Rescued!

After a few laps I noticed him.



courtesy of photo bucket



He was swimming his heart out - good at it, too.

He was made to swim.

ButI could tell he was getting tired and he wanted out.

I could stand and touch the bottom to rest. He couldn't.

He kept trying to climb the side but he was too small. There was nothing for him to grab; just the

 slippery sides of the pool.

I watched him struggle.

If I don't help him – he'll die.
No doubt about it.

As good a swimmer as he was, he wasn't good enough.

I knew exactly how he felt. He was doing his best but coming up short; over his head with no time to rest; nothing solid, nothing sure; only a slippery slope and no way out.

No options – but swim. And keep swimming and hope somehow someway he'll find a way out or be rescued.

I thought; how in the world did you get into this mess? This is no place for you.

I said; "hey, let me get you out of here."

I reached out a hand. Instead of accepting my help – he swam. I tried to hold him but he slipped away – out into the deep. I swam after him.

Now I couldn't touch the bottom either. He avoided me with all his might.

"Hey little guy I'm just trying to help" I pleaded.

When I caught up to him I cupped both hands around him and had to tread water using only my legs and feet.

Somehow I managed to inhale when I should have exhaled. For this I was awarded a lung full of H2O; which caused me to cough, kick, spit and sputter the rest of the way to the shallow end of the pool. All the while I was thinking; now I'm the one who's going to need saving.

But I never let him go to save myself – although the thought crossed my mind.

I carried him to the edge and gently set him down.

You may not believe it - but the stupid little frog looked at the water like he was going to jump back in.

I blocked his way with my hand and he turned and hopped away… to live happily ever after.

It really happened that way – ask him…

                                                                                  Photo courtesy of photo bucket

As I stood at the edge of the pool still trying to replace air for water in my lungs I thought this is a familiar scene. Only I was the frog.

I was the one in need of saving. Doing my best but it was only a matter of time until I sank. No way out of this world alive. I needed a Deliverer. He came. I swam away and resisted His attempts to rescue me. Thought I could do it on my own. He knew better. He launched into the deep to reach me, even to His own hurt.


And He never let me go, although, I'm sure it crossed His mind. He stretched out His hand so I could live happily ever after.


It really happened that way – ask Him.

Jesus is still rescuing today. The Life Guard of Life Guards is He.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Isaiah 53:6
All we like sheep have gone astray; We have turned, every one, to his own way; And the LORD has laid on Him the iniquity of us all

Romans 5:8 

 But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

Psalm 69:1-2 

 ¹ Save me, O God!
         For the waters have come up to my neck.
 ² I sink in deep mire,
         Where there is no standing;
         I have come into deep waters,
         Where the floods overflow me.

^{Isaiah 53:5
5} But He was wounded for our transgressions,
      He was bruised for our iniquities;
      The chastisement for our peace was upon Him,
      And by His stripes we are healed.

Luke 22:42
"Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done."

 

John 13:1
[ Jesus Washes the Disciples' Feet ] Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that His hour had come that He should depart from this world to the Father, having loved His own who were in the world, He loved
them to the end

John 14:6
Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.

 

Emma’s Church

"Mornin' Hon', name's Emma – what can I getcha"
"Eggs, grits and a biscuit, please ma'am."
"Would ya like butter on your grits?"
"Sure"
Emma handed me a Styrofoam container. "Here ya go Sweety."
He stood by the cash register pointing and a six gallon gas can. "Hey buddy, I only live about seven houses down, I don't know which way you're headin' but can you gimme me a lift?"
I thought; well actually, I was going to sit down and eat. I'm tired; I want to sit here in peace and not do anything, but relax.

