How Can I Keep From Singing

An old Lutheran hymn touched me deeply. I just have to share it somewhere!

"My Life Flows On in Endless Song,"

1 My life flows on in endless song;
above earth's lamentation,
I catch the sweet, though far-off hymn
that hails a new creation.

Refrain
No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that Rock I'm clinging.
Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth,
how can I keep from singing?

2 Through all the tumult and the strife,
I hear that music ringing.
It finds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

Refrain

3 What though my joys and comforts die?
The Lord my Savior liveth.
What though the darkness gather round?
Songs in the night he giveth.

Refrain

4 The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,
a fountain ever springing!
All things are mine since I am his!
How can I keep from singing?

Refrain

Thanks ye old hymn writer!

With a song in my heart,
SoulSongWriter

Doxology

Early one morning some years ago, Robert Raines wrote how he got into his car and started driving through the mountains. There was no one on the road as the mountains were quietly beginning a new day. The beautiful colors of autumn were splashed all over the trees (A great image of the coolness of an autumn mountain is always comforting to me during a heat wave). It was a magnificent and glorious sight as the early morning sun glistened upon the wonders of the mountains and the valleys below.


And then it happened… Robert Raines saw one of the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed in his life.


Right there at the very edge of that great mountain peak and facing the gorgeous valley below… was a young man in his early twenties with a trumpet pressed to his lips. And, do you know what he was playing? With his lungs expanded fully and releasing all of the energy in his soul, he was playing the Doxology on his trumpet! The traditional words are:


Praise God from whom all blessings flow
Praise Him all creatures here below
Praise Him above ye heavenly host
Praise, Father, Son and Holy Ghost!


Our Chalice Hymnal has the alternate words:


Praise God from whom all blessings flow
Praise God all creatures here below
Praise God above ye heavenly hosts:
Creator, Christ, and Holy Ghost.


The point is clear: With all the stresses and problems in this life, still the truth is:
- We have so many doxologies to sing,
- So much to be grateful for,
- So many blessings to count.


The point is: Life is more than a grueling endurance test. Life is more than a survival game. Life is more than a coping competition.


So, you see… it’s not enough to just escape the stress. It’s not enough to just endure the stress. Thank God… there is another option…

With a Song in my Heart,
SoulSongWriter

Praying is Sometimes Selfish Praying

I had a few things on my mind to share this week, but they seem to have been swept away as I watched coverage of the Oklahoma storm tonight (Tuesday). Now my ideas seem trivial seeing so many suffering such loss and so widespread. I’ve been talking frequently with God tonight, and must confess that yes some of those prayers were the “selfish prayers”, but more about that in a minute. My two grandchildren are in El Reno with their dad for the first six weeks of summer and they were just too damned close to that storm. Tonight they are safe along with the rest of their dad’s family.

And there were other family members who were also in my prayers. Every one of Linda’s brothers and sister were in one of the tornadoes’ paths: Mike in Piedmont, Teresa in Cashion, Bobby in Norman. Along with other nieces and nephews scattered around Oklahoma City. Then there are friends in just about every town listed tonight in storm coverage. One couple who lived West of El Reno has lost their home and all their possessions. Tonight Scott is sleeping in his car at their home site and M’Lynn is at Mercy Hospital in OKC where her brother is in critical condition after a fall earlier in the day. Not to mention that I still have not been able to find out information about a friend in Joplin, MO where a tornado destroyed much of the town Sunday night.

It is natural for us to say selfish prayers when loved ones are in harm’s way. But on an evening filled with storms can we truly expect that our prayers can steer storms away from our loved ones? What about those who perished in this evening’s storms? Didn’t they have someone praying for them? Is my prayer somehow better than someone else’s prayer? Why would God consider my grandchild more important than that three year old who is missing tonight outside of Piedmont? What would it say about God who answers one person’s prayer over another’s prayer? Do you see the dilemma? Many of our prayers are selfish. When we do what we can reasonably do, we should expect the same from God. And we need to spend more of our daily prayer time, listening to God. Listening is very much a part of our relationship with God. Every day is a journey with God. We are in relationship with God, not just asking for things in case of emergency.

Let me illustrate this way. Knowing what we know about automobile accidents, do we use seatbelts? Do we buckle our children into the recommended seats and restraint belts? Or do we depend upon our superior driving skills combined with the strength of our right arm to hold a child safely in place at impact? Oh and, either way we pray that God will keep us safe on our journeys. Accidents happen! We know that. Even with superior driving skills, accidents happen. It is imperative for us to do everything we can do to safely travel but accidents happen. Storms happen! People get hurt, die, and lose property every day somewhere in accidents and storms.

