Bully Birds

By Stephanie Prichard –

My husband barely dared to breathe. He sat immobile at the picnic table on our Aussie host’s deck, surrounded by thirteen wild Sulphur-crested Cockatoos perched at one-foot intervals along the railing. The size of barnyard chickens, snowy white except for their black beaks and their yellow feathers crowning their heads, they didn’t move either. Aloof, regal, their agenda clear, they stared at him and waited.

Finally, my husband oh-so-slowly extended his right arm across the tabletop and deposited one sunflower seed after another toward him. The Hansel-and-Gretel trail ended with his hand as the gingerbread house. He opened it wide to reveal a tantalizing, come-hither pile of seeds.

Within seconds, a volunteer hopped from the railing to the table. Step by step, the cockatoo followed the trail, gobbling up the seeds until he was within a neck’s stretch of the gingerbread-house cache. He halted. Looked up at my husband. Looked down at the cache. Ever so slowly, he stretched his neck toward the pile of seeds. My husband’s lips quirked into a smile of victory. Then, with lightning speed, the cockatoo nipped my husband’s index finger and scurried backwards.

My husband’s smile disappeared, but he didn’t move. He pressed his hand all the firmer onto the tabletop and tightened his mouth into a straight line.

The cockatoo crept cautiously forward. He stretched his neck again and latched onto the same finger. This time he bit so hard an electric current of pain shot through my husband’s body. Suddenly it wasn’t so cute that he was surrounded by thirteen combat-ready, sharp-beaked aggressors who coveted his sunflower seeds. He dumped the pile onto the table and left. Chagrined, he stood beside me at the sliding glass door and watched the other twelve cockatoos swoop to the table to join in the feast.

That wasn’t the end of it. A few days later, at a small zoo of native Australian animals, we stopped at a cage labeled Cockatoos. My husband clutched the wire fence and peered inside. Immediately, a Sulfur-crested Cockatoo flew straight over to him. “Well,” my husband said, “at least there’s one friendly cockatoo in Australia.” He grinned as the bird replied with what sounded like a mighty affable “Aaaark.”

And with that, the cockatoo promptly reached over and bit the same sore finger the other bird had chomped. “Aaaark,” he squawked, and with a distinct Aussie accent said, “Good boy, good boy.”

Aren’t we just like those cockatoos? Territorial: “Hands off, God. This is my space. My life. Just dump what’s good on the tabletop and leave me alone.”

. . . Until something bad happens. And then guess Who gets questioned for His lack of goodness?

Free Spirit

By Judy Davis –

For months I had been searching for a bicycle. I  looked for one on sale and priced several, but they were too high. Every time I went to a store that sold bikes, I would price them. Early one morning after my daily prayer walk, I glanced at the For Sale section of the paper and noticed a new 26 inch, 10 speed ladies bicycle for $65.00. Wow, I could not believe this low price.

Immediately, I called the lady and she said she had paid $130 for the bike but only rode it once. She had fallen and broken two vertebrae and would not be able to ride again. I got directions to her home. It would take me over an hour to get there and back home.

Since I  made arrangements to meet several ladies from the church at 10:00 to set up tables, I felt it would be best to wait and go get the bike. However, I knew if I waited, the bike may be sold.

I ran into my bedroom and got the $50 I had been saving. I had a crisp five dollar bill in my billfold. I looked on my husband’s desk and found 13 dollar bills. I grabbed them and left, knowing I would not have time to go to the bank.

It took over an hour to find the little green house at Lake Wildwood. As I walked into her lovely home, I couldn’t help but notice all the beautiful dolls in her den. She had dolls from Holland, Germany, England and all different shapes and sizes.

She showed me the burgundy bike waiting for me. I paid her the money and as I started to leave, I thanked her. She mentioned how she had broken two vertebrae recently in a fall. I immediately asked her if I could pray for her. She said, “Oh, honey yes.” I knew even in the rush, I could not leave without praying for this dear lady. I then took the bike and squeezed it into my Mustang.