I said; "sure."
He handed the girl behind the cash register a five-dollar bill and said, "Um, pump seven – I think" and he ran out the door, turned around ran back in, grabbed the gas can and ran back out.
I stared at him and then at my Styrofoam breakfast.
Emma said, "Brian's a good guy – just forgets to put gas in his old truck now and then. I think he gets a little nervous around Lucy here. Sometimes he'll come in for gas before work. He'll pick up breakfast, same thing every morning, and then take one look and Little-Lucy-Lu here and plumb forget to put gas in the truck. Reckon he's too embarrassed to run back in and so off he goes running on fumes."
Emma walked over and gave Little- Lucy-Lu a hug or two. I noticed Lucy's face had turned the color of the Tabasco sauce. She said, "Oh Mama – he just has a lot on his mind, he doesn't like me."
"Oh yes he does. Mama knows."
"Reckon those two'll become an item – if he ever gets the nerve to ask her out. And when they come home late saying they ran out of gas – it'll be the truth!" She laughed right out loud and clapped her hands together which caused a baking powder cloud of white dust to circle her like a halo. She had a good laugh. It was contagious too, I know because I found myself laughing right along with her. And I didn't think what she said was that funny, but I laughed anyway.
"Anyhow" Emma continued, "he don't live far – I can put that on the warmer if you wanna come back here and eat."
"Sure." I said, again.
The door flew open. "Sorry Lucy but which pump did you turn on – five?" Lucy giggled, "seven, Brian – S-E-V-E-N."
I grabbed a coffee-to-go and walked up to Lucy at the register. "We'll take care of it when you get back" she said.
Brian forgot how many houses away he lived, too. After about a mile or so and twenty or thirty houses we turned into his driveway. "Thanks bud – God bless ya good. That Emma's a real fine cook – you're in for some good eatin."
I asked if he needed me to wait and make sure he got his truck running. He said "No I'll be fine now – happens all the time."
"What do you mean, 'happens all the time'" I said.
"Well, it gets pretty skinny 'tween paydays and if I run her on fumes too long she just won't start in the mornin' "
"Yeah, I know what you mean. I've done that a time or two."
"Get on now Bud. Emma's food is good but her warmer ain't too hot. You best get back or your grits are gonna get cold. Thanks again – God bless ya big."
I returned to the old gas station, sat in the only booth available out of the three. Bowed my head and gave thanks. "Lord, thanks for this food and for letting me help Brian. I pray you'll help him too. I guess I won't be going to church today – sorry about that. Amen."
I opened the lid expecting to find three food groups neatly separated; eggs, grits and a biscuit. I found one mound: homemade biscuit cut in half covered with grits and eggs – all smothered in butter.
On a radio behind the counter Craig Morgan sang, "That's what I love about Sunday".
I thought about the last few days, helping my sister-in-law with a moving-sale and a move. We'd lifted and loaded and packed and cleaned. I was plumb tuckered.
I took one bite. Whoa. That food. Wow. Southern cookin' ! Yes siree. I really had planned on taking my time enjoying a leisurely breakfast. But, it was too dad- gum-good. Like a pack-of-wolves, I woofed it down. (Pardon my manners.)
About the time I was wiping a napkin across my lips in walked Mac. At least that's what Emma called him. His straw cowboy hat stained with hard work was tilted back and to the side just a bit; like the smile he wore. He spoke quietly with Emma but his southern drawl could be heard from where I sat.
Emma asked with a voice of compassion, "How's Missy?"
"It worked just like you said. I brought the tray in and sat it beside her. I walked out of the room – waited one minute; just like you said. And lo-and-behold when I walked back in, she was staring at the tray. And then she tried to sit up. I helped her and was able to feed her about half the bowl before she said she was full. She said to thank you. And then."
Mac stopped talking. Emma waited. He pulled a red hanky out of his back pocket and wiped his eyes, blew his nose and continued. "Emma, it's been so long since I've seen her reach for her Bible. She used to read it every day and then fold her hands on top of it, close her eyes and pray. She never looked so at peace when she'd do that. Well, last night after she ate, she reached out and took The Good Book. She read it until she fell asleep, right there sitting up. But she looked at peace. The same peace I use to see." He wiped his eyes again and his voice cracked when he said. "Thanks Emma. I don't know what's gonna happen with Missy. I don't know if she'll come out of this or go home. But now I know either way, everything's gonna be alright."
"Let the aroma do the talking and you'll wet more appetites." Emma sang the words more than spoke them. I pulled out a pen and wrote that down.
As I stood by the cash register to pay, Emma shook her head, "Hey Sweety this ones on the house. Thanks for helping Brian.
I looked out the window and Brian was jumping up and down in the parking lot with seven fingers above his head. His truck was parked next to the gas pumps. Lucy pretended not to notice at first. She looked at me, turned Tabasco again and giggled. Then she flipped a switch to pump seven.
"Well, since breakfast was free, can I get Brian's gas?"
"Now that you can do," spoke Emma. "And God bless ya for it. God bless ya real big."
I handed her a bill and thanked both of them for the great food and hospitality. "I feel like I've been to church." I said.
"Hallelujah, thank you Jesus. That's us." Emma's clap and laugh produced another baking powder halo.


"Eatin' at Emma's – it may not be healthy, but it sure is good for ya." She sang the words like a hymn.


As I walked out, Brian walked in. "Hi Luce – how's it goin'? Um, I've been meanin' to ask you something."


As I sat in my truck, I thought; Good Lord Almighty I feel like I've been to church. It's never happened quite like this before but I thought I heard a voice inside me say "You sure have Sweety" – it kind of sounded like Emma.

Ephesians 5:2
And walk in love, as Christ also has loved us and given Himself for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweet-smelling aroma

Home

Yesterday we drove from Florida to Villa Rica, Ga. From orange trees and palm leaves to orange leaves and pine trees. We retraced the same route we had taken in the spring. This time however, was to help our sister-in-law move.

We looped the exit off I-75 North and under the bridge onto I-20 West. That's where we saw him.
Rush hour traffic was dwindling. Most folks were already home. They were probably sitting down to the dinner table. He was home. We saw him, sitting by his front door reading a book.

From where he was perched he could watch the traffic fly by, or crawl by depending on the time of day. He didn't look a bit concerned about the madness only a few feet away from his front door. Except during rush hour when the traffic slowed to a crawl the wind from the passing vehicles would cause his front door to shake – actually his whole house.

