Tie a Yellow Ribbon

I remember being touched by the popular song "Tie a Yellow Ribbon." It tells of a man who's been sent to prison. He's served his time and is now coming home on the bus. But he admits that she who once loved him has every right to reject him. He's to blame. So he's written to tell her that if she forgives him, she should "tie a yellow ribbon 'round the old oak tree." If there's no yellow ribbon, he'll just go riding by on the bus.

As the miles roll by, all the man thinks about is that oak tree. When he gets home, will there be a yellow ribbon on it?

The song ends in triumph with the entire busload of people cheering as the man sees not one but a hundred yellow ribbons on that old oak tree! His lover not only forgives him, but she exuberantly welcomes him home.

Like the man on the bus, we're fearful of death and what's ahead. We know our own hearts, and we wonder if God will really forgive us, let alone celebrate our coming.

But the Word assures us of God's welcome. The yellow ribbons will be there.

Harold L. Myra, Living by God's Surprises (Word, 1988); quoted in Men of Integrity (January/February 2001)

Funerals and Septic Tanks!

As a young minister, I was asked by a funeral director to hold a graveside service for a derelict man with no family or friends who had died while travelling through the area. The funeral was to be held way back in the country. This man would be the first to be laid to rest at this cemetery.

As I was not familiar with the backwoods area, I became lost. Being the typical man, I didn't stop for directions. But, I finally arrived an hour late. I saw the crew and backhoe, but the hearse was nowhere in sight. The workmen were eating lunch.

I apologized to the workers for my tardiness (who looked puzzled). I stepped to the side of the open grave to find the vault lid already in place. I assured the workers I would not hold them long, but this was the proper thing to do. As the workers gathered around, still eating their lunch, I poured out my heart and soul. As I preached the workers began to say "Amen, Praise the Lord, and Glory (they must have been Baptist). I preached and I preached like I'd never preached before. I began from Genesis all the way through to Revelation. I preached for two hours and 45 minutes. It was a long and lengthy service. I closed in prayer and it was finished.

As I was walking to my car, I felt that I had done my duty and would leave with a renewed sense of purpose and dedication, in spite of tardiness. As I was opening the door and taking off my coat, I overheard one of the workers saying to another. "I've been putting in septic tanks for 20 years and I ain't never seen anything like this before."

Information Please

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighbourhood. I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person -her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know.
"Information Please" could supply anybody's number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbour. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.

The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the foot stool in the parlour and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlour and held it to my ear. "Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.

"Information"

"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. "Isn't your mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's home but me." I blubbered. "Are you bleeding?" the voice asked. "No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts." "Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk, that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called "Information Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?" She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please." "Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was 9 years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialled my hometown operator and said, "Information, Please." Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now." I laughed. "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time." "I wonder", she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls." I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. "Please do," she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered "Information." I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" She said. "Yes, a very old friend," I answered. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, she said. Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago." Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?" "Yes." "Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called.

Let me read it to you." The note said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

CDs at Funerals

At our local crematorium families are given the chance to chose the music CD they would like to enter the service to. One family asked to enter to Elvis Presley's hit, "Love me Tender."

Well the day of the funeral arrived and the music was started ready for the family to walk in to the service.

Unfortunately the wrong track number was entered into the CD player, and the family found themselves walking in to, "Return to Sender."

From www.sermonfodder.com

Footprints In The Sand

One night a man had a dream. He dreamed he was walking along the beach with the Lord. Across the sky flashed scenes from his life. For each scene, he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand, one belonging to him, and the other to the Lord.

When the last scene of his life flashed before him, he looked back at the footprints in the sand. He noticed that many times along the path of his life there was only one set of footprints. He also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times of his life.

This really bothered him and he questioned the Lord about it.

"Lord, You said that once I decided to follow You, You'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed You most You would leave me."

The Lord replied, "My son, My precious child, I love you and would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you."

Footprints, Author Unknown

Jean-Paul Sartre

A little over a month before he died, the famous atheist Jean-Paul Sartre declared that he so strongly resisted feelings of despair that he would say to himself, “I know I shall die in hope.” Then in profound sadness, he would add, “But hope needs a foundation.”

Our Daily Bread, April 17, 1995

Benjamin Franklin's Epitaph

In one of his lighter moments, Benjamin Franklin penned his own epitaph. Franklin didn't profess to be an orthodox Christian; he was more a deist, a believer in a clock-maker God than in the personal God of Jesus Christ. But it seems he must have been influenced by the Church's teaching of the resurrection. Here's the epitaph he wrote for himself:

"The body of B. Franklin, printer, like the cover of an old book its contents torn out, And stripped of its lettering and guilding, lies here, food for worms, but the work shall not be wholly lost: For it will, as he believ'd, appear once more in a new & more perfect edition, corrected and amended by the author."

"Easter Is A Joke," by Rev. Dr. C. Eric Funston