Oh, my aching back! I knew it would hurt today. I spent too much time yesterday on a bar stool.
Oh, you thought . . . No, I was sitting on a stool at the “bar” in our kitchen. I like to work there, but my back doesn’t like it when I do.
It was a Monday. I like Mondays. I love what happens on Sundays, but I’m okay with the fact that Mondays are as far as you can get from Sundays. I learned ages ago that anything “extra” I want to get accomplished during a given week can best be done early in the week.
So on the Monday in question I spent some time working on a kind of grandfatherly gift for my kids and grandkids.
When our four sons were just little guys (they didn’t stay little in any sense for long), more often than not, I’d put them to sleep by reading to them. My wife and I read them a bunch of the children’s books, Bible story books, etc., you’d expect. (And, yes, some fairy tales. No child should be deprived of the real-life truths found in fairy tales.)
As they got older (but way earlier than was reasonable) I read to them my favorite books, J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. During Christmas, we’d read Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
But we spent most of our time reading C. S. Lewis’ series of seven children’s books, The Chronicles of Narnia.
I’m glad that The Lord of the Rings and several of the Narnia books are now movies. I was afraid Hollywood would butcher these books that I love, but those films are amazingly well done. Still, I’m glad that in my head, and those of my sons, our own images of hobbits and centaurs and epic voyages and wonderful Narnian and Middle Earth adventures came before Hollywood’s.
My sons loved the night-time readings, but they wanted more and longer readings than I could provide. (Since they went to sleep every night to the sound of my voice, they tell me that I have no one but myself to blame if they sleep through my sermons.)
But sometime in the midst of our reading years ago, I decided to crank up the tape recorder each evening, which means that I could later play them the tape when I got tired. I ended up with recordings of five of those Narnia books actually being read to my sons.
Now the grandkids are showing up, and Monday I spent some time “digitizing” those old tape recordings and putting them on CD so I can keep on reading to my favorite little people (if they’re interested) even when I’m not around. (I mean geographically “not around,” not dead, though I guess . . .)
Reading’s good. We all ought to do a lot more of it. Reading to kids is especially good. By all means, a good Bible story book, filled with the best stories of all, can wonderfully implant in little children’s minds pictures of Jesus and his love. But why stop there? If you’ve spent any time in Narnia, you know that it would be very hard to find a better picture of who Christ really is than that of a great Lion, awesome and joy-filled but completely untamed, named Aslan.
Thank God for all the ways the Father shows us the Son.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
"Wow! That Person Really Knows the Bible!"
“Wow! That person really knows the Bible!” I hear that comment made fairly often, and I always wonder what the speaker means.
Usually they mean that someone is quite familiar with the words of the Bible, its many facts and wonderful stories, etc. On one level, that’s great, since most studies these days show that the general level of factual Bible knowledge among even Christians is appalling.
But then I wonder, how much does that person whose Bible knowledge is being touted really understand about God’s written revelation? For example, how much does he understand about the various types of literature that are contained in the Scriptures? Does she realize that being serious about learning what a particular book of the Bible has to teach means being serious enough to learn something about its context and setting? And on we could go.
I don’t doubt for a moment that one doesn’t have to have credentials as a Bible scholar to derive great blessing from simply reading the Bible and learning about the amazingly Good News of God’s love.
But neither do I doubt that those who have worked hardest to truly know the most about the facts, the message, and the meaning of the Bible are the very last to ever claim to know much about it at all. You might as well claim to truly know the Milky Way, and only the most foolish and blind astronomer would ever make that claim.
I’ve been enjoying Dr. Eugene Peterson’s memoir The Pastor. One of Peterson’s most truly wise and learned teachers at the Johns Hopkins University was Professor William Albright, then perhaps the world’s leading scholar in biblical archaeology and Semitic studies.