A canvas flap for a front door draped over cardboard walls. And this was home. The bridge offered protection from the rain and the scorching sun. There he sat by the front door, reading. I wonder what he read.

We couldn't stop – it would have caused a wreck. We drove by. My mind stayed behind. I wondered about him the rest of our journey. I wondered about him and said a prayer for him when I fell asleep. And now as I sip coffee and tap these keys I am still wondering about his wanderings.

What does he do for money? Pan-handle during rush hour? It would be a short commute; only twenty feet from his front door. How about family? Does he have any? Do they worry about him? Does he have any friends? Why is he there? Is he happy? Sad? Crazy? What was he reading?

As I think of him I think maybe he's better off than some of the crazed crowd that rushes by his front porch each day. Thousands of folks with road-rage attitudes blow by at seventy miles an hour. In the morning they're in a hurry to get to work. In the afternoon they're in a hurry to get home. No matter the direction the same thing is true - always in a hurry to be somewhere else.

He watches and reads. He's at home; they're still trying to get there.

Well, I need to get busy helping Rosie, my sister-in-law get ready to move. She's moving from one beautiful house to another. But her home, well she takes that with her wherever she goes.

Our heart beats like the flapping front door canvas. And where our heart is there is our home.

Today Lord, remind us that this world is not our home but while we're here help us be settled where we're at; to pay attention to those around us. Grant us an understanding that your peace that passes understanding is with us. And even though it may seem like the world is passing us by let us feel at home resting in the front porch of your presence. Amen.

Pretty or Poison

“Yes this will bear lots and lots of fruit.” Maria chimed the words with her pleasant Hispanic accent. “It’s a very sweet; very, very sweet.”

“Will it bear fruit in the winter?”

“Let’s see.” She whispered as she reached for a tag on the tree. “Yes, November, it will produce fruit starting in November.”

“Well then we’ll take it.”



We brought it home after turning our 2.6 mile trip into 7.2 miles. I knew a short cut to avoid the highway, drive slowly and protect the trees. That didn’t work. After a couple miles of wrong I turned the truck around and went back to the highway.



We made it home with two trees in the bed and four flowering plants in the back seat. We dug, planted and watered.



Nevaeh helping to water



I watched the sprinkler sway back and forth. The leaves glistened. I thought to myself, “I planted a tree today…it’s autumn and I’m planting. Are you supposed to this time of year? For the first time in my life I planted a tree. Others are harvesting. I’m planting. There’s a lesson here somewhere.”

I watched droplets dance on the curled leaves. And remembered what Maria, at The Lord’s Nursery (yeah, I thought it was a cool name too) told us.

“Tiny worms may make some of the leaves a very, very ugly. But it won’t hurt the tree or the fruit. It will just make the leaves a very, very ugly. We have a chemical that will kill the worm but it will soak into the entire tree and the limbs and the fruit. The tree will look a beautiful but the fruit will have a poison. They tell us the chemical won’t hurt the fruit and you can still eat it, but we will not use it. We are organic. We don’t want to ruin the taste of the fruit with the chemicals, so we just leave it alone. It may make some leaves a very, very ugly but the fruit will remain a very, very good. The worms will not touch the fruit.”

I probably wouldn’t have noticed if Maria hadn’t pointed them out. They’re not so ugly anyway. And even if they were, I wouldn’t mind, as long as they bear good fruit. I don’t’ want to pump them full of poison just so they’ll look pretty.

Seems there should be a lesson in all of this. Didn't Jesus warn about outward beauty and poison within?

I'm still pondering these things as I tap this message to you in the wee hours of the morning. The house still sleeps. From where I sit I can see a stuffed puppy, a doll stroller and some other parts and pieces to toys - evidence that grandkids spent the night.With all this mess it's not real pretty – but  it sure is beautiful.



Which reminds me of our tree. Which reminds me of me. Things a very very ugly hang from the limbs of my life, my past and curled in up in the corners of my mind. Do I pump myself with poisonous pious? Or, should I allow the ugly to hang in plain site?


As for the tree I’m going to let it grow. Give it plenty of water and sun and fertilizer. I'll prune the infected leaves. And if Maria is right, it will produce, “a very very much good fruit, a very very sweet.” It may not be real pretty but it sure is beautiful.

My Lord, here we are blemishes and all. We ask You to help us bear a very very much fruit. Good fruit that remains in season and out. Keep us from poisoning our souls for appearance sake. And show us that you can use us – blemishes and all.

John 4:35 (New King James Version)

 Do you not say, ‘There are still four months and then comes the harvest’?

Behold, I say to you, lift up your eyes and look at the fields, for they are already white for harvest!

 

John 15:5-8

“I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.  If anyone does not abide in Me, he is cast out as a branch and is withered; and they gather them and throw them into the fire, and they are burned. If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, you will[a] ask what you desire, and it shall be done for you.  By this My Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit; so you will be My disciples.

Galatians 5:22

 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness



Isaac/Ishmael Project - Why Me?

