Unpublished...Untitled

A weak, sickly man, bent with years, winded his way up the jutted path, grimacing as he took each step with the aid of crutches. His family had begged him not to make the journey to Calvary, arguing that he was much too frail for any such jaunt. He had disregarded their counsel, however, silently knowing that they could never understand why he must make this trip.

Now he had reached the crest of the hill. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the nearest boulder. His nephew’s report, which had sparked his desire to make this journey, had been all too truthful.

The strange tale the boy had brought home had stricken the older man’s heart with remorse, and a pervasive longing to see whether the story was true. It was a strange story—not so much the crucifixion, but the victim. He was known as a simple teacher who traveled about doing good, and, as many claimed, doing miracles. While many people believed these stories were little more than a conglomeration of propaganda and fantasy, others were convinced of the Teacher’s divine power. In the latter category was the bent man, who knew firsthand of Jesus’ healing ability.

As he stood on the brow of the hill, riveted in place by the picture of the Man on the center cross, his mind began to revert back to the very first time he had seen the Man from Galilee…

He was lying on his back, listening to sounds of the shepherds goading their sheep through the Sheep Gate located near the porches where he and the other invalids lay. It was a day not unlike every other that he had spent here for the past 38 years. Each day began with the hope that Bethesda’s Pool, only a few feet away from his mat, would be miraculously moved by an angel’s hand, providing him healing if he could be the first person to next touch the water. And each day ended with disappointment that it had not occurred. Of course, there were times when the water moved; but in spite of his efforts, someone was always ahead of him. He often wondered if it was worth waiting; after all, he’d never seen the people reportedly cured. And even if the stories were true, he was more likely to be smothered in the crush of humanity trying to reach the water than to be healed.

Today was the Shabbat Siloam—the Sabbath day of rest—and the sick man was further in the depths of despair than usual. The seventh day always reminded him that not only was he paralyzed physically, but spiritually as well. Everyone knew that his illness was an expression of Jehovah’s displeasure—this was the Pharisee’s position on all sickness. It was true, the man realized with regret, that he had brought much of his disease upon himself by his lifestyle. He had known better than his choices indicated, and the consequences came drastically in the prime of life. While he wished he could believe that there was some hope of his recovery, he was convinced by the evidence of thirty-eight suffering filled years that his case was sealed.

Into his dismal thoughts came a gentle voice, the embodiment of hope itself.

“Wilt thou be made whole?”

Looking up, he saw a stranger bending over him, a Man he had never met, but who seemed capable of inspiring trust by His countenance alone. For a moment, hope flared up in his heart, before quickly being squelched by doubts. He had been here 38 years without being made whole; why should he now? Explaining his troubles, he said,

“Sir, I have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool: but while I am coming, another steppeth down before me.”

The Man smiled in understanding, and then replied simply, “Rise, take up thy bed, and walk.”

Without giving heed to discouragement, he latched hold of this command as an enabling—surely there was power behind the words of this gentle yet noble Man. Immediately he felt new life rushing into his withered limbs, strength pushed its way into forgotten paths of his weakened body, and with renewed vigor he stood, gaping at the sight of his restored body.

Suddenly realizing he had not spoken with gratitude to the Man who had healed him, the cured man turned to find Him gone. He had vanished without a trace.

As the former invalid rushed into the temple to offer thanks to God, the priests accosted him, demanding the reason that he was carrying his bed on the Sabbath. He had merely picked up his mat as the Man had instructed him, without ever thinking of the religious leaders’ many rules about carrying loads on the Sabbath. Considering he had been unable to do so for 38 years, this would be logical, but the priests were not to be dissuaded. His explanation that the Man who healed him had commanded it only brought further questions as to the Healer’s identity. This the man did not know.

Worshiping in the temple, the restored man once again heard the gentle voice behind him. Turning around in delight, he saw the Man, Jesus. In reply to the man’s expression of gratitude, He said,

“Behold, thou art made whole: sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee.”

With this advice, Jesus left the grateful worshiper, who immediately found the priests and described with delight the Man who had healed him. His joy knew no bounds as he hurried home to his family…

The aging man looked up at his Healer, now hanging upon a wooden cross. Jesus had been condemned through the efforts of the priests who were angered by just such acts as His healing the paralytic man.

