KISS. Originally an acronym for "keep it simple, stupid." I, however, like my title better. It reflects my ongoing journey to embrace simplicity. Of casting off the nonessentials in order to embrace the essentials. Of choosing people above programs. Talk-to-me-in-person-time over technology. It is an ongoing dance, this journey to saying no over and over again so that ultimately I can say—yes, Lord. Yes, Lord, to your best for me.
"God made man simple; man's complex problems are of his own devising." (Ecclesiastes 7:30 JB)
Simplicity can be defined by many things, inward and outward, but I am finding that Christian simplicity surrounds this truth: I am becoming, and accepting, and living out fully the person God has created me to be. And in saying this, I am declaring that anything outside of the person God has created me uniquely to be can and must go. I do not want to live in duplicity, pleasing others and pretending to be someone I simply am not. That is the heart of simplicity.
I am convinced that Quaker pastor and author Richard Foster likes to kick my butt around a bit. Reading the first six chapters of Celebration of Discipline has shined a spotlight on my failure to fully embrace the means of grace God has invited us into. And yet—at this point in my life, I consider my shortfall not a scolding, but a delightful invitation. The world calls me to live my life frenetically, disconnected, seeking my own comfort, things, and satisfaction. Jesus calls me to something entirely, delightfully different. And I want different.
It is all about seeking the Kingdom of God first, according to Foster. And, of course, according to God's Word as well (Matthew 6:33).
"Freedom from anxiety is characterized by three inner attitudes. If what we have we receive as a gift, and if what we have is to be cared for by God, and if what we have is available to others, then we will possess freedom from anxiety. This is the inward reality of simplicity." - Celebration of Discipline, p. 88
Can you imagine living this way? Can you imagine the cost of NOT living this way? I simply cannot afford to ignore the invitation of Jesus to live truly and simply any longer. Just the first step on a journey to understanding what all of this means.
How about you? What keeps you from Christian simplicity? And what draws you to it?
Friday, June 1, 2012
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Things only a female pastor hears
Actual questions and statements I've heard in the last six months:
- "What does your husband think about all of this?" (i.e., you serving as a pastor)
- "What do you do exactly?"(i.e., and please tell me it isn't preaching)
- "So you're ministering to women, then?" (or variations on this question)
- "A female pastor. How wonderful! And I got to see it before I died."
And the really amazing thing is these questions mostly make me smile. To some, I may be hard to categorize and understand; to my Savior, I am simply his daughter. The one who is simply trying to be obedient—to say, "Yes, Lord," no matter what comes.
Your turn. What would you ask a female pastor if you could?
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
"Why Women Matter to God" sermon audio by Suzanne Burden
In God's perfect plan, events converged that allowed me to share the ezer/imagebearer message for girls and women at my church this year. The result: for me, pure joy. For others, a challenge and realization that the biblical identity of every girl and woman is bigger than many of us have dared to dream.
In short, I'm thankful. Here's the 30-minute message:
Yes, an infertile woman can preach on Mother's Day...with great joy. Enjoy, and don't hesitate to share your comments here.
In short, I'm thankful. Here's the 30-minute message:
Yes, an infertile woman can preach on Mother's Day...with great joy. Enjoy, and don't hesitate to share your comments here.
Monday, April 30, 2012
If I were Amish
If I were Amish, my life would likely consist of a three-mile radius.
Providing I was the Amish woman who worked in an inspirational carvings store in Walnut Creek, Ohio. I know this because she told me. She, who lives in the largest Amish settlement in the world, a settlement which boasts over 35,000 Amish, lives her entire life in the space of three miles. Good thing, too, because she travels by buggy or bicycle. The farthest she has ever been is Pennsylvania, where she has some cousins.
So I told this young woman, who seemed simply at ease in her simple blue frock and bonnet, that I'd always wondered what it would be like to live in an intentional local community like that. She half-smiled with pity in her eyes. Or perhaps I just imagined it.
I dared not tell her that I was driving one way to seminary and another way to serve as a part-time pastor, that my husband cooks, or that I had an iPhone in my purse that serves as my life's central command station. I'm not sure she could have borne all that news without weeping for me. Being in an intentional community of simplicity, a community in which every shop I entered was playing Christian music, and in which Amish of every age were bicycling over the hills in the wind and rain made ME feel like the outsider.
That is as it should be. Sitting in the der Dutchman restaurant, the only available dinner choice in town, I overheard a waitress greeting a woman with a head covering. The waitress approached her family, which included several good-sized children and said "I know you!" "What did your last name change to when you got married? Ah, yes, Yoder. Of course."