CONTINUED:


I closed the tattered journal. Too many emotions to name; but only one question: Why me? I’m a nobody from nowhere. I don’t have a voice. I can’t talk to the world. I can’t just reach out to the highest office in the land. I don’t know the President. I don’t know anyone in the news media.


Interrupting my thoughts I heard; “You can pray. I know. I’ve heard you.” I don’t know if it was out loud or in my head but I heard it just the same.

“Oh Lord” I flipped the journal open and it fell to :

May 16th 1958


Married! Oh Gracious God I thank you for your divine wisdom and great love. You have ordained and orchestrated this marriage. I am a direct descendant of Abram through Ishmael and Sarah is of the lineage of Abraham through Isaac. We are one. Two worlds united. Now, Lord, allow our union to bring together the brothers at war. And should you bless us with children sovereign Lord, use them to usher in your divine plan prepared from the foundation of the world. Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.

Oh Lord, I feel like I’ve just been dropped in the middle of New York City – lost, broke and naked. But I have a cell phone with your number. I’m calling for help. I know you have a plan.

Some problems seem too big, too far out of control that they’re not even worth praying over. But these folks did. They prayed for peace between brothers at war for thousands of years. All things are possible with you.

For reasons beyond my understanding you have brought us together. Who am I to stand in the way? And so, I’ll stand in the gap. And pray.

My new friend and I are brothers; two worlds united. Now Lord, unite brothers at war and usher in your divine plan prepared from the foundation of the world. Bring about a great reconciliation. Open our eyes to view one another as brothers and sisters. Open our ears to hear your voice and follow. Teach us to love with Your love that never fails. Remind us that our enemies are not each other but hosts of wickedness from the evil one and place a desire in us to pray. We pray for our President, the leaders of countries and all those in authority. We pray they acknowledge you and be filled with your wisdom to lead with integrity and honor. Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.

I spent the next day copying the translated portion of the notebook to make it easier to read and I wanted a copy on the computer. I closed the journal and repeated a prayer similar to the one above. Before I opened my eyes I could see brightness through my eyelids.

I knew what it was.

I opened my eyes and sure enough there he stood; bronzed leather, brilliant white clothes. Smiling blue eyes made me smile back.

“Take heart. You have a voice, you are somebody and you can reach out to the Highest Office in the World at any time – you will be heard.” Overwhelmed; my eyes started to swim. Contacts floated like a canoe on a river down my cheeks.

He looked at the journal smiling. I looked at it, now splattered with tears and two contacts - somewhere.

I knew there was another reason for his visit. I picked up the tattered leather, slowly. I didn’t want to part with it, but I knew I had to. His hand extended as slowly as mine. He was still smiling and I wondered why; I was just about to ask when his hand touched the notebook – and he was gone.

My eyes fixed on the empty space where he once stood. I wondered about that smile. And then it occurred to me, everything was clear. Literally, everything was clear. I could see perfectly. With no contacts in my eyes I could see perfectly. My eyes were healed!

I’m not sure how the whole Angel thing works, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he was one. And they must have a sense of humor; he was giddy about slipping in a secret miracle for my eyes, just because – God Is Love.

THE END.



Isaac/Ishmael Project - The Letter

July 4th 2010


Dear Friend, This will be my last entry in this journal – perhaps my last night on this earth.


I don’t know you but tomorrow we meet.


Today, for the first time in my life I have set foot on American soil. My white clothed friend said he would take me to you and you would know what to do with this journal. I trust God will guide you. I pray for your protection.


Forgive me for putting your life on this earth in jeopardy. There are those who do not want the information to be revealed. And they will do whatever it takes to destroy it.


I am sitting in a hotel room. Independence Day lights the sky of this wonderful nation. I fear the rockets aglow in celebration will soon be rockets aglow in annihilation, unless America learns to celebrate her dependence on The God who gave her birth.


My attention turns to my sons. Brothers set in place; one to lead Allah’s army, the other to be a puppet – a charismatic leader of change; able to implement their plans that look good on the surface but collapse the system from within – and then he will be sacrificed. “The ram in the thicket.”


Unbeknownst to my sons, they have been pruned and honed for such a time as this. Their lives have been planned but not out of their control. Like me, like all of mankind, they have the freedom to choose.


My life was destined to destroy lives. But, by God’s grace He made a way of escape, although hard it has been worth every tear. Through it all I’ve learned that our weapons are not ones made with man’s hands but ones born from the heart of God. I have learned the most powerful force on earth is a faith filled prayer in the hands of love.




“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” My sons are not the enemy.


I will give you this one charge – PRAY! If the Lord gives you an opportunity to speak to the world tell them; “We are all brothers and sisters with one Father God – And God is love.”


And if you see my son tell him, “My Dear Son, I have watched you from afar and have held you close everyday in my heart and prayers. I love you. Love never fails.”


See you soon,


Your Brother.

