I still can hardly believe it. I, with shriveled, bent fingers, atrophied muscles, gnarled knees, and no feeling from the shoulders down, will one day have a new body, light, bright, and clothed in righteousness—powerful and dazzling. Can you imagine the hope this gives someone spinal-cord injured like me? Or someone who is cerebral palsied, brain-injured, or who has multiple sclerosis? Imagine the hope this gives someone who is manic-depressive. No other religion, no other philosophy promises new bodies, hearts, and minds. Only in the Gospel of Christ do hurting people find such incredible hope.
Joni Eareckson Tada

Nutty Old Family Times

Nutty Old Family Times

Nutty Ol’ Family Times.
by: Charles Swindoll

Someday when the kids are grown, things are going to be a lot different. The garage won’t be full of bikes, electric train tracks on plywood, sawhorses surrounded by chinks of two-by-fours, nails, a hammer and saw, unfinished “experimental projects” and the rabbit cage. I’ll be able to park both cars neatly in just the right places, and never again stumble over skate boards, a pile of papers (saved for the school fund drive), or the bag of rabbit food-now split and spilled!

Someday when the kids are grown, the kitchen will be incredibly neat. The sink will be free of sticky dishes, the garbage disposal won’t get choked on rubber bands or paper cups, the refrigerator won’t be clogged with nine bottles of milk, and we won’t lose the tops to jelly jars, catsup bottles, the peanut butter, the margarine or the mustard. The water jar won’t be put back empty, the ice trays won’t be left out overnight, the blender won’t stand for six hours coated with the remains of a midnight malt, and the honey will stay inside the container.

Someday when the kids are grown, my lovely wife will actually have time to get dressed leisurely. A long, hot bath (without three panic interruptions), time to do her nails (even toenails if she pleases!) without answering a dozen questions and reviewing spelling words, having had her hair done that afternoon without trying to squeeze it in between racing a sick dog to the vet and a trip to the orthodontist with a kid in a bad mood because she lost her headgear.

Someday when the kids are grown, the instrument called a “telephone” will actually be available. It won’t look like it’s growing from a teenager’s ear. It will simply hang there… silently and amazingly available! It will be free of lipstick, human saliva, mayonnaise, corn chip crumbs, and toothpicks stuck in those little holes.

Someday when the kids are grown. I’ll be able to see through the car windows. Fingerprints, tongue licks, sneaker footprints, and dog tracks (nobody knows how) will be conspicuous by their absence. The back seat won’t be a disaster area, we won’t sit on jacks or crayons anymore, the tank will not always be somewhere between empty and fumes, and (glory to God!) I won’t have to clean up dog messes another time.

Someday when the kids are grown, we will return to normal conversations. You know, just plain American talk. “Gross” won’t punctuate every sentence seven times. “Yuk!” will not be heard. “Hurry up, I gotta go!” will not accompany the banging of fists on the bathroom door. “It’s my turn” won’t call for a referee. And a magazine article will be read in full without interruption, then discussed at length without mom and dad having to hide in the attic to finish the conversation.

Someday when the kids are grown, we won’t run out of toilet tissue. My wife won’t lose her keys. We won’t forget to shut the refrigerator door, I won’t have to dream up new ways of diverting attention from the gumball machine…or have to answer “Daddy, is it a sin that you’re driving 47 in a 30-mile-per-hour sone?”… or promise to kiss the rabbit goodnight… or wait up forever until they get home from dates… or have the take a number to get a word in at the supper table… or endure the pious pounding of one Keith Green just below the level of acute pain.

Yes, someday when the kids are grown, things are going to be a lot different. One by one they’ll leave our nest, and the place will begin to resemble order and maybe even a touch of elegance. The clink of china and silver will be heard on occasion. The crackling of the fireplace will echo through the hallway. The phone will be strangely silent. The house will be quiet… and calm… and always clean… and empty… and filled with memories… and lonely… and we won’t like that at all. And we’ll spend our time not looking forward to Someday but looking back to Yesterday. And thinking, “Maybe we can baby-sit the grandkids and get some life back in this place for a change.”

