Mighty Mouse, Flash Gordon, and That Other Guy

When I was young, I loved mornings (still do!) On Saturdays I’d tiptoe to the kitchen for a stack of crackers then settle onto the floor in front of our 13-inch black and white television. With the volume barely audible, I became completely absorbed in the adventures of Mighty Mouse, Flash Gordon, and the little guy who played guitar and used cat whiskers for strings. (I can’t remember his name, but he stuttered when he sang “C-c-c-combo.”) Oh yeah, I was an intellectual.

All these years later, I still like to see the meek triumph. I still get a lump in my throat when someone displays kindness for that reason alone, and I still root for the underdog. The only thing that has changed is my playing field.

When we were plowing through the second regimen of chemotherapy, I was given a hefty dose of Benadryl prior to each treatment to prevent an allergic reaction. The treatments lasted for about three hours, during which time I worked and reclined in a vegetative state.

At the time, Duke Medical Center was remodeling their Oncology Treatment area, increasing space and giving the entire floor a facelift. On one particularly memorable Thursday I was in a small room in the old area, sandwiched between three other chairs and a makeshift aisle of two nurse’s stations, a variety of utility carts, and John (bless him) sitting contentedly in a straight chair. Against the wall across from me was a row of beds for patients who need to lie down during their treatments, each one with a chair for their guest, and open to the room.

On this particular day the four beds were occupied by three men and one girl, each of whom appeared to be accompanied by their spouses. The girl was young (I’d guess late 20s) and the men older. The wives read or watched television or looked around for friendly faces, and the young husband read and occasionally looked up as if to ask, “What are we doing here?”

It occurred to me that this disease and it’s treatment is much worse on the husbands, wives, moms, dads, siblings, and friends than it is the person who gets the plastic bracelet or the clean, white blanket. The spouses watched as the lethal fluids dripped into the plastic lines feeding directly into the veins of the person they married 40 years ago, or two years ago, knowing only this – that it can have very negative repercussions and that it may not work. They also know they’ll do it again next week because, for now, it is still their best option. (John admitted that it was always hard for him to watch them start the flow of the red stuff during my first chemotherapy regimen, knowing what the consequences would be in the days following.)

I settled into the recliner and thought of how helpless these spouses must be feeling, unable to fully understand a disease that requires two medications simultaneously, because it acclimates itself quickly enough to counter the first. The doctors offer percentages and recommendations, but their information is strewn with educated guesses. The only thing these spouses know for sure is that this is the person with whom they remember their first kiss, their first house, and their days before cancer was in their everyday conversation.

At the end of the day, it was the spouses who checked to make sure all their bags were retrieved before leaving. It was the spouses who dug for their keys in early preparation and called to let everyone know they were on their way. It was the spouses who took the arms of the patients and led them slowly toward the exit, with a look of quiet resolve and supernatural strength.

It occurred to me that these husbands, wives, and friends were discovering reserves of faith and strength they probably never knew existed. They were building a storehouse of depth and tenacity that would last the rest of their lives. Perhaps God fashioned these kinds of remembrances, knowing how much they (and we) would need them.

mightymouse                             flashgordon

So this rambling missive is for the true hero: the helper, the concertmaster. It is for the familial Samaritan who offers everything and expects nothing; for those who discovered that the most expeditious route to finding your life is by losing it.

So if you find yourself in front of the television on an early Saturday morning, tune in to see if Mighty Mouse has come to save the day, or if Flash is embroiled in a futuristic dilemma. And if you happen upon the little guy who plays guitar and stutters when he sings, send me his name. I know where some cats are….