And I wondered what it would be like to be that woman. What if my last name were Yoder instead of Burden? What if my circle were small, but my faith was large? What if I cleaned and cooked for a living and found abundant satisfaction in simple things? What if I didn't have insurance, but knew my neighbors would come through for me come hell or high water? What if?
I wandered into a thrift store last Thursday and saw a teenage Amish girl in very conservative dress eyeing some black ballet-type shoes. She tried them on, sticking her foot out to admire them. And I tried to imagine what she must be thinking. Well, they aren't practical, but they are inexpensive. Would mother and father approve? Where could I wear them? and finally, They make me feel beautiful. At that, I left the store, leaving her to continue to admire them, to toss the idea around one more time, to decide if her life could embrace a pair of delicate ballet flats, to imagine herself wearing them somewhere nice.
And this is where I decided we are not entirely different after all. In Walnut Creek and the nearby Sugar Creek community, Amish farms butt up to hotels and restaurants, thrift stores and gift shops. It is a dizzying mix of simplicity and tourist traps—and Amish and Mennonite locals are at its center. Abstaining from the world through radical nonconformity, the many different sects are content to get their goods into the marketplace and make an honest profit.
So this rag-tag mix of what the world considers misfits thrives, bolstered by thrifty living, laboring close to the earth and God's animals, enjoying a simple rhythm that 99% of the United States of America will never know or appreciate. This devotion, rooted in their Christian faith, attracts thousands of curious visitors, many of us wistfully longing for a simpler time and pace. So many of us want the same things. The Amish, however, are willing to forgo normal to maintain Christian simplicity.
It's not a perfect life, but I admire them for it.
If I were Amish, my life would likely consist of a three-mile radius. And my relationships—in person and offline—just might go deeper than I've ever dreamed.
Your turn: What appeals to you about Amish faith and simplicity? What do you think the Amish can teach us about living more authentically?
 |
| Amish buggy in Walnut Creek, Ohio |
So I told this young woman, who seemed simply at ease in her simple blue frock and bonnet, that I'd always wondered what it would be like to live in an intentional local community like that. She half-smiled with pity in her eyes. Or perhaps I just imagined it.
I dared not tell her that I was driving one way to seminary and another way to serve as a part-time pastor, that my husband cooks, or that I had an iPhone in my purse that serves as my life's central command station. I'm not sure she could have borne all that news without weeping for me. Being in an intentional community of simplicity, a community in which every shop I entered was playing Christian music, and in which Amish of every age were bicycling over the hills in the wind and rain made ME feel like the outsider.
 |
| David, surrounded by "peace and comfort" |
And I wondered what it would be like to be that woman. What if my last name were Yoder instead of Burden? What if my circle were small, but my faith was large? What if I cleaned and cooked for a living and found abundant satisfaction in simple things? What if I didn't have insurance, but knew my neighbors would come through for me come hell or high water? What if?
I wandered into a thrift store last Thursday and saw a teenage Amish girl in very conservative dress eyeing some black ballet-type shoes. She tried them on, sticking her foot out to admire them. And I tried to imagine what she must be thinking. Well, they aren't practical, but they are inexpensive. Would mother and father approve? Where could I wear them? and finally, They make me feel beautiful. At that, I left the store, leaving her to continue to admire them, to toss the idea around one more time, to decide if her life could embrace a pair of delicate ballet flats, to imagine herself wearing them somewhere nice.
 |
| der rolling hills |
And this is where I decided we are not entirely different after all. In Walnut Creek and the nearby Sugar Creek community, Amish farms butt up to hotels and restaurants, thrift stores and gift shops. It is a dizzying mix of simplicity and tourist traps—and Amish and Mennonite locals are at its center. Abstaining from the world through radical nonconformity, the many different sects are content to get their goods into the marketplace and make an honest profit.
So this rag-tag mix of what the world considers misfits thrives, bolstered by thrifty living, laboring close to the earth and God's animals, enjoying a simple rhythm that 99% of the United States of America will never know or appreciate. This devotion, rooted in their Christian faith, attracts thousands of curious visitors, many of us wistfully longing for a simpler time and pace. So many of us want the same things. The Amish, however, are willing to forgo normal to maintain Christian simplicity.
It's not a perfect life, but I admire them for it.
If I were Amish, my life would likely consist of a three-mile radius. And my relationships—in person and offline—just might go deeper than I've ever dreamed.