Peterson says that one day Dr. Albright walked into the classroom greatly excited. For years scholars had been debating the exact location (and meaning) of Mount Moriah, where Abraham had “bound Isaac for sacrifice.” Dr. Albright had awakened that morning to suddenly realize that he had discovered some very important answers. He stood before his doctoral students and laid it all out, filling the chalkboard with Ugaritic, Arabic, Assyrian, Aramaic, and Hebrew words pertinent to the issue. He’d gone on for twenty minutes when one of his best students raised his hand and asked, “But Dr. Albright, what about . . .”
Peterson says that the Professor stopped, considered for twenty seconds, and said, “Mr. Williams is right—forget everything I have said.” Amazing humility! And true humility is always impressive.
Most folks don’t even begin to realize how much we are blessed by those like the good Professor and so many others who have devoted their lives to helping us better understand God’s written word.
May we never forget that the real purpose of God’s written revelation—every page—is to help us know and become like the Lord behind it. Knowing its facts but not its Author would be sad indeed. The more we truly know of Him the more truly humble we will become.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
Usually they mean that someone is quite familiar with the words of the Bible, its many facts and wonderful stories, etc. On one level, that’s great, since most studies these days show that the general level of factual Bible knowledge among even Christians is appalling.
But then I wonder, how much does that person whose Bible knowledge is being touted really understand about God’s written revelation? For example, how much does he understand about the various types of literature that are contained in the Scriptures? Does she realize that being serious about learning what a particular book of the Bible has to teach means being serious enough to learn something about its context and setting? And on we could go.
I don’t doubt for a moment that one doesn’t have to have credentials as a Bible scholar to derive great blessing from simply reading the Bible and learning about the amazingly Good News of God’s love.
But neither do I doubt that those who have worked hardest to truly know the most about the facts, the message, and the meaning of the Bible are the very last to ever claim to know much about it at all. You might as well claim to truly know the Milky Way, and only the most foolish and blind astronomer would ever make that claim.
I’ve been enjoying Dr. Eugene Peterson’s memoir The Pastor. One of Peterson’s most truly wise and learned teachers at the Johns Hopkins University was Professor William Albright, then perhaps the world’s leading scholar in biblical archaeology and Semitic studies.
Peterson says that one day Dr. Albright walked into the classroom greatly excited. For years scholars had been debating the exact location (and meaning) of Mount Moriah, where Abraham had “bound Isaac for sacrifice.” Dr. Albright had awakened that morning to suddenly realize that he had discovered some very important answers. He stood before his doctoral students and laid it all out, filling the chalkboard with Ugaritic, Arabic, Assyrian, Aramaic, and Hebrew words pertinent to the issue. He’d gone on for twenty minutes when one of his best students raised his hand and asked, “But Dr. Albright, what about . . .”
Peterson says that the Professor stopped, considered for twenty seconds, and said, “Mr. Williams is right—forget everything I have said.” Amazing humility! And true humility is always impressive.
Most folks don’t even begin to realize how much we are blessed by those like the good Professor and so many others who have devoted their lives to helping us better understand God’s written word.
May we never forget that the real purpose of God’s written revelation—every page—is to help us know and become like the Lord behind it. Knowing its facts but not its Author would be sad indeed. The more we truly know of Him the more truly humble we will become.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
Monday, July 11, 2011
"When Jesus Saw What Was Happening, He Was Angry"
If I were to ask you to name some occasions in Scripture when Jesus was angry, where would you start?
Probably the incident that would come to mind first for most of us is Christ overturning the tables of the greedy money-changers in the temple. If he wasn’t awfully angry on that occasion, he certainly did a fine imitation of an angry Lord!
And when Jesus stared holes through the hypocritical religious leaders of his day and called them “a brood of vipers,” I doubt the Pharisees missed the fire in his eyes. It was fierce love of God’s people that sparked solar flares in those usually oh so gentle eyes.
Ah, but I’m thinking of another occasion now. I like what the first two say about our Lord, but I like even more what this next one says.
It’s found in Mark 10. The people have been bringing their children to Jesus to have him touch them, bless them, and the disciples, uptight about crowd control, have begun shooing them away. Surely the Lord is far too busy, far too important, to be bothered by a bunch of snotty-nosed kids. (Mind you, the Greek text says nothing about snot. Come to think of it, in two years of biblical Greek, I don’t remember learning the Greek term for mucous, but kids are kids.)