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The Very Best Is Yet to Be

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They were friends with the Jewish population long before the Germans arrived. Casper ten Boom and his daughters, Corrie and Betsie, worked, lived and worshipped alongside them in the heart of Haarlem, Amsterdam. They participated in their Sabbath rituals and … Continue reading

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Go Back the Way You Came

Solomon was twelve years old when his father appointed him King over Israel. He reigned for forty years and accomplished much, yet, in disobedience, took some 700 foreign wives who built altars to strange gods. Displeased, God warned that He would raise up an enemy against Israel. In deference to Solomon’s father, David, God vowed to delay judgment until after his death. When judgment came during Rehoboam’s tenure, the nation of Israel was divided. The southern kingdom of Judah retained the seat of government. The remaining tribes chose Jeroboam to lead the northern kingdom, making Samaria its capital.

Sixty years pass, and the people of the northern kingdom continue a steady departure from the Mosaic law. Though they thrive economically, their king pursues a path of domestic security by offering his son, Ahab, to the daughter of the king of Phoenicia. Following the marriage of Ahab and Jezebel, she, a priestess of Baal, invites a large entourage of her fellow priests and prophets to live alongside her in the new country. Into the territory of covenant, the land of promise, a temple is raised for the worship of Baal.

It is in this context that we meet the prophet, Elijah. Listen to his first encounter with Ahab: “As the Lord, the God of Israel, lives, whom I serve, there will be neither dew nor rain in the next few years except at my word.” Baal was worshiped as the god of dew and rain. In a calculated irony, God has chosen Elijah’s challenge to be bold, direct, and all-inclusive.

feb_blog1God directs Elijah to hide in a ravine east of the Jordan. He promises meals catered by ravens, twice daily, and clear, cool water from the brook.

Two years pass. The drought, which began at Elijah’s departure, spreads to his ravine. God directs him to a widow in Sidon. For a year, her ‘handful of flour’ feeds three.

Meanwhile, Jezebel seeks to please Baal and solicit rain when she commands that all of the prophets of God be killed. Ahab’s palace chief, Obadiah, hides 100 of them in a cave where he feeds and protects them. (Yes, Gloria Gaither. God has always had a people.)

Still bereft of rain, God tells Elijah to revisit Ahab. He asks that the priests and prophets of Jezebel along with the people of Israel assemble on Mount Carmel. It is high noon at the OK Corral. Jezebel’s priests and prophets number 850; on the other side of the showdown, Elijah stands alone. For an entire day, to no avail, the priests implore Baal to send fire and ignite their sacrifice. Early evening, Elijah prays to God, two sentenfeb_blog2ces, and the fire falls. Elijah turns to Ahab, “Go, eat and drink. For there is the sound of abundance of rain.”

Elijah gives the command and all of the priests of Baal are killed. Ahab rides home, through the heavy downpour, and tells Jezebel all that happened on Mount Carmel. When she learns that Elijah has killed her prophets, she sends a message to him: ‘May the gods deal severely with me if, by this time tomorrow, I do not do to you what you did to them.’

Elijah was chosen to turn a kingdom around. He boldly declared God’s messages. He called on God in real time, confident that He would answer. Elijah did not look for alternatives; his faith was resolute – until Jezebel’s message came to him.

In clothes still damp from the driving rain, Elijah went to the desert and prayed to die.

Some experts have suggested that Elijah suffered from a bipolar disorder. How else do we reconcile the prolonged miracles with the instantaneous deflation, they argue?

How did God respond? First, he had an angel refresh Elijah. He was restored physically. His next encounter with God chronicles the familiar when he whimpered, ‘I’ve been very zealous. They have killed the other prophets. I, alone am left, and they are trying to kill me, too.’ After three colossal demonstrations of power, God whispers the remedy for his emotional dilemma, “Go back the way you came.” Revisit what you believe. Recall the ravens and the brook. Ponder the flour that would not diminish, the son who was resurrected. Recollect the speedy fire as the people of Israel looked on. Then God added one stinging rebuttal: “I reserve 7,000 in Israel, all whose knees have not bowed down to Baal…”

God, in His wisdom, created a gamut of personalities, lending to a delicious variety of encounters. He offered poignant examples of both sides of the pursuit of faith. When Jesus told a father that all things were possible if he believed, the father cried in one breath, “I believe; help my unbelief!” Thankfully, God created a remedy for volatile faith and erratic personalities; an escape for desert days, “Go back the way you came.”

