She taught the junior boys class when I was a kid, in the musty old basement of a little neighborhood church — every student a personal missionary project, I suppose you could say. I’m not sure Sunday School for Junior Boys was an idea God thought of, because of the way Junior Boys seem to be put together. When God created Junior Boys, he included wiggles, and whispers, and wonderings-out-loud about what makes kites fly, and how do frogs jump so good. God let Junior Boys see the world through a difference lens than older people use when they look at the world. Junior Boys see fences that need to be climbed, and races that need to be run. It’s difficult for a Junior Boy to hear what God has to say in a musty, old basement of a tiny church and a wrinkled grandma-type standing up front next to a flannel-graph.

She must have known that, because on more than one occasion, she abandoned that basement tomb and lead the Junior Boys in her class outside into the morning sun, looking for all the world like Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt and into The Promised Land. We would take walks through the neighborhood (yes, during class time on Sunday mornings!), spying our the land, looking for treasures and listening to the sounds of God’s creation. She seemed to take particular delight in teaching boys, who wondered about everything, lessons about the God who created every wonder.

Once, we made slings and pretended we were David, slaying Goliath. (And I accidentally hit David Cook with one of my five, smooth stones.) Once, we climbed a grassy knoll and laid on our backs looking up at the clouds and practiced saying the Twenty-third Psalm. She could almost make me see the sheep on the Galilean hillside as those cumulus clouds rolled by, and she told us about shepherds and sheep.

When I was growing up, my family was convinced that the place to be on Sunday nights was in church. My young eyes were almost always sleepy before the preacher even got started, and I would often slumber through the preaching. But I can still picture Martha, down at an altar at the close of the service. She always chose the same spot to pray, down on the left, in a corner by herself. She always took her Bible. And when she prayed, I was convinced God Himself was sitting in a chair, with rapt attention, listening to everything she had to say. It was at her side on one of those sleepy Sunday nights that I asked Jesus to be my Savior.

He still is.

Years later, when she learned that I would be going away to school to study for the ministry, she called me to her humble little house for a farewell before I left.

“I want you to know that I will be praying for you every day,” she said. “I will pray for your wisdom, not for your wealth or fame or anything else. If Solomon needed wisdom and prayed for it, it must be a good thing to have. And so, I will pray that God gives you much wisdom and insight in your future ministry.”

During my time at school, I received many letters from Martha, encouraging me and telling me she was still praying for me and for wisdom.

When I learned that she was gravely ill and probably would not survive the week, I made arrangements to fly from California to Illinois to see her and say good-bye. She was hospitalized, and I made the drive from the airport to the hospital hoping she would still be there when I arrived.

I walked into the room and saw her frail frame lying in a bed that was designed for someone much bigger. Gray, thin hair pulled back into a tight bun, lovely pink gown, with baby-blue ribbon ties. Feeble face of weathered life. Lines etched in that face, lines drawn by the seasons– winters of mourning and summers of caring. She looked asleep, but a coma caused her quiet serenity. I could not help myself. I smiled. I stood, a grown man yet a boy next to her bed, and for many moments, I looked into her old, wrinkled face and I smiled. I smiled for two reasons.

I smiled when I saw her because I remembered her sense of humor and her faith and her person. The memory of her life was in full bloom in my mind, and I enjoyed and savored the aroma of her faith.

The second reason I smiled was because, as I stood there in her room, I sensed that Martha was only hours away from an event she had waited for and longed for all her life. She was almost there — almost finished — and she had lived and trusted and walked before God in faithfulness and excellence. A Scripture verse ran through my mind as I stood there looking into her weathered face. It was delivered by another old war-horse of the faith, just before he left for Home:

“The time has come for my departure.
I have fought the good fight,
I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.
Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness,
which the Lord, the righteous Judge,
will award to me on that day– and not only to me,
but also to all who have longed for His appearing.”

2 Timothy 4:6-7

There is much to be said, I think, for living life with a goal of … finishing well.

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My library in my home office is pretty thinned out, now. I do keep certain treasured books by authors I collect or enjoy. But, even though I like the feel of holding a book in my hands and sitting by some lovely lake or stream, or even relaxing on my back deck and listening to our twenty-five or so spotted sheep call to one another, early in the morning, most of my library now is on my iPad. I’ve discovered that I can carry a wide variety of books around with me, and when I have a few moments waiting in a doctor’s office, or waiting for my wife who is shopping, I can escape the daze and spend time in books.

So, what do I read, (besides the Bible, which is my daily practice)?

Right now, sitting on the ‘bookshelf’ in my iPad, I’m working on the following:

“The Road Back to You” — by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile. It’s a book about Ennegram types.
“The Mind Hunter” — by John Douglas. A book about the FBI profiling unit.
“12 Rules for Life” — by Jordan B. Peterson
“The Haunts of Cruelty” — A novel by my friend, R. G. Ryan

Also reading … “How to Write a Sentence” by Stanley Fish; “365 Days with Self-Discipline” by Martin Meadows; “An American Childhood” by Annie Dillard; “Homo Deus —A Brief History of Tomorrow”; and, “All Over But the Shoutin” by Rick Bragg.