Your turn: What appeals to you about Amish faith and simplicity? What do you think the Amish can teach us about living more authentically?
Monday, April 9, 2012
What if Easter teaches us to let go?
I can only speak for myself—but Holy week was exhausting. I'm not sure a pastor is supposed to say that, but there it is.
In a strange way, I felt that I was giving birth to something wild and wonderful. It was a privilege to be involved with both Good Friday services and to read so many of the passages dealing with Jesus' death and sacrifice to our congregation. To serve communion twice in one evening, to have the privilege of saying to young and old, "The body of Christ, broken for you" as they took the elements, remembering. I felt as if I had entered the Story in a new and fresh way, as if I was there, as if I was witnessing the horror and the desertion of the disciples, the blood, and the final cry declaring it was done. Over. Finished.
Then there was the earliness of Easter morning—but unlike the female disciples who ran to anoint his body for burial, I was simply helping to set up breakfast for our choir and orchestra. Elements of a different kind. The rush of the celebration followed by smiles of victory, the Easter song, hands raised to the Risen Savior, folks crying out in song, "Worthy is the Lamb!"
Hands to shake, girls twirling their skirts, guests to welcome, the lonely to hug, workers to encourage. Easter dinner with family, warm fellowship, laughter, remembering, observing grief of loss loved ones together, being.
Any sane person would have let it at that. Perhaps I should have.
And yet. Although it would have been easy to skip the Sunday night Bible study for women in addiction recovery, something told me that would be passing up an opportunity I didn't want to miss. Bible studies teach themselves on Resurrection Sunday, as people yearn for the details of Christ's death and the story of the empty tomb. On at least this one day of the year, they want to know what it means to them. And, of course it means everything. New life. The old has gone. The new has come!
So I went, laboring over the story with enthusiasm, engaging them as if we were there, reading John's account with excitement and joy. As my voice began to strain from all the speaking, my heart threatened to give way as well. Two of the women who have been a vital part of our study, engaged, attentive, those in whom Jesus appeared to be doing something so beautiful, ditched the whole recovery program. Without a goodbye. These are the times I feel betrayed, when my heart begins to question what God is doing there. Although I knew better, I wanted to punch a wall. My love for them made me feel like my heart might explode, and I wanted to run from the brokenness of it all.
You see, while you were enjoying your Easter, dressing up in your Sunday best, doing Easter-like things and enjoying yourself, hopefully remembering Resurrection Day—others were wondering how they will go on at all.
People were running back to the addictions that destroyed them. They were crying over failed marriages, wondering how they will pay their rent this month, begging God to bring them a job, wondering what they will do about an unplanned pregnancy.
I guess I never thought about this before getting involved in the middle of the mess; now I think about it all the time.
As I went to bed last night under a cloud of grief, I couldn't even name what I would need today to allow my spirit to be restored. It turns out what I needed most, more than anything, was a simple time of communing with God. In the book Celebration of Discipline, we are studying Christian meditation and the power of Christ transforming us in these silent, surrendered places.
And so this morning I practiced the simple exercise of holding my hands down, as I tearfully released all those persons and situations in which my heart aches for resolution and grace to prevail. The tension began to drain as I slowly let go. Hands up, I received the grace of our Savior, asking for his empowerment in every area of my life I could think of, accepting his sufficiency and the empowerment the Holy Spirit gives to each of His children.
The key thing is this—I received.
No one can force this newness of life on those who insist on clinging to the old, but it is available all the same. And that is the only truth that allows me to let go. It's been a bumpy Easter, but today my soul is being fed, nurtured, watered. And finally, strengthened. That is the only place—this quiet, surrendered place—from which new life and hope can come again.
Do you practice Christian meditation? How does reflecting on God change your heart, your outlook, and your life?
In a strange way, I felt that I was giving birth to something wild and wonderful. It was a privilege to be involved with both Good Friday services and to read so many of the passages dealing with Jesus' death and sacrifice to our congregation. To serve communion twice in one evening, to have the privilege of saying to young and old, "The body of Christ, broken for you" as they took the elements, remembering. I felt as if I had entered the Story in a new and fresh way, as if I was there, as if I was witnessing the horror and the desertion of the disciples, the blood, and the final cry declaring it was done. Over. Finished.
