joyful!
"Make A joyful! Noise..."
The Way Of The Rose
by
Norman Cooper
I was a solitary man, locked in my private hell. The memories, though not forgotten, were clouded with a haze. In the fleeting sober moments, I remembered the sins and the pain I caused. I felt the cries of souls that perished at my hands. The very hands that held the keys to my spiritual freedom. These moments perished like those before me when I consumed the medicine and allowed reality to fade.
But nothing was left, not a drop to spare. Only the taste of the numbing elixir remained. I couldn't bear the thoughts, I didn't wish to feel. I knew my sustenance must be found to regain my stupor.
Lacking proper shame, I searched the trash cans at the park. Bottles and cans were to be my currency. It was there that I heard a tiny voice call to me. The sound halted my labor and I listened with suspicion. The hallucinations must have returned. I continued and ignored the sound, but the voice persisted like a stalking mosquito on a summer evening.
I felt a tug on my shirt and slowly turned to see my horror before me. My heart thumped with the force of galloping horses as the ghost from my past smiled up at me. Her straight hair appeared black as night, skin milky and white, and in her large eyes I saw the innocence of youth that haunted me.
She tugged again, "For you."
She held a single white rose in her hand. Distrustful of my eyes, I slowly reached for the flower and expected her young hand to change into a vulture's talon. I grasped the flower and the sharp thorns pierced my fingers. I felt the pain, real pain for the first time in many years.
As she turned and skipped away on the path, I thought of the children. The innocent ones who were caught in the fight. In the villages we burned, I must have seen thousands like her. And the boys too. Burning, crying, and finally motionless. I didn't want to see those images, I didn't want to remember these images.
She looked over her shoulder as she skipped, playful and full of energy, she motioned for me come along. I followed her up the path, limping as I tried to run. She stopped and turned toward me. After smiling and waving, she turned and disappeared into the woods. Barely trotting, I arrived at the spot where she vanished.
I saw no trace of her, only a clearing beyond the trees with field of white roses and a statue of Jesus, his arms opened to me. I fell to my knees and cried. I finally cried for the children, instead of crying for me. I wanted to live again, to feel again. I wanted to be free of the bondage that sheltered me.
The little girl saved me from my own destruction. She led me to the path of sobriety and I grew to believe that she led me on the path to Christ. To be born anew.
dreams those hopes inspired can finally escape to the sky. The angels once etched in stone have carried off the souls of those in the graveyard. Little girl thoughts and imaginings have time to mature in eternity.
The Visit
by
Katherine K. Horrigan
Homer didn’t have to set an alarm clock to know that it was time to haul himself out of bed. Time to put on khaki pants and the dark blue work shirt with the tear. Snagged it on barbed wire last winter, trying to help out a cow with the calf puller. Dot had mended the tear, but her eyes weren’t so good anymore. Used lighter blue thread - made the L-shape stand out even more. Every time he put on that shirt, Homer reached back over his shoulder and ran his fingers over the stitching, even in the dark, even with his bursitis acting up.
Dot didn’t like him to turn on the light. Woke her up. Once he got to the kitchen, the red button on the coffee pot gave out a glow, and there would be plenty of light when he opened the refrigerator door. By then the sun would be up, the kitchen and the whole world lit up anyway.
Didn’t have too many visitors at the farm anymore. Today was different. An old friend, one he went to grade school with, had called him last week and said he was gonna be in town for his sister’s funeral, and could he drop by. Homer said fine, come on by whenever you’d like. Told him that if he, Homer, had to work away from the house, Dot’d be there, no question, what with her hip and all.
When Homer told Dot that his old buddy Pete would be dropping by, she rolled her eyes.
“Hope you asked him to stop by during the day,” she said.
“Looky here - couldn’t really give a time limit to a man whose sister just died. All I did was ask him to come by after the funeral. Two, I think he said it was.”
“Well, we’re gonna have to get him out of here before the sun sets.”
“Yeah.”
* * * * * * * *
The sun was low on the horizon when Pete showed up at the farm. Homer was already back from his chores, rocking in wait with Dot on the front porch. When they saw a dark blue sedan kicking up white caliche dust, Homer pushed himself up and out of his rocking chair and then helped Dot out of hers.
“Sure good to see you, Pete. Sorry for your loss.”
The men leaned across the two-foot chasm separating them and shook hands.
“You remember Dot.”
“Sure do.”
“Sorry for your loss, Pete. We all thought highly of your sister.”
This was a lie, but Dot knew she should say something encouraging to a man who just lost a sibling.
“Why thank you, Dot. Sure appreciate it. She and I were two peas in a pod, you know, growing up. Won’t be the same without her.”
Dot’s eyes met Pete’s for a moment. She would later tell Homer it was sort of like a camera flash, seeing his pain like that.
* * * * * * * *
Homer liked to say that the fabric on the sofa in the den was so rough you could light a match on it. He helped Dot sit carefully on the sofa, motioning to Pete to sit in one of the easy chairs.
