the Wii in her auntie’s basement a few doors down from Grammy’s house.

That’s why I was a little nervous about leaving her with Papa for an hour while I went with my son and his dogs to the off-leash park. It was Mother’s Day and my daughter, Madi’s mother, needed some rest after a busy weekend of ministry with her youth group and worship team so I gladly volunteered to bring Madi home after church and keep her for the afternoon.

Before leaving for the dog park I made sure Papa understood he must not take his eyes off her for a minute. I locked the door leading outdoors from the family room. Off I went for a happy hour of watching two dogs run, roll, chase balls, splash in the river, shake water all over me, get covered with dirt which quickly became mud, and if dogs could grin, I would say they had grins a mile wide. What apartment dwelling dog doesn’t love an hour of unbridled freedom?

When I got home, windblown and chilly but heart-warmed and happy, the first thing I saw when I stepped inside the house was my wild-eyed husband charging up the stairs from the basement where I had left him and Madi sixty minutes earlier. He was carrying a shoebox.

“Where’s Madi?”

“I just dropped her off at Christine’s house,” he wheezed. The shoebox he clutched rose and fell on his heaving chest, Christine is our other daughter who lives nearby.

“What’s in the box?” I asked.

Wordlessly, he lifted the lid. I peeked inside.

“A hamster?”

“Is that what it is?” he asked. “I thought it was a mouse at first but it looked too well fed so my next guess was a gerbil.”

“Where did it come from?”

“According to Madi? Louisiana!” he replied, shaking his head.

The story unfolded. Papa decided to watch a movie with Madi while Grammy was out. A dangerous idea since television is like a narcotic for Pastor Papa, but on Sunday afternoon, TV works faster than Nembutal delivered intravenously. The movie had barely begun when the snoring started.

We have no idea how long Madi waited but she quickly sensed the wind was in her favor, tiptoed upstairs, and let herself out the unlocked front door. She made a beeline next-door where 10-year-old Hannah lives. Hannah often lets Madi play with her hamster.

Hannah’s family wasn’t home so Madi tried both doors; the back door was not locked. She found the hamster in its cage, liberated it, and was heading back to Grammy’s house for some fun when Papa woke up with a start, discovered she was gone and began dashing and calling. He found her outside our front door, clutching the little critter. Thinking she had a mouse in her pudgy fists, he almost threw it into an adjacent green space. But a second look made him think it was more domesticated – hence the “gerbil” classification.

“Madi! Where did you get this gerbil?”

“Louisiana,” she replied with a poker face worthy of Cool Hand Luke.

He asked a second time and got the same response. It was at that point he realized he was dealing with not only an experienced jail breaker but a seasoned perjurer since we live in Canada.

Disgruntled church members, power-hungry deacons, political positioning, tight budgets, needy parishioners – all this and more Pastor Papa handles with diplomacy and grace but a wise man knows his limits. He pried the hamster out of her sweaty grasp amid a flood of weeping, boxed the pet and marched Madi over to Auntie’s house. He knew he was in way over his head.

Salvation in a Running Shoe

By Carol Barnier –

Have you ever met folks who have only one message? They seem to have the same answer for every single problem that might come your way.

“My life was forever changed when I. . .{insert amazing trendy habit of choice, be it ionized toothbrushes, red pepper colonics, or—I kid you not, purposely induced malaria-therapy.}

No matter what you’ve got going on, this one thing, they are certain, could turn your life around.

I met a guy some time ago who apparently had found the single magic antidote for all life’s issues: running. No really. There was not a single conversation in which he didn’t bring up this miraculous panacea.

Got a drinking problem? You should take up running.

Struggling with focus? You know a good run will really help you zero in on focusing.

Robbed several convenience stores? I know a guy who ran a marathon, and never robbed anyone again.

Marital problems? Irritable bowel syndrome? Never won the lottery? Take up running. It’ll change your life. I took up running and in six weeks, my stock market portfolio tripled!

Big sigh. He has one message. Get fit. I don’t know if you’ll feel better, but I’ll feel better looking at ya.

I’ve seen this same mentality prescribed in spiritual circles as well. I saw one recently that I found just as frustrating.

Not feeling close to God? Feeling ineffective in your witness? Just not the Christian you need to be?

Eat raw foods.

The presenter of this piece of wisdom went on to say that God cannot use us if we don’t take care of ourselves.

Whaaaaa?

Don’t misunderstand me. I know that running is a great activity that will bring a boost of health to my plump and too-sedentary self. I also know there is great merit in eating well, including raw foods. I get that. But one of God’s amazing habits is to use people who aren’t in perfect shape, people easily dismissed by others. Moses. . .with a speech problem becomes the mouth-piece for the Hebrews. St. Augustine—a drunken womanizer becomes one of the most influential writers of Christian thought in history. Even in our own day, if the ability to run and maintain a rigorous fitness schedule makes one more God-usable, then Joni Eareckson Tada and Nick Vuyacic wouldn’t have had a chance to reach the tens of thousands of people that they have with their powerful ministries. Many people, their bodies wracked with cancer and disease, have been fully used of God in their final days to share something of eternal value with those they left behind.

Too often people seem to confuse the salvation of God’s amazing grace with pathetic human activities. Oh sure, we should strive to be healthy but only because we’ll enjoy life more and it shows a respect for the body God has given us. But some folks seem to imbue a sort of holiness into the self-improvement actions themselves, as though we could somehow render ourselves more worthy of God’s use.

Truth is, none of us is worthy of His use, whether bent and broken, or fit and strong. Frankly, it’s a wonder we gain His attention at all, let alone be chosen to do anything for His kingdom. So eat well, yes. Run, exercise, and work out, yes. But don’t be surprised if the donut eating, sedentary guy with bad fingernails is the one God chooses to change the world.

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