Without Excuse but not Without Remedy, by Elsie Montgomery

In response to those who justify their lifestyle by pointing to the animal kingdom, and to those who shout “it’s not natural” in condemnation of that lifestyle, may I remind both that neither human nature nor the animal kingdom is what their Creator intended.

Appealing to “nature” to incriminate a homosexual lifestyle does not work. If “nature” is the norm, then it would be acceptable for women to eat their lovers, or parents to feast on their children. In nature, one species can kill another because it is part of the food chain, and both genders can be unfaithful to their mates. Even stealing is fine — if you are a magpie!

Our standard for morality has lost all moorings. It used to be Scripture and our conscience, but Scripture rightly explains how sin ruins everything. We cannot even discern right from wrong, never mind agree where to find out which is which.

Human nature has gone far from what God intended, yet Romans 8 says the “entire creation groans waiting for the redemption” of humanity. That’s why we cannot use “nature” as the norm. Sin ruined nature too, putting it under the “curse of sin.”

Sin wrecks everything. God made people in His likeness (Genesis 1 & 2) but sin marred that likeness. God made a world He called “good” but sin continues to mar that world and affects everything in it.

God describes sin several ways. One is “breaking His laws.” Another is “falling short of His glory.” At the root is an attitude: “everyone has turned to his own way.” This sad state of selfish independence from God and His laws is reflected by commerce’s greed, Hollywood’s vanity, society’s divorce rate, and the lies children tell on a playground. If we reflect any goodness at all, it is because our Maker’s image occasionally glimmers through.

Going back to nature, Scripture says all creation is not as God originally created it. For instance, animals and people did not eat each other in Eden; God provided plants for their food. It was only after sin entered the world that violence entered the food chain.

Some folks acknowledge this and become vegetarians, yet this does not fix or reverse the effects of sin. In fact, God says “all foods are acceptable if received with thanksgiving.” No matter what we eat, we still sin.

Some use nature to justify their sin. “Birds and bees do it . . .  and some animals display lustful tendencies, so that makes it natural . . .  therefore I can do what I want.”

A determination to go our own way looks for someone or something going the same way, a line of thinking that demonstrates how sin affects our judgment.

Others reason that sin is natural in that “I am who I am . . .  I was born this way.” The same could be said of many alcoholics, yet they are not allowed such an excuse.

The reality is that all of us are “born that way.” We came into the world with a tendency to sin. No child has to be taught selfishness. We could offer our excuses to God, but He anticipated this and planned a counter offer before the world began. Jesus gave it when He said, “You must be born again,” offering us a spiritual rebirth, a new nature, and forgiveness to wash away the marred mess of sin.

People often refuse God’s offer by saying things like “religion is responsible for wars” or “the church is full of hypocrites” but these arguments miss the target; the real problem is not religion or the church but sin. Sin is why people fight, including Christians. Sin is why people pretend to be something they are not, also including Christians. War and hypocrisy is not the fault of religion or the church; sin makes liars lie and cheaters cheat, and ruins the godly life God intended.

As if our sin is not enough, when we realize we are guilty we harden our hearts, and refuse to take responsibility. Instead, we rationalize. The New Testament calls it “futility” and says “they are darkened in their understanding and separated from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them due to the hardening of their hearts. Having lost all sensitivity, they have given themselves over to sensuality so as to indulge in every kind of impurity, with a continual lust for more.”

Blindness to the things of God happens to anyone who refuses or neglects to hold to biblical thoughts, even Christians. Without reading the Book, no one can know how the Lord wants us to live. We might recognize sin in others and get upset about it, but if we are not paying close attention to sin in our own lives, our judgments will fall short of how God wants to deal with sin in both ourselves and that other person.

We too easily forget that in the mind of God, my sin is no less than your sin because both have the same effect: our sin separates us from Him (and each other). God deeply longs to mend that rift so we can fellowship with each other and with Him. He wants to bless us, to reverse the curse of sin.

We cannot make that happen but we can open the door for it by refusing to rationalize our sin and admit to God that we have fallen far short of His intention for us. At that point we can begin making progress toward recovery, not because we can use plants and animals to prove we are right, or because we have a twelve-step program, but because we have a God who is able to make us whole.

(I wrote this years ago in response to the excuses that were current at the time. The writing could be much softer, yet could not be any more true!)

Maturity is being Childlike

by Elsie Montgomery

Pete was green with one black and white wing. His coloring was odd for a canary, but so was his voice and pluck. He sang like nothing I’ve ever heard and was my constant delight.

As a child, I also had a stamp collection. When it was laid out, Pete would fly into it, scattering stamps everywhere and taking one in his beak to sample. If I pointed my finger at him, he considered that an attack and came at me, his beak open. As soon as I backed off, he began to sing. In no time, to get him to sing all I had to do was point at him.

I must miss both childhood and Pete. I dreamed last night that I still had him, as well as Vicki, the female that we bought to keep him company. (He stopped singing at that point, but when Vicki died, he sang all day!) The dream was so vivid that when I woke I had to keep shaking my head to fight a sense of disorientation.

Today’s devotional verse is about being like a child. My childhood included this plucky canary and the enjoyment he gave me, but this is not what Jesus was talking about.

Then Jesus called a little child to Him, set him in the midst of them, and said, “Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore whoever humbles himself as this little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 18:2-4)

The comments that go with this verse say that a person needs to come to Jesus like a child to be saved, but a careful reading shows that this is not what Jesus says. He describes how a person must first be converted, then become like a child.

Conversion is the work of God in a human heart. He gives new life and faith in Jesus Christ at the same time. From that point forward, His goal is to transform the convert into the image of His Son. In a spiritual sense, a newly converted person is immediately in the kingdom of heaven, but entrance to it in a physical sense comes later. The conditions for getting in are conversion — and the proof of that conversion is childlike humility.

Jesus had to be thinking of very young children who still have a dependent attitude and outlook. Only little children are simple in thought, helpless and trusting, unaffected by the jaded world around them, without pretension and ambition. They are still sinners but naive in many ways, totally dependent on others, and free from selfish claims to greatness. They submit themselves to the care of their parents, and in having their needs met they are not demanding or obnoxious.

We cannot do anything to earn or deserve eternal life. We cannot become like a little child, then get saved and enter the kingdom. The order is like this: we are first saved, then become like children. That is what the Spirit of Jesus Christ does in a human heart. He brings a humble and dependent attitude that is unlike anything we can do ourselves.

I might have started life like this little child He speaks of, but because of my sin nature (which is part of every human being), my self-focus soon showed up. Actually, even as a baby, I wanted what I wanted NOW. In just a few months, like any other child I knew how to make my parents come running. I knew how to make people think I was cute and I knew how to manipulate my brother. This is not the type of childlikeness that Jesus was talking about.

Pete the canary died more than forty years ago, but I woke up this morning missing him. As I read the Bible and thought about what it means to be like a child, I should be longing for far more than my childhood pet. While Pete amused me and kept me company, the greater value is the trust and innocence, the simple joy and delighted contentment, of being a child of God.

Where Is My Phone Booth? - Elsie Montgomery

My son took a face book quiz that told him he would live to be 104. I teased him. Would he now take more risks? Eat more cake? Leap tall buildings in a single bound? He responded, “That would give away my secret identity.”

After that bit of fun, it occurred to me that I’ve often lived my Christian life as if it were a secret identity. God created in me something new, but instead of living that new life in the power and confidence that goes with it, I fearfully shrink back into the attitudes and behavior of my sinful self.

Some verses from the Bible bring this to my attention. (Notice, they are about working out my salvation, which means making it work. This is not about working for my salvation. I don’t have to, nor can I do that.)

Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who works in you both to will and to do for His good pleasure. (Philippians 2:12-13)

As these verses point out, an obedient and productive Christian life is directed and empowered by the Holy Spirit. God works in me so that I can live the life He wants me to live. I do not do it myself.