Then there was the earliness of Easter morning—but unlike the female disciples who ran to anoint his body for burial, I was simply helping to set up breakfast for our choir and orchestra. Elements of a different kind. The rush of the celebration followed by smiles of victory, the Easter song, hands raised to the Risen Savior, folks crying out in song, "Worthy is the Lamb!"
Hands to shake, girls twirling their skirts, guests to welcome, the lonely to hug, workers to encourage. Easter dinner with family, warm fellowship, laughter, remembering, observing grief of loss loved ones together, being.
Any sane person would have let it at that. Perhaps I should have.
And yet. Although it would have been easy to skip the Sunday night Bible study for women in addiction recovery, something told me that would be passing up an opportunity I didn't want to miss. Bible studies teach themselves on Resurrection Sunday, as people yearn for the details of Christ's death and the story of the empty tomb. On at least this one day of the year, they want to know what it means to them. And, of course it means everything. New life. The old has gone. The new has come!
So I went, laboring over the story with enthusiasm, engaging them as if we were there, reading John's account with excitement and joy. As my voice began to strain from all the speaking, my heart threatened to give way as well. Two of the women who have been a vital part of our study, engaged, attentive, those in whom Jesus appeared to be doing something so beautiful, ditched the whole recovery program. Without a goodbye. These are the times I feel betrayed, when my heart begins to question what God is doing there. Although I knew better, I wanted to punch a wall. My love for them made me feel like my heart might explode, and I wanted to run from the brokenness of it all.
You see, while you were enjoying your Easter, dressing up in your Sunday best, doing Easter-like things and enjoying yourself, hopefully remembering Resurrection Day—others were wondering how they will go on at all.
People were running back to the addictions that destroyed them. They were crying over failed marriages, wondering how they will pay their rent this month, begging God to bring them a job, wondering what they will do about an unplanned pregnancy.
I guess I never thought about this before getting involved in the middle of the mess; now I think about it all the time.
As I went to bed last night under a cloud of grief, I couldn't even name what I would need today to allow my spirit to be restored. It turns out what I needed most, more than anything, was a simple time of communing with God. In the book Celebration of Discipline, we are studying Christian meditation and the power of Christ transforming us in these silent, surrendered places.
And so this morning I practiced the simple exercise of holding my hands down, as I tearfully released all those persons and situations in which my heart aches for resolution and grace to prevail. The tension began to drain as I slowly let go. Hands up, I received the grace of our Savior, asking for his empowerment in every area of my life I could think of, accepting his sufficiency and the empowerment the Holy Spirit gives to each of His children.
The key thing is this—I received.
No one can force this newness of life on those who insist on clinging to the old, but it is available all the same. And that is the only truth that allows me to let go. It's been a bumpy Easter, but today my soul is being fed, nurtured, watered. And finally, strengthened. That is the only place—this quiet, surrendered place—from which new life and hope can come again.
Do you practice Christian meditation? How does reflecting on God change your heart, your outlook, and your life?
Thursday, March 29, 2012
What I like about my church
Tired of "10 Things the Church Needs to Change" posts and "5 Reasons Young People are Leaving the Church" posts, ad nauseum?
Then have I got a post for you.
Because I really dig my church. And the fact that I dig it at this stage while serving as a part-time pastor is a profound experience—because I'm seeing it like it is, warts and all. And, I suppose, if prodded, I could list its downsides. But truthfully, there is just no need. The Spirit of God moves in our midst, lives are changed, healing from addiction and the bondage of sin is happening all around me, folks are getting baptized, people are giving enough furniture for an apartment to single mothers who need furniture. The food pantry is feeding people. Trips to Haiti to build medical clinics are impacting fragile lives. And people are coming in to my office, begging to know how to grow closer to God.
The next time someone asks me what I do I just might blurt out: "Watch God transform lives. How about you?"
So forgive my enthusiasm, will you? More than any other church I've ever claimed to be a part of, the presence of Jesus is visible all around me, folks are putting feet to their faith. Just last Sunday, we had a baptism and membership service, and I got to stand up and tell the congregation about A., a young woman who got in a car accident that might have severely injured her and her infant son—and yet she emerged without a scratch. She felt God telling her to return to him, to find a church, and since she drives by ours, we were the first target. I called her. She started coming to my Sunday School class. I started discipling her. And before I knew it, she had downloaded every Christian book ever mentioned by anyone in our class. And read every one.
I came very close to dancing down the aisle after Pastor Rex and I baptized her, and she came up from the water, sparkling and clean, smiling and whole.