I closed the tattered journal. Too many emotions to name; but only one question: Why me? I’m a nobody from nowhere. I don’t have a voice. I can’t talk to the world. I can’t just reach out to the highest office in the land. I don’t know the President. I don’t know anyone in the news media.

Interrupting my thoughts I heard; “You can pray. I know. I’ve heard you.” I don’t know if it was out loud or in my head but I heard it just the same.

Oh Lord, I sighed and flipped the journal open - it fell to :

CONCLUSION TOMORROW : "WHY ME?"

.

Isaac/Ishmael Project - The Plan

June 2008



I am an old man now. I’ve given my remaining years in pursuit of the truth about what happened to my boys.


Many times over the years I have been tempted to give up hope. My searching seemed to be in vain. But then I would remember my mother’s letter found me after all those years and it would give me strength to carry on. “Weary not in well doing, for in due season we shall reap if we faint not. Always remember even when things happen we don’t understand – GOD IS LOVE – And love never fails.”


During the presidential campaign in the United States – I started to find answers. All my years of searching started to make sense. Now, I know where my boys are. More importantly, I know who they are.


Whoever reads this journal may not believe what I’m about to write. But I trust my God will reveal the Truth.


Because of their bloodlines my sons are considered providential to the plan of Allah – as was I.


They were taken to be pruned for a diabolical purpose. Isaac was planted with the woman who gave birth to the sickly child shown to me when I woke up from being hit on the head. She immediately flew out of the country – to the United States, to Hawaii.


The other; Ishmael, was taken to Iran. He has known no home or family and has been raised as a militant. As it is written of his ancestor, “He shall be a wild man; His hand shall be against every man, and every man’s hand against him. And he shall dwell in the presence of all his brethren.”


Mysteriously all of those who could have knowledge of this birth have died. Seemingly of natural causes, I know different. I alone remain.


It was set in motion. They call it the Ishmael/Isaac Project. If you can believe it – the-powers-that-be have mocked the world through the similarities of their names. Two brothers at war; two worlds divided.

May 2010


The Signal


He appeared again. Bronzed leather over muscle, brilliant white clothes, almost fifty years later yet he still appeared to be a young man. He handed me a document and on it was written:


“When the infidels pollute the waters with Allah’s blessing the time has come to clean up the shores of the Great Satan and her offspring.”


It is time to wake our Inn Keepers and Gas Station Attendants” ~ Ishmael.


I wept thinking this was written by my son. “What’s the meaning of this?” I asked.


“Allah’s blessing is the wealth brought from oil in the land. When America pollutes the waters (ocean) with oil it is Allah’s signal to clean up; to remove The United States and her offspring; Israel.


The Inn Keepers and Gas Station Attendants are sleeper cells controlling the lodging and fuel stations in America.”


Handing me the notebook I had lost years ago - and thought I would never see again, he said: “Complete and translate to English. I will return and show you the one who will know what to do.”


A short time after his visit I read of the news about the BP oil spill and knew this was the signal. I also knew that it was no accident. But a premeditated explosion to cause division between the western nations and signal Allah’s purging.





July 4th 2010


Dear Friend, This will be my last entry in this journal – perhaps my last night on this earth.


I don’t know you but tomorrow we meet.

TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW: "THE LETTER"

pa rum pum pum pum

.
Good morning Lord


This is the day you have made and I will on purpose rejoice and be glad in it.

This morning, I woke remembering the feelings of rejection. I went back to a scary place. It was in the third grade. I was the new kid in town. With crooked teeth, freckles and a squeaky voice, my confidence and my knees were shaky. Steve Sjostram was the local bully. I became an immediate target – and for what seemed like an eternity I was the bulls-eye for all of his practical jokes, teasing and humiliation.

The other kids laughed at my expense.

Normally I was coordinated and somewhat athletic. But my nervousness turned me into a klutz. I was the guy still standing there after all the teams had been picked, and no one wanted me. Rejected.

Eventually, I made friends. I wish I could say I punched Steve Sjostram in the face and learned a great lesson about bullyhood. But I never did, I just endured. However, years later we moved across the alley from his house. I became friends with his brother and eventually somewhat friendly with Steve.

Anyway, the fear of those days returned this morning – the feelings of everyone staring at my klutzy self and laughing – and having no one as a friend. I remember feeling all alone and lost in a crowded school. Those feelings haunt me today. My fingers are a little shaky as I attempt to tap these keys. And the screen is a little blurry as my eyes begin to pool. Excuse me for a moment as I wipe away these tears.

I have nothing to offer. Not a talent I can bring. I guess that’s why I cry each time I hear the little drummer boy sing. “I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum.” Maybe I see you as the bully at school. Why? Because I’m reaching out each time I write with squeaky voice and shaky confidence. Maybe that’s why I write (to face my fears) maybe that’s why I don’t (because of them.)

Today I will write for my King and if the bully slays me then he slays me. If you like me you like me – if you don’t you don’t.

Today my King I will play my best for you pa rum pum pum pum,

rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
Then He smiles at me, pa rum pum pum pum


Through these tears I can see His smile, feel His healing.