This is a supernatural life and foreign to the old life. When I am thinking as my old self used to think, such a life seems impossible and unattainable. The old me has no confidence in God and now, after years of being a Christian, very little confidence in
myself.

I never used to be like that. I once thought I could do anything, but years of walking with God (however on and off that has been) have taught me that in myself I can do nothing. Instead of being cocky and sure of what I can do, I feel incapable and even reluctant to try most things, even those things that were once easy for me. While I understand this realization is a necessary part of Christian growth, I do not like the sense of weakness that goes with it.

At the same time, I know the verses that say God’s strength is perfected in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9, etc.) and feeling weak is not a bad thing. It is just that I tend to use that sense of “I can’t do it” as an excuse to not do it, to disobey God. Hence, the power that belongs to my new nature is hidden, like a secret identity.

I know that supernatural living is about conforming my outer life to my inner life, and living out the new nature that I have in Jesus Christ. This is “not a mystical, undefined life based on abstract philosophical concepts” but a practical life that flows out of deliberate obedience to God’s commands, no matter how I feel.

Therefore, obedience in the face of weakness is my challenge and my solution. Superman had to step out of his Clark Kent costume before he was seen as the man of steel. I have to step out of my old way of thinking and obey God in all situations, regardless of how inadequate I feel. Otherwise, my true identity will remain a secret.

(Adapted from the original post at Practical Faith)

Noises - Elsie Montgomery

There’s that sound again. It is familiar yet I’m not sure what it is. There is a click, then a loud snap, and a brief rattling. Each time I hear it, I feel weak and dizzy for a few minutes.

“Thank you. I will have a piece of cheesecake.”

The first time I heard it was when I was twelve. My friend and I were skipping history and walking in the park. We were having such a great time. She “borrowed” a pack of Export A’s from her mother’s purse and we smoked a few. I felt so grown up and free.

“Yes, thank you. Don’t mind if I do. Do you have a light?”

Another thing my friend and I used to do was spend our lunch money on magazines like Playgirl and some others. We figured why should the boys have all the fun. We had a place where we stashed them and would go there and giggle like fools over the pictures. I used to imagine being with some of those hunks just before I drifted off to sleep at night. That made me feel like a grown-up too. My folks wouldn’t let me date until I was old. It was like being in prison.

“Oh, do you see that fellow over by the fountain. Isn’t he something? I’d like to meet him. You know him? Could you introduce me? Oh, wait until Freddy leaves . . . he doesn’t need to know who I know. He has never known my other friends.”

Finally, I was allowed to date, but not until I was nearly sixteen. It was about the same time that I landed a boyfriend when the noise became more frequent. At first, he and I used to take long walks in the park too, just like my girl friend and I did, but we wound up spending more and more time in the back of his car. I wound up pregnant, but no big deal. I heard that noise all day long for weeks before and after, maybe because I was so scared, but it went away. I wasn’t ready to be a parent and I didn’t want to be tied down. It was a wise decision.

“No, I don’t have children. Freddy and I are trying to adopt but the waiting list is something like seven years.”

The next time the noise bothered me, and I say “bothered” but it wasn’t really a bother, just one of those things, you know, was in college. In my first semester, I had a couple of tough courses and was really afraid I would fail. One of my friends helped me through. He managed to find some old exam copies, and you wouldn’t believe it, but the right answers were filled in. We studied together and both of us passed. I was so grateful. College was a drag, you know. I felt like I was in prison for most of it.

“Income tax gone up, you say? I wouldn’t know. We never pay it. We found a way to declare my parents as dependents. Works like a charm.”

Sometimes the clanking and rattling keep me awake at night. Last week, I had one really rough day at work. My boss hauled me in and told me I didn’t spend enough time on the projects he gives me. Most of them are really intense. People at the office crash all the time because they work overtime and get burned out, overdoing it you know. That’s not going to happen to me. I pace myself, go slow. It’s better in the long run. I’m not going to be a slave to my job. In fact, I’m not going to be a slave to anything.

“Another piece of cake? Well, it IS good . . . sure, why not!”

How about Sunday School?

“Our church doesn’t have Sunday school.”

“What do you do with Jackie?”

“Oh, he sits with me in church.”

I was dismayed, at least at first. Then I remembered the origin of Sunday school. It began because a man wanted to teach the Bible to orphans. Thinking through the roster in our church (that has a Sunday school) I could not recall that we have any orphans in attendance.

Sunday school is a good thing. Adults and children learn in classes geared to their interests and ability to learn. However, the Bible does not mention this type of teaching, segregated classes or otherwise. Is it really so bad to not have Sunday school?

In Deuteronomy 6:4-9 God gives His people the first great commandment to love Him with all their heart, soul and strength, then says, “These commandments I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children . . .”

As I read this and other passages, I see that parents are to model obedience to God’s Word, teach it through Scripture placed everywhere as reminders, and through rituals and festivals that would prompt teachable moments. They were also to intentionally seize opportunities as to teach when they sat at home, walked along the road, when lying down or getting up. In other words, be there with them.

Children were taught to fear the Lord and to obey their parents, and a multitude of truths that would help them grow up to be men and women of faith who loved and obeyed God, and who lived in the power of the Holy Spirit.

All sorts of ideas run through my head. Children get their concept of God largely from their parents. Children understand authority largely from their relationship with their parents. Children learn trust from parents who are true. Children experience security and a sense of God’s care from the way they are cared for by their parents. The larger lessons of life are not learned from a worksheet but from parental models and the child-parent relationship.

Does this negate Sunday school? Not at all, but if parents think Sunday school is theology school for their children, they may have unwittingly taught a lesson that they did not intend: that you don’t go to your Father for the most important things; someone else will do just fine.

Thoughts after a conversation with a friend,
by Elsie Montgomery

The Tuner

The Tuner

With overalls and velvet crafted
box of tools he came
and touched my discord
pain and sour notes
faded keys heaped and
bruised in sharp contrast
to his gently pacing metronome

Soft of heart, he pried my
protesting crusted hinges
ashamed to let him see
inside, taunt strings
and broken chords

Deft fingers gripped
and burned my felts
softened notes
made harsh, by jolts
upheaval, moves
and clime extremes

He waited then touched again,
sharp then flat, black notes
clanged and tumbled
clunked and struck his hands
and pierced his feet
Slowing pace, he tapped

Alpha and omega pass
He tightened. Bleeding
smiling, tapping half notes
listening, tapping whole notes
smiling, tapping, gently
touching, softly whistling

With prophetic grace
my chords collimate
alongside his silent scales
while deaf ears strain
to hear the symphony.

© Elsie Montgomery

OUTAGES by Elsie Montgomery

Sandy’s computer screen went black, instantly. No flicker to warn her. She swore under her breath and glanced at the electric clock. It was off too, its face read 1:02. She turned off the power to her surge protector, got up, dumped her cold coffee and tried not to let the enormity of this raise her blood pressure.

“Arden Hills is a new subdivision. The power never goes off in the new areas,” said the cheerful voice at the power company. “Let me check for you.”

Sandy stared out the window listening to “hold” music that sounded piped from a funeral home and wondering if Jeff would get over his anger. She was almost able to laugh at his jealousy. Whatever gave him the idea she had time to entertain men during the day? Perhaps she was lonely — but men? Not this time. She learned her lesson. Patrick was from another era, another phase of life. She had outgrown her need to be romantically involved, to be the center of a man’s attention. Writing romance novels channeled her energies into sometime more productive — and profitable.

“I am sorry. You are right. The power is off in Arden Hills. Apparently someone hit a power pole out in that area. We apologize for the inconvenience and expect to have service restored as soon as possible.”