The next morning, just like a child with a new toy, I couldn’t wait to ride my new bicycle instead of walking for my daily exercise. The cool breeze blowing against my face made me feel like a free spirit. It was then I thought of God being a free spirit, moving through each of His children wanting to give us the desires of our heart. “Delight yourself also in the Lord, and He will give you the desires and secret petitions of your heart” (Psalm 37:4).

After I returned home and was putting my bike away, I glanced at the frame of the bike and written across my brand new bike were the words “Free Spirit.”

Back by Closing Hymn

By Carol Barnier –

I love going to church. My favorite time is not the singing. Nor is it the time of greeting when we wander about the congregation seeking people with hands to be shaken and peace to be shared, and then once safely back in the pews, quietly put on disinfectant to avoid one of the Holy Plagues.

Nope, my favorite part is . . .

The sermon.

Not just the sermon, which is always good, but my mental meanderings away from the sermon, which delight me just as much.

Here’s how it works.

Pastor: Paul was lowered over the side of the city wall in a basket.

Me: Wow. That must have been some basket. I don’t have a basket anywhere NEAR strong enough for that. Grant you I have one that holds about 50 pounds of onions…which, come to think of it is almost empty…I wonder if Paul ate onions?… I’d better get to the store this week…but I really hate shopping…although they’ve installed that little café mocha dispenser now… I just wish it wasn’t in the refrigerated foods section—waaay too cold…I suppose I could wear my winter coat…I wonder if Paul ever wore a winter coat? What’s winter even like in Jerusalem? I wonder if…wait…what is that sound…I hear music…why is everybody standing…oh…it’s the closing hymn. Time to rise Carol.

I’ve heard there are people who have linear thoughts. Supposedly, these folks start a thought, think about it, and then complete it. They can focus intently on a 90-minute lecture regarding the historical derivatives of the word hermeneutics while never losing their train of thought. They actually have a train. I have more of a hot air balloon. I’m just as interested as getting to my location as the folks on the train, but I’m blown about a wee bit by the wind, meandering here and there, seeing things that weren’t on the agenda, but nonetheless are still quite lovely.

On any given Sunday, my mind will wander off the sermon, just the tiniest bit, and is now thinking about the back of that woman’s head, and why she let her roots grow so long and if the root plants in my garden are ready to be pulled since it looks like snow and I really should stop and pick up a new shovel and … “Carol,”…the pastor says cheerily, “Could you tell us why you believe the Apostle Paul was so quick to judge the church in Ephesus?”

Blink.

Blink Blink.

I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with roots. And my other usually safe fallback of always answering “Jesus” wasn’t going to work here either. Man! Where do I get one of those linear thought patterns?

So far I’ve been lucky. My pastor has continued with the traditional model of preaching as a single participant event, not a team sport. That’s good because. . .I’ve never been good at sports. . .although I once thought I’d like gymnastics. . .till I saw that Olympic girl bend herself in half backwards. . .which I’m thinking causes spinal cord damage. She looked like a pretzel. . .we haven’t had pretzels in a long time. . .maybe I should get some next time I’m in. . .  <watch the balloon drift away>

Don’t Rent Out Your Grey Matter

By Dawn Wilson –

Back in the 1990s, I read some words by Lee Ezell that gave me a new perspective on forgiveness. “When you do not forgive,” Ezell said, “you permit your enemies to live rent free in your head. Evict them today.”

A few years later, while teaching a women’s Sunday school class, I realized that I was renting out my grey matter to my big-time enemy—the Devil himself—and over a lot more issues than forgiveness! Whenever I believed the lies that he whispered in my ears, I gave him space to do his dastardly work.

Some of the dumbest lies I ever believed were regarding my call to ministry. The Lord called me to encourage, energize, and edify women. I heard the call clearly, and I studied to prepare my heart and mind to share biblical truth at every opportunity the Lord would give me. I said a big “yes” to God … but then the lies began.

“You’ve seen those lady speakers, haven’t you? Those pretty young things? Who do you think is going to listen to you, Grammy Wilson?” Ah, the age lie.

“How can you speak to people?” the enemy continued. “You’ve got a big gap between your front teeth, and have you seen your fat ankles lately? People won’t listen to what you say because they’ll be too busy staring at your messed up bod!” Ugh… the appearance lie.

