Brenda Knight Graham's Blog, page 14
June 20, 2022
Conniesville
As June slides towards July I think of summers at Pinedale when I was growing up. Remembering summers naturally brings up images of Conniesville, a complete miniature village of doll size houses we four youngest of ten built in the woods one year.
Stanley was the oldest of the four. He and Charlie had the best ideas and the engineering skill to develop them. Suzanne and I were happy to follow their lead most of the time. None of us objected to Stanley’s choice of a name for our village. He was smitten at the time by a little girl named Connie so we all agreed on Conniesville. I truly believe Connie never had any idea she had a village named for her.
As I suppose happens with many villages, ours had an overall plan but developed into further buildings and streets as the weeks went by. We chose an area where the topography was nicely undulated to give our village slopes, as well as even terrain and a mountain or two. The whole village was only as large as a normal living room. We each picked the site for our own house. I think mine was on the northeast corner not far from a leaning sourwood tree. I liked the patch of soft green moss which would be the lawn for my manor. We each also chose a village business or institution on which to work.
We hauled small rocks and stones from a nearby brook. From time to time someone would visit a clay bank, wet the good malleable gray clay until it was almost soupy and lug it up the hill in an old worn out kettle. Finding the perfect sticks for ridge poles and rafters was very hard. My roof collapsed several times before I learned how to strengthen it by watching the boys’ tactics. I was careful and subtle about my spying for fear they would shoo me away to make my house on my own, or that they would become even more prideful than they already were.
Charlie had a toy dump truck he’d received the Christmas before. We used that to help build the streets. Our streets meandered romantically around hillsides, had tunnels even where they weren’t needed and, of course, bridges. I can just see right now Charlie’s earnest expression as he created one of those tunnels, as if it were the construction of a tunnel in the Smoky Mountains.
I know we were awfully grimy when we went in from playing. But I only remember Mamma being slightly frustrated a time or two. When we explained what we’d been doing she smiled and shrugged her shoulders before grabbing a bar of Octagan soap.
After some weeks our village really took shape. Charlie had created a bulldozer business in a low place where he could dig nice red clay. Stanley built a grocery store with a semblance of a gas pump in front. Suzanne built a shop for selling fabric and made a sign that she would take in sewing. I thought a bakery and a library were musts but the roof kept falling in on the bakery and my library was quite crooked. We all worked building a church which turned out really nice except that the steeple ended up like the leaning tower of Pisa.
We held a town council over which Stanley presided. Our main order of business was the naming of the streets. It boiled down to each of us naming our own street and then voting on the main streets, whether they would be Hickory Avenue, Rosemary Street, Churchill Boulevard or just plain Main Street. Or maybe one was Spruce Mountain Road.
Okay, so I’ve taken a few writer’s privileges in describing our village. After all, it was a long time ago. How would I remember all those particulars? But I do remember vividly the fun we had, the finished village, how Mamma and Daddy were so impressed they brought house guests to look at Conniesville. I remember the disappointment when a big rain came and several of our charming buildings collapsed. That soft clay melted in the deluge. I remember we endeavored to plant small trees the appropriate size for the little houses. As the summer turned into the hot days of August those trees wilted and turned brown.
It was a magical summer of innocent play. Yet now I can see foreshadowing of who we were to become. Stanley became an entrepreneur owning, among other small businesses, a gas station with a line of groceries. Charlie followed several careers including years as a forester, running a sawmill and other large equipment. Later, both boys teamed up in building car washes all over Georgia, now known as Carwash Specialist. Suzanne and I became happy homemakers. She developed seamstress skills, making wedding dresses for her twin girls, along with a doll repair business. And I–well, I’m just telling the story.
In later years I told my children about our village. We were even able to find remains of our little houses, piles of small stones here and there in the underbrush. But mainly, in our minds, something of that playful summer even still survives, echoes of a village named Conniesville.
