As a child growing up in Africa where my parents served as missionaries, I attended Ojoaba Church (pronounced awjaw awba, it means “King’s Market” church in English). Both of my parents were fluent in the native language so instead of attending the large English-speaking church near the mission, we ventured deeper into the village for our Sunday services. For many years, our church met in a small building with mud walls and a thatched roof. My siblings and I weren’t fluent in the language, but we loved church just the same. Smiles, love, and joy are the same in all languages and our parents interpreted the rest for us in whispers.

After several years in this little mud structure, our church decided to build a new building. We took on our own version of a building program. The plans and prices for the new building were announced. The congregation was encouraged to raise funds for specific parts of the sanctuary. My parents pledged a door, all they felt they could afford at the time.

As my siblings and I sat in the church listening to all of the pledges, we whispered among ourselves then walked down the isle and pledged a window, costing thirty pounds or about $135. To say my parents were surprised would be an understatement.

Knowing my parents couldn’t bankroll our pledge, my brother, sisters, and I worked all summer to raise the funds. We donated our allowances – about two dollars a week for ten weeks. To cover the rest, we sold baked goods, babysat for the other missionaries, did yard work, and sought out contributions. It took all summer. To everyone’s surprise, and by God’s grace, that last week of the summer we walked down the isle at church bringing the money we’d collected—enough for the window. The church was built – a lovely structure - and the windows were especially pretty. Little is much when God is in it.

Sacrificing to give to others is an act of love, a movement of the heart. God gave such an act in the gift of His Son. What would you give? Have the faith of a child.

Harriet Michael is a freelance writer in Louisville, KY. Her work has appeared in devotional and other Christian magazines as well as the anthology, Love is a Flame and the devotional book, The Women of Southern, A Walk Through the Psalms. Reared in Africa as the daughter of missionaries, she has been married for thirty-one years. She and her husband have four children and one grandchild. Follow Harriet at www.whatHehasdoneformysoul.blogspot.com.

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Set an example for the believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith, and in purity.

I’m a mess. There’s no doubt about that.

I sometimes put my shirt on inside out or backwards. On a really bad day it might be both. I’ve been known to walk around with tags on my new clothes until someone takes pity on me. Most days, my husband gives me a once-over to make sure I’m suitable to be out in public.

I tell you this for one reason. I want you to understand, I am not the person people come to in search of fashion advice. Anyway…the other day my husband and I went to a professional photographer.

When his turn came up for individual pictures, I kept fussing with his clothes, rearranging collars, zippers, and other things. We laughed as I explained to the photographer how out of character it was for me being the one adjusting his clothes. I told my husband it was just that I could see things from a distance he couldn’t see.

That’s how it is with God. He sees us from a distance and he sees what needs to be adjusted so that we can be a good example for other believers. Perhaps we’re too judgmental, too impatient, or need more compassion. A tug here, a tug there, a straightening of the collar. His adjustments are for our own good, but it’s not necessarily easy, comfortable, or even welcome. Are we willing to allow God to make those adjustments so we can be an example to others even if they’re painful? Or are we going to fight him every step of the way?

The choice belongs to each of us. Maybe you think you don’t need to change or improve anything. Maybe, maybe not….I’ll let you decide for yourself, but as for me, I know I need His adjustments. I’m a mess.

Lil Duncan–writing stories where faith, hope, and love mingle with murder and mayhem. She believes that fiction can be entertaining without being tasteless. Besides writing, Lil is a speech-language pathologist. She and her husband live in a (very) small town in the Amish country of Ohio.
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Fifty years have passed, but I can still see my grandma bending over in her vegetable garden gathering the fruit of her labor. As immigrants making a new life and raising five children, she and my grandfather lived wisely. They ate very little red meat, and pastas served with vegetables were often a main dish. One unique dish my grandma served came from zucchini flowers. Knowing that these flowers wouldn’t produce a vegetable, she picked them rather than let them wither and die. She chopped them, made a batter for dipping and fried them. It was a predictable dish to serve during zucchini season. Immigrants wasted nothing.

Ephesians gives us words of caution; to be wise, live carefully, and make the most of every opportunity that comes our way. Another translation says, “Walk circumspectly” (i.e. look around and check things out; what opportunity do you see that you can act on wisely?).

Today’s economy brings challenges. Many are living scripts characterized by unemployment, reduction to a single income, falling home values, or adjusting budgets.

