A Pastor's Prayer by Wendell Hawley

On this summer Saturday, may we echo Wendell's prayer for needful grace. This prayer is from his book, A Pastor Prays for His People.

Most glorious God, God of compassion, God of forgiveness,
I need your presence,
Great Physician, I need healing.
    I am spiritually lukewarm
    and unbelief mars my confidence in trusting you—
    brokenness and repeated failure occupy my attention.
It astounds me that I continually try to battle life's issues on my own.

Sin makes me forget you.

Too long I have neglected the closet of prayer . . .
Too long I have forsaken the refreshment of your Word . . .
The cobwebs of indifference and the dust of life's cares choke my soul.
Broken relationships and shattered trust have prevented the health and
    healing of your Word.

But now—this moment,
I turn from absenteeism to the mercy seat.
I praise you for permission to approach the throne of grace.

Here, I pour out my confession of sin:
    neglect,
    pride,
    willfulness,
    arrogance,
    self-sufficiency,
foolishly questioning your providence.

Divinely sweep away my soul's clutter.

Pour down upon me streams of needful grace,
Engage my heart to live more faithfully for you.
Your presence alone can make me holy,
    devout,
    strong,
    happy.

I praise you for forgiveness—
    real,
    comprehensive,
    enabling.

Accomplish in me your eternal purposes, through Jesus Christ,
    my only hope, my only Savior.

Amen

Wendell's book is available at the Sunday morning Book Stall.

Unexpected Paths by Wil and Lorraine Triggs

We got in the car near dawn on the Fourth of July to head up to Door County for a long holiday weekend with family. We made it to Two Rivers, Wisconsin, before their parade, scooted past the parade barricades in Sturgeon Bay and turned on Highway 57 for the drive up the quiet side of the peninsula.

Strangely enough we hit traffic as soon as we got to Bailey's Harbor. We would drive for several feet; then stop; drive a bit; then stop. We grew bored admiring the town's festive red, white and blue decorations. It was 10 a.m. There shouldn't be any traffic at all on July 4.

Was there a traffic accident? Was anyone injured? How long of a delay was this going to be? People expect us to be at the cabin by lunch. We were a bit slow on the uptake.

We not only arrive in Bailey's Harbor at the start of its parade, but it turned out that we were also unwittingly somehow in the actual parade line-up with no idea of how we got there. So we did the only logical thing—we joined the parade. We unrolled the car windows, gave our then young son permission to unbuckle his seat belt so he could stand up, and waved and yelled, "Happy Fourth of July" to the crowds lining both sides of the street. We even had a little flag he started to wave as we sailed through town, no longer delayed. Instead, we breezed down Highway 57, no more stoplights or stop signs to obey. Instead, people cheered and waved back at us as we went.

Wouldn't it be great if all the unexpected events in life were as fun and carefree as our appearance in the Bailey's Harbor Fourth of July parade. Unfortunately, life just doesn't cooperate. The path zigs insteads of zags. The road winds dangerously close to the edge, where the drop-off is steep—not to mention that a fear of heights.

We want to control and rein in the unexpected and make the path zag, not zig and steer clear of that edge. When there is a delay in the road, we want to know why, how long it will delay and can't God just wrap it up quickly so we can move on? What's around the next bend in the path? How will we know if our son will ever return to the Lord? Why is Andrew Brunson still incarcerated in Turkey? Why does the news every day have to be so relentlessly partisan? Can we have a fall where Kids' Harbor is fully staffed with grown ups by the middle of August?

The answer is the same to all these questions: we can't know. Not on our own. Not right now. And when our path takes yet another unexpected turn, we will trust God to make the path straight or we will cling to him even when it's not.

Though life doesn't seem to cooperate, maybe it does more than we realize. Maybe the hand that guides us through whatever is unseen up ahead or going on right now really is the kind, loving and nail-scarred hand of Jesus. Do we really believe it?

If so, Lord, open our eyes to see. Open our ears to hear. Help our voices to sing words of faith for whatever God has for us today. Give us courage to speak of Jesus to people we drive pass in the resurrection celebration that turns out to be not an accident, but a parade.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us ride in the celebration parade that is set before us.

Manna Gathering by Kylie Hultgren

“The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.” (Psalm 16:5–6)

I’ve discovered I tend to be quite similar to squirrels when it comes to anticipating winter. I always seem to expect a dry season to spring on me and catch me off guard, requiring me to fight back. I am constantly storing up in anticipation and fear of loss. Just in case my car breaks down, how much insurance should I have? Just in case I forget something on my schedule, I should constantly be checking it. And as silly as it sounds, just in case my favorite piece of clothing suddenly is out of stock, maybe I should just buy a few extras.