This post is part of the blog carnival on Healing, hosted by  http://bridgetchumbley.com/  To read more, please visit her site.

Little Drummer Boy: Lyrics

Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum

A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum

Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum

To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,

rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,

When we come.

Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum

I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum

I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum

That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,

rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,

On my drum?

Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum

The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum

I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum

I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,

rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum

Me and my drum.

Isaac & Ishmael Project - Two Worlds Divided

July 15th 1961



TAKEN


We were in Kenya, carrying on our missionary work – handing out bread with a message. We called it Bread Of Life.


Her water broke, she was two weeks early.


The babies came; two boys. I know, I was there, I saw them. As I looked at my wife cradling our boys – I was awe struck. My mind was spinning. “From the two of us two new creations have come. They’re people, real live tiny people.” I never felt closer to The Creator. She never looked so beautiful. She had a radiance that glowed.


And then they were no more.


Through sweat and tears of joy and pain she eyed our sons; “Your father and I – two worlds united, and you…” She hesitated, bit her quivering lip and drew a deep breath… “Isaac and Ishmael; two worlds divided.”


My mind blurred with confusion, we planned to name them Peter (after her father) and David (after King David; a man after God’s own heart). She touched my hand, “I love you – see you soon.” She was gone.


My vision blurred, all went black.


The expanse of the universe cannot contain the breadth of emotion I traveled that day.






I woke to thunder – in my head, and a nurse about to stick a needle in my arm.


“Sarah! Where’s my wife!”


“She didn’t make it” hissed a nurse with the personality of a snake.


“Where’s my boys – I want to see my boys!”


I yanked a bandage off my head and felt a lump the size of a goose egg.


“You bumped your head when you fainted.”


“I DIDN’T FAINT! WHAT’S GOING ON AROUND HERE? I WANT TO SEE MY BOYS.”


“Fine” the snake hissed and pulled back a curtain dividing the room. One baby – not ours lay in their place – the baby was sickly and at death’s door.


That is not our baby. That baby needs a doctor! Where are our boys? I want to see my wife!


“You’re grief stricken, it’s quite common, you’ve just lost your wife your child is about to die and your mind is playing tricks on you. You’re trying to replace them. You need something to relax.” She held up the needle with a wicked grin.


“I DON’T WANT TO RELAX I WANT TO SEE MY FAMILY – NOW!”


She slithered out of the room and hissed “I’ll get the doctor.”


She must have found him just outside the door because I heard them trying to whisper but they were too upset and couldn’t control the volume


The snake hissed “He woke up.”


“What – he’s still alive?” A man’s voice snarled.


“He woke before I could give him the shot. You should have hit him harder!”


“Give it to me - I’ll do it myself.”


I somehow managed to exit the window but found myself hanging from a second story ledge above a narrow concrete street.


Suddenly a young man appeared. He was dressed in white, brilliant white. He was strong, bronzed leather over muscle. Ironically he was carrying a ladder, he quickly set it up beneath me and aided in my escape.


I’ve remained hidden ever since.

June 2008



I am an old man now. I’ve given my remaining years in pursuit of the truth about what happened to my boys.


Many times over the years I have been tempted to give up hope. My searching seemed to be in vain. But then I would remember my mother’s letter found me after all those years and it would give me strength to carry on. “Weary not in well doing, for in due season we shall reap if we faint not. Always remember even when things happen we don’t understand – GOD IS LOVE – And love never fails.”


During the presidential campaign in the United States – I started to find answers. All my years of searching started to make sense. Now, I know where my boys are. More importantly, I know who they are.


Whoever reads this journal may not believe what I’m about to write. But I trust my God will reveal the Truth.

TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW: "THE PLAN"

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Isaac & Ishmael Project - Two Worlds United

May 15th 1958

For a decade we’ve handed out Bibles and loaves of bread with a message inside in the shape of a cross:

“God

is

love.

From: The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

He has a Son.

His name is

Jesus.”

Has it been ten years? It seems like only a day. I’m blessed above all men. For ten years I’ve worked beside the most beautiful of God’s creation. Ten years we’ve handed The Holy Scriptures to hands accustomed to heavy burden and bloodshed. We’ve shared His words through blood stained streets: “Come unto Me all you who are weary and heavy laden for My yoke is easy, My burden is light.” We’ve explained that the bloodshed that matters has already been splattered. And my favorite words…God is love. I love that. To this day, those three words still get to me.

Today we wed. I love that

May 16th 1958 TWO WORLDS UNITED

Married! Oh Gracious God I thank you for your divine wisdom and great love. You have ordained and orchestrated this marriage. I am a direct descendant of Abram through Ishmael and Sarah is of the lineage of Abraham through Isaac. We are one. Two worlds united. Now, Lord, allow our union to bring together the brothers at war. And should you bless us with children Sovereign Lord, use them to usher in your divine plan prepared from the foundation of the world. Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.

May 15th 1959

Keeping our hands to the plow we continue the work the Lord has set before us. Today we celebrate our first anniversary and a great gift.