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In 1987, Gary Richmond wrote a book titled, A View From The Zoo. As a zookeeper, he shared his experiences at the famed Los Angeles Zoo; as a believer, he recognized clear parallels between the instincts of God’s animals and the governance of mankind. Here are three of his stories.

Richmond recounts his first witness to the birth of a giraffe. ‘When the baby’s head became visible, I asked Jack, the animal expert, “When will the mother lie down?” “She won’t,” he replied. “But the baby will drop ten feet to the hard ground,” I countered. We sat in silence until the calf hurled forth, falling ten feet and landing on his back. Within seconds, he rolled to an upright position, legs tucked underneath.

After a quick look, the mother positioned herself directly over the baby. She swung her pendulous leg outward and kicked him. He sprawled head over heels. “Why did she do that?” I asked. “She wants it to get up, and if it doesn’t she’ll do it again,” Jack replied. Sure enough, the violent process was repeated again and again. The struggle to rise was momentous, and as the baby tired of trying, the mother yielded another hearty kick.

Finally, the baby stood: wobbly, for sure, but upright at last. I watched in disbelief as the mother kicked it off its feet yet again. Jack offered, “She wants it to remember how it got up.”

In the wild, a baby giraffe is vulnerable to predators. He would find safety within the herd, but he must be able to respond and move quickly.’ Richmond reminds us of James’ admonishment, Count it all joy, my brethren, when you meet various trials, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. James 1:2-3

Richmond recalls the day he was handed two keys, granting him access to all of the animal cages. He felt the weight of the responsibility. His boss admonished him, “Consistency is your best safeguard. Develop a good habit and don’t vary your routine.”

For months, Richmond did just that. And then one day, he varied his routine with the most feared animal at the zoo. Ivan was a polar bear who hated people. Over 900 pounds, he had already killed two prospective mates.

One morning I raised the 500 pound solid steel door, allowing him into the open. The minute he passed under it, I realized I had left the door between us wide open. Any minute, he might walk down the hall and around the corner to where I was. I lifted the steel door again and, to my relief, saw that Ivan had begun his morning routine. Timing his ritual, I had seventeen seconds to run down the hallway and shut the door. I staked my escape on his consistency. At the appropriate moment, I ran, turned, and lunged for the door handle. When I turned, Ivan was eight feet away, staring at me. As the door clanged shut, my knees buckled and I fell to the floor.

Richmond reminds us that consistent living produces its own protection. Seek it. Cherish it. Desire it. Hebrews 5:14: But solid food is for the mature who, because of practice, have their senses trained to discern good and evil.

Lastly, the zoo purchased a female black rhino. ‘After experiencing the trauma of a ship’s cargo hold and the chaos of a LA freeway, she had become extremely fearful and anxious. She arrived at the zoo in a crate so large that it had to be moved with a crane. She began ramming the door of her crate until it splintered. Seventeen feet in the air, she blasted it off its hinges. The crate was quickly lowered until, at four feet, trembling with fright, she jumped to the ground. She stood, trembling with fear, then charged a large boulder and fell to her knees. She repeated this until the most amazing thing happened. Her whole body glistened red in the morning sun. She was perspiring great drops of blood from every pore of her body. The vet explained, “She has reached a maximum of stress, bursting capillaries all over her body. She is in great danger.” You know Richmond’s parallel: And being in agony Jesus prayed more earnestly; and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down upon the ground. Luke 22:44.

Richmond concluded, “Lord, I never realized that You knew about stress in this way. How trapped you must have felt. How alone. You really do understand how I feel.”

I love Richmond’s observations; I savor his parallels; I gnaw on his analogies.

I draw some conclusions…

That all of God’s creations and purposes were intended to interface;

That there are no loose threads or happenstance events in history;

That God’s purposes crisscross, transverse, and zigzag until rich, deep truths emerge from their thick tapestries.