Their rage was matched, however, by the old man’s regrets; for he had not heeded the warning given him by Jesus the Healer. In his euphoria and excitement at receiving his faculties once again, he slowly slipped into the self-destructive habits that had first brought the disease upon him. Almost unconsciously, he neglected spiritual matters in exchange for temporal, sensory pleasures. And imperceptibly, the paralysis began slowly to return. He had tried to deny the lack of vigor, the difficulty of movement, but at last he had to rely on crutches in his downward slide to complete immobility. His bitter thoughts recalled Jesus’ sage advice, “Sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee.”  

            Jesus had been right; a worse thing had come to him. Perhaps not physically, but mentally he was in torment as he realized that he had disregarded his greatest blessing and despised his gift of healing. This condition was worse than the first, for now he feared that truly he had gone too far. Would God possibly grant a third chance after he had made a wreck of his second chance? It seemed unlikely; he had learned his lesson the hard way too late in life to be given a third chance.

            As he made his way closer to the cross, his unwilling eyes began to recognize what his heart would not accept. Reaching out to a passerby, he asked haltingly,

            “Sir, please tell me, is Jesus the Healer in great agony?”

            The reply came as he feared it would.

            “Not now, He isn’t. The One who called Himself Christ died a while ago. There was a tremendous earthquake too; on those crutches, it’s a good thing you weren’t here.”

            The old man sagged to the ground only a few yards from the cross. He had come too late. Somehow, somewhere in the deepest recesses of his heart, he had cherished the hope that Jesus might yet forgive him for his appalling treatment of grace. He had hoped yet for a third chance, because he had seen in the Healer someone who loved him. In spite of all critical comments, he had believed that the Galilean was the promised Messiah. But now he was dead. The last of his faint hope seemed crushed.

            A soldier crossed in front of the man, still crumpled on the ground, and walked to the side of the Man hanging in the stillness of death on the center cross. He raised the spear in his hand as if to plunge it into Jesus side.

            “Wait!” cried the cripple, “What are you doing? He’s already…dead.” His voice dropped in despair at the last words.

            “They’re orders, old man,” replied the soldier. “Pilate can’t believe anyone died from crucifixion so quickly, so he sent me make certain.”

            Without another word, the spear pierced the Healer’s side. The man groaned in distress, then stared with the soldier in disbelief. Out of the wound gushed forth a pure stream of water, undiluted by the stream of blood flowing as well.

            The soldier simply grunted his surprise, and walked away. The crippled man was transfixed by the meaning of what he saw. Perhaps the incident was a mystery to the guard, but it conveyed a message of hope to the sickly heap of a man looking on. The water, the pure water, was what Jesus represented Himself as—the living water. Jesus was the great Healer. Somehow the man knew the water contained hope; it said that Christ had died to heal, and His healing power still flowed to those who would believe. Even in His death His wounds were a balm for sinful souls.  His bruises had ability to mend broken hearts. The living water was still available.

This water symbolized real power—not fabled abilities of a stagnant pool called Bethesda. The crippled man took courage as a voice whispered to his mind, “Wilt thou be made whole?”

“Yes, Master.” He whispered audibly.

He did not wait for any proof of acceptance or rush of feeling. Without a backward glance, leaving his crutches at the cross, he began to walk back to Jerusalem.

Life's Song

Originally published in 3ABN World magazine. 

“Ouch!” I exclaimed with a sigh, “That’s one painful sounding chord; it also must be my one hundred and tenth mistake.”

My latest piano book had some beautiful songs in it, but my blunders had a way of disguising their beauty very effectively.

            Maybe I missed a flat. I checked the notes and tried once more.

            “Are you sure that’s right?” Mom’s voice wafted in from the kitchen. “It sounds a little off to me.”

            “I’m not sure; the note sounds all wrong, but, according to the sheet music, it’s correct. Could it be the book’s error instead of mine for a change?” I replied, somewhat frustrated, and scrutinized the page again.

            Deciding to try for a less aggravating chord, I began experimenting.

            Ah, so much better! I thought as I settled on the perfect chord. This piece should sound immensely better now without that error.

            Much to my surprise, however, the next chord sounded completely out of place. “Whatever could be wrong?” I asked aloud. “That one was equally unpleasant.”