Inconvenience? It seemed like just another weird event added to an increasing and almost mysterious force trying to prevent her from getting any work done. I am glad the backup program on my word processor is set to save every two minutes. I didn’t lose much this time. Not like last month when the dog pulled the plug. Jeff didn’t believe me that time either. He thinks my work is held up because there is someone here all day.

She poured herself a glass of juice. I would never get into another one of those Patrick things. He hurt my marriage and nearly destroyed me. And I thought he was just what I needed. The worst of it is trying to recover . . . never mind Jeff acting more weird every day. The next thing he will be doing is phoning from work on the hour, every hour.

Sandy laughed again. If Jeff wasn’t such a tightwad, he would. His office was just out of their telephone area. Each call would cost about a dollar, maybe more. She knew his thriftiness overruled hiring a private detective.

She walked through the house to the front living room and looked out the window. Funny, that dark green Buick is just like the one Patrick used to drive. She watched it for a few minutes then saw two people with briefcases emerge from her neighbor’s house across the street and get into the Buick. They looked like morticians or maybe Jehovah’s Witnesses. Well, at least Patrick wasn’t into either of those pursuits, and thankfully, neither is Jeff. In spite of his raging jealousy, he is sensible and definitely not a religious fanatic.

In a few minutes, the power came on. Sandy sat down at her keyboard. She thought about Jeff. He wasn’t religious but he was becoming obnoxious with his suspicions. I can’t help it if the power goes off or the dog likes power cords. I can’t do anything about hard drive failure and my mother calling every two days. My, that woman likes to talk. Not that I am any different. I have to admit that I spend more time on the phone with Gail and Louella than I should. I guess I am the reason the story is not finished. She opened her notebook and tried to pick up where her computer blanked out.

Jeff watched the tow truck hoist his car and pull away. The power pole was down but not completely sheared. He wondered how he only managed to scratch the back of his hand when his car would likely be a write-off.

That was not the worst of it. How would he explain to Sandy what he was doing out here in the mid-afternoon when he was supposed to be working? How could he tell her he had come to check on her every day this week and now thought his fears were confirmed? How could he let her know that he ran into a power pole while talking on his cell phone to a friend in Motor Vehicles, tell her that he knew a Reverend Paul Moses was the registered owner of the car that was parked in front of his house, every day, for several weeks? How could he tell her he was melting down with fear and rage every time he saw a green Buick? Did she already know?

Worse yet, he found himself talking to himself, now, aloud, on the sidewalk. How can I admit to her that I my attitude pressured her into this? I know I cause her writer’s block; I know that. But now I’ve caused even worse, another green Buick and one more jerk, religious or not, whose name begins with P. This is all my fault.

He felt dizzy. He began walking, wondering which way was home. Would Sandy say come in, or would the green Buick still be outside? Would she forgive him? Would she understand? Or would she laugh in his face and leave him for Paul? Will I ever get this husband thing right? And why do I feel so odd? And why is the sun setting so early in the day?
--------------------------------
Sorry to leave you hanging, but short story is sometimes about making readers think, and loose ends often have that effect! Elsie

The Writer's Rat Race – Elsie Montgomery

Rush, rush. Rush through the bath and breakfast. Rush through the closet (and come out the other end looking all together) Dash downstairs. Slow down for a word from the Lord and a word back to Him. Hustle the grocery list together. Grab the latest article hot off the printer and don't forget the car keys. Rush paper to editor, to post office, to city. Do errands on the fly. Three stores later, three long lineups later, no one smiles. Speed home.

I need time to write. Can I best my own record of ten minutes transporting bags from car to front door; of twenty minutes propelling contents from front door to freezer, pantry, storage room, kitchen and bath? Then out to the mailbox, down the stairs, read the rejection letters, turn on the PC, and gush out ideas? Not a hope!

Writing is not for the fast lane. Those deadlines may require speedy spurts. Those contest closures require rapid acceleration, but the routine, the daily doing cannot be pushed like a full cart down aisle three. Savoring sounds, remembering phrases, noticing nuance takes time. Characters are not born and formed to full maturity overnight — not in life, nor on paper.

Landscapes curl slowly into view for my pen’s description. They do not snap past like souvenir slides on a Kodak carousel. Incidents long forgotten trickle into the mind and out the end of my fingers much more like meandering streams than rushing rapids.

For writers, smelling the roses might mean a fond reevaluation of an old classic, a few hours in a book of sonnets, a walk through the dark corners of the local library, or even a long chat with a regional expert who has forgotten far more about our topic than we will ever know, an expert who needs just the right questions to rouse his recall. Our roses smell like old parchment, dusty paper and long-dried ink, splendid, stimulating smells, but not for hurried noses.

In spite of all our enthusiasm, the words may refuse us when we need sleep or edibles to coax them out, or perhaps a husky hug from someone who cares. Writing is not for mechanical men and women but real people who get tired and hungry and who resist being pushed too hard and too long by life’s demands.

Slow down. The best may flow at low gear, not overdrive. Some of the greats testify that one sentence can take entire days for the birthing. Those with pen in hand and too impatient souls may never find out whether that one sentence hurriedly written could have been a touch more explosive had they only slowed down.

Rush, rush? It may have its place, but only a small place. I can scurry through the mundane, only so I have time to slow down . . . and sit still . . . and write.

Missing Mom • Elsie Montgomery

She was just here
soft eyes misted in a book
laughing at the words

We rise, she needs help with her walker
“This is my daughter, Elsie”
as annoyed bones move
slowly to the lunch tables

She cannot visit now
time to eat, mouth is full
“Come back next week”
“I love you, Mom”

You were just here soft
grey curls and clean blouse
ready to explore the edges
of lost memories,
tell of your morning
shampoo and bath

You were just here, but I
came back too soon
on Sunday not Wednesday
they called, “We are so sorry”

Too late to give you
warm hugs
or spin a story
or paint your nails

You were just here
how can you be gone?
Missing you, Mom
You were just here.

I wrote this poem in 2002, shortly after my mother died. Reading it again reminds me how much I miss her, so I changed the title to reflect that aching nostalgia. Elsie Montgomery (PS. Sorry this post is late. My reminder got buried under a dinner engagement.)

If only. . .

If only I’d come home earlier, thought Mike. If only I’d picked next week to go away. If only . . .

Sandra shuffled into the kitchen, yawned, dropped her arm on the back of a stool and wondered why she got up. Rain from the night left her garden too wet to weed. Mike and the boys left for their annual camping trip six whole days ago, so the house was too clean to clean.

She finished her Sally Wright book last night at 2 a.m. Yet another problem solved, another murderer caught. She felt a cool breeze. “Where’s that coming from?” she said aloud, grabbing her glasses off the counter.

The windows are closed. The rain came in that way at 10:30. She peered through the living room. The front door was closed too. One step into the hall. She gasped.

Her back door stood wide open. But I shut it last night and twisted the knob locked. Then she noticed a key was in the lock, on the outside.

A chill, not from early morning breezes, stiffened her body. Wooden arms pulled what now seemed a very skimpy robe around her body. Her feet felt vulnerable, her hands naked and powerless. Who is in my house?

Mike was up early. Dawn in the mountains. Such splendor must not be wasted on the squirrels. He gazed with affection at Toby, 12 and Sammy, 7, still in their sleeping bags, still snoozing and snoring softly.

I won’t wake them. A jolt of early morning air is only for those whose internal alarm has already worked.

He laughed at his own mental verbosity and stepped outside the tent into the almost frosty air. Wonder what Sandra is doing? He glanced at his watch. If I know her, she stayed up all night with some book. She will be sound asleep right now, the sun soon streaming in, touching her golden hair.

Again he smiled, this time a little self-consciously. He loved Sandra with such intensity yet these were the times when he thought about her this way, when she was a 100 miles away. I should tell her more often, he promised himself as he started a fire to make coffee.