I have dozens of books on my iPad that I haven’t started. And some that I started and gave up on. No matter. I’m reading. If you’re not in the habit of picking up a book, or accessing a book in some electronic device, just a thought: Why? Don’t ‘like to read?’ Well, … you made it this far in a simple blog. Perhaps you just haven’t found the right book or the right author, yet. Don’t give up.

And if it’s a question of time, be reminded: we all have the same 24 hours. It may be more a matter of “expenditure” than time. How will you spend the moments you have? My thought is that it’s better to take even a few precious minutes every day to read the words of another traveler and be challenged or inspired or intrigued or even aggravated by what we read, than tolerate the constant bombardment of noise from outside sources, mimicking news or entertainment.

No guilt trip. But, how about it? How about you? What’s on your reading bookshelf? I’m interested in what you may be reading. And, if you read, do you read ‘real’ books? Or the electronic kind?

If you send me your list, I promise to check out what you’re reading. Who knows? What you’re reading may actually end up being what I’m reading. Now, there’s a concept: Congruity!

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For me, my first foundation is The Book.
There are lots of books, of course, But only one Book whose Author is God, Himself.

When God decided to write His Book, He didn’t begin like a lot of mere men-authors do.
He didn’t begin with “Once upon a time,” not only because that’s a boring way to begin,
But because, well, …when God wrote The Book, ‘time’ hadn’t happened yet, so there was no time to be ‘once upon-ed.’

Instead, He just said, “In the beginning, God ….”
The Book, from the very beginning, then, was The Book of God.
The Book about who He is.
The Book about what He’s done, and will do.
An eternal recording of the things men did. The story, and drama, and disobedience of man toward The God Who Wrote The Book.

The Book is a holy narrative of the declarations of God toward men.
Holy things. (Why else would we call it The Holy Book?)
And eternal things, besides. Things that will never go away.
“Heaven and earth may pass away,” says The God of The Book. “But my word
will abide forever.”

Words are important, for a certainty. One of my dear friends has said very beautifully, “Words are placeholders for ideas.” Words describe and ascribe and prescribe. Words depict, and predict, and yes, afflict. Words mean something. Words are placeholders for ideas.

But, important as they are, words are limited. The words I use to describe a ‘sunset,’ may, if I carefully craft them, describe the majestic beauty I see as I watch the day end in splendor. But my words about the sunset will never be a sunset. My words are mere placeholders for the idea of a sunset.

However, the words in The Book are not mere. They are not merely placeholders about life. They are the very power and plan and purpose and pursuit of God Himself. “Your word is a lamp to my feet And a light to my path,” says the psalmist.

The Book, then, is a ‘life-line,’ a path, a way out of trouble or darkness or dilemma.There is no better way to live than The Way. And there is no word that is better to know, and read, and embrace … than The Book.

The post The Word… appeared first on Ken Jones.

They spoke to him as they rushed. But he could not hear. His obvious and nervous ‘hurry up’ had little time for entertaining small talk from small ones. Too bad, though.

Some of the best conversations I’ve never had …

I missed, because I was walking too fast to hear.

The post Listening… appeared first on Ken Jones.

Then, she has her students stand next to their desks, and place the picture they drew of the creepy creature on the floor and stomp on it. Lots of giggles and laughs, as the students step on the bugs they have drawn. Next, she has them repeat the process, this time with second piece of paper, the one with the ‘yucky’ things they hate to eat. Again, the students obediently and even with great glee stomp on that food they hate.

But then, something interesting. When she tells the students to now place the third piece of paper on the floor — the one with the name they use when referring to their mother-figure — there is silence in the room. No one can force themselves to step on that piece of paper. In fact, Rachel reports that in all her years of teaching, she’s never had a student step on that third piece of paper, representing the idea of motherhood, and nurture, and love. Why?

The point she is making to her students is that words matter. Words are placeholders for ideas. Words introduce ideas. Words incite action, inspire us to greater possibilities. Words cause us to stop and think.

For the last several years now, since reading “My One Word: Change Your Life With Just One Word,” I’ve picked a word for the year as one that I would focus on. I encourage you to do the same. If you need help with the idea, get the book. I’ve found the practice to be helpful in my journey.

What’s my word for 2019? It is the word, ‘Steadfast.’ Ps. 112:7 says, “He will not be afraid of evil tidings; His heart is steadfast, trusting in the Lord.” With so much happening in our world, and so much uncertainty, I’m choosing ‘steadfast’ as my word for this year. I’ll remind myself regularly and often as I march through the daze of this coming year that my words are placeholders for the ideas and attitudes I reflect.

Happy New Year, my friends. I’d love to hear from you about your word for this year, should you choose one. You can leave your thoughts in the ‘Comments’ section, if you like. `And may all of us be ‘… steadfast, trusting in the Lord,’ in all the words we choose.

The post My One Word… appeared first on Ken Jones.

Here’s what I came up with: Little Baby (A Lullaby for … Him)

Merry Christmas, friends.

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And I’m really glad.