The minute we wake up we are given the gift of twenty-four hours filled with opportunities. We might have an opportunity to be creative, learn something new, deepen our relationship with God, move toward a goal, encourage someone, meet a need or adopt a new way of managing our money.

Perhaps you are one who has a need. Look at my grandma’s model and waste nothing—even zucchini flowers. Take hold of the opportunity to be wise and distinguish needs from wants. Perhaps wisdom includes seeking financial advice. Or maybe you are the one who can meet a need in another’s life. Take an inventory today of your opportunities. How can you walk wisely and make the most of your twenty-four hours?

Marilyn Nutter is the author of three devotional books: Dressed up Moms’ Devotions to Go, Tea Lovers’ Devotions to Go, and Diva Delights Devotions to Go. She and her husband are new residents of the Charlotte, NC area. Marilyn enjoys speaking to women’s groups about discovering extraordinary treasures in ordinary days. Her blog, http://grandmothersviews.blogspot.com/ is designed to encourage boomer women to put puzzle pieces together in their new life season. Visit her website at www.marilynnutter.com.

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Teach Your Children

Prodigal? ME? – She Said

Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it. Proverbs 22:6

Listen to Prodigal? Me – She Said

“We’re all prodigals, aren’t we?”

The Sunday morning message blared from the television. I dropped a tissue into the trash. My head throbbed and my body ached from the flu and I wasn’t sure I could listen to this hell-fire and damnation preacher scream at me. Chills crawled up my arms as the country pastor slammed his hand on the pulpit. “It’s true. We are all prodigals.”

I covered my head with the pillow, wishing I could will the remote into my hand. I’m not a prodigal. Not by any means. I pray every day and try to be the person God wants me to be; honest, truthful, loving. No. I’m not a prodigal.

There might have been a time I wandered but never very far. Maybe I questioned, but not very hard. Things were…well…status quo. My love for Christ never faltered…it just wasn’t pressing.

I sat straight up in the bed.

“Oh my gosh. I was a prodigal.”

Sometimes our view of God becomes so skewed by the world we wander away, searching for anything that might fill the void in our lives; never seeing the loving God who waits.

I was raised in the church and though my love for Christ never died, I succumbed to the world for a time…searching. At thirty-six I sat teaching a young adult Sunday school class. “How active are you in Christ’s life?” I asked. Then it hit me. Not very, but He was certainly active in mine. I was a prodigal. That was the turning point in my Christian life. I grasped hold of what I’d been taught and crawled home.

Solomon understood we eventually return to what we are taught. It never really leaves us, we just shove it away for a time. His words were not only a warning but an encouragement to parents. Teach them and they will not turn from it. We have sons who, like me for a time, search to fill the void. They’ve been raised beneath the wing of Christ. They’re fine young men and though their love for Christ has not died…they wander. We pray daily they will remember and not turn from the love of Christ but become active in Him again.

Raise them up in the ways of Christ. A time will come when they wander and seek. Eventually what they’ve been taught will resurface. God will work in their prodigal hearts and they will become active in Him. My job? To pray without ceasing.

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Eddie Jones and Cindy Sproles are friends and cofounders of ChristianDevotions.us. They cowrite the popular He Said, She Said devotions and host Blog Talk Radio’s Christian Devotions SPEAK UP! along with Scott McCausey. And now you can catch them on He Said, She Said Radio. at their new time, MONDAY’S at 6 p.m. (Call in number, 646-929-0706 ).

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“Me!” three-year-old Erin screeched. It didn’t matter that there were dozens of miniature doggies in the bag of toys she had dumped on the floor. My granddaughter wasn’t about to share any of them with her brother and sister. Of course, that made Ryan and Laura more determined to take them.

“Me,” Erin insisted, pushing her siblings away.

“Erin, you need to share,” Mommy said.

Erin’s defiant “no,” resulted in the threat of time-out in her room, but even that did not deter Erin from defending her right to keep what she obviously felt was hers.

Erin has childhood apraxia of speech and is able to say only a few words. She’s lost words she was once able to say, but “me” and “no” are a consistent part of her limited vocabulary. Despite all the times they get her in trouble, she guards her “power words” the same as her toys.

No one knows when or if Erin will outgrow her speech problem. The therapy she’s been receiving for almost two years hasn’t seemed to help. As for her problem with sharing, she’s not alone.

It’s not just toddlers who struggle with possessiveness. Far too often my actions show that I’ve not outgrown the “me” mentality. Even though I’m old enough to know better, the desire to have what I feel is rightfully mine is powerful.