Sandra stood still for what seemed hours. She listened intensely, her ears bursting. Her heart had already pounded itself outside of her chest, raced back down the hall, and was hiding under Sammy’s bed, along with two stale sandwiches and a half dozen hot wheels.

She forgot to vacuum under his bed. What was I thinking? Oh, I remember. I’m supposed to make muffins for his scout troop next week. Carrot would be nice, healthy. Boys don’t like blueberries and chocolate is too . . .

A gust banged the back door against the closet wall. Sandra yelped from hysteria to action, ran to her room, slammed the door, locked it, scurried to the adjoining bathroom, slammed that door, locked it, dropped to the floor and quivered in a ball until she realized how silly she looked, even though no one was looking.

She knew she was not alone. You know when someone is in your house, but no one was here in this room. She cautiously opened the door and peered into the bedroom. Sun streamed across the pillow. She moved slowly into the room, then jumped and screamed. There was a figure standing there, in a dove grey robe, golden hair in a wild state.

That’s me. My God, I don’t even know me. If there is a burglar in my house, one look and he would be so traumatized that he’d leave.

Her surprising humor drew some of the tension. She grabbed a hair brush and put her head together. Jeans and a t-shirt made her feel stronger. She wondered if they had any weapons in the house. Toby has a baseball bat. Sammy’s biggest weapon is his wit. I could use some wits. Mike is so gentle. He didn’t like me buying a fly swatter. That bat, just across the hall.

She stepped to the door, then heard it—a soft scraping. Her hand froze on the knob.

Mike sipped his coffee. Why does it taste better in the mountains? He didn’t want to wake the boys. He thought about Sandra and surprisingly, her father.

I don’t want to think about him. He has been out of our lives for years. The only good he ever did was build our kitchen table. Otherwise his contribution to our lives, to Sandra’s life, is nothing but bruises. The outside ones healed, but I don’t know if inside ever will.

Mike tried, but he wasn’t a counselor and he couldn’t convince Sandra to go to a professional. She kept insisting she was fine, that God was healing her. Most of the time, she seemed fine, but Mike felt a knot inside him remembering her crying in her sleep, curled into a ball, her fists tight around her ears. She said it was nothing. Nothing, be damned. He wanted to shake that man.

But two years ago he just vanished. No more middle-of-the-night calls, no more pleading, no more attempts to see the boys, nothing. He was gone. Or he seemed to be gone. How can we know for sure, and will he ever come back?

His thoughts threatened to ruin both coffee and fresh air. He picked up a small pebble and tossed it toward a small sleeping bag. The occupant rumbled and rolled over. Mike tossed another pebble.

“Aw, Dad. Quit that!”

Sandra’s stomach was a volcano, a vise, a wild storm. She stood as still as she could, her breathing in competition with some invisible runaway train. The scraping continued. It was coming from the back of the house? No, the basement? It was the basement. She could lock that door? No, not from the outside. Whoever was down there could lock her out, but she couldn’t lock him in.

A chair? Like in the movies. I’ll put a chair under the doorknob. She grabbed a kitchen chair and leaned it against the basement door. It was two inches too short. She gasped, then quickly moved behind the table, shoving it toward the door. This will hold it shut.

As soon as the table touched the door, the door began slowly shoving the table.

Mike couldn’t help grin at his boys as they tried to dress inside their sleeping bags. He told them the night before to stuff jeans, T’s, clean socks and underwear down to the bottom. “It will stay dry there, and smell about the same as your feet,” which got another, “Aw, Dad.”

Sammy was quicker. His size helped him roll down to the end of the bag, into his wrinkled clothes and out the top a good five minutes before Toby managed to pull himself together. This morning Mike decided he might let Toby have a sip of coffee, but both boys wanted hot chocolate. The water was boiling so he mixed half milk from the cooler. They wrapped their boy-size hands around the chipped and colorful camping mugs Sandra packed for them.

Mike’s thoughts returned, reluctantly, to her father. He’s gone. Why think about him. He told her once that he was going to make her a roll top desk before he died. She always wanted a roll top. I wonder if she ever thinks about that, or him? Can she ever get passed this without reconciliation? She says he has to make the first move. Will he do it? I don’t know. I hope so.

Sandra was too frightened to scream. She watched the table slide into the room, afraid to move or even look at the basement door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something in the door opening. What was that? A saw? A hand saw. He was going to kill her with a hand saw? Sandra’s stomach lurched, but nothing came up.

The saw had a hand attached, an old, gnarled hand with wood shavings caught in the coarse hair on the back. Sandra felt time had stopped, but the hand didn’t stop. One more push and the table slid far enough for an arm, then a shoulder, then a full body. He stepped into her clean kitchen, joining the bright morning sunlight pouring in the windows, and the crisp curtains that hid her, and this man, from the view of anyone who might see and stop whatever he was going to do.

“Sandra, I wanted a sign, something to show me that you would not turn me away again. Something that showed me I could come and make up for all I’ve done, that I could build your roll top desk, and you would accept it, and forgive me. I prayed for something, anything, and when I saw the key in the door, I knew that was my sign, so I brought in the wood and worked all week, at nights. I’m sorry for being such a fool, still am. But I just want to please you and show you I’m not the same, and your desk is all finished. Please, please come down and see it . . . .”

Not This Dance . . .

Amy’s friend Arlene keeps pulling the conversation back to George and Florence. Amy resists and wonders if this is what a man feels like when his partner tried to take the lead in the middle of a tango. She leans hard toward tomorrow evening’s supper menu. Arlene sways again toward the latest gossip. Amy pulls the words around to the meal. Arlene tugs her back into defamation and slander.

Would she ever shut up?

“I really would like fish with all those vegetables. Any other meat would be just too heavy, don’t you think, Arlene?”

Arlene would have none of it. No fish. No vegetables. She only had tongue for George and Florence.

“Susan says they have done it several times,” she hints.

You have done it one too many times, thinks Amy. I’m not getting dragged around this kitchen floor again. Stiffening slightly, she rises and goes deliberately to the window. Cathy and Rider are playing in the sandbox. The thought briefly crosses her mind that someday someone might be talking about THEM just as their mother was trying to talk about George and Florence. She wishes they would have an argument or something, anything to turn off this torturous tango. But the children play on.

“I’m sure Susan wouldn’t lie, would she, Amy?”

Would she . . . ? Oh no, I’m letting her lead. Fish. What kind of fish? Some salmon? No. It might be too filling. Some sole? That would be nice, with a light sauce.

“Didn’t you hear me, Amy? Where is your mind? Are you paying any attention?”

“I’m sorry, Arlene. The meal tomorrow night has been more important to me than much of anything else I’m afraid.”

Afraid, my eye -- I’m terrified. The last time she dragged me into one of these conversations, my heart ached for a long time.

“What do you think of sole?”

“Sole? You are out of it, my dear. Anyway, the afternoon is slipping away. Call the kids for me, won’t you. I need to slip down the hall and then I really must run.”

Amy wondered if it was too soon to relax. Yes, it was. Words still rung in her ears, fragments about George and Florence, jarring, acid-etched fragments. As soon as Arlene is out the door she must turn on the radio. No, a tape. If I don’t play some praise and sing along, I’ll start to tango without her.

“Lord, teach me to be reverent in the way I live, not to slander, not to sit around drinking coffee and getting caught in the trap of the tango . . . that my life might glorify your Word.” (Titus 2:3,5)

by Elsie Montgomery

Incredible Peace

Last night, because I was too tired to do anything else, I plunked myself in front of the television and watched an episode of ER, a show I’ve not seen for years.

In this episode, one of the hospital team members died. After the funeral, the ER staff gathered at a local bar to remember his life. They were sad and struggling. Death cast a shadow over them.