June 8, 2022
Songs in the Night
Though I love to hear cicadas “sing” and whippoorwills answer each other, nighttime when it is dark of the moon can seem so long. I don’t like caves and caverns where darkness is thick and overwhelming. When we drove years ago through long West Virginia mountain tunnels, I had a tendency to hold my breath until we could see daylight at the end.
The darkness of sorrow, of injustice, of illness, tragedy, and distress can stretch before us like a never-ending tunnel. One seeks sleep hoping with unreasoning hope that the horror will be gone when one wakens. Instead, our consciousness returns and we realize with a dull ache that the darkness of sorrow or pain is still our close companion.
I just came home from attending a beautiful funeral, that of my husband Charles’s partner of forty years, Dr. Eugene Talmadge Maddox. They practiced veterinary medicine together at Cairo Animal Hospital, founded by Dr. Maddox in 1963. The eulogies at the funeral were funny, touching, and inspiring. His pastor reminded us all that Dr. Maddox is now enjoying the delights and amazing rewards of heaven.
But no matter how wonderful the knowledge that Dr. Maddox knew Jesus and is now with Him, we still grieve. His sons, his dear wife, Patsy, grandchildren and great grandchildren are going through a dark time. They are comforted, yet the fact remains Dr. Maddox will not be telling his colorful stories, playing with his grandchildren, or giving his sons advice.
A tragedy recently occurred in my extended family. A beloved young man of seventeen was killed in a single car crash on his way home from an after-school job. It was a rainy night and somehow his car didn’t make it around a curve but slammed into a tree. Our whole family, especially his immediate family, is in a state of heavy darkness.
I find Psalm 42:6 very comforting, very reassuring. It says “Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the daytime, and in the night his song shall be with me.”
I woke this morning with lyrics of an old song in my head. It’s a song I learned from my missionary brother, Orman, many years ago.
In shady green pastures so rich and so sweet
God leads His dear children along.
Where the water’s cool flow bathes the weary one’s feet
God leads His dear children along.
Some through the water, some through the flood
Some through the fire, but all through the blood,
And some through great sorrow, but God gives a song
In the night seasons and all the day long.
I’m sure the writers of this song, Jason Saetveit and Richard Hall, must have known great sorrow through which God gave them a song.
I pray you can listen for the song in your darkness, not just the song of a whippoorwill, but a song in your very soul, a song of peace that passes understanding, a song from Him who knows sorrow down to the very bone and feels it with you, the one who also can give you joy again.
May 29, 2022
Quilts of Valor
It isn’t Christmas, I know. It’s Memorial Day. But it was the day after Christmas in our family home, Stone Gables, when our friend Judy Purdy of the Quilts of Valor organization surprised our brother, Charles C. Knight (army veteran 1963-66) with his very own quilt of valor. Several family members–sister Suzanne Dover, sister-in-law Reggie Knight, and I–had enjoyed sewing squares for the quilt. Suzanne and Judy put it all together and quilted it with Charlie’s wife, Elaine, and daughter, Evelyn, involved in final touches. Most of us, along with other close family members, were there for the sweet, short ceremony by the Christmas tree.
Pictured above are, left to right: Brenda, Suzanne, Charlie, Judy, Evelyn, and Elaine holding grandson Joseph.
I was so proud of my brother as Judy wrapped him in his quilt and explained the symbolism of the quilt and its three layers. 1)The top of the quilt–with its many colors, shapes, and fabrics–represents the communities and the many individuals who make the quilts. 2)The batting, or the filler inside, is the center of the quilt and provides a quilt’s warmth. It represents our hope that this quilt will bring warmth, comfort, peace, and healing to the individual who receives it. 3)The backing of the quilt represents the strength that supports the other layers. We think of it as the strength of the recipient, the support of his or her family, our communities, and our nation. The stitches that hold the three layers together represent love, gratitude, and sometimes tears of the maker.