“You staying in town long, Pete?”
Pete cleared his throat.
“No, got to get on back. Just wanted to stop by to say hello.”
By this time it was dark outside.
Dot gave Homer a funny look. Her eyes were real big, like when she had a new idea. She stood up, but only on her third try, when Homer gave her a hand.
“Hey, Pete, you wanna come out back for a few minutes before you go? Got somethin’ to show you. ”
Dot felt Homer’s eyes on her, but she didn’t look his way, didn’t give him the time of day. It was her decision to make, not his. Didn’t they come to her first?
It was pitch black in the back yard, but the three old friends helped each other down the three back steps, moving carefully to the center of the small back yard.
Dot’s voice, low and scratchy, seemed to project itself into the dark.
“Where are they? Shouldn’t they be here by now?”
“Just be patient, hon. They always come. Like clockwork, my old dad used to say.”
And then it began, hundreds, maybe thousands of little lights, encircling them, and then they could see each other again, glowing in the night. Dot’s voice came out of the light first, stronger somehow.
“It’s always like this, Pete, like the stars are falling down all around us. Like we’re in the middle of one of those roman candles on the 4th of July.”
“And look, Pete, you can darn near see your reflection in that light.”
Homer’s voice, and Dot’s, too, sounded different –younger. The old couple stood up straighter, carried themselves differently, their eyes brighter, as if the light from the
fireflies had somehow entered them.
The three held hands, in wonder.
“How long will it last?” Pete asked.
Anybody could have heard the smile and vigor in Pete’s voice. Homer and Dot, their voices suddenly softer, spoke in unison.
“Not long enough.”
The Cross
by
Wayne Faust
I had been running away my whole life. The Lord had been working on my heart but I kept on running. Then one night I found my way to a little church in the city. I had been out walking for hours when I came to its front door. It was unlocked and I stepped cautiously through. I found my way in the darkness and sat in the front pew. I looked up at the altar. Moonlight shone through the window and lit up a simple, wooden cross.
The cross had no gold, no silver. There were no carvings on it, no fancy sculpture of Jesus hanging from it. But somehow, it seemed so beautiful to me, maybe the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A message called to me from that wooden cross. It said that Jesus had died on a cross just like this one. He died there for me. I could be saved - not through anything I might do or say or be, but because He died for me.
I had heard that message a thousand times before, but this night it was like a beacon of light in the dim light of that church, as if the cross itself was speaking just to me. I felt a burden lift from my heart. Tears filled my eyes and I knelt down and wept. At that moment I accepted the Lord and was saved. Saved forever.
I spent a long time in that pew, gazing at that cross. I felt my life change and I left that church a new creation.
The next few weeks were wonderful. I made a new start in so many ways. I often went back to that little church in the evenings and looked up at that simple cross from the front pew, just like I had that first night.
One evening I was joined in the pew by a middle-aged man. He prayed a little and then turned to me.
"You've just been saved, haven't you?" he said warmly.
"Yes," I replied. "Is it that obvious?"
He chuckled. Then he gave me a hug. "Welcome to the Kingdom," he said.
"Thanks," I replied, and I felt warm, knowing I was part of such a fellowship of believers.
"Where do you go to church?" he asked.
"No place right now," I said. "A friend invited me to his church Sunday morning. I think I'll go there."
The man frowned. "Let me show you something," he said. He brought out his Bible and began to read me verses, lots of verses. Then he produced a pamphlet that talked about the Sabbath. There seemed to be some question about whether the Sabbath was really on Sunday, or had actually been intended to be on Saturday, just like in the Old Testament.
"You see," he said, "God intended us to worship on Saturday. The sign of real Christians is that they worship on God's Sabbath, not man's. Your friend's church is probably well-intentioned, but they are in error. Look it up for yourself."
He handed me the pamphlet. "Take this and study it. The address to my church is on the back. We'd love to see you there this Saturday. In the meantime, I'll leave something here for you, to remind you of what is important."
He pulled something out of his coat pocket. It was a banner, which said in big, blue letters, 'SATURDAY SABBATH.' He reached into another pocket and pulled out some tacks and a small hammer. He walked up to the cross and tacked the sign on one of the crossbeams.
"See, that's better," he said. "Now when you gaze up here you can know the truth."
After the man left I pocketed the pamphlet and again gazed up at the simple cross. The banner hung a little crookedly, and covered some of the wood, but the cross was still beautiful.
The following week was hectic as usual, and I found the need to return to the little church. Coming to that simple cross could calm me down, no matter what. I sat in the front pew and looked up. The banner was still there. As I was praying, a woman strolled by the altar, carrying some flowers. She stopped in front of me.
"New believer, huh?"
I nodded my head.
"Welcome to the Lord's house," she said, and her voice sounded like music.
"Thank you," I answered.