The Bible says Jesus gets “irate.” “Indignant.” “Much displeased.” And one version just says, “angry.”
Not at the kids or the parents. At the disciples.
“Don’t push these children away,” he admonishes his disciples. “Don’t ever get between them and me. These children are at the very center of life in the kingdom.”
And he goes on: “Mark this: Unless you accept God’s kingdom in the simplicity of a child, you’ll never get in” (The Message). Then he gathers the little ones into his arms and blesses them.
I love this picture of our Lord! And I love what it says not only about the Son but also about the Father and His estimation of who is really greatest in the Kingdom.
Probably I should admit that these words are not being written by a presently emotionally stable individual. Stable people don’t get misty-eyed when they see chalk drawings on their sidewalk, and bubble “guns” sitting still and bubble-less, and tree swings becalmed (and nothing is sadder than a grandpa sitting in a tree swing alone). It’s far too quiet around here. No little fingers are tugging at me to come see a really pretty purple flower. Yes, our granddaughters just spent a few days with us in Muleshoe (they prefer Muleshoe hands down to Malibu), and I’m experiencing PawPaw withdrawal.
“That’s my PawPaw!” I’ve heard both girls “explain.” Loudly. I’d rather be their PawPaw than any country’s king.
And wonder of wonders, the King of the universe feels that way about all His little ones. And you. And me.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
Probably the incident that would come to mind first for most of us is Christ overturning the tables of the greedy money-changers in the temple. If he wasn’t awfully angry on that occasion, he certainly did a fine imitation of an angry Lord!
And when Jesus stared holes through the hypocritical religious leaders of his day and called them “a brood of vipers,” I doubt the Pharisees missed the fire in his eyes. It was fierce love of God’s people that sparked solar flares in those usually oh so gentle eyes.
Ah, but I’m thinking of another occasion now. I like what the first two say about our Lord, but I like even more what this next one says.
It’s found in Mark 10. The people have been bringing their children to Jesus to have him touch them, bless them, and the disciples, uptight about crowd control, have begun shooing them away. Surely the Lord is far too busy, far too important, to be bothered by a bunch of snotty-nosed kids. (Mind you, the Greek text says nothing about snot. Come to think of it, in two years of biblical Greek, I don’t remember learning the Greek term for mucous, but kids are kids.)
The Bible says Jesus gets “irate.” “Indignant.” “Much displeased.” And one version just says, “angry.”
Not at the kids or the parents. At the disciples.
“Don’t push these children away,” he admonishes his disciples. “Don’t ever get between them and me. These children are at the very center of life in the kingdom.”
And he goes on: “Mark this: Unless you accept God’s kingdom in the simplicity of a child, you’ll never get in” (The Message). Then he gathers the little ones into his arms and blesses them.
I love this picture of our Lord! And I love what it says not only about the Son but also about the Father and His estimation of who is really greatest in the Kingdom.
Probably I should admit that these words are not being written by a presently emotionally stable individual. Stable people don’t get misty-eyed when they see chalk drawings on their sidewalk, and bubble “guns” sitting still and bubble-less, and tree swings becalmed (and nothing is sadder than a grandpa sitting in a tree swing alone). It’s far too quiet around here. No little fingers are tugging at me to come see a really pretty purple flower. Yes, our granddaughters just spent a few days with us in Muleshoe (they prefer Muleshoe hands down to Malibu), and I’m experiencing PawPaw withdrawal.
“That’s my PawPaw!” I’ve heard both girls “explain.” Loudly. I’d rather be their PawPaw than any country’s king.
And wonder of wonders, the King of the universe feels that way about all His little ones. And you. And me.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
God Insists That His Children Learn To Be Thankful
My parents believed in giving thanks. Yes, they believed in giving thanks primarily to God for the blessings he showers upon us. But Mom & Dad also believed in giving thanks to the people around us.