A word about my veteran brother: After finishing basic training at Fort Gordon, Charlie went to Fort Bliss, Texas, for a year’s training in anti-aircraft technology. He was then stationed in Wiesbaden, Germany where he worked for the “Hawk” missile battalion. This was a new missile which, contrary to those used in World War II, was able to hone in or lock on an aircraft and follow it. Charlie has always been so happy that he could serve his country in this way. But the best thing about his time of service was that he met his future wife, Elaine, during his tour of duty. Her father was also stationed at Fort Bliss and then at Wiesbaden, Germany. Our whole family has been blessed by these two who started married life in Alaska during the cold, dark part of the year 1969. They later settled in Clarkesville, Georgia, and now have three adult children and seven grandchildren.
Two years ago, before we started this quilt project, I’d never heard of Quilts of Valor. Since then, I’ve been so inspired by the work they are doing to honor our veterans. Maybe you, too, are not familiar with this great effort. Rather than try to tell you about it myself, I asked Judy Purdy to send me her description. I’d like to share parts of her article with you:
Founded in 2003 by “Blue Star” mother Catherine Roberts, Quilts of Valor is a national organization of volunteers from every state whose mission is to honor and cover service personnel and veterans touched by war or the threat of war with comforting and healing quilts. Volunteers make the quilts either as individuals or as part of a QOV group, and quilts are then presented to recognize the service, sacrifice, dedication, and valor of current and former members of all branches of the military. The organization’s volunteers have made and awarded many quilts in grateful appreciation of the personal sacrifice and honorable service of those who leave home and family to stand in harm’s way to preserve the freedoms we Americans enjoy.
On behalf of the Quilts of Valor Foundation and a grateful nation, and with our deepest appreciation, we present quilts to thank members of our military for their service. It is our hope that the quilts will be a tangible reminder that there are thousands of women and men across this land who are forever in the debt of these brave veterans serving in war and in peace. It is our pleasure to honor each one.
For more information or to nominate a current or former member of the US Military, please contact http://www.qovf.org.
May 18, 2022
Graduate Words
The time has come. You’re excited over your child’s achievements and the future they’re stepping into. But you’re scared, too, and sad even if you do joke about the thrill of having an empty nest. As that beloved child winds up his/her high school career, you may try to think of the very best things to tell him. And then as he/she actually gets ready to drive away, you almost choke in your eagerness to say all that is in your heart. You want your child to leave with wise, strong, good advice–but your mind goes numb and you can’t think of anything.
Do any of the words from your parents still ring in your ears? “Do your best,” “Keep your nose clean,” “Remember who you belong to,” “Mind your manners,” “The grass is not greener on the other side,” or maybe “All that glitters is not gold.”
My dad died before I went to college. But I can hear his voice in my head reciting all four stanzas of “If” by Rudyard Kipling. Even though the poem was written to a son, I always thought the challenges in the verse pertained to women too. Of course, as all life challenges are, they are unattainable but reaching for them will make for characters of integrity. Surely Mr. Kipling would not mind if I give you a few of my favorite lines from his most well-known poem, a poem printed in many congratulations cards for graduates: “If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you…If you can dream–and not make dreams your master, If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim…If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”…If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And–which is more–you’ll be a Man, my son!
My mom said “Always remember where home is.” She, like my dad, recited many poems but I think her favorite quotation was Psalm 46:1 and I carry it in my heart wherever I go: “God is a refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
What did I say to my children when they left? I’m not sure. I simply wanted to cling to them and borrow one more year. But of course I couldn’t. Maybe I said, “Be yourself” or “Don’t forget to brush,” some inane helpless advice like that. I hope I told them to remember Proverbs 3:5-6: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart; lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him and he shall direct thy paths.”
What can you say? Warn them against dangers such as drugs and smooth talkers. Caution them to stay with a safe crowd of friends and to stay clear of doubtful situations, late night walks, and texting strangers. Urge them never to let instructor or anyone else convince them that their skin color means they are either oppressed or an oppressor. And, by all means, tell them to think for themselves and to sift all new ideas through the lens of the Holy Bible.