She sat down next to me. "Let me say a prayer for you." She proceeded to pray, and I prayed with her, feeling the warm presence of God's love. I finished and gazed up at the cross. She continued to pray. After a while she switched to a tongue I didn't recognize.
"What is that language?" I asked.
She stopped and smiled. "I am speaking in tongues," she said. "Have you spoken in tongues yet?"
"I don't think so," I answered.
"Oh, but you must. That is the sign of a real Christian. It's God's language, a most wonderful thing."
She explained how she was able to speak in a tongue, and how I might achieve the same thing.
"I tell you what," she said encouragingly. "You work on it and I'm sure you'll be able to do it before long. Then you'll see the light. In the meantime, I will leave something here to remind you."
She produced a banner. It simply said 'TONGUES' in big, red letters. She walked up to the cross and tacked it up on the crossbeam opposite the other banner. She waved to me and left.
I tried to make my tongue form words it hadn't formed before. Nothing happened. I tried some more. Still nothing. Finally I went back to looking at my cross, feeling a little bit frustrated. The shape of the cross was becoming obscured by the banners, but I knew there was simple wood underneath. I calmed down.
Two weeks later I was back. The banners were still up there on the cross, but I guessed it was good I should be reminded of important things. I prayed for a while and watched the cross.
A man in a nice business suit sat down in the pew behind me.
"Just recently sanctified?" he asked.
I wasn't sure what that meant, but I nodded my head anyway.
"Praise the Lord," he said.
"Praise the Lord," I answered.
He asked me for my testimony. I told him a few things about my life, how I had been running away from the Lord for so long. I told him about a night in a bar when a stranger had witnessed to me, and how what he said had stayed with me, even though it had been a year later before I finally came into this little church and saw the cross. I told him how I wished I knew that stranger's name, because I would love to thank him now.
"That's wonderful," the man in the suit said, and he put his hand upon my shoulder. "It's a wonderful thing that that fellow risked his soul for you by going into such an evil place."
"Evil place?"
"Of course. The bar. Christians have no business in a bar. They must abstain from alcohol altogether." He produced a Bible and read me some verses.
"Well, now that you're saved," he said, "I'm sure this won't be a problem for you any more. The Spirit has set you free from all of that. But just in case, I'll leave you a reminder on this cross here."
He produced a sign that said 'NO ALCOHOL' in bold, orange letters, and tacked it up to the center beam of the cross. "There," he said. "That's better." He smiled and walked away.
I went back to gazing at the cross, but it didn't calm me as much as it had in the past. I figured I must be just tired, and I stood up. I glanced at the cross one more time over my shoulder as I walked down the aisle towards the front door. I shook my head and left.
In the next weeks I went back less and less. Each time I went, someone would come along and tack up another banner. Pretty soon there were banners of all types draping the cross, overlapping each other and shouting their words until there was just a jumble of paper. There was a banner that said 'NO AMPLIFIED MUSIC.' Another said 'SUITS AND TIES ONLY.' Yet another said 'APPROVED LITURGY A MUST.' And on and on.
I stopped coming altogether. My life settled into a routine and I didn't feel the need to come there anyhow. I could get by just fine. I was saved, after all.
I began to feel sad most of the time, and pressures built inside of me. Finally, late one night, I could no longer resist the need to go to that little church. I had to come to the cross.
I walked down the aisle of the church and saw that all the banners were still there, tacked to the cross. I sat down in the front pew. Well, I told myself, I guess all those rules are important, and if I study them long enough, I can become a good Christian.
I stared at the banners. I said their words aloud, over and over. My mind was muddled, as muddled as all those banners hanging there. Finally, in frustration, I closed my eyes. I began to pray.
I must have prayed for an hour that night. As I prayed, a picture formed in my head. It was a picture of a cross - a simple, wooden cross, with an even simpler message. I remembered how that message had sounded to me, the first night I had seen my cross, in this very church.
I opened my eyes. The banners fluttered in a soft breeze and the sound was loud in the quiet little church. I stood up on shaky legs.
Slowly, I walked up to the altar. I reached out my hand and then pulled it back. I reached out again and touched one of the banners; I don't remember now which one it was. I grabbed a piece of it and pulled, tearing the paper. I saw wood underneath - beautiful, simple wood. I grabbed a larger piece in my fist and pulled as hard as I could. There was a loud ripping sound as the whole banner came away in my hand. I crumbled it up and tossed it aside. I grabbed another banner and tore it to shreds. Pretty soon I was ripping and tearing like a madman, until there were no banners left. Crumpled paper was scattered all over the floor like snow. I gathered it all up in a big ball and threw it down the aisle as hard as I could.
I turned back to the cross. Moonlight shone through the window on the simple, rough-hewn wood. It was again the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I touched the cross gently and fell to my knees. Tears filled my eyes.
"Thank you, Lord," I whispered, and I prayed that everyone could see the cross this way - simple and so very beautiful. I stayed on my knees that night for a very long time.