My mother, normally a most loving woman, was an absolute tyrant regarding “thank you” notes. From the moment we were old enough to scratch out a note, if we received any kind of gift from friends or family, she’d glue a writing instrument to our hands, staple our posteriors into a chair, and crack the whip as we wrote the required heartfelt note of thanks.
And Dad? Well, what started me thinking about all this was an essay one of my brothers recently wrote, remarking on the incredible amount of correspondence that my dad sent out each week. As the founder of a Bible school for preachers and church leaders, Dad depended upon contributors to keep the school funded, and, added to the mound of pastoral letters he sent out to minister to friends and extended flock far and wide, were stacks of those “thank you’s” for support. I wonder how many Underwood typewriters Dad rode right into the ground!
My mother and father taught me that there is a time for gratitude. That time is all the time. And they taught me the biblical truth that a grateful heart is the antidote for all manner of diseases of the soul.
I admit that I’ve not always followed their lead. Far too often, I’ve allowed “grinchy-ness” to crowd out gratitude, but Mom & Dad made sure that when I fall to that temptation I’m rarely able to feel good about it for very long.
Funny. Even before I read my brother’s essay, I’d already been thinking specifically about how gratitude seems to be the key to living the life God wants for us. In my own private devotions . . .
Stop! Don’t get the idea that I’ve got anything at all to be proud of regarding such devotions. I do them sporadically at best and usually poorly, I’m sure. So that’s my confession.
Okay. In my own private devotions, I often use the now-centuries-old (first published in 1549) and, to me, richly beautiful, Book of Common Prayer and its “order” for daily devotions and systematic readings and prayers from Scripture. On one recent morning, a morning which followed an evening in which I was grinchier than usual, I noticed how many of the words and Scriptures in the “morning rite” point to gratitude.
“O give thanks to Lord!” worshipers are urged in a variety of words in almost every paragraph and with multiple psalms and other Scriptures.
My circumstances, feelings, mood, and digestion may change often. But it’s good to be reminded each new day that God does not change—nor does my deep need to give thanks to him.
It seems that I’ve got another Father who is also serious about me learning to be a genuinely thankful person—whether I like it or not.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
My mother, normally a most loving woman, was an absolute tyrant regarding “thank you” notes. From the moment we were old enough to scratch out a note, if we received any kind of gift from friends or family, she’d glue a writing instrument to our hands, staple our posteriors into a chair, and crack the whip as we wrote the required heartfelt note of thanks.
And Dad? Well, what started me thinking about all this was an essay one of my brothers recently wrote, remarking on the incredible amount of correspondence that my dad sent out each week. As the founder of a Bible school for preachers and church leaders, Dad depended upon contributors to keep the school funded, and, added to the mound of pastoral letters he sent out to minister to friends and extended flock far and wide, were stacks of those “thank you’s” for support. I wonder how many Underwood typewriters Dad rode right into the ground!
My mother and father taught me that there is a time for gratitude. That time is all the time. And they taught me the biblical truth that a grateful heart is the antidote for all manner of diseases of the soul.
I admit that I’ve not always followed their lead. Far too often, I’ve allowed “grinchy-ness” to crowd out gratitude, but Mom & Dad made sure that when I fall to that temptation I’m rarely able to feel good about it for very long.
Funny. Even before I read my brother’s essay, I’d already been thinking specifically about how gratitude seems to be the key to living the life God wants for us. In my own private devotions . . .
Stop! Don’t get the idea that I’ve got anything at all to be proud of regarding such devotions. I do them sporadically at best and usually poorly, I’m sure. So that’s my confession.
Okay. In my own private devotions, I often use the now-centuries-old (first published in 1549) and, to me, richly beautiful, Book of Common Prayer and its “order” for daily devotions and systematic readings and prayers from Scripture. On one recent morning, a morning which followed an evening in which I was grinchier than usual, I noticed how many of the words and Scriptures in the “morning rite” point to gratitude.
“O give thanks to Lord!” worshipers are urged in a variety of words in almost every paragraph and with multiple psalms and other Scriptures.