But when all is said and done, what our young people take with them is as much what we did, how we responded to crisis and everyday life, as it is what came out of our mouths. It is the total fabric of their growing from cuddly babyhood through Little League, tumbling, hormonal pre-teen time, braces, crazy haircuts, and learning to drive. It’s drying tears time, peroxide and bandaid time, listening and sounding off time. It’s the way you encouraged them when they failed, rallied them on when they wanted to quit. It’s the little things. Like birthday sleepovers, ice cream stops, playing board games, laughing at silly jokes, soothing their fears of new experiences, riding the highest coaster with them when you were scared to death. It’s not fainting when introduced to a pet snake. It’s telling them one more time to clean up their room. It’s ball practice in the back yard. It’s vacations at the beach, camping in the rain, catching fireflies, and working as a family team to clean up after a hurricane. It’s just being there.
Words for the graduate? Instead of trying to come up with a wise and forever quotable line, just say “I love you.” That will cover everything.
May 9, 2022
A Mamma Memory
Eggs were very important in our large household. We needed every single one the hens could produce. Every evening someone collected the eggs laid that day by various yard hens (we always had at least a dozen hens) in several different nests. I remember well one of my experiences as the egg collector.
One late afternoon when Mamma called me to go bring the eggs in, I put her off. I was deep into a book (“Little Women” or “To Have and to Hold”) and I just had to read one more page. I lay on a bench by a western window unmindful of the fading light as Mamma called me again and again.
When I finally started out to do my job I realized it was almost dark. One hen laid her eggs in a cozy nest far back in the stable. I’d better go there first before it turned pitch black. But it was already dark when I entered the stable. The rhythmic munching of a cow finishing her hay comforted me only a little. I crept toward the back of the stable hoping not to step in anything slippery. As I reached down to pick up the egg I knew would be there my neck prickled. Something wasn’t right. Yes, it was dark. But, still, I should be able to see the egg’s white shape in the dark straw.
I drew in my breath and pulled my hand back. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see that the nest was especially dark. It was black. There was a movement, a slithering movement. There was no doubt about it. A snake was coiled in the nest.
As I ran for the door I didn’t worry about stepping in a cow pile. I screamed as I dashed through the gate heading pell-mell for the house. I hadn’t even reached the top of the hill when I saw her coming. Mamma was armed with a hoe which she clicked against the rocky path like a shepherd’s staff. She had to have been on her way before she heard me screaming.
Mamma hated to kill anything. She even went to great pains to rescue spiders that rode in on a log and found themselves in the fire. But she picked that snake up on the crook of her hoe, hauled him out where there was still a little light, and chopped his head off.
Mamma was a lady of deep resolve. She expected her children to do the right thing but if we were disobedient she was always there for us anyway. And she didn’t hesitate to kill a snake who dared to swallow one of her precious eggs.
May 3, 2022
Safe Dwellings
Birds’ nests fascinate me. They are so skillfully made, custom fit for each bird, large or small, so carefully situated. Whether a house wren who feels safe cozying near humans or an osprey constructing its penthouse dwelling above all the bustle, birds make their homes to suit their very different needs and preferences.
As children, we were elated when any of us found a Carolina wren’s nest, a neat little cave hidden amongst leaf mulch under low huckleberry bushes. At our dear old place we called “Lane of Palms” I’ve observed with wonder a mourning dove pair build a house of sticks on a palm tree branch. From a north window I could see them walk nimbly up and down that palm frond “ramp” and then teach their offspring to do the same.
A major concern for a bird’s choice of nesting place has to be security. But sometimes, in the interest of beauty, convenience, or romantic location, they choose to build in highly insecure places. Like the wren who built her nest in our door wreath one year.
It was a very pretty wreath for ushering in Spring. A few yellow forsythia sprays were wound into a coil of grapevine. There were three bird house fronts, each a different size and style, with a bright angle of roof and a perfect round hole for a bird to fly in and take possession. But they were false houses, just decorated cut-outs fastened on the wreath.
