As Mothers Love by Wallace Alcorn

My mother was, I suppose it could be put, an ordinary woman. She never graduated from high school (indeed, never allowed to do so), and she had no profession or trade or even what might have been considered an occupation—unless it was housewife and mother of two boys.

Her father wouldn’t allow her to attend the Milwaukee’s Girls Technical High School longer than what it took to learn to cook and sew, and then she had to go out and work until she had her own family to care for. (This did not, however, keep her from becoming the academic advocate for her younger sisters who did graduate.) She dropped out of the workforce to raise her boys and returned to help in the war effort, and then continued so she could pay her boys’ college tuitions.

Mom was ordinary in the sense of being-in-the-order-of motherness. One of her sisters told me, “Your mother is one bundle of love,” which is pretty good coming from a kid sister. 

  She was of a background where you restrained direct expressions of love to children lest they get big headed or become spoiled. You just love (active verb here), and they’ll know. But every now and then someone would tell me with understanding amusement that Mom would say, “I never graduated from high school, but both my sons are Ph.D.s!”

When I tried to tell her I loved her, she would give me a gentle shove and mutter, “Oh, go on now.”

She came to worry I had become a professional student and would never marry. Once, while ironing my shirts, she looked at me and said softly but most earnestly, “Wallace, I hope you marry a girl who will let me love her.”

Not, mind you: “whom I can love” or “who will love me”—but “who will let me love her.” That Mom would love whomever I marry was never an issue. This determined love was born within her about the time I was, and she nurtured it within for twenty-eight years until it finally burst out as confession, which I took as mandate precisely because I loved her. The least I could do was to present her with a daughter to love.

When I found Ann Carmichael, I arranged with a friend to buy rings and send them by air express to me in a Grand Rapids seminary. My father returned from work to find my mother packing an overnight bag, and he asked where she was going. Without pausing or looking up, she said, “To meet my new daughter.” She had scooped up the rings and was going to deliver them to me herself.

I asked Mom to stay out of sight long enough for me to put the engagement ring on Ann’s finger—and then present her to Mom as her new daughter. It was love, sight unseen and unquestioned. I didn’t meet Ann’s mum (like Ann, British-born) until after we were married, because she had left her parents in Ghana in order to finish high school in Florida. I later learned that she had assured her mum that I would be a good husband “because he is so sweet to his mother.” Of course.

The last time I saw Mom was in an Indiana hospital. Both our daughter and my nephew’s wife were expecting babies, and Mom had been looking forward to the arrivals of two great-grandchildren. But she knew this would be it.

With contented joy, she let go and said, “Tell the little ones I love them.”

Be Strange by Lorraine Triggs

My mother delighted my sisters and me with her creative spin on the English language. By far, the expression we loved the best and repeated the most was "Shut the rain, the windows are coming in." She would shout this to us whenever a summer storm blew in. We dutiful daughters would then run through the house and close the windows.

The runner-up to "shut the rain, the windows are coming in" happened one evening as we said good-bye to company who had come for dinner. At my mother's house, guests neither arrived nor departed without a fuss being made over them, and that evening was no different. As our family friends walked down the front walk, my mother called out, "Be strange!" (a rather loose translation of "Don't be a stranger.")

For weeks on end, her dutiful daughters repeated to each other, "Be strange," as if any of us needed encouragement in that direction. 

Actually, my mother had no idea that she had uttered a profound biblical truth. She didn't have time for heady talk about a Scripture passage. If the Word said to practice hospitality, then she would do just that. It didn't matter who you were or what you did for a living, the door to our home was open. In retrospect, I am sure we entertained angels disguised as strangers.

That brings us back to the profound truth that as followers of Jesus we are strangers in this world, but we don't treat other people as strangers. We love them. And that's strange, especially in our insular society and partisan world.

Our band of followers includes the likes of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob who "acknowledged that that they were strangers and exiles on earth" (see Hebrews 11:13) and being strangers who didn't realize that they were paid an amazing compliment, "of whom the world was not worthy." (Hebrews 11:38)

The Apostles and church fathers didn't have time to squawk about first ammendment rights or call a center for law and justice to defend them. Those things didn't exist back then. They were preoccuppied with faithfully following Jesus, taking the gospel to all nations, ending up hiding in caves or being sawed in two, telling a jailer about Jesus or praying to be faithful when they faced the jaws of a lion or a gladiator's sword. 