Try all you like, you simply cannot find a substitute for the family. God planned it that way. In spite of all we’re reading and seeing these days designed to make us think we’ve entered the family-phase-out era, don’t you believe it!! There is nothing on earth that comes close to the benefits derived from relationships revolving around our roots. Nothing.

Edith Schaeffer’s book: What is a Family? offers some wise and meaningful answers: -the birthplace of creativity -a shelter in the time of storm -a perpetual relay of truth -a door that has hinges and a lock -an educational control -a museum of memories Sometimes those family memories are absolutely hilarious.

I think back to an incident around the Swindoll supper table.

Before the meal began I suggested to Curtis (who was 6) that he should serve Charissa (she was 4) before he served himself. Naturally, he wondered why since the platter of chicken sat directly in front of him… and he was hungry as a lion. I explained it is p@polite for fellas to serve girls before they serve themselves. The rule sounded weird, but he was willing… as long as she didn’t take too long.

Well, you’d never believe what occurred. After prayer, he picked up the huge platter, held it for his sister, and asked which piece of chicken she wanted.

She relished all that attention. Being quite young, however, she had no idea which piece was which. So, very seriously, she replied, “I’d like the foot.”

He glanced in my direction, frowned as the hunger pains shot through his stomach, then looked at her and said, “Uh… Charissa, Mother doesn’t cook the foot!” To which she replied, “Where is it?” With increased anxiety he answered (a bit louder),

“I don’t know! The foot is somewhere else, not on this platter. Look, choose a piece. Hurry up.”

She studied the platter and said, “OK, just give me the hand.”

By now their mother and father were biting their lips to restrain from laughing out loud. We would have intervened, but decided to let them work it out alone. That’s part of the training process. “A chicken doesn’t have a hand, it has a wing, Charissa.” “I had the wing, Curtis… Oh, go ahead and give me the head.” By then I was headed for the bathroom. I couldn’t

hold my laughter and longer. Curtis was totally beside himself. His sister was totally frustrated, not being able to get the piece she wanted.

Realizing his irritation with her and the absence of a foot or hand or head, she finally said in an exasperated tone, “Oh, all right! I’ll take the belly button!”

That did it! He reached in, grabbed a piece, and said, “That’s the best I can do.” He gave her the breast, which was about as close to the belly button as he could get.

Fun, Just plain ol’ nutty times when hearty laughs and silly remarks dull the edge of life’s razorsharp demands and intensity. Families and fun go together like whipped cream on a hot fudge sundae.

Other times those family memories are deeply profound and stabilizing. Who can forget the impact of a father’s strong arms around the shoulders of his kids following the loss of someone they all loved? Or the comfort communicated by a mother’s embrace? Or the hope generated through a family discussion when stress had reached an all-time high? Or how about those occasions when you needed to talk… to let it all out… and a brother or sister was willing just to listen without preaching or even frowning? Families and encouragement mix well together.

Occasionally, God gives a family memory that becomes so deep a crease in the brain that time can never erase it. Pause a moment and meditate on Solomon’s psalm: Unless the Lord builds the house, They labor in vain who build it… Behold, children are a gift of the Lord, The fruit of the womb is a reward… How blessed is the whose quiver is full of them (127:1,3,5). Three questions emerge from this discussion: 1. Is the Lord really building your home? Stop and think. 2. Do you view the kiddos as His gift, His reward?

Gifts and rewards in life are usually treated with special care, you know.

3. Are you genuinely happy with your full quiver? Is it pleasant for the family to be with you?

Face it, friend. When we allow the tyranny of the urgent- the everincreasing demands- to siphon out tank of energy and interest so that the family is left with nothing but the fumes of broken promises and empty dreams, we are laboring in vain! We are substituting the artificial for the authentic. And that includes Christians who are so busy in “the Lord’s work” (?) they haven’t time for the home. What a sad contradiction their lives are!

It isn’t a question of “Am I building memories?” but “What kind?”

Start this week. Right away, in fact. How about tonight? Get reacquainted with those folks who live under your roof and eat at your table and bear your name… and prefer you to any substitute. God planned it that way, remember.

<<end of file>>