Grace is a Wonderful Thing

The sun rose over the world this morning and for the first time in over 96 years, it rose on a world without my father. Pop, as he was always called by everyone except his grandchildren, who called him Papa Stone, was a two-time hospice survivor.

In theory, no one should survive a hospice. It is where one goes to die. Yet he returned twice, once in 2003 and again in January of this year. Such events define his life. He was a different drummer on the road less taken.

His last few months were filled with many sleepy times. During some of these periods he seemed to be not completely "present." This is sometimes referred to as traveling, but unlike an intentional attempt to achieve spiritual enlightenment via astral projection, this 'traveling' is more like a sorting of old memories to find validation. I do not think that it is traveling as much as it is preparation for a journey. During these times, a person is likely to 'talk it out' with himself.

That is the setting for the story I am about to tell, but first, a bit more background information is needed. For most of my life, I have had no clue as to whether he had accepted Jesus as his personal savior, the defining element of being saved. His sister said that he had gone forward at an altar call when he was 17, and he had certainly been active in a church when he met and married my mom. But all of that was before my time. By the time that I was old enough to have clear memories, my mother's Baptist background had found my dad's Presbyterian Church somewhat lacking. After a counseling session with her old Baptist pastor, mom picked out a "compromise" denomination for the family. Ultimately, she ended up taking us kids to church by herself, because as soon as we became a two-car family, my dad spent Sunday mornings visiting his (by then) mostly bedridden mother.

It was a complex situation, but the salient point is that communication had broken down, and no one knew exactly what my dad thought when it came to spiritual issues. Fast forward to last month:

My dad's caretaker was fixing a meal in the kitchen when she heard my dad talking in another room. She went in to where he was sitting. His eyes were closed, so she rubbed his forearm to bring him back to the present. He opened his eyes, looked straight at her, and said, "Grace is a wonderful thing." She could scarcely believe that she had heard him correctly and asked him to repeat it. Whereupon he said, "Grace is a wonderful thing, isn't it?"

From that point on, she said, the "traveling" stopped. The day he died, he awoke alert, ate a big breakfast, showered, dressed, and began a good day. Then his breathing became shallower and shallower. The visiting home nurse who had seen him that morning was surprised that he passed on that afternoon.

He left us with his belief that grace is a wonderful thing.



This photo was taken by Ed Rybczynski at sunrise on 27 Aug 2011, the last day of Pop's earthly life. I find it a perfect statement of passage.

[used by permission — Mr. Rybcznski is documenting a year of sunrises at http://www.edrybczynski.com/page1]

And Another Sheep Bites the Dust.

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And another sheep bites the dust... figuratively and literally.

One of the hazards of growing up attending Sunday school regularly is that, unlike many of my contemporaries who came to the Lord later in life, I have an entire library of sanitized Bible stories within my memory banks.

Quickly now, what can you remember about Samson? He was strong. He pulled down an entire building. He had a dalliance with Delilah, for which he paid dearly. And those who have a really good memory, (or a proclivity toward either the mystic encounters or pyrophilia,) might recall that his mom had a visit from an angel before he was born, or that he tied torches to the tails of 300 foxes to burn the fields of the Philistines.

The Sunday school versions of the story usually leave out the part where his father-in-law gave his wife to his best friend. They probably also left out the part where God split open the rock basin in Lehi to revive Samson with spring water, and in some bizarre time warp, they may have omitted the fact that he judged Israel for 20 years. At least mine did. I was left with the impression that Delilah had been his rebound relationship. The Sunday school handouts didn't portray Delilah as a national hero wannabe for the Philistines, and they did not address how Samson's parents didn't raise him to be that way. (Oh, the heartbreak!)

It is understandable why Bible stories are adapted for children, but it can lead to inadvertently passing along wrong ideas. I discovered one such case this week.

One of my Sunday school "Classics" was the 23rd Psalm: The Lord is my Shepherd.

My Sunday school teacher left us with the impression that life could be like the old style Disney movies, the ones made when Walt Disney was still alive, where birds and forest creatures were ushering the Peaceable Kingdom with lilting arias. To my child's mind, any green pasture worth lying down in is going to have lots of bedding. Much like this photo by Pam Brophy from the Geograph project:




But this week my rabbit trail took me to a website called Follow the Rabbi. It was there that I found another picture, one that is likely to be an accurate portrayal of the prototype pasture for Psalm Twenty-Three. It's hilly. It's rocky. Shade is scarce. And in-between the rainy seasons, any grass that might remain after a herd of sheep has grazed there is likely to be dusty. The grazing sheep literally bite the dust.


Figuratively, this second picture seems to be closer to the kind of world the psalm was written for. The sheep in the first photo have so much grass that they could stay there forever—sort of like heaven. The sheep in the second photo will need to be led in paths of righteousness. Their food supply is rather short, (in more ways than one.) They will need to make a journey, just as a life in pursuit of God is a journey. Goodness and mercy cannot follow if one does not move on down the path.

Reference link to the 23rd Psalm



If the 23rd Psalm is a metaphor for the providence of God, which picture should we be teaching to our children? The question is fodder for thought. Do you show your child the God of the luxuriant meadow or the God of the wilderness pasture?

When God reveals Himself to my children, I want the pictures to match.










Sheep Pasture at Shinfield © Copyright Pam Brophy and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

Why Homeschooling was cutting edge 25 years ago— And still is.

I found this great animated talk that can tell you in about 10 minutes what it would take me a half-hour to say.

Tropical Depression

Tropical Depression Emily. I guess it is official now. There is a satellite picture to prove it. My name is Emily, and I'm tropically depressed.

I was surprised by the accuracy, actually. The 'legendary' colors show a sad blue exterior surrounding a vibrant core. Furthermore, it has bearing and momentum—North at 10 mph, so even if I am not getting anywhere fast, at least I am not headed south, quite the opposite! Look closely and find a thin silver lining!

Only the depression is headed out to sea. The rest of me intends on sailing over the bounding main and making landfall.

Someday I will make landfall. Someday.

Sailing, sailing over the bounding main
Where many a stormy wind shall blow
'Ere Jack comes home again
Sailing, sailing over the bounding main
Where many a stormy wind shall blow
'Ere Jack comes home again

photo from wunderground