We are a "peculiar people." (1 Peter 2:9, KJV) We are not a voting bloc or cultural movement or naysayers. We are more than that. We are followers of Jesus, who had "nowhere to lay his head." We are strangers en route to a better country.

So to quote my mother who has been in that better country for a few years, "Be strange."

A Servant of the High Priest by Wil Triggs

Inspired by Jeese Meekins' message at Men's Gathering on April 7, here is a post-Easter musing I wrote of what might have happened to Malchus, after his encounter with Jesus in the garden and those post-Resurrection weeks, years even, that followed...

When his grandfather came into view, Janek dropped the olive branch he was playing with and ran to greet him. “Grandpa!” he exclaimed.

Malchus caught him in his arms and pulled him up to hug him. Little Lenka, too, joined them with a circle dance of joy around them. It did Malchus’ heart good to see his son’s son and daughter.

Yatniel heard his son and daughter greeting his father before he saw them. His and Malchus’ eyes locked on one another, a mix of surprise, familiar memories, rifts of the past, joys, sorrows, all there in an instant.

These visits were not common and often unexpected. There was never really any way to know when Malchus would be freed from service with enough time for the journey and visit.

Malchus’s son and the children’s father, Yatniel was a challenge and a sort of heartache for Malchus, but a good Roman son (and Yatniel was certainly that if he were anything) would never close the door to his father. It would be a shame to do so.

So here they all were—three generations together for a meal and time together. 

It was a holiday whenever Malchus appeared. They washed, ate, reclined. It was a welcome moment of rest. 

Until Janek begged to hear the story again. It happened every time he came.

Yatniel wanted to stop him. He hated this, but he also could not deny his children this rare time with their grandfather, so Malchus would tell his story, again . . .

We came to the garden—the priests, their servants, the military, enough of us to wage a little war. There was a lot of anger, hatred even, and when we got there, only a handful of people were in the garden. What was all this—so outnumbered were the band of people there. It was baffling really.

One of us stepped forward, embraced, kissed even, the one who had been kneeling and apart from the others. Some of the military guards advanced but stopped. There was some talk and then all of us fell down.

I was right there in the middle of it with my master.

We stood up and there was a small commotion. It happened quickly. One of his band drew a blade but instead of hitting his target, in the heat and darkness of the night and the moment, he struck me.

It was a single act followed by silence. Even I did not cry out, but my ear, the blood, the pain. It did hurt. It felt like water flowing into my head, but it was blood, my own blood and it was everywhere. I could not hear from that side of my throbbing head. I clutched where my ear had been and tried to stay the flow.

With all the men in our little army, no one responded with a weapon; no one in fact did anything. If it had been the high priest, there would surely have been an intervention, but since it was only his servant, nothing happened. The only one to respond was the one who had been kissed. He came to me, held my ear in his hand, and instantly made it right. The bleeding stopped as did the pain. I could hear better than ever before.

This was not the last time I would see him, but it was the last time I saw him before he died.

Yatniel held his tongue. There weren’t very many people left who were alive back then, Yatniel told himself. His father was one of the last. Some had moved away, or run away, but time passed. Soon, they would be gone. 

These others who had begun to follow the sect, surely they would die out. The stories would slow to a trickle or evolve into fables, and that would be the end of it.

Lenka was young, maybe too young to understand, but just starting to grasp the wonder of it. 

Janek did not want his father to know, but a fire was beginning to burn in his heart, burning and warming at once, whenever Malchus got to what came next—the next time Grandpa saw Jesus, after he had died. It meant that Grandpa would see him yet again and next time, everything would be healed—everything, not just an ear.

Soon it would be time to go. Janek and Lenka threw their arms around Malchus. Janek reached up to his Grandpa’s ear to touch the reality of it all. His finger traced the path of the scar from bottom to top, perfectly healed, but still there, a mark for all to see as long as Malchus walked this earth.