What a different example Jesus has set for me. He willingly chose to give up his rights as the Son of God to come to earth as a helpless baby. By word and deed he has shown me his way is far better than expecting and demanding my way. And best of all, he promises to help me and to forgive me when I fail.

Lord Jesus, thank you for loving me so much that you went to the cross. Help me to outgrow my childish ways.

Marlene Bagnull has been married to Paul for 48 years. They are the parents of three grown children and the grandparents of Erin, Ryan, and Laura. Marlene is the author of Write His Answer – A Bible Study for Christian Writers and three other books. She is also the compiler/editor of For Better, For Worse – Devotions for Married Couples and My Turn to Care – Encouragement for Caregivers of Aging Parents. She is the founder (in 1983) and director of the Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Conference and has been directing the Colorado Christian Writers Conference since 1997. Visit www.writehisanswer.com.
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“Behave boys,” I heard as I watched two boys and their mother interact at my cash register. “Make up your minds,” she said. The children fussed and whined while the mother pleaded with them to behave. She wanted them to have nutritious food; they wanted milkshakes. In the end, the mother gave in and ordered what the children wanted just to get out of the way of customers behind her.

What a shame. While I am sure there were other reasons involved in her decision, it appeared on the surface she was guilty of rewarding bad behavior. Paul reminded the church in Thessalonica that Jesus calls us to glorify Him through holiness and pure living. He knows we will fail – often – but He is dedicated to making us look more and more like Him, not like the world. And He loves it and rejoices when we get it right.

The word unruly literally means “out of step.” Out of step can be displayed many different ways. Disagreeing with church leadership over an issue, then encouraging others to agree with you. Participating in gossip rather than praying and offering to help. I struggle the most with insisting that God answer my prayers my way instead of His. Talk about being out of step.

I’m grateful God doesn’t give in to my every desire and demand. My life would be a mess if He did. And I’m glad He loves me and gently guides me when I wander off. I pray regularly He’ll keep me, my family, and my church family on a course toward holiness and purity, forgiving us when we stray.

Are you living out of step with God? Look around and see if you are on God’s path instead of your own and take God’s command seriously to talk to and help others when they stray.

Prayer: Dear God, forgive me for wrong attitudes and for being out of step and harmony with You and others. Please set me back on the right way and give me courage to share with others that are struggling, so You may bring them back as well.

Beth Tilson is a Southern Baptist pastor’s wife and beginning freelance writer who lives in Moultrie, GA. She is currently an MSC missionary with the North American Mission Board, and she and her husband Robert are also involved in ministry work in Nigeria, Africa with their church. They have two grown children and four grandchildren.

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He sure was trying to fill some big shoes. I watched as Drew, my two-year-old grandson, wobbled into the living room, his daddy’s size eleven gray Nikes on his small feet. Drew held up his short arms for balance while his toothpick-looking legs shuffled one large shoe in front of the other. Beneath his blonde curls, big brown eyes danced while his smile said, “Look at me, I’m wearing my daddy’s shoes.”

My son Eric’s expression softened as he seemed to realize both the honor and responsibility of his son, Drew, wanting to wear his daddy’s shoes; walk like his daddy walks, and mimic his daddy’s every word and action.

While Drew wobbled, stumbled, and struggled to walk in what were nearly impossibly large shoes, Jesus – the perfect Son of God – filled His Father’s shoes perfectly. From the time Jesus was a small boy of twelve, He wore His Father’s shoes as he stayed behind at the temple courts in Jerusalem talking with the teachers and asking them questions. He wore His Father’s shoes while in the desert for forty days being tempted by the devil. Jesus wore His Father’s shoes as He preached the good news to the poor, proclaimed freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind. Jesus wore His Father’s shoes when He hung from the cross and died for each of us.

Thank God for fathers who walk in ways that are pleasing to God, who love their children and teach them righteousness and wisdom. On this Father’s Day, I pray you experience great joy as you rejoice in your children.

Thank you for showing your children how to fill their father’s shoes.