As the sun decided to make another grand entrance this morning,
A pallet of color began to splash all over the horizon,
Almost as if God had opened a new package of colored pens,
Just for this occasion.

And as He began His amazing artistry, using the sun’s rays and those wisps of clouds,
A sweet, pink hue,
Deep as any blossom’s blush
Began to run like honey.
All over the eastern horizon.
All over Today, as it began to unfold.

It spread across the sky, wider than any big, linen canvas you ever saw.

Amazing, is what it was.

You would think something that beautiful and unique,
Would always be at the top of my list;
Something I would make sure I noticed, every day.

You would think that,
Sure as the world, wouldn’t you?

But, sure as the world, if I’m not careful and paying attention,
I miss that grand entrance of morning’s dawn, most days.

Not this morning, though.
I saw it.
I caught a slow, steady glimpse of how Today would greet this world I live in.

Oh, that I could remind myself.
Oh, that I would pay better attention,
To the morning, when it yawns.
And Today, as it dawns.

How much better my life would be, if I would start the day by noticing sunrise;
How much peace I could experience,
Just by watching, and perhaps, singing along with The Songwriter:

“This is the day that the Lord has made;
I will rejoice, and be glad in it.” (Ps. 118:24)

The post Sunrise… appeared first on Ken Jones.

But what I’m ‘glad’ of, or ‘glad for’ is a different thing for me. I guess you could say what I’m glad of often revolves around specific things that I decided early on that turned out to be things I was ultimately really glad for. If I went on-and-on about those kinds of things, the list would no doubt be too long for anyone to be interested in reading. So, I’ve decided on four things in this post. Other things may come along in later writings. But for now, here’s my list of things I’m glad of:

1. I’m glad I learned how to type when I was in high school. I think my life would have been a lot more trouble, as a writer, if I spent my time hunting and pecking instead of knowing how to put words on a page with a keyboard.
2. I’m glad I learned how to swim in a river. I know some adults who don’t know how to swim, and I think that’s sad. I would be sad if I had never learned how to swim, and I was really fortunate that I learned, not in a pool, but in a beautiful river. Makes me smile just thinking about it, actually.
3. I’m glad I like to read. If I hated reading books, I probably wouldn’t read as much as I do. And that reality would rob me of such an adventure: knowing what other people think by reading the words they record on a written page.
4. I’m glad I know how to iron a shirt. I don’t have to iron shirts, now, of course. So many of my shirts are ‘wrinkle-free.’ And the ones that need to be starched we send out to have laundered. (I insist on sending them out, so my wife won’t stand and iron them herself, which she does if I don’t watch her, carefully.) I could iron those shirts myself, of course, because I know how to iron a shirt. My momma taught me how to iron a shirt. That’s one of the things I’m glad about.
5. I’m also glad that even though I know how to iron a shirt, … I don’t have to iron my shirts. I’m very glad for that.

If you think of things your glad for as you read my list, and want to record some of them, feel free to leave a comment. I’d love to read your list. (See #3, above.)

The post Being Glad… appeared first on Ken Jones.

When he penned “O Love That Will Not Let Me Go,” (which he said he completed, literally, in five minutes) he said it ‘came like a dayspring from on high.’ He wrote it on the evening of his sister’s marriage. I guess the occasion of that wedding reminded him of his own engagement, years before. When his own fiancee learned that George was going blind, and that there was nothing doctors could do to slow that eventuality, she told him she could not go through life with a blind man, and broke their engagement. He did, indeed, go totally blind, while studying for the ministry. His sister — the sister who was now married — had cared for him all through his years of preparation and study for ministry. He was now 40 years old, and the occasion of his sister’s wedding brought back the painful reminder of his own heartbreak. While facing the uncertainty of life and ministry blind, with no spouse or family member to help him navigate the daily challenges he must now manage all alone, he penned, in part, these words:

O Love that will not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

If you don’t know the melody to this beautiful hymn, familiarize yourself with it. I promise you’ll hum it in shower, or whistle it as you walk along. But even more importantly, learn the words. Memorize the message of the lyrics written by a blind man who understood life’s uncertainties with crystal clarity; a sightless man who had no one to rest his arm upon … but Him.

The post Seeing… appeared first on Ken Jones.

And he had old hands, because Jacob was ninety years old.

Jacob’s age is important to this piece, because as we drove to the doctor in San Francisco, I noticed his old hands. And my noticing prompted me to ask him what I thought was a witty, ‘ninety-year-old question.’

Actually, what I asked him was, “When you go to sleep at night, since you’re ninety years old, do you assume you’ll wake up, or do you occasionally think you might not wake up?”  With an impish grin on his face, he said, “One way or the other, I know I’ll wake up.  I’ll either wake up here, or I’ll wake up ‘There.” 

As we drove along, I began to mention lots of other stuff to Jacob. Not witty things. Not even profound things, I suppose. But important things. I told him that he was a most influential man in my life; that I had watched him and admired his humble walk with God. I told him the sorts of things I wanted him to know, just in case, well, you know, just in case he perhaps might go to bed here one night and wake up ‘There?’

Got anyone you need to have that kind of ‘waking up’ conversation with?

Whatever you do … don’t wait.

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