The view is amazing from here!

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Another Soldier’s Coming Home

On May 11, 1972, an A-37B Dragonfly aircraft was shot down in South Vietnam. Crashing in enemy territory prevented a thorough examination of the site, but an identity card and other personal items were recovered. They identified the pilot as First Lieutenant Michael Joseph Blassie, but medical laboratories were unable to confirm a compelling match of the 24-year-old using only dental records and partial remains. On Memorial Day, 1984, the remains were laid to rest in the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington National Cemetery. President Ronald Reagan presided over the ceremony.

A reporter for the New York Times pursued the identity of the soldier for a decade. Pentagon reports and personal interviews convinced him of Blassie’s identity. When the Department of Defense founded the Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory in 1991, the Blassie family petitioned them to open the burial site and conduct the newly discovered DNA testing on the Vietnam Unknown. In 1998, the tomb was opened and the remains removed.

Mitochondrial DNA testing compared the bone samples to those of Blassie’s mother and sister. They found a match. On July 11, 1998, Michael Blassie was buried with full military honors in Jefferson National Cemetery.

Blassie’s sister, Pat, attended a Gaither Homecoming concert and heard the song I wrote for my grandfather, Another Soldier’s Coming Home. She called my office and asked if I would perform it at the ceremony. I was scheduled to be on a Bible Study cruise with Dr. Charles Stanley, but we arranged to fly back early and pay our own tribute to Michael Blassie.

It was overcast on that July morning. The roadway used to bring Blassie home was lined on both sides by American flags and saluting soldiers. Heads of state stood alongside veterans in bandannas and antiquated uniforms. Thousands paid tribute. This was a first for our nation; a breakthrough in scientific identification; a rally of remembrance.

Four low-flying F15s executed the ‘missing man flyover.’ The solemn resound of the bugle left the crowd respectfully silent and pensive. Perhaps they recalled other soldiers they knew: their sacrifices and our indebtedness. Perhaps they pondered the unimaginable price of war. Perhaps some were thinking that all soldiers deserve to go home.

The song evoked new meaning in the shadow of his flag-draped coffin. There were few dry eyes as the flag was ceremoniously fold and presented to Blassie’s mother. “For 26 years,” she stated in an interview, “we were told that Michael was never found. I just want to bring my son home.”

As Michael prepared to leave home the last time, his younger brother, George, questioned him about the danger of his assignment. Michael used a replica of the Dragonfly aircraft to reassure George that he would remain safe. Pointing to the left side of the cockpit, he promised, ‘For them to get to me, they would have to shoot into this tiny window. It will be hard for them to find me.’

And so it was, Michael Blassie. And so it was.

His back is bent and weary, his voice is tired and low
His sword is worn from battle and his steps have gotten slow
But he used to walk on water, or it seemed that way to me
I know he moved some mountains and never left his knees.

Strike up the band, assemble the choir, another soldier’s coming home
Another warrior hears the call he’s waited for so long
He’ll battle no more, he’s won his wars
Make sure heaven’s table has room for, at least, one more
Sing a welcome song, another soldier’s coming home.

He faced the winds of sorrow but his heart knew no retreat
He walked through desert places knowing Christ knew no defeat
But now his steps turn homeward, so much closer to the prize
He’s sounding kind of homesick, there’s a longing in his eyes.

Strike up the band, assemble the choir, another soldier’s coming home
Another warrior hears the call he’s waited for so long
He’ll battle no more, he’s won his wars
Make sure heaven’s table has room for, at least, one more
Sing a welcome song, another soldier’s coming home.

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Happy June, and Happy Father’s Day!



This month we pay a special tribute to fathers. Like many of you, I have always felt mine the best in the world. Growing up, our dad seemed stronger and smarter than anyone. He could construct, repair, or unravel anything. As Kay and I grew older, the nature of our breaks and spills changed, but dad’s steady perspective on the things that matter has remained constant.