How different this scene was from the Christian funerals I’ve attended. I’ll never forget the first one. Irene was my mentor and her husband died. I was a new Christian, worried that God was going to ‘send me to Borneo’ or ask me to do something I didn’t want to do. At the funeral, I watched Irene lean over the grave, almost as if she wanted to jump in after her husband. My heart was pounding. Then she turned around.

Irene’s face shone. She was filled with joy, totally at peace with what was happening. I was astounded. At that same moment, God spoke to my heart. If I can give her joy at this moment, why are you worried about what I might ask of you? Even now as I recall this event from more than thirty-five years ago, I feel the same awe at God as I did then.

Irene explained. She knew where her husband had gone and she knew she would join him later. She even said, “The main reason for being sad is that I feel sorry for myself. If I think of him and what he is now enjoying, I cannot be sad.”

I’ve attended many funerals since then. When a Christian dies, the family is sorrowful because they miss the one who has left this earth, yet our hope is so real that we cannot help but be glad that our loved ones have been ‘promoted’ and are waiting for us in glory.

Paul wrote in 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14, “But I do not want you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning those who have fallen asleep, lest you sorrow as others who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus.” Because we know that Jesus is alive, we do not grieve the same way as others who do not know Him and have the same hope.

In Luke before Jesus came, the father of John the Baptist prophesied about his son. He said, “And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Highest; for you will go before the face of the Lord to prepare His ways, to give knowledge of salvation to His people by the remission of their sins, through the tender mercy of our God, with which the Dayspring from on high has visited us; to give light to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

Jesus came to give light to those who sit in the shadow of death and in the darkness of not knowing what will happen to them after death. He came to direct those in darkness into a place of peace with God. By taking the wrath of God and our punishment for sin upon Himself, we can know that God loves us; we do not have to fear His judgment.

Jesus also came to direct us into having the peace of God. This is a peace that passes all understanding (Philippians 4:7), a peace that floods our hearts and minds and gives us deep joy. The light He gives opens our eyes to His love for us. We know He cares and we know that He is in control—even at funerals.

~ Elsie Montgomery

NOTE: My post was due the 24th, but with ICWF Fall Conference starting today, things are a tad busy around here. This is today's post from my blog, so another apology to those who read both. At least the topic is something worth hearing about more than once!

I’m a collector

It’s not Avon bottles, stamps or the usual collector’s items, but if something interests me, I clip it, buy it, stack and file it until my space is stuffed. But lately—and I don’t know whether it’s my age, or from watching the Olympics—I’m realizing that an excess of anything unnecessary or unused slows me down.

Age says there is not enough time to use it all. I will not live long enough to write a story about every idea in my bulging filing cabinets, nor will I have time to read all the books on my shelves, never mind those on my ‘must read’ list. And despite all appearances, there is not enough room in my stomach to make every recipe that I’ve ever clipped.

Likely advancing years are making me anxious, not about dying but about using my time wisely. Everyone has a few regrets, but I don’t want frittering away my hours to be one of them.

I’m not sure watching the Olympics belongs in that frittering category, but when I’m making meals and doing dishes, I’ve noticed how all the athletes, whether swimmers, runners, rowers, or even weight lifters, enter their competition venues lean and without encumbrances. They are prepared to do their best for the homeland they represent. They seem entirely focused on the task at hand, not distracted by the other competitions across the room, nor the guy in the next line, and certainly not by carrying a bunch of baubles and other stuff.

Some of them may have taken Hebrews 12:1 to heart. It says, “Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us. . . .”

I know that weights and sins ruin my running ability and all sorts of other abilities. When I read of the “sins which so easily ensnare,” my collections pop to mind. Among them are worry, resentment and anger. All three trap my energy and release it in ways counterproductive to running races. These obviously have to go.

However, “lay aside every weight” seems distinct from “sin that ensnares.” These weights could be collections of material goods, like my stuffed filing cabinet or my stash of quilting fabric, and I am convinced that the shelves at Bibles for Missions or the Goodwill Store look much better overflowing than mine do, but I’m also convicted by the athletes in another way. When the bell rings, they hop right to it without any weights like procrastination, fiddling and tweaking. I am seldom as ready to get started on anything, even the easy stuff.

But I can think of many ways to avoid hard work too. Reading the business section in the newspaper (after the comics, lifestyles, front pages, and city news) will do it. So will saving email that should be deleted, which is bad enough, but I can also spend hours sorting it. Or what about cleaning the clean, or color-coding my task list? Nothing ever gets checked off when I’m in one of my “I don’t feel like it” modes.

While I’ve been confessing some of my sin collections, like worrying when I should pray, or resenting and ranting when I should forgive, I also realize that some of my fiddling is sin too. I should be on my knees with that collection of tough stuff instead of rejecting God’s help by doing what I think I can handle all by myself.

Until I die, I suspect that from time to time God will remind me to take a look at my collections. He doesn’t mind all of them. I can keep the memorabilia. He just wants me to know what is worthy and what has become a weighty and hindering load, and then get rid of it.

© Elsie Montgomery

Dare the Devil

Alan Taylor’s black ‘76 Chevy smashed into the bridge guardrail Friday night at precisely 11:42 p.m. A split second later, it catapulted into the power lines, flipped over on its back and dropped like a dead raven on the Amtrak rails below.

At 11:57 p.m., Alan slumped upside down inside his car. At least the seat belt works. He moaned, lifting his left arm. He tried to move his legs. What am I doing here? He wiggled to free himself. Twisted metal came between him and the buckle. He felt blood flowing into his head. He laughed. Good thing I’m drunk. Yeah, good thing I‘ve been hanging upside down every night at the gym. The alcohol continued to do its job. Look at me — not a tense muscle in my body. I’m in great shape for the shape I’m in. I can sleep anywhere. Craziest trip I’ve taken. Might as well relax; the police will be along soon.

The state highway patrol officer was certain no one was alive in the car. He glanced at his watch. It must have happened after 11:40 or the eastbound Broadway Limited would have further remodeled the Chevy — along with everything inside it. He wondered what getting hit by a train would feel like. I bet it wouldn’t have made any difference to whoever was in this car. Dead is dead.

Alan’s mother worked all day in the retail outlet her husband owned before he died. Before retiring, she soaked her feet and took two pain killers. I don’t want to wake up during the night. I am so tired. I really need to sleep. She shut her eyes at 10:14. It seemed only moments when she opened them again at 11:05. She glanced at the clock. I don’t want to be awake. This is absolutely crazy.

For a few minutes, she stared at the little sparkles in the ceiling and tried to find Orion or Ursas Minor. Then she rolled several times, first to the right but her shoulder ached; then to the left but her right arm went numb. Why, God? Why can’t I sleep tonight? It has been a long day — and a long week. This isn’t fair.

She stumbled to the kitchen and put a mug of milk in the microwave. When it was warm, she walked sipping into the living room. Outside, the well-lit street was quiet. She was glad they were finally able to move away from the tracks. That Broadway Limited used to wake her up every night at 11:40. When Dave died, she used the insurance money to upgrade. This was a good move. This milk is good too. She felt sleepy again and returned to the bedroom. Just as she turned back the covers to crawl in, she heard a train whistle — it was the Broadway Limited. How can that be? We live twenty miles from the track?

Something is wrong. She slid out of bed and dropped to her knees. Lord, watch over that train tonight. You alone control what is happening. You are able to protect it and anyone concerning it. She prayed for its passengers, then for people who might be on the crossings. Alan. He’s okay. He’s at work, at Leek’s Cafe. He called and said he would be working until midnight. She prayed: Lord, keep Alan out of the path of that train. Keep him safe tonight. Help him to understand that You love him. May Your goodness lead him to repentance. She crawled under the sheets, closed her eyes and was instantly asleep. It was 11:41.

Alan looked again at his watch. It was 12:06. He was no longer laughing. My mother will never trust me again. I told her I already had my license back and now she will find out. What will I tell her this time? I keep lying to her. I really don’t want to but she keeps asking personal questions. I have to say something.