I have not heard from my mother since the night she fled to the missionaries. My in-laws told me all they knew was that she was rescued by American missionaries being led by a strong, kind young man wearing the brightest white clothes they had ever seen.

We never heard from any of them again…until today! A formal cover letter graciously advised that at the request of the sender upon her death this letter should be sent to her son :

“My Dear Son, I have watched you from afar and have held you close everyday in my heart and prayers. I know my vanishing may have caused you pain, but for me to stay I surely would have been stoned to death as you know and a greater pain would have been inflicted upon you. I have remained hidden for your safety because had you known my whereabouts you most certainly would have attempted to find me and disclosure of your location would have gotten you executed as well. This I could not bear. I know Jehovah God; The Creator of Heaven and Earth is your God. He is also mine and we will see each other again – never more to part. This I look forward to. Until then; “weary not in well doing, for in due season we shall reap if we faint not.” Always remember even when things happen we don’t understand – GOD IS LOVE – And love never fails. I love you, see you soon. Mother.”

The rest of today – we wept; for joy, for sorrow, for healing.

TO BE CONTINUED...next - Two Worlds Divided

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Isaac & Ishmael Project - The Ultimate Honor

THE SAGA CONTINUES...

May 15th 1948



Today I was destined to perform my Ultimate Honor to Allah by strapping “bombs of honor” to my thighs and enter Jerusalem. I was to give new meaning to the “wailing wall.”


In an attempt to stop Israel from being recognized as a sovereign nation the plan was to detonate bombs near the Wailing Wall – knowingly murdering our own people, women and children and then blame Israel for the attack.


I was the scapegoat, the sacrificial lamb. If I did not voluntarily walk into the plaza with death strapped to my thighs I would be killed and someone as deceived as I once was would take my place. There was only one thing to do: Perform the ultimate honor and carry out the mission.


At the designated time, I prepared myself. My father met with me.


“Are you ready?” He looked scared. He looked unsure of himself. I’d never seen that before.


I said “I am ready for eternity and ready to lead others there as well.”


My father stepped back and looked puzzled at my boldness. “I thought maybe you would be a scared little boy ready to run and hide, like your mother, but here you are ready to carry out your Ultimate Honor to Allah like a man. God be with you son.” He stuttered the last few words.


I drew a deep breath and replied “Oh He is – I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”


He cocked his head and rubbed his hand across his bearded chin. He looked toward the plaza and nodded for me to go.


I said, “I love you father, God be with you.” I never saw him again.


As instructed, I made my way to the most crowded area in the plaza. At just the right moment when I was to send anyone near me into eternity I reached where bombs were suppose to be and showed them how to get there. I pulled out Bibles and tracts from the missionaries and shouted; “God is love”. I handed out Bibles and literature to anyone who would take them. I shouted “God is love! God is love! God is love!”


I heard the ring of a rifle. And then from out of nowhere someone grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd. I couldn’t’ see his face but he was wearing the brightest clothes I‘d ever seen. He delivered me to the missionary’s house and strangely enough no one followed.


Today I thought would be my last. Instead: Israel is born. God is alive. Allah is not.


My father has disowned me. My people seek to take my life – they don’t realize they can’t…I’ve already given it.


And I’ve been raised from the dead.


I am Born again!






May 15th 1958


For a decade we’ve handed out Bibles and loaves of bread with a message inside in the shape of a cross:

“God
 is
love.

From: The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

He has a Son.

His name is

Jesus.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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Isaac Ishmael Project - The Notebook III

THE SAGA CONTINUES...

Today, I am confused. Allah did not protect my mother. But, neither did Jehovah God. And now she is gone.



They say my blood is pure from Abram through Ishmael. And I am to be the one to perform the Ultimate Honor to Allah and start the purification of the Infidels and the return of Allah.


My father says it is the will of Allah for me to slay the Infidels; “Starting with the pigs littering our sacred land with Christian Bibles smuggled in from the Great Satan.”


I wandered the streets aimlessly; thinking and looking for mother.


Suddenly, the missionary girl handed me a Christian Bible. “Hi, my name is Sarah.” She said.


Her beauty deceives me. She told me the story of Abram’s name change to Abraham. I didn’t tell her my name – or did I? My mind has been defiled by those lips speaking my name.


Her eyes have poisoned my heart. Those deep blue eyes misting with sincerity couldn’t be as pure as they seem. The tongue speaking my name and telling of Abram’s name change couldn’t be as tender as the sound of her voice or as soft as the look of her lips. Her heart cannot be as warm as her touch as she handed me, “The Holy Scriptures, a love letter from God to you.”


I must be deceived. I feel attracted to a snake, a viper, I have been seduced, poisoned. The feelings of love and peace and joy I felt as I listened to her family sing and speak are the weapons of deception to lure me to trap me and destroy me.


What have they done with my mother?


I will not be fooled. I will sway slay these attempting to free sway me from fulfilling my ultimate honor to Jehovah God Ahhhlah. allah Allah.


God is love. Why do they keep saying that?


Why do their words burn inside of me?