So, when I’m praying for friends and loved ones during storm season, I’m praying for their safety in that they hear the same warnings I’m hearing, and that they will take precautions as they are able. To pray “God protect my grandchildren” is to pray that they have adults around them making sound decisions and doing their very best to secure shelter. Then my daily relationship with God helps make me great enough to accept when accidents happen and storms destroy.

Let me know what you think on this subject. What do you pray in times of storms?

With a song in my heart,
SoulSongWriter

In the Sharing of the Bread

A friend once told me, “If we would but speak the same language, there would be no war.”

To protect her identity I shall simply call her Becky. World War 2 broke out to the East from her home of Russelsheim, Germany. Located along the Main River just a few miles from where the Main and Rheine Rivers come together. The Rheine Main Region has long been known as a fertile agricultural plain.

Her dad was a finance worker for the Opel car manufacturing company which made her hometown a center of commerce since 1898 when Adam Opel, the founder manufactured his first automobile. He worked for the auto company until all the men were called up to serve in the German Army. There was no choice, either you served or you were shot and your family shunned. All of the able bodied men from Russelsheim were sent to the Russian front.

Becky was the second of two daughters. She has wonderful memories of her dad. He rode a motorcycle the few short miles to the auto plant offices. She remembers thrilling rides in the motorcycle’s side-car when she was small and she knew she was a big girl when she graduated to riding behind him on the seat. The country roads were a delight as he taught her to lean into the curves, lean to the right, to the left, and back to the right. One winter he walked with her through fresh snow three or four miles to Mainz, where he bought her a sled and pulled her all the way home on the snow covered road. She remembers hours and hours of sledding down a nearby hill.

In the summer months she and her best friend a nearby neighbor, they lived in a new home on the edge of Russelsheim where all of the prominent auto workers lived, played marbles. Her friend Karl was a sneaky marble player. I reckon German children played keepers as well. Karl was competitive and sneaky in all chidren’s games. Becky was fed up with his tactics, yelling and calling him a name she stormed into the house and right into her dad. He had observed the whole episode and that day she learned not to call anyone a name. Her dad spanked her for the only time she could remember. And it hurt, not because he spanked with any force, but because he was her daddy and he of all the people she loved, gave her a spanking. She had let him down and she learned to never call anyone a name.

And then the war came. Her dad loaded on to a bus in a long line of buses and there she saw him for the last time. On the Russian front early in Hitler’s war, Becky’s dad perished. By the age of seven she knew not to call anyone bad names, but she also learned prejudice and hatred. The Russians killed her dad and she hated anything Russian with all her being.

A few short years later she would experience first hand the shear terror of war, when Russelsheim was targeted for bombing by the allied forces. Her mom taught her a survival faith through the long nights of bombing. The sirens would sound and the girls would huddle with their mom in the basement. She would settle them to restless sleep with the assurance that God would take care of them. God would provide. As Becky speaks, she closes her eyes and nods in the affirmative, yes, God would provide. Every time the Oklahoma storm sirens sound and she hears the thunder, she remembers, God will provide.

During the time of the bombings she witnessed a most evil event of the war right there in her hometown. History tells it this way:

During World War II, Russelsheim was bombed several times by the British RAF. The RAF followed a policy of "area bombing" of cities. The day after one such bombing, August 26th, 1944, an American B-24 Liberator was shot down after bombing nearby Hanover (American policy did not allow for area bombing as did the British; the American crew had been bombing an airport). The nine member America crew was captured and under guard was placed on a train to a POW camp routed thorough Russlesheim. Due to damage done to the railyards, the captured crew and their guards were forced to alight and walk to another location to catch another train. During this walk, the townspeople of Russelsheim saw the crew and vented their anger on the crew, shouting insults and spitting. Assuming the crew were "Canadians" and that they had taken part in the bombing of their town the night before, this group grew larger. One woman shouted out "There are the terror flyers. Tear them to pieces! Beat them to death! They have destroyed our houses!" She threw a brick at the crew and that precipitated a riot during which the townsfolk attacked the crew with rocks, hammers, lumber and shovels. Six of the crew were killed. A local Nazi official administered a final shot to four of the men. The bodies of the dead crew were hidden at the rear, outside of the town cemetery. (Wikipedia, Russelheim)

Why, as a child she did not understand, how could she? But the Americans were buried outside the fence of their community cemetery.