One day when I went out to sweep cobwebs out of the corners of the front porch, a little brown wren swished past my face. At first I thought she was building a nest in a nearby shrub. But it didn’t take long to realize she had chosen one of those false birdhouses for her home! While she was out choosing fine twigs and grasses for her nest I peered behind the wreath. There was no room for a nest, yet she was building it anyway. I was amazed it was clinging in place, so precarious it was. One vigorous swing of the door and it would fall. I warned everyone in the family about our new “renter” and we agreed not to use the front door until the babies hatched and flew. We did slip up the front steps a few times just to peer in at the eggs and then the babies.
My daughter-in-law, Christi Graham, gave me frequent enthusiastic reports on a cardinal pair who constructed their nest on a limb right outside her kitchen window. The human family could enjoy the development of the cardinal family in full view.
Sadly, some of the nests in the safest places are the ones ravaged by an enemy. One spring a house wren built her nest on a high shelf in our barn. We thought it was a pretty smart location for her until one day we found the nest demolished, nothing left but a few eggshells. We deducted that one of our cats had leaped to that high shelf and made a meal.
I am reminded, thinking about those feathered parents, of how hard we try to keep our young safe. Yet we and they make unwise choices sometimes. The world is full of unkindness as aggressive as a leaping cat, and horrible things do happen. Snakes take advantage of secluded nests, hawks attack fledglings, storms throw nest, babies, and all out of their safe place. There is no total safety this side of heaven for any of us. But–we can look back and recognize many, many times when God protected us in our foolishness, as we did the wren on our door. We can trust that, just as He knows where each mourning dove and every cardinal makes its home, He also knows exactly where we are, what dangers we face, and what are the longings of our hearts.
I love Sidney Lanier’s poem “Marshes of Glynn.” He writes: “As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God: I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space ‘twixt the marsh and the skies.”
April 26, 2022
One Fearful Day
God answers prayers before we know to ask of Him. That’s what happened to us one fearful day.
It didn’t start out fearfully. It was a normal day for Charles at Cairo Animal Hospital and for me finishing a chapter in the book I was writing. It was a regular school day for our two boys. Our grandson, Charles Douglas (I call him Charles D), lived with us then and his friend, Jesse, was spending a couple of weeks with us while his parents were out of town. Charles D’s room was upstairs, a room we’d restored to reveal hand hewn logs of our pre-Civil War house. Jesse’s was across the hall adjacent to attic space above our dining room.
I looked out at our beautiful sunny back yard as I considered the story I was writing. Then I glanced at the time, 11:30. Where had the morning gone? But Charles wouldn’t be home for almost an hour. I could finish this chapter, I thought, and be done in time to prepare him a nice lunch. I dived back into my story, lost to everything else.
The sound of Charles’s truck pulling into the carport startled me. He was never home before 12:15, most often 12:30 or after. And here it was only 11:55.
I scurried to the kitchen to slap sandwiches together thinking he must have an after-lunch appointment so I’d better be quick. But he shrugged when I asked why he was home so early. He didn’t know. It just worked out that way, he said.
We were about to sit down at the dining table when I said something smelled peculiar. Charles, humoring my sensitivity to smells, said he’d go check outside. He was sure neighbors must be burning trash.
Charles rushed back in and headed for the stairs. Smoke was billowing from every vent in our roof, he said. I called 911.
By the time firemen arrived, there was a glowing ceiling tile above where I would have been sitting, and as they sawed into the ceiling (this was a solid old house with thick boards above the celo-tex) to get to the fire, flames licked out. Outside, standing with neighbors, family, even our pastor, who had come to see about us, we watched fearfully as our house was invaded by flames, smoke, and lots of water from the firemen’s hose.
But our house was saved!
Though our recent renovation of the downstairs–new carpet, drapes and painted walls–was all ruined, our house was intact. The firemen said the fire started because of faulty wiring. It had probably been a hazard for several weeks, could have started anytime–while we were asleep, while Jesse was asleep in that room only feet away from the flames. One fireman told us that within thirty more minutes the fire would have engulfed our old house and been impossible to squelch. That’s when I understood why Charles had come home early. God knew we needed to come to our table at that exact time.