We also understand just how blessed we were to have been raised in a household where the most frequent sounds were laughter, music and prayer. We see our parent’s long, healthy lives as a precious, fragile gift from God. We dare not take them for granted.

My prayer is that each of you will spend time with your fathers, or spend the day recalling wonderful memories of them. Sadly, not everyone’s memories of an earthly father will be good, but we ALL have our constant, adoptive Father whose love and care are beyond good. For you, I pray that He will use others to make Sunday especially meaningful this year.

We love you!


P.S. The WebMaster is offering a BOGO……
When you buy the CD Performance Track,
you will receive the CD Performance Track,
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That’s only $9.99 for both.

Okay, because I know that you always like to know the ‘rest of the story’, here it is.
The song, I WISH YOU ENOUGH, comes from Proverbs 30, where Agur asked two things of the Lord:
“Give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown You and say, ‘Who is the Lord?’ Or I may become poor and steal, and so dishonor the name of my God.”

When my nephew was about to graduate from college, I knew that life would change dramatically for him; he would cross thresholds he would never revisit. I wanted to write something for him that would be memorable. Surprisingly, the song fits a number of life events. When he married two years ago, he asked me to sing it for his wedding. Here is the lyric:

For every beginning, something is ending
Everything changes but change
Funny how life is forever amending
The plans that we all pre-arrange
So laugh when you can, cry when you must
And I pray you’ll always live deep
Always remember sometimes you must
Drink from the bitter to savor the sweet

I wish you love, I wish you joy,
I pray that happiness camps outside your door
I hope you win, I hope you lose,
I hope you realize that both are good for you
May you never have too little or too much,
I wish you enough….

So savor the journey, live every moment,
Hold fast to all you believe
You will discover a strength in your weakness
In ways you could never conceive
Godspeed, my friend, peace and goodwill
I fondly bid you adieu
Always remember, as long as I live
I will be somewhere praying for you

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More than twenty years ago, Larry Sparks, my booking agent, mailed me a cassette copy of a sermon by his pastor, Jack Hayford. It was titled ‘A Season of Suddenly’ and, at present, John and I have adopted that mantra.

In his articulate, compelling way, Pastor Hayford talked about how we sometimes pray regarding particular needs for long periods of time without any resolution or perceptible change. We forge ahead, looking neither left or right, with an almost stubborn determination that God is hearing us and working in our behalf. We believe, but not because we see any response to our petitions. Our belief is based solely on who He is and what He promised. Our assignment is to ask, seek, knock, and to keep on doing it.

In January, when we least expected it, God answered a prayer in such a way that we knew He had orchestrated the outcome. Much like dominoes, other prayers were answered and events triggered until we found ourselves in the throes of a visible, real time, act of the sovereign God of the ages. All we could do was stand back and utter words of gratitude and disbelief at the same time. In that brief chunk of time, God took a handful of impossibles and rendered them done. Asked and answered. And better than we hoped for.

Peter had just healed a man crippled from birth when he admonished the onlookers to repent and turn to God, so that there would come seasons of refreshing from the presence of the Lord. (Acts 3:19) Zechariah shared the Lord’s promise to the house of Judah that the fasts they were to observe would be to them seasons of joy. (Zech 8:19) My personal favorite is probably the most familiar from John 5:4, “..For an angel of the Lord went down at certain seasons into the pool and stirred up the water.” You know the rest.

These wonderful seasons have been very, very rare for me, but they are impossible to mistake. When they occur, God moves in the events of my life, rendering me a mere observer. I am as helpless to stop His sovereignty as I am to start it.

For centuries, pastors, scholars and poets have quoted the timeless promise of Ecclesiastes 3. Solomon proclaims that our lives are lived in seasons and that God has made everything beautiful in its time. He adds that we cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.

So, here is the crux of the matter:
God is working even though we cannot see it
He longs to take our most painful events and make them beautiful in time
When we call on Him, He answers
Sometimes suddenly.