Before the bombing, before the mob’s riot at the tender age of seven, her heart broken knowing, remembering her dad would never return home, Becky learned a lesson so profound that it would change her life and faith.

Across the river in the neighboring town of Florsheim lived some Russian men. Whether they were deserters or prisoners of war, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. These men would walk the seven or eight miles from Florsheim to Russelsheim to work for food and survival. One day after school Becky was doing her homework at the kitchen table when a man knocked at their front door. Becky could hear most of the conversation between the man and her mom as they stood on the front stoop. He inquired if there was a man around the house to do the work that obviously needed to be done?

She clearly heard her mom say her dad’s name, Becky looked out the window and saw her mom point at the man’s chest and say “Kaput”! Kaput, the universal word for dead. Becky held her breath as the man stepped off the front stoop and walked around the side of the house, directly by the kitchen window. She watched as he found his way to the garage out back and went inside. Returning to her school work her mother walked back into the kitchen and started preparing their supper by baking bread.

Becky worked on her math and other homework enjoying the smell of fresh baking bread. Before she knew it, her mom had wrapped a fresh loaf and told her to take it to Frederick in the garage out back. If he did some repairs and cleaning up back their her mom had promised him a loaf of bread. It was a little after 5 in the afternoon and the man was no where to be found. She called his name and looked all around relieved that he was not there and reported back to her mom who investigated for herself. When mom came back into the kitchen she turned to Becky and said, he must have left to walk back to Florsheim. Quick, you have strong legs, run and catch him and give him this loaf of bread.

Becky took off running, out of her neighborhood and down the road, up the bend and to the top of the hill she ran. It was the same hill where the winter before she sled down its slope on her new sled. She could see the backs of men disappearing into the trees down the road. She yelled with all her might, waving the bread over her head. “Frederick! Frederick! Frederick!” Two of the men stopped, looked back at her and then called up the road. Like an echo the name Frederick went up the valley.

About the time she was ready to give up. For a seven year old girl it seemed like eternity, a man emerged from the woods and climbed the hill toward her. She knew it was the same man who had walked by her window earlier that afternoon. As he closed the space between them, Becky held out the loaf of bread to this Russian man, whom she was sure had killed her daddy. Then he did the strangest thing, he looked at the ground and then slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. She not speaking Russian, pointed to herself (my momma) shaking the loaf at him (baked this bread for you Frederick) He smiled gently, leaned over and with his finger made a cross on her forehead, then took the bread, bowed and turned and walked down the hill and disappeared down the road.

The thought had formed the instant he touched her forehead with the sign of the cross. What? These Russians might also be Christian. I never knew they had a church, the Russian Orthodox Church. This man from Russia is a Christian too.

If only we could speak the same language there would be no more war. The young girl knew him in the sharing of the bread.

With a Song in My Heart,
SoulSongWriter

Bring on the Rain

This is the fourth day that I am praying for rain.

Lord, the crops need moisture badly.

I know I said after witnessing flash floods in my hometown last summer
That I wouldn't again pray for rain,

And maybe I sound fickle, but there is so much suffering

and so much pain

and such a burden for farmers and their families,

please, Lord, bring on the rain.

Gentle, nourishing, pond filling rain
would be ideal.

I can almost hear the music in the rain.

But for now I hear the land lamenting from drought.

Lord bring on the rain.

with a song in my heart,
SoulSongWriter

How do you recover?

it's now old news in the way of our world. if it weren't for the continuing nuclear concerns I doubt we would even hear about Japan. they are a developed nation. so why should we care?

the fact that thousands remain missing and that they may never be accounted for should tap our compassion. and then there are all those thousands upon thousands of people living in shelters. from our church's emergency response ministries read this article with a kleenex in hand: http://www.weekofcompassion.org/updates/

New Orleans and much of the Gulf Coast are still recovering from Hurricane Katrina. i just can't imagine adding on an earthquake/tsunami/nuclear disaster. and then there is the third world country of Haiti. have they rebuilt?

drop every bit of spare change in a bucket. give it to Week of Compassion so they can keep helping.

with a song in my heart (a soulful sad one today)
SoulSongWriter

what good is blogging?

what good is it to start a blog and rarely write? i've been asking myself lately. lots of times i have an idea but never get around to writing about it. which reminds me of my book i'm writing. i'd give you the title but then you might be tempted to steal my idea.

i suppose that myers/briggs was right, i am a definitely a "fp". i would explain that but i've got to run now.

with a song in my heart,
SoulSongWriter