As the four of us huddled in a motel room that night we were very thankful we were all safe and our house could be cleaned and repaired. The only complaint the boys had was that they’d been at school and missed all the excitement.
April 22, 2022
Of Iris, Herbs, and a Broken Shovel
The white iris, fondly called by my mother “flags,” are blooming like a little group of angels beside our largest maple tree. Under its shade also are the purple iris which have opened their sweet faces for their once-a-year show. There are violets peering over grass blades and tiny pink oxalis blooming stubbornly amongst border grass along the driveway.
The mulberry tree is in full leaf with berries barely showing, pale droops amongst the leaves. Soon the tree will be alive with squirrels and birds feasting greedily even before the fruit is fully ripe. The crepe myrtles Charles trimmed back in February are sprouting nicely and jasmine vine on the mailbox pine tree, trimmed to the ground, is more vigorous than ever. I look forward to seeing little yellow blooms smiling at us when we go for the mail.
Pruning is a good thing. A fresh start is good for everything (and everyone) if done under the Master’s care.
The knockout roses in front of the house were beautiful when they were beautiful but they didn’t like their place very much. One by one they died or at least became scraggly. At one end of the row they were shaded by a magnolia tree and those bushes were never happy. So we took them up and planted Florida Sunshine shrubs. The guys at the nursery assured us they would thrive in sun or shade.
Plants (and people) are so different in the way they adapt to sunshine and shadow.
Day lilies are starting to bloom. It’s always so exciting to see the various colors and patterns unfold as the buds open. I wish they bloomed for more than one day, but the good thing is there are several buds on each stalk so for the blooming season there are always beauties, new every morning.
Another thing new every morning–His faithfulness!
Thomas Obadiah Chisholm wrote a hymn about God’s faithfulness:
Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father There is no shadow of turning with Thee. Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not. As Thou hast been, Thou forever will be. Great is Thy faithfulness, Great is Thy faithfulness, Morning by morning new mercies I see. All I have needed Thy hand hath provided. Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me.
Wisteria keeps trying to take us over, though Charles has been brutally honest with it: no, it is not welcome. Friends we visited in Bromley, England longed for some beautiful purple wisteria. We told them it is terribly invasive, takes over, wraps everything in vines. They still wanted it though I don’t know whether they did plant it or not. I can see why they wanted it. The purple blooms are ravishingly beautiful when drifting high amongst tree branches or low in shrubbery, even controlled with constant care into a “shrub” itself. It is lovely when it’s blooming, looking like Caleb and Joshua’s great clusters of grapes from the Promised Land. But wisteria is so monopolizing.
Things of beauty aren’t always as good as they seem.
We bought herbs at Lowe’s which I was able to plant from my walker, placing them in tubs along the back porch. Already, English thyme, basil, and a cherry tomato plant (couldn’t resist that one!) are thriving. The mint and rosemary at each end of the line are hearty and healthy and interspersed between the herbs are some of Charles’s carefully coaxed amaryllis with buds about to pop open, also a couple of tubs of impatiens lending cheerful color. I can’t wait for the basil and thyme to be big enough we can pluck some for adding flavor to meats and soups.
When Charles went to Stone’s on his day off to purchase some screws he came back with a tray of plants for his own small garden: five sweet potato plants, a beef steak tomato plant, and one eggplant to grow in its own tub. His garden is beside the marten house where, until recently, lemon bushes grew. He dug up the lemon bushes because they were totally fruitless.
It was as he was digging up the lemon tree roots that he bragged on his broken shovel. It had been his dad’s, he said, one of several he has acquired over the years. This one, he said, is particularly good for digging out stubborn roots because the broken blade is jagged like so many sharp teeth and it is excellent for a job like this.