“And who do you think you are?” the enemy hissed. “You’re no brainiac, you know; and speakers and authors have to know technical stuff today. Remember? You’re such a techno-blonde!” The final, crushing blow—the abilities lie.

For a while, I allowed the enemy to move in and make himself comfortable. In no time, defeated, fearful thoughts took over and I decided that maybe God hadn’t called me after all.

Then I heard a pastor say words that continue to challenge my thinking today: “Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may discern what is the good, pleasing, and perfect will of God” (Romans 12:2, HCSB).

Serving God isn’t about age, appearance, abilities, or anything else so self-focused. It’s all about God—discerning what He has called us to do, trusting Him to work, and obeying Him joyfully and without delay.

I’ve found everything I need—provision, protection, power, peace and more—in my Father’s mighty presence and enabling. He simply asks me to submit my thoughts to His control, allowing them to be transformed through the truth of the Word, and to actively resist my sneaky, deceitful enemy (James 4:7).

How about you? Do you have a brain tenant who wants to destroy you with his lies? Evict him and make more room for the Living Word. Ask God’s Spirit to speak truth to you and through you.

Honeymoon Hazard

By Stephanie Prichard –

On the last day of our honeymoon, Don and I went to the beach within walking distance of our hotel. Neither of us was big on swimming, but, c’mon, we were in Hawaii! Besides, we’d be making footprints on the very sand where they’d filmed the movie “From Here to Eternity.”

Wouldn’t you know it—I’d barely entered the water when I stepped on coral. It cut right into the tender flesh of my sole and hurt like crazy. I tried to staunch the steady dribble of blood with my towel, but my Marine Corps husband declared we had to return to the hotel and get medical attention. So, hanging onto my man, I hobbled what seemed like from here to eternity down the long, long sidewalk to our hotel. My progress was marked by a trail of faint but bloody footprints.

The air in the hotel lobby was cool against my skin after the long march in the sun. Yet perspiration beaded my body and trickled down my forehead. And the lobby seemed awful dim. I thought about removing my sunglasses, but the elevator doors opened and Don all but hauled me inside. Suddenly, my knees went rubbery; the walls spun.

The last thing I remember was Don punching the button for our floor. The elevator lurched upward, but I lurched downward. Don grabbed me with both arms and glanced at my face. My sunglasses, he told me later, were pushed to the side and hung from one ear. My eyes were open in a blank stare. My arms and legs were limp noodles. He struggled to hold me upright.

Ding. The elevator doors slid open. Five people stepped forward, but stopped halfway. Their eyes widened and their mouths went slack. No one said anything. They literally froze.

My husband stared back, equally frozen, seeing himself with their eyes—a man standing in a pool of blood, a young woman limp in his arms, her head thrown back, eyes open but not seeing, mouth drooling, sunglasses swaying from one ear.

Ding. The doors shut out his audience.

Belatedly, he realized the gawkers were standing in the hotel lobby. The elevator must have gone to our floor while he was distracted with me, then returned to the lobby for its new load of passengers. Quickly, he punched the button for our floor again. This time when the doors opened, he picked me up and carried me to our room.

Within an hour, we were at a hospital to have the gash cleaned. The doctor didn’t anesthetize my foot, evidently confusing me as the Marine instead of my husband. Big mistake. Not only were the bottoms of my feet ticklish, but inserting a probe into my wound and poking it around was asking too much of me. Without thinking—honestly, it was purely a reflex action—I kicked him in the face.

Fortunately, I only grazed his nose, but my husband was ordered to hold down my legs for the rest of the procedure. My wound was being cleansed for my benefit, but my body interpreted it as an attack and wanted to respond with its own aggression.

Isaiah 53 tells us about Jesus’ wound.

His wound was fatal—He died “for our transgressions” (v. 5). Why? To cleanse us—“by His stripes we are healed” (v. 5) And because His wound was voluntary, indeed purposed, He bore it meekly—“as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so He opened not His mouth” (Isaiah 53:7b, NKJV).

Jesus took our wounds for His.

Did you know we’re on a honeymoon now? Yep, from here to eternity.

« Previous Page — Next Page »