My circumstances, feelings, mood, and digestion may change often. But it’s good to be reminded each new day that God does not change—nor does my deep need to give thanks to him.
It seems that I’ve got another Father who is also serious about me learning to be a genuinely thankful person—whether I like it or not.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
"I Survived the Drought of 2011"
“I SURVIVED THE DROUGHT OF 2011.”
With all of my heart, I hope that T-shirts emblazoned with that slogan are soon printed and available. At this point, though, one wonders if they ever will be.
I hate to whine. Well, that’s probably not strictly true. Most whiners whine because they enjoy it, and while they’re doing it, they don’t have to do anything else—say, something constructive—but I digress as I whine. Back to the topic at hand . . .
It’s less fun whining about the drought when I realize that folks in other states are also dealing with horrific weather woes. Your choice on the meteorological menu this year seems to boil down to three: Would you rather be blown away by a tornado, washed away by a flood, or burnt to a crisp by 50 mph winds in 100-degree, bone dry, weather?
My part of the country is dealing with the latter. It’s a matter for tears to see farmers working to put seed in parched earth knowing that they have to waste their time and that seed by planting just for insurance, all the while sure that nothing could possibly survive and grow. Not this year. Last year was the kind of bumper crop a farmer waits a lifetime to see. This year is the kind of disaster a farmer also hopes he has to wait a lifetime to see, and prays that he never does. The contrast is jarring to the max.
One thing’s sure. I now know what the definition of a pretty day is. A pretty day is a day with very little wind. (The wind actually lay down for a couple of days last week, and though the ground was still dry as bug dust, life was better.) An unimaginably beautiful day around here is any day when it rains. (Which it no longer does.) I never thought I’d hear a farmer say he’d even take the frozen stuff dropping from the sky if it would just promise to eventually melt. But I’ve heard it now.
Along with the drought has come, of course, a siege of wildfires. It’s amazing that we haven’t had more, but we’ve had plenty. With this wind and those temperatures, a tiny spark easily becomes a conflagration.
Our land is not the only thing whose fuse has been shortened by the presently scorching drought. A good many of us living through this mess may also have noticed that our fuses are shorter than usual. It takes less to set us off as the earth is not the only thing parched by the unrelenting wind, dust, and heat. Our souls become parched for joy.
During such times we are warned about not creating sparks that might enflame the dry land. Wisdom might indicate a little of the same prudence around dry spirits. We are, after all, in this mess together.
The God who created this land will one day water it. I think it’s good to pray about that, and to remember that times like these remind us to be more thankful for times not like these. In all times, God is still God, and God is still good.
I’m sure ready for that t-shirt.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
No Issue or Cause Deserves the Place of God in Our Lives
Tell me, if you please, does the name Wayne B. Wheeler ring any bells for you? It didn’t for me, either, until I read Daniel Okrent’s fascinating book Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition.
Wayne Wheeler died in 1927, less than a paltry 100 years ago. At that time, the editors of the Washington Post wrote: “No other private citizen of the United States has left such an impress upon national history.”
Wheeler was the leading figure in the Anti-Saloon League (the ASL) and was the single most influential person behind the passage and 14-year reign of the 18th Amendment: Prohibition. During most of that time he wielded such power that he could walk into almost any office in our nation’s capitol—of congressman, senator, or, yes, president—and command an audience. One of the surest ways for an elected official to lose his office was to adopt a position Wheeler and the ASL did not approve. Hence the verdict of the Washington Post. And yet . . .
Following Wheeler’s death, the ASL began to fall on hard times, and, for a number of reasons, Prohibition itself was repealed. In his book, Okrent reports that from 1935 to 1975, Wheeler’s name appears in the Post only twelve times, four of those in the obituaries of others who had fought for the amendment and three times in reviews of books on Prohibition.
After 1975, Wheeler’s name disappeared from that paper. As Prohibition was bounced out, so was even the memory of Wayne Wheeler. Even American history texts telling the story of Prohibition “leave out the name of its author.” In the eight decades since Wheeler’s death, Okrent writes that his “legacy” has been present in the tactics of almost every single-issue political movement that has arisen in our nation, but almost no one remembers his name. The nation still has the hangover from Prohibition, including among much else, the national income tax, organized crime, and, on a less pernicious note, NASCAR. But the name of Prohibition’s “author” has almost completely vanished. I find that remarkable, and cautionary, on a number of levels.