It sounds ridiculous, but I can be so paranoid about loss, that I neglect the One from whom my next moment is given. I somehow get into this mindset that it all depends on me—I am the hero of my own story. Just in case tomorrow brings extra troubles that can’t be accounted for by the One who saved me from the destructive pit and sustains my life, I better collect enough manna.

By golly, doesn’t this sound just like the Israelites during their desert wanderings. Sometimes we claim that we must make Scripture relevant or applicable to our today, and I do this without any effort or alteration in my quest to be like the Israelites. Hypersensitivity to loss and destruction is ingrained in us, and that means the battle against “manna hogging” must take place daily.

In Exodus 16:4-5, “the Lord said to Moses, ‘I will rain down bread from heaven for you. The people are to go out each day and gather enough for that day. In this way I will test them and see whether they will follow my instructions. On the sixth day they are to prepare what they bring in, and that is to be twice as much as they gather on the other days.’” (NIV)

Manna gathering is a daily process, receiving just enough of the bread God provides, and trusting that the next day will rain down blessings of its own. We get in a sticky situation of distrust and fear when we try to store up for tomorrow what is only meant to sustain us for today. Do you believe that the Bread of Life will give you himself and enough manna bread, too?  Perhaps it’s time I stop putting him to the test and let myself and my trust be tested, just like the Israelites I am so fond of imitating.

Charles Spurgeon addressed this worry in Morning by Morning: “When a man is anxious he cannot pray with faith; when he is troubled about the world, he cannot serve his Master; his thoughts are serving himself. If you would ‘seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness,’ all things would then be added unto you. You are meddling with Christ’s business, and neglecting your own, when you fret about your lot and circumstances… Be wise, and attend to obeying, and let Christ manage the providing” (354).

Our job is to follow Christ in obedience, not anxiously store up for what we fear might happen tomorrow. We have no clue what will happen tomorrow, but we can count on it to be good and from God’s good hand.

Recently, the Lord has been telling me that goodness is in store. I asked him, “What kind of goodness?” I wanted the specifics. He responded by saying, “The king of all goodness and mercy will be on the throne. You will be found worshiping at his feet.” 

Now that's what I can count on for tomorrow. So, I drop my basket of manna and open my hands in expectation of what is to come. 

A New Taste in Town: Tawk's Story by Cheryce Berg

Cheryce first posted this on her blog, Hope and Be.Longing as well as on the World Relief DuPage/Aurora blog. And we're glad to post it as a Saturday Musing.

Tawk’s ambition is to bring a new taste to town.

Tea Leaves Salad does it. My friend Sasha and I start our meal at Pa Lian Burmese Restaurant in Wheaton sharing a plate of this popular dish made of “grounded tea leaf, fried yellow beans, fried lava beans, fried peanuts, sesame seeds, sliced tomatoes, cabbage and lime”. It is crunchy, salty, and full of flavor—a perfect complement to the tiny cups of hot green tea we are served.

I order Shan Noodle as my main dish: clear flat rice noodles topped by ground chicken curry and soy bean paste, with a bowl of chicken soup on the side. After my first spicy bite of the curry, Tawk instructs me to ladle the broth over the noodles and mix well. He also graciously hands me a fork when I hesitate at my ability to eat noodles with chopsticks. I love the contrast of the slippery noodles with the crunch of the topping.

Sasha orders Nangyi Thoke: a salad of thick rice noodles, ground chicken, sliced shallots, hard-boiled eggs, tamarind sauce, fish sauce, and fried onions, served with a small bowl of chicken soup. She describes it as “tasty and texturally interesting, with thick, hollow noodles that make a playful elastic feeling in my mouth that contrasts with the crisp fried shallots.” It is mild, tangy, and yummy—something she’d order again.

Tawk's Story
Tawk pauses in the quiet hours between the lunch and dinner crowds to sit and tell us his story while we eat. 

He grew up in the old capital city of Burma, called Rangoon (Yangon). He doesn’t call himself Burmese but rather Chin, which names the state from which his family comes. He obtained a civil engineering degree but soon learned that education didn’t matter to employers. Details such as parentage, religion, ethnicity, and birthplace topped all other qualifications.