He wished he had been a little kinder to her at supper. She talked about his future. She said I have so much potential. Yeah, I think so too — so why can’t I get a decent job? And why does everything I touch turn into a bill at the end of the month? Why can’t I get my act together? Why did dad have to die anyway? I am so bloody unlucky. Look at this mess. My car is totaled. Why does everything happen to me?

He could see the broken power lines above him. He could smell the oil and gasoline bleeding out of his car. By turning his head, he could see the Amtrak bridge and the broken rail. He knew what time the trains came by; he used to live less than 500 yards from this spot. I just missed the 11:40 express. God — what a coincidence. His mind stopped, suddenly sobered on that thought. Only God could do that — only God. Why would He bother with a bum like me? I don’t deserve any favors. I... He... why me? For a few minutes, he tried to shake thoughts of God but could not. Tears began rolling out the corners of his eyes and up into his hairline.

The state highway patrol officer slammed his car door and slid down the embankment beside the bridge. He pointed his flashlight directly in front, fearful he might stumble onto a hot wire from the power lines or broken glass and sheared metal from the Chevy. He stopped. What is that noise? It sounds like someone singing... in the car. He reached the battered mass and peered inside.

Police Log: Arrested and booked Alan Taylor, twenty, on charges of reckless and drunk driving, driving without a license and speeding. Unable to give a breathalyser but car contained several bottles of beer and the suspect behaved in a manner consistent with someone who was not in control of their faculties.

“Can you believe this,” the officer laughed? “This black Chevy hit the Amtrak bridge rails and somehow flipped upside down off the bridge, hit the power lines, broke a bunch of wires, landed top down on the tracks below, minutes after the train goes by — and inside the car, the drunk driving the thing was hanging upside down. It took us nearly an hour to get him out of there. The lucky idiot didn’t have a scratch on him. Want to hear the really strange part? When I got there and even the whole time he was in my custody on the way to the station, he had the face of a child. He looked like someone who just got a medal or something. He kept singing some song over and over — not in tune mind you, but it sounded a lot like Amazing Grace.”

© Elsie Montgomery

Too Busy?

“I’d like to, but I’m just too busy. . . .”

Life is like a smorgasbord: so many activities to pick from, many look too good to pass up. My plate fills up so quickly and time, like my tummy, has a way of getting stuffed before the plate is empty. It takes careful planning to finish the choices before the end of each day. Even with the best of scheduling, interruptions or health problems or a host of other things can leave me with a pile of “leftovers.”

Sometimes I chide myself with the fact I have just as many hours as the President of the United States . . . and look at all he accomplishes. But my husband brings me back to earth with, “You have the same hours, dear, but not the same staff!”

Because we are made in the image of God and because we function best when living like it, some of the best secrets of time management are found by looking at His use of time. Aside from the fact that He created and controls it, He also stepped into it, in the person of Jesus Christ. We have a record of only three years of His life, yet in that three years, He made an impact on the world that no man has made before or since. I’m sure His use of time had something to do with it.

Before anyone protests “but He is God . . . ,” He was also fully human. He became tired, thirsty and hungry, just as we do. Not only that, His days only had twenty-four hours - just the same as ours.

A GOOD START: Perhaps the greatest secret of His time management was that Jesus “rose up before it was yet morning, to pray.”

The older I get the less I enjoy the ringing of my alarm clock. However, Jesus knew that the strength received from His heavenly Father would outlast any benefits of extra time snoozing. Isaiah 40 says “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength” not “they that sleep as much as possible . . . ”

NO PROCRASTINATION: The Gospel of Mark uses the word “immediately” over and over as it describes Christ in action. He was not a procrastinator. He never made excuses, stalled, or hesitated in uncertainty. He did not put off until tomorrow what could and should be done right now.

Time management specialists confirm this principle. Number your priorities and then do them, one after the other, preferable the most difficult first, eliminating not only the chore but the stress of even thinking about it.

TRUST THE FATHER WITH INTERRUPTIONS: Jesus also saw interruptions as heaven-sent and was not flustered by them. Instead, He responded as if they were on His list from the beginning.

This is where I often falter. My tendency is to let the interruption ruin my attitude and even my day’s work. Realizing God sovereignly controls my life has helped me be more polite to door-to-door salesmen and telephone survey-takers.

PURPOSEFUL R AND R: Jesus was not lazy but He did take time to rest. “Jesus, being wearied from His journey, sat by the well” (John 4).

Laziness is resting because I don’t want to work. Recreation is resting because if I don’t rest I won’t have the energy to work. Taking time to be refueled is not necessarily selfish indulgence. Jesus even used His resting time to reach out to others.

JOB SELECTION: Jesus did not accept any task outside of His Father’s will. His early morning time alone was not wasted time. When He began His day, He knew where to go, what to do, and what was important for eternity. He kept His focus on the priorities laid down for Him.

What a waste to spend a day (or a whole life) on things that have no eternal value. But for those who belong to Him, Christ makes every minute count. After all, unlike the vast assortment of choices there are to fill it, a minute of time leaves no leftovers. Used wisely or wasted, when it is over, it is gone forever.

© Elsie Montgomery

I wrote this about fifteen years ago while in college—as a grandmother—and where I really needed to practice what I preached!

Gloria

Gloria

Dancing eyes she
sways in rhythm
waltzes with her words
too many
jitterbugs with her thoughts
too few
Light as dust and bothersome she
swirls again, one-two-three
incessant, interrupting
whirling, spiraling to her tempo
maddening yet

with her eyes
I find myself waltzing

© Elsie Montgomery

Hi Gang. I changed it again. I know this template is a tad commercial looking, but I really didn't like the other template. I'd like to replace this big 565 number thing, but need first to learn how. Anyone out there have a tutorial for me? Elsie

My Hiding Place

I read and watch too many mysteries. One morning this week while getting ready for the day, this thought crossed my mind, Where would I hide if someone broke into my house? Since I was in the walk-in closet, I wondered if anyone would find me if I stood behind the longer garments in the closet?

Soon after, I began my quiet time with the Lord and was directed by Ears from Harvested Sheaves to read this: “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him I will trust’” (Psalm 91:1-2).

The night before we talked with friends about how easily we are distracted from trusting God, how just the smallest thing can be a slippery slope. My response to that was, “God knows our hearts. If we truly want to follow Him, whenever we slide off the course, He will bring us back.”

If my over-imaginative thoughts about the best place to hide from danger were the beginnings of a slide, God certainly proved true what I said as He reminds me today (almost humorously) about His protective care. Because I trust Him, I don’t need to think about hiding anywhere else. He is my refuge and He protects me from all harm.

My devotional reading for that day described this trust by focusing on the idea of a “secret place,” a place known only to those whom God, “with His own mysterious hand, opens up . . . a part in it, sets them down in it, and sweetly blesses them in it.” It is a place of fellowship and communion with God, but even more, it is being hand in hand with Him, having my cares taken from me. It is being God’s child—secure in my Father’s arms.

This is the place where God opens up to me the riches of His grace and mercy, where He communicates to me His love, power and wisdom. It is called a “secret” place because it is known only to those whom God brings there through faith in Jesus Christ. No one can get in, or even want to be in this place, until they acknowledge their need of salvation. Then God Himself fills them with a desire to be close to Him.

When we trust the Lord, this secret place may not be obvious to others, but in it, nothing can touch us unless God allows it. His care is more secure than having body guards or a home alarm system. It is more secure than any of my own efforts to protect myself.

I was told about a girl who was raised in a Christian home but decided to run from faith and her family. Her parents tried but could not bring her back home. They began to pray.

This girl linked up with an older girl and the two of them began attending music concerts. They knew if they presented themselves backstage after the concert, they could become special to the entertainers, even become involved in illicit relationships with them.