Brokenness does not mean a thing or person cannot be used; maybe it can be used in a different and even better way than before.
I was walking around our circular driveway the day before Easter enjoying a gentle breeze swaying the reeds when it dawned on me. Spring was everywhere but Red, the turtle, had not shown up. Could it really be spring if Red hadn’t shown up? That box turtle has been at this place almost as long as we have, probably longer. We “tagged” him with a red spot on his hard back soon after he showed up at our back door about six years ago. Since then, every month or so during the warm months, Red comes visiting. He loves to eat cat food, doesn’t care much for the green stuff. The children always enjoy his visits, sometimes putting him on the porch where they can play without losing him.
Funny that I thought about Red the day before Easter. Because he came visiting on Easter Sunday heralded with great excitement by Kaison and Charli. They had just found a hiding of a dozen eggs for the second time and were ready for a new diversion. Red stayed on the porch for about an hour, scratching across the floor with his leathery legs and sharp toes, hiding under chairs, eating cat food and even getting in the middle of our family Easter picture.
Iris, daylilies, new gardens, discarded roses and lemon trees, a broken shovel and an old box turtle–and then a picture from our Michigan folk of their fresh new snowfall. Spring is here–in some places!
April 13, 2022
Happy Easter!
We say the first Easter was over 2,000 years ago. But the need for a Savior goes back 6,000 years.
Almighty God, full of power, formed the earth, set apart the waters, hung the sun, moon, and stars, and made trees and plants–giant sequoias, small fig trees and even onions. When all was ready for him,
God created man, and then woman. He made them in His own image. He gave them creative spirits, the ability to make choices, the faculties for compassion and wisdom, and a drive to survive. Did I mention He gave this wonderful creation the choice to love his Creator or not?
Man and woman messed up early on. They yielded to the temptation of Satan and the whole beautiful, wonderful world went whacky. But God had a plan even as far back as that first huge sin of Adam and Eve to make it possible for humankind again to be in close relationship with Him. He would send His only Son to be our Redeemer, to give us a chance again to make a choice to love Him–because He first loved us.
The Savior came but most did not recognize Him. Even the religious people, priests and scribes, didn’t believe He was the Son of God, though they had the prophecies handed down through the centuries proclaiming God would send a Messiah. Jesus lived a perfect life, was tempted and did not sin, healed the sick, gave sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf. He raised Lazarus and a young girl from the dead. He called disciples, twelve of them, and gently and forcefully led them and taught them for three years. He spoke to crowds who followed Him wherever He went. But when he finally was arrested because the priests said He was blasphemous claiming to be God, the crowds deserted Him as did most of His followers and friends.
When Jesus was on trial Pilate asked Him where He was from. Jesus didn’t answer. Pilate urged Him, telling Him that he, Pilate, had the power to free Him or condemn Him. Then Jesus replied that Pilate had no power except what was given him by the Father. Jesus had already told His followers, “…I lay down my life that I might take it again. No man taketh it from me, but I lay it down myself. I have power to lay it down, and power to take it again.” (John 10:17-18)
To me, one of the most stunning events of that dark crucifixion day is when the huge, massively heavy curtain in the temple, the one that separated the people from the “Holy of Holies,” was split down the middle from top to bottom. God split that curtain at the time Jesus drew His last breath. Because of Jesus’ perfect sacrifice man could be forgiven of their sins and could talk directly to Him without a priest–as Adam and Eve had done before they sinned.
But the very most stunning event was when the disciples and several women first found the tomb empty and then saw Jesus, nail scarred hands and all, alive and later eating fish with them. Those forty days Jesus spent with His followers (disciples and 500 or more others) after the resurrection until His ascension back to the Father–those days must have been powerful and sweet. Jesus was alive! The timid could be brave. The hopeless could have great hope. The sorrowful could now be filled with joy.
Jesus is alive! And because He lives, so can we!
A favorite hymn by Bill Gaither says: “Because He lives, I can face tomorrow. Because He lives, all fear is gone. Because I know He holds the future, And life is worth a living just because He lives.”