A Gift of Goodness by Wallace Alcorn

College graduation not only awarded me a degree, but also a draft notice. One summer during this involuntary service, I took leave to work as a counselor at our church’s annual Bible camp in Wisconsin. That weeklong event had been formative for me as I was growing up, and I wanted to pay back by working for those who followed. At the time, the bank and I owned an old, tired car—the only kind a recent college graduate now army private could afford. It was also the very kind a kid in my situation could not afford. Managing the minimum down payment and monthly thereafter with otherwise unnecessary interest rates left nothing for repairs of all that kept breaking.

While away at camp, the universal joint went out in the car. It had to be repaired immediately so I could get back at the end of my leave and not be charged with AWOL. I had enough cash to buy gas but not repairs. My pastor lent me the money and I had it fixed.

I suppose it took me two or three months to scrape together enough from a private’s pay to settle the loan. I had to forego things, but I did so eagerly. I surprised myself as to just how eager I was to make repayment and how satisfied upon reaching my goal. Although I respected my pastor and loved him, repaying him became unaccountably important to me.

I sent him a check, which he promptly returned. Written across was “voided.” I remember the attached note and will always remember the exact words: “It is a gift, and a gift it will remain.” End of matter.

I had presumed it was merely a loan, because the car was my problem, and there was no reason for him to give any money to me. My father had always worried that the church didn’t pay the pastor enough, and I presumed that, like me, he had none to spare. Yet, I knew immediately what Pastor meant. Although he didn’t use the words in this brief note, I could hear him saying what I had already heard, “It pleases me to do this.”

Not just that he was willing, but that he wanted to do it. It wasn't just being “happy;” he found joy in its doing. I stared at the voided check thinking about its meaning. There was something here I didn’t quite grasp. Well, here I am telling you about it. And that was sixty-four years ago. 

My pastor wasn’t the greatest preacher I’ve ever heard, but he was a good man. Goodness was part of his very being. 

Although I still had a lot to learn about life, even then I recognized this much. It would have been a moral offense for me to try to push repayment on him. This would have reduced the act to a commercial transaction when it was, in fact, an act of love in goodness and generosity.  

Not the end of the story, it was several years later I finally recognized why it had been so terribly important to me to save enough to send to my pastor. However, even at the time I had understood enough about my motivation to know my thought had not been repayment of a debt, getting it off my mind, or settling an account. If this were so, I wouldn’t be remembering it now. There was more.

Pastor’s goodness did something for me, but it also did something to me.

I’ve since learned the New Testament word for “goodness,” agathos (as in the fruit of the Spirit, Gal. 5:22), is an inner quality that unselfconsciously and by its very nature expresses itself outwardly—a generosity that springs from the heart that is itself kind. 

My pastor was a good man, and doing goodness pleased him. That’s just the way it is.

Looking for Grace in All the Wrong Places by Lorraine Triggs

A Friday or two ago, I woke up in a grumpy mood. My mother would have said that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Whatever side of the bed, it did nothing to improve my mood.

I groused my way through my Bible study and decided that my funk would only disappear if God showed me his grace in a huge, spectacular way—a really big answer to prayer. Yep, that would be the only way I could see his grace and hand in my life today. This did nothing to improve my mood either.

When it was time for my prayer group for the persecuted church, I now could add guilt for whining to my bad mood. I took a seat next to Jim. Jim is elderly, a widower of almost two years. He is humble and passionate about the persecuted church. I had no idea that I had just sat down next to grace.

We finished praying and Jim mentioned that he enjoyed the article I wrote in Connections about my young adult son. I thanked him and was about to give a ready reply, when Jim said that his 38-year-old grandson lives with him. "He's a heroin addict," Jim said. "I'm glad his grandmother isn't alive to see this." 

This kind, gentle man added rather causually, "He'll probably be on methadone the rest of his life." Then came Jim's graced words, "His story isn't finished yet, like your son's story. God is still working." My grumpy mood dissipated when confronted with this bright display of God's grace. My soul was jolted off my mood onto the God of grace himself, who enables us to draw near and bring with us the big and little cares of ourselves and the hopes and hurts of one another.