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Every day from May to August, volunteers monitor the entire coastline of North Carolina. They patrol the edge of the ocean, looking for turtle tracks.

The female loggerhead sea turtle leaves the comfortable domain of the ocean and ventures ashore to lay her eggs. Working at night, she finds a steep, wide area of beach. There she digs a hole about two feet deep and deposits a clutch, containing approximately 125 eggs. She covers them with sand, providing the perfect camouflage. Only her distinct track alerts volunteers to the possibility of a nest. Some two weeks later, she repeats the process until she has deposited as few as three or as many as five clutches.

Two months later, at nighttime, the hatchlings break their shells and crawl to the surface as a team. When ready, they break through the sand, flail about, then move toward the moonlight. Enthusiastic groups hold vigils to watch the babies complete their long march to the sea. As they move toward the glow of the moon and the reflection off the water, they are moving to their natural habitat, the ocean.

A few years ago, on Bonaire Island in the Caribbean, a group of hatchlings began to emerge further down the beach, close to the nearby airport. Confused by the bright lights of the runways and terminals, they began moving toward the airport. When they when stumbled upon a busy highway, they were all killed.

This year, a group of volunteers noticed that another clutch of eggs was beginning to hatch further down the beach, near the airport. Determined to keep them safe, when the hatchlings emerged, the volunteers created a human wall, effectively blocking the airport lights. The only light available to the babies was the bright moonlight, pointing the way toward the sea. All 112 turtles scrambled in the right direction and made it safely to the water.

Volunteers warn spectators not to interfere with the hatchlings on their trek to the sea. It is this exertion from nest to ocean that builds endurance for the coming swim. Carrying them to the water would bypass this strength-building exercise and lower their chances of survival.

“All of this happens quite apart from man,” as Catherine Marshall said. “Little man who struts and fumes upon the earth.”

It was the shepherds working the night shift who received the personal, angelic invitation. “Don’t be afraid,” they were told. “You will find the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.” The accompanying angelic choir did not finish the final note before these shepherds began their pilgrimage to where He was.

Pilgrims still recognize the miraculous.

The Magi were men of great learning. They were wealthy and highly regarded for their knowledge of astronomy and astrology. They had identified an unusual star and discerned that a special king had been born. Their feet had barely touched Israeli soil when they asked, “Where is he that is born king of the Jews?”

Wise men still seek the extraordinary.

We, too, have heard the clear, stirring news that a child is born. We have not seen His swaddling clothes or touched His manger, but our hearts have seen Him; our hearts have heard Him.

We emerged, flailed about, then turned toward the light of His bright, morning star. We, too, found protection in a human wall: a lifetime of pastors, evangelists, teachers, and friends who helped mitigate the allure of the destructive lights. These mentors did not pick us up and carry us to the water; rather, they watched us strengthen and build endurance for our own trek, our own journey home.

Centuries later, His star remains the most extraordinary; His call the most compelling. The humility of His manger astounds us; the savagery of His cross woos us.

As pilgrims, we stake our lives on the promise that He came. As wise men, we recognize the poverty of our own wisdom and seek His. Still.

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On June 27, 1936, Franklin Delano Roosevelt gave his acceptance speech for nomination to a second term as President of the United States. Against a backdrop of the Great Depression, his words rang in homeless shantytowns, to men without vocation, to families without food and shelter. “This generation of Americans,” he declared, “has a rendezvous with destiny.”

A year earlier, FDR sent General Douglas MacArthur to the Philippines to establish a military force in the region. One day after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese invaded the Philippines. Little military backing and diminishing supply took its toll. Defeat seemed inevitable. President Roosevelt issued a command that MacArthur leave the island. A month later, 70,000 U.S. and Philippine soldiers were captured and forced to march to the capitol in what would become the Bataan Death March. Seven thousand soldiers died during the 80-mile torturous trek.