A very happy Easter to each of you!
April 6, 2022
Palm Branches
I love to see little children waving palm branches as they enter the sanctuary on Palm Sunday. They are so happy, so innocent, so believing. As they walk in joyous abandon to the front of the church and lay their branches on the altar I’m reminded of that day so long ago when Jesus entered Jerusalem.
The week before Passover when Jesus entered Jerusalem the street was lined with people of a myriad of emotions. Some were jubilant because they thought this man riding on a donkey was finally going to take his place as King of the Jews and bring freedom from the oppressive Roman government. Some were simply jubilant just to be with Jesus, like the children, the disciples, hundreds who had heard this rabbi teach and seen him heal and restore life. There were the radicals looking for a chance to stir up trouble. There were the Pharisees and Sadducees who could not see the Truth and ignored the fact that their hatred of Jesus was anything but godly. Controlled by Satan, they had nothing but conniving and evil intentions in their hearts. The emotions of Jesus are overwhelming to contemplate. At the same time the crowd was shouting “Hosanna: Blessed is the King of Israel that cometh in the name of the Lord” (John 12:13) He was weeping over Jerusalem whom He would have gathered as chickens under her wings, “and ye would not.” (Matthew 23:37) Jesus knew what kind of a week was ahead of Him. Yet He was not wholly sorrowful that day. He took time to rejoice.
Sometimes the children sing “Hosanna” as they flock into our church on Palm Sunday. Good teachers have told them about the day Jesus rode the donkey into Jerusalem, about how the people shouted and waved their palm branches, then laid them in the road for Jesus to ride over. Some even laid down their coats for the donkey to cross. A few times during the years we lived at “The Lane of Palms” we contributed palm branches for this festivity. It was a very happy thing to do, to be part of the celebration in that way and to see our own children waving branches.
Such a happy day Palm Sunday is! Yet it has a shadow over it. It is only a few days until Good Friday when we will remember sadly the torture and darkness and sorrow Jesus and His followers went through. Though the people on that day before Passover didn’t know what would happen that week, we do know what happened. We know that Jesus became sin for our sakes, that He fulfilled every prophesy of the Old Testament for the redeeming Messiah. We know He became a Man of Sorrows, not just for the disciples who loved Him, not just for the women who learned of Him, not just the little children singing His praises, but for us, for each and every one of us. He died for the soldiers who drove the nails in His hands and feet. He died for the priests who condemned Him. He died for Judas and Peter who betrayed and denied Him.
Our young Kaison viewing the film “The Son of God” (his choice to watch) asked sorrowfully, “Why were the people so mean? Why didn’t they understand who He was?”
We could only explain, “As so many people today, they simply did not believe.”
We love to celebrate. Palm Sunday is a happy, joyful day. The palm branches speak of life and joy and good things. But there is a shadow over the day. In a few short days we will be remembering Good Friday and the wrenching pain and sorrow of the cross. And then–on the third day–the most joyful, sacred celebration of all–Easter Sunday! We can pull out all the stops in praising Him on that day! The shadow of the cross will be overcome by the open, empty tomb!
Brenda Knight Graham's Blog
- Brenda Knight Graham's profile
- 1 follower
![[image error]Pexels.com](https://brendaknightgraham.files.wordpress.com/2022/06/pexels-photo-167698.jpeg){kind=link}
![[image error]Pexels.com](https://brendaknightgraham.files.wordpress.com/2022/06/pexels-photo-278823.jpeg){kind=link}
![[image error]Pexels.com](https://brendaknightgraham.files.wordpress.com/2022/05/pexels-photo-3186386.jpeg){kind=link}
![[image error]Pexels.com](https://brendaknightgraham.files.wordpress.com/2022/05/pexels-photo-5501020.jpeg){kind=link}
![[image error]Pexels.com](https://brendaknightgraham.files.wordpress.com/2022/04/pexels-photo-7245514.jpeg){kind=link}