Tawk eventually fled the persecution of a militaristic government and came here seeking political asylum, hoping for a safe place and a better life. He immediately began work at a Whole Foods deli every day of the week for twelve hours a day. He credits his deli friends as the best teachers he ever had, as they had the task of growing his textbook English to fluency. They also introduced him to American food. His favorite? Tuna salad, eaten on rice instead of bread. But he can’t stand one of our most iconic dishes: macaroni and cheese.

“I really appreciate those times. I will never forget it,” he says of his deli friends and early season of hard work at Whole Foods. He still goes back to visit them and they tell him with pride: “You made it.”

Tawk later began work as a case manager for World Relief, where he learned how to teach fellow refugees and immigrants how to survive in America. His message to them? You don’t need to adopt the American culture, but you need to learn about it. Explore and respect it and you will gain friends. 

His work with Chin youth at church has shown him the widening gap between them and their parents. He boldly tells their parents: “Keep your culture but don’t mentally imprison your kids. They are changing; you have to change, too. Even if you don’t want to eat macaroni and cheese, you have to know what it is or you will lose connection with your kids. You can’t stop them from changing.”

Yet he continues to teach his own two little children the Chin language of Hakha, as well as cooking Burmese food for them at home. 

Tawk knows the value of hard work. He says, “Don’t pray for things without doing anything. Appreciate the blessing and do something with it.” He knows that immigrants and refugees need courage—courage to get the education they need here and courage to work hard to survive.

Tawk has modeled hard work and courage. He and his wife saw family members opening small grocery stores and restaurants in Dallas and Indianapolis and decided to take the chance themselves. They spent a year renovating this space before opening their doors, which are now open six days a week from morning until night. They also provide carry-out and catering.

Burmese Food
We ask him to tell us more about the food. He launches into an explanation of Burmese history—how their food was impacted by Indian and Chinese people brought to Burma by the Japanese in World War II. Burmese food relies heavily on onion, garlic, ginger, Thai hot peppers, Burmese kimchee, rice and noodles. They incorporate all kinds of meat as well: chicken, beef, pork, and seafood. Their dishes are spicy, salty, and sometimes sour—but within the realm of what a tamer American tongue can savor and appreciate.

Tawk does an excellent job explaining the dishes on the extensive menu. He plans to add ice cream flavored with mango and coconut as well as tea leaf cheesecake as dessert options. He says his most popular items are the curries, fried rice, noodle salads, and soups. He does all of the serving because he wants to explain each food to the customers, while teaching them about his country.

Pa Lian saw many Burmese customers the first month it opened, followed by a mix of Filipinos, Vietnamese, Chinese, Indian, and Americans. Tawk sees at least twenty of the same customers return a few times each week for fried rice and tea leaves salad.

What is the most rewarding thing about owning the restaurant? Tawk answers this question with pride. “We bring a totally new taste. New flavors to town. People say, ‘We never had that before. Your food is so good. We are so glad you are here.’ They encourage me.” 

Yet at the same time he admits that he is tired. He also gives us a brief glimpse into the loneliness and isolation he feels in American culture, which may be part of the drive behind creating a restaurant to connect different cultures over a shared love of new food.

Sasha and I finish our meal sharing a glass of fresh lime juice mixed with water and lightly sweetened with sugar. It is a perfect end to the explosion of flavors from our dishes.

As we prepare to go, Tawk reminds us of his mission. “It’s not only about the business. Our heart is to bring new food to the town and impact the community. Learn about Burma: our culture and our food, too.”

“My place is a place for connections,” he adds. He’s right. I have discovered a new friend and new food at Pa Lian, and I’ll be back.

A Prayer for Father's Day by Ellen Ellwell

Ellen Ellwell's heartfelt prayer for Father's Day is from her book, Prayers for Every Occasion.

Father God, thank you for blessing me with a kind, patient, and generous father. I wish all children could have that experience. The older I get, the more I realize it's not true in all families. Some children—even in adult years—find it difficult to grasp your unfailing love, partly because of painful memories associated with their earthly fathers. Maybe one of the reasons I haven't struggled to appreciate your kindness, patience, and generosity is that I've observed those qualities in my earthly father.

Please bless all children everywhere who need your help and perspective to work through painful or non-existent memories of their fathers. Please provide them with men in their lives who are outstanding and caring father figures, whether they are relatives, friends, colleagues or pastors.

For those of us whose fathers are still living, may we be quick to express appreciation and thanks to them in spoken or written words for the specific ways they have influenced our lives. As our fathers age, may we be generous with our time, care, and attention, which will honor them and honor you. Amen.