            As I looked back at the first “inaccurate” chord, a thought occurred to me. “I wonder if…”

            I replayed the offending chord and added the next one, which had previously been so out of place, and-wonder of wonders- they became totally and completely harmonious! The notes had been right all along; I had played them correctly, and the sheet music certainly wasn’t a misprint. The problem was simply that I had stopped too quickly in an effort to fix a predicament that didn’t even need fixing! If I had continued by adding the next note, the harmony would have been obvious.

            Sometimes we do the same with life; as soon as a “sour note” comes our way, we begin to wonder if perhaps our life’s “sheet music” has a misprint. We wonder if God might have made a mistake this time; after all, a slip-up is bound to happen sometime, isn’t it?

            What is often overlooked is that it may not be a slip-up at all. Not on God’s part, nor on ours. The “chord” is correct. The only mistake is when we get caught up in trying to fix or understand the inharmonious chord. We think we can replace it with another, only to find, as life’s song continues, that the following events will require the harsh chord in order to be in harmony.

            Unfortunately, we do the same when a dissonant note sounds in someone else’s life. Instead of waiting to see what chord God may bring into play next, we try to find all the other chords that would be better suited to their song. So often Christians will try to fix another’s erroneous note that the Master knows is no error at all! Only the future will reveal the harmony that He has in mind.

            Certainly, we will make mistakes; life’s song is much too complex for even the most advanced. But before we label every sour note as inaccurate, and try to replace it with our own, let’s ask the Composer; He may say to keep playing. The next notes in life’s song might harmonize with the offending ones perfectly!

            

A Miracle and a Promise

By Teresa J. Morlan as told to C. Michelle Wilson


I stared dejectedly at the fading plant before me. A tear stole down my cheek, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. One plant shouldn’t be so important, but this one was.
It was summer of 2001. Four years before I had buried my stillborn son unexpectedly, and in the daze of pain and sorrow I had found comfort in my friends’ and families’ support. Particularly consoling was a beautiful plant certain friends had collectively purchased and given to me at the funeral, and through the years I had cherished it as a memorial to my youngest son.


At the time I was given the plant it was blooming, but for some unknown reason the blossoms faded and in the following years had not bloomed once. Nevertheless, I treasured it, and so naturally I was especially distressed by its current condition.


I had recently bought some plant food, and made the faulty assumption that if a little bit does a little bit of good, then a whole lot ought to do a whole lot of good. I gave the plant the entire package of plant food without diluting it, and the miserable result was that the plant gradually showed signs of demise.


I was practically grief-stricken at the thought of losing it, but as the days passed I could tell that my prized plant was dead. I could no longer avoid this fact, as the leaves yellowed, and slowly the stalks turned to straw. At last I told my oldest son to carry the lifeless plant to the backyard, so that later I could reuse the flowerpot.


As summer turned to fall, the flowerpot, still filled with dirt and dried stalks, sat in the backyard. Many times our Golden Retriever, in his romps through our yard, knocked it over and thereby disposed of some of the dirt. My son then scooped the potting soil, along with other dirt and gravel, back into the flowerpot on top of the dried stalks. For fear that it would get broken, I eventually told my son to carry the pot to our storage shed, where it could wait safely in the dark recesses of the shed until I had time to empty the dirt and replace it with a new plant.


September came. The trees were blazing with color, and the morning air had autumn’s chill; my heart felt the chill as well on the eleventh of the month, with its events in Washington D.C. and New York. I was full of questions, and for days I existed in a confused world, wishing that all this strife and uncertainty would cease. Longing for peace, I kept wondering if security and hope were still possible. In God’s providence, the answer wasn’t long in coming.


One afternoon as the sun began to wane in the westward sky, my son came running into the house with a grin that spread ear to ear.


“Mom, you have to come see something. You’ll never believe this!” He exclaimed, breathlessly.


“After the eleventh, I’ll believe anything,” I muttered, as I followed my son to the front door. 
Sitting on the step, where my son had placed it after finding it in the old shed, was the discarded flowerpot, the one that had held my comfort plant-the memorial to my son. But instead of stems of straw poking through dirt and gravel, my wondering eyes saw dozens of tiny green shoots struggling up toward the light; some large, some small, but all very much alive!