Susan Shelton Dollyhigh is a freelance writer and columnist who recently won the Women of Faith Shine the Light Contest and 3 awards at the Blue Ridge Christian Writers Conference. She resides in Mount Airy, North Carolina (better known as Mayberry). www.inspirationfrommayberry.com Read Susan’s devotions.
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Happy Daddy's Day, Dad

Honor your father and your mother…. Exodus 20:12

Listen to Happy Daddy’s Day – He Said

We were two days out of Beaufort, North Carolina and some three hundred miles south and east of Cape Hatteras, rollicking along on a wild, lumpy sea on the fringes of a nor’easter that was pausing, not passing as predicted. Despite the low-slung storm clouds that framed the northwestern sky, the wind, waves, and boat were all moving towards the same tropical latitudes, so we weren’t concerned with the growing gale — only thankful for the ride and the simple perfection of a self-steering wind vane. We had exhausted our stock of recreational diversions the first day out, so our crew had resorted to bawdy pranks with hot dogs and the Polaroid camera. Pity the poor crew member who slept in the salon.

During his morning watch, our captain had extracted a cheap boom box from behind the settee beside the quarter berth, so when I came on duty at noon I had the cockpit, rain, and radio all to myself. I was hoping for an AM station out of Nassau or Cuba, but what I landed instead was just as foreign — at least by some standards. Almost three hundred miles out to sea, where neither bird nor freighter had been sighted for days, I swerved into the Rush Limbaugh Show and another journey into broadcast excellence. Limbaugh was almost humble that day, speaking of the pride his father had felt when his son “Rusty” had finally achieved national prominence as a talk show host. The afternoon discussion centered on callers sharing their own desire for their father’s approval and the importance dads make in the lives of their children.

My father never cared for Limbaugh and he never cared for sailing. Dad was a motorboat man with a special affection for outboards that were in disrepair. To my knowledge, Dad never had an outboard motor that ran for an entire afternoon, but that never stopped him from taking a chance on an overused, under-serviced Johnson. Those hot, windless days we spent on the water watching Dad tinker on his outboard helped to plant within me a love for the sea that not even trash in a carburetor can kill.

When I was eight-years-old I was sure my father was the greatest man alive. He was a tall, lanky fellow with shoulders so broad he could carry me around like a lightweight jacket. On his days off he would take me camping in the Smoky Mountains or haul me down to the coast. He taught me to bait my own hook, and when he thought I was a pretty fair fisherman, he took me to the Pamlico River where I caught twenty-six fish in a single afternoon. It wasn’t until many years later that I learned I’d been catching the same tired fish all day as Dad snuck the wounded soldier off the dock and reattached him to my hook. Dad believed you could give a boy a fish and feed him for a day, or teach a boy to fish and keep him occupied for a weekend.

Dad tried hard to make me a fisherman. He’d take me out of school when the spots were running, and we’d share a small tent on Topsail Island with a squadron of mosquitoes and no-see-ums. Early in the morning, as the sun erupted beneath the horizon, we’d cast our lines past the breakers and into a school tearing at the water. That evening I’d haul my sleeping bag onto the pier to nap at the heels of my father. Dad wasn’t the best fisherman ever to live, but he sure loved to fish and while I never learned to love fishing the way Dad did, I always loved fishing with him.

Dad laughed a lot back then and was inclined to build anything I wanted out of scrap plywood and two-by-fours. He built a motorboat one summer from a set of plans he found in a Popular Mechanics magazine. Mom kept yelling at him from the upstairs window to clean up the mess, but Dad wasn’t easily discouraged, so within a few weeks we had a fine plywood motorboat. In the scheme of life a home-built motorboat is not much of an accomplishment, but when you’re eight-years-old and enamored with the strength and wisdom of your father’s abilities, it’s a big deal. On the day we launched that boat and watched it float off the trailer, I decided my dad was just short of divine. I don’t remember much else about the boat except that it developed a case of rot and had to be cut up and hauled off. Of course, by then I was a teenager and Dad wasn’t as tall or wise.

He got another motorboat but the outings weren’t as much fun. Dad would launch the boat while the rest of us hauled our gear down to the campsite. The outboard always started on the second pull because Dad worked on motors the way Limbaugh works on liberals — it was a passion with him. We’d get a little ways from shore, then throttle up and go roaring off in a puff of smoke. On a good day we’d get a hundred yards away from shore before the motor would quit.

On a bad day, we’d get a mile out.

If it was one of those good, hundred-yard days, my sister and I would jump in with our life jackets and swim back to camp, leaving dad to tinker with an outboard that ran only in the metal barrel out back of our garage. It was during this phase of my youth that I learned to loathe motorboats. 