Secondary Relationship by Lorraine Triggs

Shortly before I headed off to Moody Bible Institute as a freshman, the Institute mailed me the student handbook, which I was to read, sign and agree to abide by. Most of the rules made sense, but the dress code, well, that was an entirely different matter.

This was back in the early 70s, and I wore jeans every day to high school. In fact, my high school didn’t even have a dress code. It was liberal before its time. We had open lunch and could leave school whenever we wanted. Some of my Christian friends and I took over one of the restrooms, decreeing that no cigarette or pot smoke was allowed. (Believe it or not, our fellow students respected our takeover.)

If I had to wear a dress, I wore granny skirts and peasant blouses (vintage at a young age.) I wore clogs or sandals or Chugga boots, not ballet flats or high heels.

I was in big trouble even before I started classes. “I don’t want to buy different clothes,” I whined to my mother. “These are stupid rules. Why can’t I wear jeans?”

My mother flipped through the handbook, not tipping her hand one way or the other about the rules. “Well, you do want to go there, right” she asked. I nodded.

“You’ll need to sign it, right?” I nodded, not liking where this was headed. “And if you sign your name, you’ll follow the rules, right?”

I didn’t nod in agreement, instead I asked my favorite question that I had been asking since I was a toddler, “Why?”

The answer was obvious to my mother and it had nothing to do with rule-keeping. “Your name is as good as your word. If you sign it, then you need to keep your word.” 

I'm glad my mother maintained this secondary view of rule-keeping. It's a reminder that rules are good, but not the end all, nor the way to righteousness or relationship.

Though the church I grew up attending was full of rules, my mother never let me confuse those rules with personal holiness. It was the people mattered, not the clothes they wore or what they did or didn't do. I could be a Pharisee in jeans or a dress, and she would have none of that. When you give your word to a person, you had to keep it, whether you were in a formal dress or wearing jeans with holes in the knees. So now the same sort of teaching was extending out to my school of choice.

When I read the prologue to the law in Exodus 20:2, I hear relationship: "I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery," and Colossians 1:13 echoes in my heart: "he has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son."

On those days when my inner Pharisee makes an appearance, I remember that God has done the delivering, I remember that God wants wholehearted devotion, not my self-righteousness, and then I rest in the truth that I can depend on him to keep his word forever.

Taste of Jesus

It’s a little like the parable of the sower, but instead of different soils, there are all kinds of people. Some walk by and avert their eyes, others stop, interested from a variety of perspectives—where is your church? What denomination? Can I get some free stuff? How much is the water?

When we go out into the community, we trust God to do most of the heavy-lifting. All we need to do is our little part in God’s big work.

One of the Taste of Wheaton vendors, as she was setting up, came by and said hello. Looking at our display, she asked for a mug. Sure, I replied. Later, she came back and asked if we had bug spray. I pulled out the can of OFF and she sprayed it on and said thanks. The next day, as we set up she greeted me with a smile.

A student came by three times, the first time looking away, the second time stopping to take a pen and fill out a survey, the third time finding out about our summer programs. 

Diane warmly and happily engaged children as they walked by the table. She would take them to the games and encourage them to play and win prizes. Then, she would introduce herself to the parents and give them information about our summer ministries. 

She also talked with a follower of Bahai about Jesus and God and religion for about ten minutes. He spoke of how he liked that religion because of how it promised to adapt to changing cultures and societies and needs. Diane explained how she finds comfort in our unchanging God in the midst of a constantly changing world. He went away with Pastor Josh’s book “How Church Can Change Your Life.”

We are praying that we can show the love of Jesus to people in big and little ways.

A couple stopped and I spoke with them about our various areas of ministry. “You know, I drive by that church every day on my way to work” the husband said to his wife. “If you think you might visit us, come in a couple weeks and stop by the café for a homemade cinnamon roll, baked by my wife,” I said, handing him a Café card. 

“Well, that sealed it right there,” said his wife, “he’ll do anything for a cinnamon roll.” [Even go to church, I thought/wondered.]

“I’ll be there” said the husband.

A couple pushing their baby in a stroller went by. We talked through various aspects of church, and when I got to the 5K (aka Run for the STARS), the wife said, “My husband likes to run.” And took the flyer over to show her husband, who was already at the next table over.

Three students stopped looking at all that we had on display and two of them eagerly took Bibles. They asked first, tentatively, and were happily surprised when I said that they were free.

"Do you need to register ahead of time to go the a Backyard Bible Club?: asks one mom. "No, you can just come!"