In the unlighted, damp and smelly storage shed a miracle had taken place. Somehow a misplaced root had grown into the strong plant sitting before me, the slanting rays of the setting sun shining off its healthy leaves. How it happened, I’ll never know, but I do know this: the resurrection of that plant sparked the fire of hope and comfort once more. Just as it had been an encouragement that spoke of a better tomorrow on that gloomy day four years before, once again this same message said not to worry about the strife in this world. Certainly, the collapse of supposedly secure buildings can be alarming; the unexpected has always managed to strike fear in the most daring soul. But for the Christian, there is a safeguard; he need never worry or fear because serenity and peace can be found in Christ. He is our safe haven throughout life‘s greatest tempest.


I carried my cherished plant back inside the house with hope reborn, and tears of joy streaming down my cheeks. Peace had, once again, been restored to my troubled mind with the aid of an ordinary plant and an extraordinary God.


A few months slipped by, and it was spring again; my plant was approaching the anniversary of its near death experience. And so it was one day, as the temperature slowly rose outdoors, that I noticed an odd thing as I watered my miracle plant in the window. One of the stems looked somehow different...it was bulging...something white was showing underneath...it was a blossom! For the first time in years, the first time since I had originally received it, my plant was about to bloom!


As I stared in wonder, the beautiful white blossom, wrapped in a circle of green, seemed to whisper to my heart a story of restoration. It said that not only will God give us peace in the midst of life’s many storms, but He will restore what was lost and bring more good and blessing from our trouble than we had believed possible. And now I had a promise-a living, beautiful promise- to believe it was possible. Spring had dawned on the world, and new life, re-instilled peace and a promise of God’s love and care had come with it.


While recalling this story, I realized I had forgotten the variety of my still-treasured plant in the passing years, and so researched its identity. I discovered that it is commonly known as the Peace Lily. Quite an appropriate name, don’t you think?

"Mine!"

This story was originally published in Signs of the Times, February 2006.

"Mine!"

“Chell, come play! C’mon, Chell!” I was babysitting, and three-year-old Caleb was constantly calling “Chell” (a nick-name) to “come play car-cars”.

After putting a stack of towels in the closet and checking the washer, I headed to the living room, glad to be able to leave the laundry for a minute, and satisfy little Caleb. I sat down beside him on the carpet and reached for one of the miniature cars he was so fond of. To my surprise, he immediately frowned, then jerked it out of my hands, crying, “Mine!”

 Somewhat dazed, in the light of the fact that he had been begging all afternoon for me to come play, I decided that perhaps I had picked his favorite toy. I smiled and reached for a different “car-car”. When I received another frown, equally or perhaps still more withering than the first, I decided to let him play in peace, since he obviously didn’t desire my association.

 I returned to the laundry, only to hear, after a few moments of whooshing and whizzing on the living room floor, “Chell! C’mon, Chell. Come play!”

 What sort of a response do you suppose I received this time? Yes, he was no more willing to share than before. It didn’t take long for me to realize that he had no intention of actually allowing me to use one of his beloved “car-cars”. He only wanted my companionship until it required my interference in his play, which, of course, made it impossible to satisfy him.

 As I returned to the laundry for the second time, I began to recognize the truly awesome character of God’s grace. We’re all so much like Caleb; so immature spiritually, although we don’t even realize it. We want God to work in our lives, rid us of sinful habits, and to fit us for heaven: we honestly do want to become more Christ-like, and to find the peace, joy and serenity that only God can give, yet when He reaches for our pride, self-centeredness, envy, gossip, ego, or self-pity, we suddenly think of only the “sacrifice,” the surrender, the submission, and, in the vehemence of a spiritual tantrum, we shout “Mine, mine, mine!” We think of Jesus asking us to take up our crosses; we remember the verse that says, “Take my yoke upon you” (Matt. 11:29), but we fail to recall the rest of His admonition, when He says, “For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.”(Matt.11: 30)

As I pondered this, it occurred to me that, while I might give up and return to my household tasks, God continues to wait patiently for me to decide that surrender is really the best choice, and that genuine joy will only come when I quit shouting “Mine” and begin to say “Yours.”

“C’mon, Chell! Come play!” I heard from the living room. I just smiled.

Next time you find yourself reserving some cherished sin from the control of the Master, remember Caleb, swallow “Mine”, and say “Yours”.