So they tried, but the first time they went through a backstage door, a much older woman was blocking the way. They explained that they were ‘fans’ and asked if they could meet the musicians. This doorkeeper looked at them, then let the older one pass. With eyes full of fear, she said to the young girl, “No, you cannot go back there. You must go home.”

Not long after that, this girl did go home, much to the delight of her praying parents. When their daughter told them what had happened, they asked if the woman had given a reason for not allowing her backstage. She told them that the woman said, “I cannot let you pass for I see angels all around you.”

Without her knowing it, her loving parents prayed this daughter into a secret place of refuge and protection. God then revealed it to one person and that doorkeeper, tough as she was, knew that she could not let anything harm this girl.

This story encourages me to pray for spiritual protection for those who have strayed from faith and family. Yet the deeper longing of my heart is that they willingly seek that secret place themselves. From my own experience, it is great to be protected, even when I don’t realize it. Yet how much better to know without any doubt that I am in that place of refuge, that strong tower. Then I know that Almighty God is there with me, and even more, I know that my hiding place is not really a place but God Himself.

© Elsie Montgomery

Fill my cup — keep it right side up!

Bernie was a new Christian. He was excited to serve God in the church he attended, so he approached one of the pastors. The pastor asked him a few questions and Bernie had to admit that he did not have a good relationship with his wife. The pastor told him that God’s priority was a close marriage relationship. Church work came second.

When Bernie heard that, his eyes fell. He muttered, “How am I supposed to do that?” He’d been married nearly ten years and it seemed to him that nothing he did worked out right. A good marriage seemed impossible. He dreaded hearing another hopeless to-do list, but the pastor’s answer surprised him.

“Bernie, does your wife work at her relationship with God?” Bernie had to admit that she did. “Then your part is easy; you simply need to also work on your relationship with God.”

Bernie asked how that would help. The pastor made a triangle with his fingers and explained, “God invented marriage and He places Himself over it at the top corner. The man and wife are the other two corners on the bottom. What happens to them as they move up the sides of the triangle closer to God?”

Bernie quickly saw that as the two moved closer to God, they also moved closer to each other. He was intrigued, but wondered out loud, “How can I move closer to God?”

The pastor offered another illustration. He held up his coffee cup and said, “You are like this cup. As a believer in Christ, you are open to the ministry of God who daily pours Himself into your life, just like we pour coffee into a cup. Most of the time, you gladly receive His ministry, but what happens if you sin?”

Bernie thought for a minute. “I fall over . . . I turn from God. And everything inside gets dumped out.”

The pastor laughed as he tipped the empty cup. “Yes, that’s about it. The openness to God is gone too. You can’t receive from Him anymore . . . at least until you get right-side-up again. Do you know how to do that, how to get back under the blessings of God?”

Bernie thought for a minute. He was a new Christian, but he knew that if he “confessed his sins, God was faithful and just to forgive his sins and cleanse him from all unrighteousness.” He learned that verse from 1 John in adult Sunday School. He recited the verse to the pastor.

The pastor said, “Right on, Bernie!” and turned the cup upright again. “You also realize, Bernie, that you will go through life like this . . . ” and he tipped the cup and up righted it several times. He added, “The best you can do is shorten the down time and lengthen the upright time.”

Bernie smiled. He was new at this but he already found out that God could give him new ideas and attitudes. He was joyful when he used to be sad, patient when he used to be agitated, loving when he used to be resentful. He could easily see how being right-side-up applied to an improved marriage.

Today, Bernie is still working at keeping his cup upright before the Lord. In the meantime, his marriage amazes him with the depth of its intimacy and its strength. He now is quick to tell others if you want a deeper relationship with someone, first get right with God!

(true story, names changed) © 2002 by Elsie Montgomery

Enter the Impossible

The following piece was my response to a writing exercise that asked, "What would you say if someone asked you for counsel because you seemed to be a good mind reader?"


You ask for counsel. I’m reluctant. You ask that I understand you. I'm not sure. You say I can always read your mind. I shake my head.

Really? Do you really think I can do all that? I know, I sometimes finish your sentences, even predict what you will say next, but can I understand you? Can I read your mind? I don’t think so.

I scarcely know my own. It is the most inaccessible of places. When I try to explore its caverns and depths, the first things I stumble over are little ridges on the surface, like pebbles around the entrance to a cave, pebbles like the day’s events, people walking by, mundane plans for the evening and the next morning, or next week. Some of these tiny stones roll in like an intruder dropped them on my path—a brief recognition of the sound of cars on the highway or a cool breeze on the nape of my neck. I might read that, but who cares about these pebbles?

As I make my way down my own cavern, I find a layer of choices and emotions. These are more about me, less about pebbles, yet are still motivated by various outside forces. I feel things as I think about and my own happenings and events in the lives of others. Emotions from all sources lurk at this layer, those from outside stimuli and some from my own inside longings that I don’t always understand.

I try to get past that layer about choices and decisions but cannot. Today I read Joshua 24 where Joshua challenged God’s people to “choose this day” whom they would serve. Most of the time I choose to serve me, very unconsciously and without analysis. I’m hungry so I serve my tummy. I’m tired so I eat some chocolate. More pebbles.

Go deeper. I find a few memories of times that I serve God without thinking, like the evening I challenged a certain foulmouthed fan at a soccer game. It was most natural to get off my seat, stride to where he sat smugly in his lawn chair, and tell him that his language was not appropriate. “There are little girls right beside you, for goodness sake, for God’s sake. Move, or zipper it.” He did. Wow. God blesses obedience.

Then there are times when I am aware that I can serve me—or God, and I must choose. At church the teaching staffs were called up front to describe upcoming Family Bible school classes. I teach the ladies class. Then, one very young woman also offered a ladies class in beginner Greek. I had a choice to make. I could scoff her age, her topic, her capabilities, but that would be serving me. Or I could drop my foolish pride and accept that God uses whatever and whomever He wishes. That choice would serve God.

This was one of those thinking choices. I knew it and I knew what God wanted. I also knew that serving me rapidly loses its charm, particularly in contrast to the peace brought to my heart when I serve God.

Go deeper. What about emotions? I believe that they are part of my mind, that they don’t come from the heart, even though I often talk as if they do. Nevertheless, emotions certainly affect my heart, even my whole body. When my mind dwells on things fearful, my heart beats rapidly as my body becomes tense in preparation to fight or flee. When my mind is filled with outrage because someone has violated my rights, or the principles and people that I consider important, my body reacts the same way. Only my mind knows the difference between these two emotions. The heart and my body are its servants.

I conclude that my mind has great power to govern the rest of me, but do I actually know what it is doing? Do I really understand how it affects my actions or feelings? I’m more introspective than many people, yet have little grasp of the link between mind and emotions, mind and choices, mind and body.

Mind, I know, is not merely the arena for intellect. How smart I am or how much I know is housed in the mind, but how do I know how to retrieve it? How can I explain the thoughts that appear seemingly at random, without any effort or choice? Or the dreams that I have, some so funny that I wake myself laughing?

If I could go deeper than choices, emotions, or intelligent thought, what would I find? God says my spirit is in there somewhere. Is that in the mind? Or is it something else? I know it’s the part of me that connects with God, but that connection is often totally outside conscious volition. He makes it. He invades me, fills me with thoughts of Him, and those thoughts transcend choices and emotions—except one. When I connect with Him there is that peace that passes understanding. Yet even then, I’m not sure peace is an emotion or simply a knowing and a state of being.

My mind is also the place where I know guilt, or is it knowing? It is not the same as knowing two plus two equals four, or knowing the taste of cheese, or knowing that the sky looks blue. How is it that I know when I do wrong, yet it is not a taught knowing? Another mystery. Truly I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

My spirit, He says, is the place where I can believe those things I cannot see or know. This is profound. Can I comprehend this? I only know that (at the best of times) my mind hears what God is saying, but believing it never seems like a choice. When you know something is true, you just know it is true. There is no choice to be made, except perhaps to resist or deny it, which seems to me quite foolish.