There is an eagerness that follows true repentance that splashes off these new believers, all over me, reminding me of the new life in Christ that is ours. Not long ago, someone at church mentioned how he had been set free from his pornography addiction just two weeks after he accepted Christ. He deleted the girlie pictures and replaced them with Christian music, just like that. And I asked him what helped him overcome the addiction—believing that surely it was an accountability program or a mentor or something—all of which, I'm convinced, are powerful tools. And he simply said, "Jesus Christ," with tears in his eyes.
So pardon the effusiveness. Please overlook my gush. But I belong to a church that loves in the name of Jesus, where He changes lives over and over again, where a woman can joyfully serve in any capacity when God has so gifted and called her.
And that is what Ilike—I mean, love, about my church.
"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he or she is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!"
-2 Corinthians 5:17
Your turn: What do you like—or love—about your church family?
Then have I got a post for you.
Because I really dig my church. And the fact that I dig it at this stage while serving as a part-time pastor is a profound experience—because I'm seeing it like it is, warts and all. And, I suppose, if prodded, I could list its downsides. But truthfully, there is just no need. The Spirit of God moves in our midst, lives are changed, healing from addiction and the bondage of sin is happening all around me, folks are getting baptized, people are giving enough furniture for an apartment to single mothers who need furniture. The food pantry is feeding people. Trips to Haiti to build medical clinics are impacting fragile lives. And people are coming in to my office, begging to know how to grow closer to God.
The next time someone asks me what I do I just might blurt out: "Watch God transform lives. How about you?"
So forgive my enthusiasm, will you? More than any other church I've ever claimed to be a part of, the presence of Jesus is visible all around me, folks are putting feet to their faith. Just last Sunday, we had a baptism and membership service, and I got to stand up and tell the congregation about A., a young woman who got in a car accident that might have severely injured her and her infant son—and yet she emerged without a scratch. She felt God telling her to return to him, to find a church, and since she drives by ours, we were the first target. I called her. She started coming to my Sunday School class. I started discipling her. And before I knew it, she had downloaded every Christian book ever mentioned by anyone in our class. And read every one.
I came very close to dancing down the aisle after Pastor Rex and I baptized her, and she came up from the water, sparkling and clean, smiling and whole.
There is an eagerness that follows true repentance that splashes off these new believers, all over me, reminding me of the new life in Christ that is ours. Not long ago, someone at church mentioned how he had been set free from his pornography addiction just two weeks after he accepted Christ. He deleted the girlie pictures and replaced them with Christian music, just like that. And I asked him what helped him overcome the addiction—believing that surely it was an accountability program or a mentor or something—all of which, I'm convinced, are powerful tools. And he simply said, "Jesus Christ," with tears in his eyes.
So pardon the effusiveness. Please overlook my gush. But I belong to a church that loves in the name of Jesus, where He changes lives over and over again, where a woman can joyfully serve in any capacity when God has so gifted and called her.
And that is what I
"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he or she is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!"
-2 Corinthians 5:17
Your turn: What do you like—or love—about your church family?
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Saying goodbye to Ferd
"Well, that was pretty good!" he said, smiling, after my sermon.
My 88-year-old father-in-law was sitting in the back row, just in case he needed to slip out. I was surprised that he heard every word. To him, "pretty good" meant what I would consider "great," and so his words warmed my heart. My father died from cancer several years before giving a sermon was even a possibility for me, so Ferd's support meant so much. I'm not sure he knew how much. At one point I would have assumed he wasn't at all sure about seeing a woman behind a pulpit. Blessedly, his actions proved that assumption wrong. My husband, David, was also beaming. Today, I wrap this memory up with a string, cradling it like a treasure.
Ferd's multi-faceted personality and life make him an enigma to me. He arrived a generation before my own parents and could have been my grandfather. A World War II vet who served in the Merchant Marines on the Pacific, he easily lived nine lives. There was the accident shipboard where he moved for what seemed like no apparent reason before a piece of machinery crashed down where he had been standing. Without moving, he surely would have been killed. With 12 siblings total, his family's constant prayers of protection surrounded him.
There was the colorful story of Ferd serving in Papua New Guinea, when he was surrounded in the woods by indigenous people. With laughter, he described pulling the cigarettes from his pocket and giving them as a peace offering. A few of his grandchildren sat there with their mouths open at the mention of nicotine. Ferd gave up smoking in his late 20s, a lifetime ago.