When WWII ended, MacArthur, in his eloquence, stated:

Today, the guns are silent. A great tragedy has ended. The skies no longer rain with death – the seas bear only commerce – men everywhere walk upright in the sunlight. The entire world lies quietly at peace… I speak for the thousands of silent lips, forever stilled among the jungles and the beaches and in the deep waters of the Pacific which marked the way, ‘We have known the bitterness of defeat and the exultation of triumph, and from both we have learned there can be no turning back.'”

General MacArthur had a rendezvous with destiny. In 1962, West Point Academy bestowed upon the frail, 82-year old their most prestigious award. In his acceptance speech he spoke of what mattered to him:

The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished, tone and tint. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears, coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday.

I listen vainly, but with thirsty ears, for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll. In my dreams, I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory, always I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor, Country.

Today marks the my final roll call with you, but I want you to know that when I cross the river my last conscious thoughts will be of The Corps, and The Corps, and The Corps. I bid you farewell.”

Paul, the Apostle, understood his rendezvous with destiny. He taught that Christ would return for believers in the small church he established in Thessalonica. When the congregation began facing the death of their loved ones, they questioned Paul’s word. Doubt crept in, but Paul was smart. He did not simply tell them the truth; he demonstrated it. He tied their hope to their knowledge. He secured the resurrection of the believers to the resurrection of Christ: “Since we believe that Jesus rose from the dead, we also believe that He will resurrect believers who have died with faith in Him.” Then he went a step further, “We who are alive and remain shall be caught up together . . . to meet the Lord in the air.”

You and I, also, have a rendezvous with destiny. We have known triumph and defeat, and we have determined that there can be no turning back. Our destiny is indelibly linked to a baby, a cup, a cross, a grave, a tomb, a promise. Were we to take license with MacArthur’s poignant farewell, we may offer this, our own valediction:

“The shadows are lengthening for us. The twilight is here. Our days of old have vanished, tone and tint. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears, and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. We listen vainly, but with thirsty ears, for the moving melody of a dusty hymn, of voices raised to join the song. In our dreams we hear again the crash of the ocean waves, the laughter of a child, the sad, sorrowful sound of those who mourn. But in the evening of our memories, always we come back to what remains our highest hope. Always there echoes and re-echoes Jesus’ words:Do not be afraid. I hold the keys of death and Hell.”When we mark our final roll call, when we cross the river, our last conscious thoughts will be…..

O, Death, where is thy victory?
Oh, grave, where is thy sting?

(1 Corinthians 15:55)

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November 2013

Hey Everybody,

It’s almost time for my favorite holiday – Thanksgiving! I’ve been pooling recipes and creating menus. I’m browsing for table decor, centerpieces, fun ideas for out of towners. Planning to put the tree together (well, John does that), pull out some decorations, and fill the fireplaces with real wood and kindling (um, John does that, too). No gifts to buy (although I enjoy that) and no traffic jams. And, of course, there’s Black Friday to look forward to.

In short, what a great time of the year.

The WebMASTER has created a Thanksgiving special (you knew that was coming). This month, you can get 4 Vocal Performance CD Tracks for $16.99. That’s a $39.96 value. Here is a link:


One more thing…. In keeping with a thankful attitude, I had a wonderful experience that I just can’t keep to myself. So, here goes…

I purchased a dress in a local shop that I really loved. It was made by ‘Nic and Dom’. I wanted another one like it in a different color so I began searching. After exhausting all of my resources, I found the company website . While they did not offer dresses for sale, I found an email address for Nikki (of Nic and Dom). I emailed her asking if there was any way to buy that style of dress, were there any in a warehouse somewhere, etc.?

She emailed me back right away and offered to make me one for free. Yes, MAKE me one. She checked their fabric inventory and emailed me some options. She refused to let me pay her. The dress arrived this week.

Here is their website (www.nicanddom.com) and Facebook page (www.facebook.com/nicanddom). Here is Nikki’s email address: nikki@nicanddom.com – I’d love for her to hear from some of you!

We love you….always!


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