After his time at the display, Bruce Aulie gave a brief report, too.

“Rather than eat by ourselves at the Taste of Wheaton, Caleb and I sat down with our food at a picnic table with a teenager with earbuds and struck up a conversation. He said he was joining the military after graduating from Wheaton North. We found out he doesn't go to our church but is a believer We encouraged him in his faith and talked about what it means to lay your life down.  How Jesus did that for us. That we are no longer our own.  

“A young woman stopped by our table. A recent college grad, she said she had walked away from the faith during school. Now she was returning. She took a Bible, encouraged to read it and anchor her life in Christ's promise of living water. 

“One young boy stopped, a bit shy and embarrassed to be at our church table but grabbed a Living Bible and took off like a shot. 

“A group of girls stopped to chat with Diane and with surprise and delight exclaimed, ‘This is my church!’" 

Our table at Taste of Wheaton isn’t very big. We’re right next to the Pella Windows display, facing Hale Street. When the bands play, sometimes the music overwhelms the park and it’s hard to hear anything. There are times when no one stops by or people ignore our cheery hellos. So why do we do it?

It’s because every conversation, every Bible grabbed or politely removed from the table, every handout or water bottle or book we give is an invitation to come and see who Jesus, come and meet the one true God and receive his gift of mercy and grace.

If you're going to Taste of Wheaton, stop by; bring a friend with you. Even if you're not, pray for this little piece of College Church in Memorial Park this weekend, that some might have a Taste of Jesus.

Super Wash by Cheryce Berg

I’m waiting at the Super Wash in a yellow plastic scooped chair between a ficus tree and a dispenser of coffee in paper cups. The man who hasn’t stopped humming since he carried his first load of clothes through the back door slips quarters into the coffee machine and chats as his cup fills.

“Been coming here for years, twice a month. Decided we’d rather not maintain our own machines at home. They replaced the old coffee dispenser with this one—double the price but double the size. And do you know he spent $5,000 on new washers? Nice owners, from South Korea, always cleaning the place. The plants are a nice touch.”

I watch him quizzically as he chatters, wondering if it really is easier to go to the laundromat than do your laundry at home. And only twice a month? He is jovial, if not crisply clean—the type that seems unfazed by a washer broken for 22 days that no one can fix and seven loads of laundry to haul around in a Mini Cooper on a Friday night. 

I sort laundry memories while I wait. I’ll hang this one with the others, though the gray strip mall setting off Roosevelt Road isn’t as colorful as the rest. 

I remember Grandma’s stiff, worn, fresh-smelling towels, hung on the clothesline to dry. The farmhouse had a wringer washer in the back hall. Towels lasted for years and appeared crisp and clean, smelling of the Michigan outdoors and her garden. I loved that smell, though the roughness rubbed my tender skin raw.

I recall hiking through the Porcupine Mountains with fifty pounds on my aching back before my freshman year of college. We paused at Lake Superior to wash hair braided with leaves, army pants smudged with peanut butter, and bandanas stiff with sweat. Kneeling on the shore,  we scrubbed and thumped those clothes clean in the icy water, laying them flat to dry on the rocks.

Then there was that college summer in the Czech Republic, months after the wall came down. I washed and then naively hung my simple wardrobe outside on our ground floor apartment’s patio. We were gone for hours, trudging a road marked only by electric wires, unable to board the bus without the local currency. I came home exhausted to see an empty clothesline where my clothes used to hang.

In Bolivia we washed again and hung jeans in the hot midday sun. At 12,000 feet they dry and fade fast.

Seventeen of us shared a small washer and dryer that week in the Dominican Republic. After long days of mixing cement and playing with children with mango-sticky fingers, clean clothes were a treasure.

In Turkey, we washed modest clothes in tiny sinks and wore them again each new hot morning. I sympathized with the women wearing dark-colored burkhas from head to toe in the stifling heat.

With each memory and each pile of clean clothes, my gratitude grows. 

I’m back at the laundromat off Roosevelt Road. The joyful owners from South Korea have said goodnight to those of us still sitting in yellow plastic chairs watching clothes spin. The dryer buzzes and I end up leaving my iPad on the folding table, only remembering it the next day. When I return I am welcomed with four hugs. She has kept my iPad on her counter under a pile of clean clothes—turned in by an honest patron after hours. 

I realize I have all I need and I always have, even if right now I don’t yet have a working washer at home. And I am grateful.

Cheryce first posted this on her blog, Hope and Be.Longing.