He lived through the Great Depression and hated to spend a dime. Married at the age of 39 and promptly had five children in rapid succession. All but one of them are still living. Survived a chemical spill to his face at the BF Goodrich factory, had a heart attack and lived to tell about it, and also recuperated from a life-threatening stroke several years ago.
After he recovered from that stroke, he began praying at family gatherings again, and inevitably his invocations would simply begin: "Our Father, we love ya...."
My brother-in-law, Jay, remembers waking up in the middle of the night in his childhood and finding his dad in the kitchen with a flashlight, poring over his Bible. It was the King James' Version, of course. No one could ever successfully convince him that this isn't the only (or even the best) translation of the Bible, though many have tried. (Me included.) I'm not sure I've personally known someone who is so familiar with Scripture that if you asked him where something was he could name chapter and verse.
At yesterday's funeral for Ferd, following his death from kidney failure last Tuesday, a holy understanding permeated the sanctuary and words of deep love rang through the church. As my sister-in-law Shellie read a tribute, she shared words that had been given to his grandson Malachi at his 13th birthday: "I'm going to live another 20 years. And you can, too, Malachi, if you read the Scriptures. The Scriptures will bless you."
A man at Ferd's country church of 40 years stopped me in the hall yesterday. I really will miss him, he said, his eyes misting. He didn't speak that often, but oh, when he opened his mouth, you knew he had something so important to say. You wanted to listen.
We are still listening, Ferd. Listening to your legacy. I cannot imagine the sight that greeted you when you slipped away this week, leaving the pill bottles and the congestive heart failure and the bad kidneys behind. Although it still seems like a lifetime, we are not far away. And we will never forget you or the God you purposed to love all your days.
Say hello to Laura for us. And when you get to it, say hello to my Dad, too. I can't imagine how thrilled he'll be to hear from you.
My 88-year-old father-in-law was sitting in the back row, just in case he needed to slip out. I was surprised that he heard every word. To him, "pretty good" meant what I would consider "great," and so his words warmed my heart. My father died from cancer several years before giving a sermon was even a possibility for me, so Ferd's support meant so much. I'm not sure he knew how much. At one point I would have assumed he wasn't at all sure about seeing a woman behind a pulpit. Blessedly, his actions proved that assumption wrong. My husband, David, was also beaming. Today, I wrap this memory up with a string, cradling it like a treasure.
 |
| Ferd Burden, Jr., 2/19/23-3/13/12 |
There was the colorful story of Ferd serving in Papua New Guinea, when he was surrounded in the woods by indigenous people. With laughter, he described pulling the cigarettes from his pocket and giving them as a peace offering. A few of his grandchildren sat there with their mouths open at the mention of nicotine. Ferd gave up smoking in his late 20s, a lifetime ago.
He lived through the Great Depression and hated to spend a dime. Married at the age of 39 and promptly had five children in rapid succession. All but one of them are still living. Survived a chemical spill to his face at the BF Goodrich factory, had a heart attack and lived to tell about it, and also recuperated from a life-threatening stroke several years ago.
After he recovered from that stroke, he began praying at family gatherings again, and inevitably his invocations would simply begin: "Our Father, we love ya...."
My brother-in-law, Jay, remembers waking up in the middle of the night in his childhood and finding his dad in the kitchen with a flashlight, poring over his Bible. It was the King James' Version, of course. No one could ever successfully convince him that this isn't the only (or even the best) translation of the Bible, though many have tried. (Me included.) I'm not sure I've personally known someone who is so familiar with Scripture that if you asked him where something was he could name chapter and verse.
At yesterday's funeral for Ferd, following his death from kidney failure last Tuesday, a holy understanding permeated the sanctuary and words of deep love rang through the church. As my sister-in-law Shellie read a tribute, she shared words that had been given to his grandson Malachi at his 13th birthday: "I'm going to live another 20 years. And you can, too, Malachi, if you read the Scriptures. The Scriptures will bless you."
A man at Ferd's country church of 40 years stopped me in the hall yesterday. I really will miss him, he said, his eyes misting. He didn't speak that often, but oh, when he opened his mouth, you knew he had something so important to say. You wanted to listen.
We are still listening, Ferd. Listening to your legacy. I cannot imagine the sight that greeted you when you slipped away this week, leaving the pill bottles and the congestive heart failure and the bad kidneys behind. Although it still seems like a lifetime, we are not far away. And we will never forget you or the God you purposed to love all your days.
Say hello to Laura for us. And when you get to it, say hello to my Dad, too. I can't imagine how thrilled he'll be to hear from you.
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