In his poem "As Kingfishers Catch Fire," Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote:

I say móre: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

The morning began with me looking for grace in all the wrong places, and ended when I saw God's grace on his terms and, oh, so lovely, in his people.

When the Mango Trees Clap Their Hands by Steve Krogh

What happens when you mix seventy exuberant, Spirit-filled Ethiopian pastors with twenty hours of Christ-centered biblical instruction? The trees of the field begin to clap their hands. Let me explain. 

Our team of five was teaching our hearts out in Awassa, Ethiopia, for several days. We rotated our “classrooms” so that each teacher had an opportunity to teach under the mango tree (everyone’s favorite), the banana tree, the chapel and the sun-baked classroom. 

We were teaching biblical theology, focusing on the “big story” of the Bible and how the various parts relate to the overall message. We had covered God’s glorious creation, our inglorious fall, God’s promise to bring a deliverer, the dramatic escape from Egypt, the star-filled blessing of Abraham, the scepter-filled blessing of Judah, the sigh-filled lament of the prophets asking, “How long until the Anointed One comes to deliver his people?”

It was now time to speak about the promised deliverer. We decided to bring all the classes together for the dramatic teaching about the coming of Christ. 

The teacher masterfully brought the strands of Scripture together to show how all that we had been studying for several days found its fulfillment in Jesus. The prophet, priest and king became our crucified, yet risen, Savior. The roomful of pastors fell strangely quiet. Not the impact we had hoped for. 

Then, one pastor slowly raised his hand and asked, “Can we give thanks to God for the sending of his Son?” The teacher nodded. Given the quietness, even solemnity, of the moment, I was expecting a brief and perhaps polite prayer. 

Instead, the class rose as one and burst into Scriptural songs of praise—arms raised high and heads tilted back and feet dancing for a solid hour. It struck me that this is what the psalmist prayed for: “But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy” (Psalm 5:11). 

Some of those pastors also went to the beloved mango tree and picked off leaves and began waving them to God in an offering of worship. Why? 

One of the visuals we hung from a clothesline each day in our class was the image of a tree, a reminder of our rebellion against God by eating of the forbidden tree and our folly of trying to manufacture a fig-leafed salvation. 

But the tree also spoke of future hope. One day the kingdom of God will grow from a tiny seed into a large tree (Matthew 13:32) and the leaves of that tree will be for the healing of the nations. (Revelations 22:2)

These dear Ethiopian pastors were celebrating that healing had come to their nation, and one day, it will fully come. We have tasted and seen that the Lord is good, but these pastors were celebrating that the full-course banquet is coming.

While our Ethiopian brothers were singing and dancing, my heart turned to the rest of the psalmist’s prayer: “But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy, and spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may exult in you. For you bless the righteous, O LORD; you cover him with favor as with a shield.” (Psalm 5:11-12)

May God protect and cover his Christ-exalting, refuge-taking, mango leaf-waving believers in every corner of the world today. And then, let's get ready for the coming celebration!

Chaos Christianity by Wil Triggs

With missions festival upon us, I can’t help but think of Gökhan Talas, a Christian who is publishing a Christian magazine in Turkey. I met him at LittWorld 2015. He came to our prayer for the persecuted church group a few months back. (The picture is of Gökhan and me after the prayer group.) In anticipation of this week’s prayer meeting I asked John Maust if he had received any recent updates, so he sent me some. I’ll share a few with you now.

Gökhan describes 2016 as “a blessed, grateful, harsh and chaotic year. It was a complete disaster for our country.” As a Christian, he has never felt more of a minority than now. People are nervous, anticipating some kind of regime change in April. 

News reports have covered the struggle of Turkey in handling or not handling the flow of refugees. For his part, “We are planning to make a digital Arabic/Kurdish version of Miras magazine. This is very important for reaching the refugee society in Turkey. The government has blocked physical services to refugee camps five months ago, and most of the Christian aid organizations are under pressure. We want to share the gospel in a direct way.” 

Besides planning for this, his publishing team is also working on two book projects, developing gospel-focused seminars for the spring, continuing publication of the magazine, and Gökhan is also visiting churches in unreached areas, preaching in some of those churches and making connections for evangelism services and outreach.