I don’t know my own mind. I try to get in there, but find it inaccessible, not totally open even to me. So how could you expect me to get into your mind, to know your thoughts, to completely understand you? Don’t ask me to do it. This is folly.

The best we can do is share with one another, perhaps the few things we know about ourselves. In the process we might discover that we are of one mind, at least on some things. Our oneness might be centered on the complexity of where thoughts come from, or on something far more simple—such as the fact that we both like the taste of peanut butter.

© 2008, Elsie Montgomery

Willy and the Look - Elsie Montgomery

I bought a red convertible that year, to impress women. It worked, for a while. They liked my car but they didn’t like me much. At least, they didn’t hang around long, after a date or two. At first, having a different date every weekend seemed blue ribbon but after a couple months, it seemed more like the booby prize. In August, my mind whirled around life and what I should do with mine. Washed up? At twenty-two? Am I really a loser?

My old man used to say, “Sit and sulk or git up and do sumpin’ about it — that’s yur choice, kid.”

Do something? Like what? That fall was a wipe out too. The more sumpin’ I tried to do, the less the women were impressed, at least until I met Willy.

Willy was three years younger than me, black, and smooth with women. Not smooth like a slick salesman or a TV evangelist. He was smooth like the medicine Mom used to give me mixed in white corn syrup. It was delicious and went down without a fight. That just about describes Willy and women. Only he couldn’t get rid of them if he tried. The more he took, the more they gave. And I say they, meaning six of them, at the same time, and they knew each other, and they knew he was dating all the others, but they didn’t walk away mad. Heck no. They kept coming back for more of Willy. So I asked him to teach me what he had. He agreed.

He started slow, then talked for hours about the look. It wasn’t the look your folks give you when you are in trouble. It wasn’t the look like “Honey, I want to eat you up.” It was a look that said something like, “I have life by the tail and I know you are itching to come along for the ride.” It was a look of delight, like Willy had a secret with you. He said the women loved it. They loved thinking that they had an ‘in’ with him, a shared delight that wasn’t defined, but that made it mysterious and precious, and they were going to hang with him until they found out what it was. Other women might have his body for a time, but with that look, they had intimacy. And Willy said, “Boy, that is what women really want.”

I couldn’t do it. I tried. Jennifer thought it was a silly grin. She wasn’t impressed. Helen wondered if I had just heard a stupid joke and blew up at me because I wouldn’t share it with her. Jeannie thought I was mocking her. She slammed a door in my face and left.

I went crying back to Willy. Well, I didn’t cry on the outside, but he seemed to know that I was just about that desperate.

“Boy, you just haven’t got it yet. And you know why? It is not something you fake on the outside, man. You have to have life really by the tail, not pretend you do. If women want to go along for the ride, they have to know you are genuine, man. Don’t you get it? You really can’t fake that. The look is an inner thing first, somethin’ that comes from the heart.”

“But Willy, how do I get that in my heart? I always thought that if you acted really hard that you were somebody, you would become somebody. That’s what you did, isn’t it? Don’t you have that look because you have convinced yourself about this whole thing? Nobody really has the world by the tail, at least not guys like you and me.”

“Oh, but that’s where you are wrong, boy. I’m totally sure of me, myself, and I. I know who I am, and I can look at anyone with confidence that comes from right here.” Willy pounded his chest with his fist. My chest just pounded. This was nonsense to me.

I started watching Willy, sometimes when he wasn’t noticing that I was watching. He seemed sure of himself, all the time in fact. Then August came, and Willy started coughing. He wasn’t feeling well either. He tried telling me that he was okay, but he kept coughing and losing weight so I rounded up his friends and we ganged up on him and talked him into going to a doctor. It was not good. Willy had cancer, in his lungs.

The first thing to go, besides some pounds and a lot of oxygen from his chest, was that look. He lost it. His eyes dimmed. No smiling. No jaunty glances at the pretty ones. Willy was like a balloon without air, a rose with no petals (he wouldn’t like that description very much) or a Porsche that had run out of both oil and gas (better, much better). His listlessness turned into blank and horrible staring, punctuated by coughing spasms.

I drove him to the hospital on November 1. He was in pain, his head lolling against the window and his body making little effort to keep from folding into a fetal position. After the paperwork was done, they put him into bed in a double room. The man in the next bed also had lung cancer. He smiled at us. I wondered why he had a shine on his face. Willy’s face was pasty, if a colored person can have a pasty face.

Willy didn’t notice, but I did. This roommate man had a look. It wasn’t the look, not a saucy, come-with-me-baby look that the nurses fell all over themselves for, but nonetheless, it was a look. He coughed like Willy too, but the look didn’t go away.

That first day Willy moaned and mumbled thanks, but I knew he didn’t want me or anyone he knew to watch him like this, so I said goodbye and went for a walk. The halls in a hospital are long and lonely this time of day. I passed many rooms where folks were huddled around a person in a bed, their eyes full of tears or outright sobbing aloud. I felt like blubbering myself. Poor Willy.

I didn’t pay much attention to where I was going until I passed the door of a room and heard a man praying. He prayed in a firm voice, like he knew who he was talking to. He was not praying for himself though, but someone else. He asked, “God, you know the pain and the deepest needs of this fellow’s heart. You know that whatever is going on in his body is not nearly so dangerous as the emptiness of his soul. Lord, I just ask that you have mercy on him, that you reveal to him the source of true peace and joy, that you give to him meaning and fullness of life as only you can. I pray that you will show him that having you in his heart will give him great peace and joy, a confidence and a hope that cannot be robbed, not even by lung cancer.”

My heart started skipping beats. I lifted my lowered eyes and looked in the room, but even before I did, I knew who the man was, and I knew that he was praying for Willy.

Willy died two weeks later. I didn’t go see him very much before it happened. I wanted to, but couldn’t handle the way he looked. Besides, he was drugged up and we couldn’t talk much. I feel guilty. It was pure selfish discomfort on my part.

The funeral was large for someone so young. We all cried, all of his friends, all of the girls who had known him back then. The pastor talked about the hope of eternal life. Afterwards, even though I’m not one to do such a thing, I got up and told all of them about the man in the next bed and about his prayers for Willy. I even said, “Who knows. Maybe God answered that man, and maybe Willy has that confidence and hope that he prayed for. Maybe Willy has life by the tail now, far more than he ever had it while he was alive.”

I still shake my head remembering that I said that, because I didn’t think I was a religious man. I still don’t, but I have to say that after Willy died, I decided to visit that room. Maybe it was the guilt, but I knew someone would be in it, someone who was dying just like Willy, and I felt I needed to pay my respects to someone that was alive.

I was surprised the first time I went. That praying man was still in the next bed. Not only that, he hung on for months. He coughed, and he lost weight until he looked like bones wrapped in skin. He was in pain too, but the shine on his face was like a magnet.

Eventually I told him I overheard him praying for Willy. He smiled, then he said, “Do you want me to pray for you too?”

I did. And he did. Before he went to join Willy in death, he shared with me the secret, his secret. I didn’t ask about that look that he had, nor would have, but he told me anyway.

I was surprised. I still am, because, you see, I have it now, the look. It is not to catch girls even though they find me much more interesting than I was before. Instead, I have this same look that man had, not the one that Willy lost.

My look does for others what his did for me; it makes them stop and wonder. Some even ask why I’m so darn sure of myself. I just smile and tell them, “It’s not me that I’m sure of, but if you are interested, I’d be happy to tell you how to get this look. . . .”


© Elsie Montgomery (remembering Janice W. who told me that before she believed, she knew who did because their faces shone!)