A few years before he died, Dad gave up fishing. Said they didn’t bite like they used to. Dad came to like his satellite dish and cable box, and hearing from his boy when I was safely back in port. But I believe that afternoon on our way to the Bahamas, even Dad would have enjoyed fishing with his son one last time.

I was coming off watch and searching the icebox for dinner when the trolling line sang out in that octave that lets you know it’s a big one. I closed the lid and ran on deck to help reduce sail and slow the boat. There may be plenty of fish in the ocean, but nobody likes losing one when you’re hungry, and we were too thrilled with the prospect of fresh seafood to toy with that fish. We gaffed him and killed him and let the yellowfin tuna soak in lemon while we celebrated our catch with a round of drinks. I can’t remember the last time a fish tasted that good. Dad would have loved it.

So here’s to Dad and fathers everywhere, both in heaven and on earth, who push us to find our passion and explore the potential that lies within us. Happy Daddy’s Day, Dad. I miss you.

Daddy's Boutonniere

Honor your father and your mother …. Exodus 20:12

I don’t remember the exact conversation, but I remember very clearly the look in my father’s clear blue eyes when he said, “If they don’t bring me flowers when I am alive, I don’t want them to bring me a bouquet when I’m dead.” I was probably 13 or 14 when I heard those words and a few years later when I had some of my own money, I remembered and decided to give my dad a boutonniere for Father’s Day. It wasn’t something I gave a lot of thought; it was just that it seemed fair since on Mother’s Day my mother always had at least one and sometimes two corsages (if her nine children didn’t coordinate plans). That, coupled with the memory of his words, prompted me to place the order for the Father’s Day gift.

I had no idea of the impact that small gesture would have on Daddy the day I gave it to him. Those clear blue eyes that I mentioned could also strike fear in my soul in matters of discipline. This man never spanked me and it was my full intent to never give his apparent harsh ways a reason. With that type of relationship, it is not difficult to imagine my surprise when his quick blinks tried to erase the mist as I pinned the flower to his lapel. A stammered “thank you,” a gentle hug from those hands I so feared, and a joyful smile are my sweet memories.

God, our Father, commands us to honor our parents. This call for respect and reverence places us in a position of humility regardless of our age, or the age of our father and mother. My father’s gentle hug and his almost inaudible words created within me a deep and abiding respect, not just for the position, but for the man.

Those sweet memories were near the front of my mind a few years later when my siblings and I were at the florist choosing the most beautiful arrangement for his casket. The spray of chrysanthemums, roses, and ribbons was lovely but did not hold any more beauty than that single carnation with a bit of leather leaf fern behind it. Our wonder and respect for our parents should be evident to all; not just one day a year, but every day.

Is there a man in your life who would like a flower on Father’s Day? If so, show your love.

He could never say I love you. I had a good childhood and knew my father cared for me, but unfortunately he never could say, “I love you.” As a child, he didn’t hear these words spoken openly, so it was difficult for him to verbally express his feelings to my brother and me. We felt that he loved us, but how wonderful it would have been if he could have said so before he died.

On the other hand, God, my Heavenly Father, tells me page after page in the scriptures how much He loves me. He even states that He knew me and loved me before I was born. How awesome.

God loves us unconditionally, with an everlasting love. He promises never to leave us nor forsake us and to supply all our needs.

Earthly fathers have limitations and cannot meet all our expectations. But in spite of their shortcomings, each year we still set aside a special day to honor them.

The week before Father’s Day, people rush around shopping for cards and gifts. Some buy them out of duty, while others spend quality time seeking the perfect choice. Those who have lost their dads depend on memories to sustain them.

The world is caught up in honoring earthly fathers. Families congregate for picnics and parties. Relatives that hardly ever get together throughout the year somehow manage to join in the festivities. But isn’t it strange that most of us never think of honoring our Heavenly Father in a special way on Father’s Day.

I really hadn’t thought about it before, but wouldn’t it be a nice gesture to do something to honor the Lord in a special way. There is no gift that we can buy Him, but wouldn’t He be pleased if we took time for praise and a personal prayer of thanksgiving? This Father’s Day I plan to do that. Maybe you will too.

Fran has had over two hundred devotions and poems published in numerous devotional booklets and Sunday School papers. Her writing has also been included in over a dozen book compilations. Fran enjoys encouraging writers and has led her writers’ group for the past 19 years. She creates her own holiday greeting cards, incorporating her poetry. Fran has been married to her husband Jim for 52 years. They have five married sons and nine grandchildren. Read Frances’s devotions.
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