“Our magazine and publication team is still in need of an office,” he reported. “We are still under the budget and praying for new possibilities.”

How does someone do all of that with no office space, in a country where everything seems to be in upheaval and his evangelical faith is greeted with hostility and violence? How do you move forward on projects and outreach with no office space or budget? 

Personally, I don’t know. It's so not me, so not United States. So foreign. But I find inspiration and encouragement that even when Gökhan is facing a chaotic country and a hostile world, he is still praying for new possibilities. As we look ahead for whatever we face today and in the days ahead, may we have that kind of faith!

Gökhan’s update ends with words of thanks and gratitude and says everything they do depends on God’s purposes and the prayers and support of his people.

Watch the short video I made at LIttWorld where Gökhan talks about his magazine and pray with me for him and his heart for the people of Turkey.

Fingerprints: Ours and God's by Wil Triggs

It’s been more than 22 years since Lorraine and I got fingerprinted. We weren’t caught in some kind of crime—we were in the process of becoming foster parents with an eye toward adopting. It’s standard procedure, or at least it was back then. Once you go through everything it takes to get approved for adoption, it all makes sense and seems fine. But back then, it seemed like a lot of paperwork and red tape.

We were rushing to jump through all the hoops we needed to jump through in time for the birth of a baby who turned out not to be our child after all (another story). But our social worker urged us to get the fingerprinting done as soon as possible. The fastest and best path toward getting this taken care of was to go to downtown Rockford and have the fingerprinting there. 

That seemed like a long way to go. We were nervous. But we made the appointment and went. The officer was friendly, kind and efficient. We talked with him, thanked him and went on our way. That was one item we could check off our list. 

Just few days ago, the officer who took our fingerprints all those years ago emailed me.

“I was the Illinois State Police fingerprint technician who fingerprinted you and your wife for an adoption. I think that was well over 20 years ago,” wrote Officer William Reeves, who now works as a fingerprint specialist with the Fairfax County Police Department in Fairfax, Virginia. “My wife and I attended College Church for several years before moving to the east coast.  We also adopted two girls through Sunny Ridge Family Center. They are now 20 and almost 18. My 20-year-old is a junior at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg (VA). My 18-year-old graduates high school in June and is trying to decide which college to attend. She’s been accepted at about four or five universities.”

He also made some interesting observations that seems to fit with Orphan Sunday tomorrow.

"I was older when I married," he said. "and we knew from the onset due to some health issues, that we would have to consider the adoption route to become parents. We were comfortable with that realization from the start. We attended meetings and adoption support groups. I did meet once with Pastor Hughes to discuss our options and to see if my motivations to adopt were in the right place. To clarify, some people want to adopt to save a child or save the world. I met a number of them when the state police took over the fingerprinting project for the Illinois DCFS for a few years. Some folks couldn’t wait to save a child. I was concerned about false altruism. And, as I discussed this with Kent, he stated somewhat emphatically that to want to be a parent was the greatest of altruisms."

Both of Bill's daughters were born in China, and in our email exchange he recalled a woman coming up to him when he was with his two daughters and asked if his wife was Asian. Bill said no, his wife is Irish. The woman got this puzzled and embarrassed look and walked off.

Bill then went on to say some kind things about the College Church website and to ask for some resources in his church’s search for a new pastor.

It was great to hear from him and to help in a small way in his current church’s search for a new pastor. Whatever help I provided, I wouldn’t have been able to if we hadn’t made that trip to Rockford 20+ years ago. This was more than just an item to check off our list of things to do because God was doing so much more.

God’s fingerprints are all over us. He touches us and uses us in ways we would never dream. He makes connections between us and other people that we can’t imagine. So now, more than 20 years later, I’m reconnected with the man who fingerprinted us for our adoption so long ago. As adoptive parents, it’s good to hear from him. As Christians, it’s great to hear of his walk with God and his new church. But it’s really God’s work—not Bill’s or mine. Fingerprints.

Think about that today. Think about that with the grocery clerk. The person who cuts your hair. The parent you’re standing next to at the indoor soccer game. Or that baby thousands of miles away or in Wheaton who won't look like you, but is waiting for a family to welcome him or her.

Every encounter is more sacred than we realize.