Fame really is fleeting. If you have a choice, far better to be famous with your family and a few true friends than with the masses.
Power not only corrupts, it blinds. I don’t know that Wheeler was corrupt, though his cause led to a national orgy of hypocrisy and corruption, but his life was, it seems to me, a very sad one. Zealots are by definition given to “unbalanced”lives. They are good people to avoid and almost always do less lasting good than “ordinary” people whose influence for genuine good is less loud but far more real.
No matter how important our “cause,” it’s a tragic mistake to forget to go home and have a life.
No issue—no matter how worthy or unworthy—deserves the place of God in our lives, but most issues will clamor for it.
And regardless of what the verdict of history is on our lives, only one Judge’s opinion counts. The others will soon fade away.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
Wayne Wheeler died in 1927, less than a paltry 100 years ago. At that time, the editors of the Washington Post wrote: “No other private citizen of the United States has left such an impress upon national history.”
Wheeler was the leading figure in the Anti-Saloon League (the ASL) and was the single most influential person behind the passage and 14-year reign of the 18th Amendment: Prohibition. During most of that time he wielded such power that he could walk into almost any office in our nation’s capitol—of congressman, senator, or, yes, president—and command an audience. One of the surest ways for an elected official to lose his office was to adopt a position Wheeler and the ASL did not approve. Hence the verdict of the Washington Post. And yet . . .
Following Wheeler’s death, the ASL began to fall on hard times, and, for a number of reasons, Prohibition itself was repealed. In his book, Okrent reports that from 1935 to 1975, Wheeler’s name appears in the Post only twelve times, four of those in the obituaries of others who had fought for the amendment and three times in reviews of books on Prohibition.
After 1975, Wheeler’s name disappeared from that paper. As Prohibition was bounced out, so was even the memory of Wayne Wheeler. Even American history texts telling the story of Prohibition “leave out the name of its author.” In the eight decades since Wheeler’s death, Okrent writes that his “legacy” has been present in the tactics of almost every single-issue political movement that has arisen in our nation, but almost no one remembers his name. The nation still has the hangover from Prohibition, including among much else, the national income tax, organized crime, and, on a less pernicious note, NASCAR. But the name of Prohibition’s “author” has almost completely vanished. I find that remarkable, and cautionary, on a number of levels.
Fame really is fleeting. If you have a choice, far better to be famous with your family and a few true friends than with the masses.
Power not only corrupts, it blinds. I don’t know that Wheeler was corrupt, though his cause led to a national orgy of hypocrisy and corruption, but his life was, it seems to me, a very sad one. Zealots are by definition given to “unbalanced”lives. They are good people to avoid and almost always do less lasting good than “ordinary” people whose influence for genuine good is less loud but far more real.
No matter how important our “cause,” it’s a tragic mistake to forget to go home and have a life.
No issue—no matter how worthy or unworthy—deserves the place of God in our lives, but most issues will clamor for it.
And regardless of what the verdict of history is on our lives, only one Judge’s opinion counts. The others will soon fade away.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
"My Eyes Are Now Open, But What Day Is It?"
My eyes are now open. It seems to be morning. But what day is it?
That’s the conversation I had with myself as something approaching consciousness was trying to break through my brain fog this morning. You see, we had a wedding a couple of days ago, complete with all the rehearsal and ceremony decorating, celebrating, food, family, fun, and now exhaustion (of the “good tired” variety). So, you understand this morning’s mental mistiness, I’m sure.
I might as well admit that I’m not a huge fan of weddings. Most guys will read that and wonder, “Big deal. What kind of dim-witted dumbo is?” Most gals will wonder if I also kick dogs and eat small children. My defense is that I absolutely love marriage (and a big wedding and a big marriage are not even remotely connected).
But while I’m “admitting,” I’ll also readily admit that this weekend included a good bit of fun and some really amazing moments—and a great wedding. In no particular order . . .
I got to swim at the hotel pool with my giggling granddaughters.
I got to dance with those little gals at the rehearsal dinner and reception—and with the beautiful bride at the latter.
I got to spend the night with my brand new grandson.
I got to watch my two beautiful world-class daughters-in-law laugh as they talked about decorating the wedding suite at the hotel for the groom and my newest beautiful world-class daughter-in-law. I’m so glad their husbands showed surprisingly good judgment by falling in love with them!
At the rehearsal dinner (a shrimp boil) I got to help dispatch a good number of shrimp (and a chunk of delectable cheesecake crafted by the artistry of my own bride) in exactly the way God intended.
I got to stand by my four sons during the ceremony—and please indulge my fatherly pride when I say there’s nobody I’d rather stand with or laugh with or be with anywhere. (Here’s an amazing thought: that’s how the Father of us all feels about us all!)
I got to officiate as the clergyman as not only a great couple but two fine families were joined. Both have shared ties for years and are proud as they can be to be “officially” united. This is the third time for such a blessing!
I got to watch as the two most beautiful little girls in the world (my granddaughters, of course!) dressed in white did the flower girl honors, proceeded down the aisle, and went, all smiles, straight, not to their daddies as directed, but to their grandfather. I was more than okay with that.
And I got the best seat in the house (which was not a seat since we were standing and which was not in a house since we were outdoors) . . . Well, I had the best view of anyone in that lovely setting as I could look right into two faces as filled with joy as any faces I’ve ever seen. I am immensely proud of that couple. May their faces always be filled with their Father’s love and joy.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
That’s the conversation I had with myself as something approaching consciousness was trying to break through my brain fog this morning. You see, we had a wedding a couple of days ago, complete with all the rehearsal and ceremony decorating, celebrating, food, family, fun, and now exhaustion (of the “good tired” variety). So, you understand this morning’s mental mistiness, I’m sure.
I might as well admit that I’m not a huge fan of weddings. Most guys will read that and wonder, “Big deal. What kind of dim-witted dumbo is?” Most gals will wonder if I also kick dogs and eat small children. My defense is that I absolutely love marriage (and a big wedding and a big marriage are not even remotely connected).
But while I’m “admitting,” I’ll also readily admit that this weekend included a good bit of fun and some really amazing moments—and a great wedding. In no particular order . . .
I got to swim at the hotel pool with my giggling granddaughters.
I got to dance with those little gals at the rehearsal dinner and reception—and with the beautiful bride at the latter.
I got to spend the night with my brand new grandson.
I got to watch my two beautiful world-class daughters-in-law laugh as they talked about decorating the wedding suite at the hotel for the groom and my newest beautiful world-class daughter-in-law. I’m so glad their husbands showed surprisingly good judgment by falling in love with them!
At the rehearsal dinner (a shrimp boil) I got to help dispatch a good number of shrimp (and a chunk of delectable cheesecake crafted by the artistry of my own bride) in exactly the way God intended.
I got to stand by my four sons during the ceremony—and please indulge my fatherly pride when I say there’s nobody I’d rather stand with or laugh with or be with anywhere. (Here’s an amazing thought: that’s how the Father of us all feels about us all!)
I got to officiate as the clergyman as not only a great couple but two fine families were joined. Both have shared ties for years and are proud as they can be to be “officially” united. This is the third time for such a blessing!
I got to watch as the two most beautiful little girls in the world (my granddaughters, of course!) dressed in white did the flower girl honors, proceeded down the aisle, and went, all smiles, straight, not to their daddies as directed, but to their grandfather. I was more than okay with that.
And I got the best seat in the house (which was not a seat since we were standing and which was not in a house since we were outdoors) . . . Well, I had the best view of anyone in that lovely setting as I could look right into two faces as filled with joy as any faces I’ve ever seen. I am immensely proud of that couple. May their faces always be filled with their Father’s love and joy.
Copyright 2011 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.
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