Am I a traitor to allah?


I have pure blood straight from Abram through Ishmael. I am chosen by Allah… Does Allah love me?... Do I love him? God is love? Is Allah God? Is Allah love? God is love?


What is this strange magic? When in their presence listening to their words I feel lighter, as if I can breathe easier as if a heaviness I didn’t know I had is lifted. WHY?


What is this strange spell? When I think of them I see light. My memory of them holds no shadows.

But, when I think of my people - my family, I see darkness; a cloud shadows them as before a storm… WHY?


I must join destroy them.


How can such beauty flow from one so wretched? I am in love undone with her.


WHO EVER IS GOD - HELP!


If Allah is God I will serve him. If Jehovah God of the missionaries is God I will serve Him.


I heard Sarah’s father speak the words to a small group of people standing nearby but the words pierced my heart as if he were speaking directly to me. “God is love and in Him is no darkness at all”


I surrender my will to Allah God allah ahhhhhh God – Jehovah God is God.


There it is again; lightness. I feel lighter. Just thinking the words – I feel lighter!


Suddenly, I know what they mean…God is love – God is Light.






May 15th 1948


Today I was destined to perform my Ultimate Honor to Allah by strapping “bombs of honor” to my thighs and enter Jerusalem. I was to give new meaning to the “wailing wall.”


In an attempt to stop Israel from being recognized as a sovereign nation the plan was to detonate bombs near the Wailing Wall – knowingly murdering our own people, women and children - and then blame Israel for the attack.


I was the scapegoat, the sacrificial lamb. I don't want to do it. But - if I do not voluntarily walk into the plaza with death strapped to my thighs I will be killed and someone as deceived as I once was will take my place.

There is only one thing to do: Perform the ultimate honor and carry out the mission.

TO BE CONTINUED

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Isaac & Ishmael Project - The Notebook II

.

I opened the first page and found written in large red letters:

It is good for you to read this, even though it may cost my life...And if I perish, I perish.

The rest of the notebook had words written in black. They were smudged and faded and written in Aramaic (or some language that might-as-well be Greek because I couldn’t make out a single letter.) Smaller words written in red were above each line of black; and they were written in English; clear and legible. However, the words of the first line made no sense.

man great a be will I Abram is name My

Until I realized it was written right to left – then left to right.

My name is Abram I will be a great man

A journal of some kind I thought. Each entry was dated. The dates were sporadic, sometimes weeks, months or years passed between entries.

Ramblings about chores, games, studies, “dumb girls” and thoughts about life filled each page. If not written in Aramaic (or whatever) it could have been the mindless babblings of any American boy.

Suddenly an entry caught my eye not because of what it said but because of what was crossed out:

June 6th  1946


Today I’m twelve. Today I’m a man. Today I’m given a horse. I will ride to greatness. Praise Allah.

The words in black directly below the crossed out words were also crossed out, but not originally as the strike through was in red. Evidently he had crossed them out later when translating into English.

From that day the writings started to take direction. He started to quote the Quran. His writings enlarged to include more than just his day to day activities. He used the phrase “The Greater Good” as if it were his compass to measure good or evil. It seemed to me the definition was similar to the phrase: the end justifies the means.

He wrote of his responsibility to become a man, to honor family; his future wife and children and then his Ultimate Honor To Allah. That part was written over and over until it was dark and thick: Ultimate Honor To Allah. But then I noticed a red line drawn through it. It was faint and not visible at first but it was there you can be sure of it.

A shadow darkened the pages of the journal. Short – cold – lifeless – words.

“WORK -DUTY – PRAYER To Allah

The words “to Allah” were sloppily written, not dark and strong like the other words. I got the feeling as I read that his actions didn’t line up with his heart. He was having second thoughts about something. But what?

I have copied for you all of the journal entries starting with May 12th 1948. A turning point in the young man’s life – as he listened to his parents fight and prayed to Allah for help:

May 12th 1948


My Father :“He will! HE WILL! SILENCE WOMAN! This is MY house! He will honor Allah! He WILL obey – and you will too if you know what’s good for you.”


My Mother : “Honor? IT’S SUICIDE AND MURDER! And you know it!”


***SLAP! Crying… pain-filled weeping!






Oh great Allah, can you see my parents fighting? Please make them stop! Please Allah, protect Mother and I will perform my duty. I will perform my Ultimate Honor.


Can you not see? Can you not hear my father beating my mother to defend your honor? If you are any God at all why must you prey on the weak? I know my mother – she is kind and honors my Father. What kind of weak bastard are you to prey on one so kind! Are you so weak that you cannot defend yourself! How can you be a God at all? Show yourself to me and I will face you – leave my mother alone, she only is doing what a mother is suppose to do. She loves me. But, you don’t know what love is. I hate you!


The missionaries of Jehovah God – the ones you hate. They say God is love. I will talk to Him!


May 13th 1948


My mind is clouded. Am I cursed? Have I brought a curse on my family? Yesterday I cursed Allah. Today my mother is gone.


I followed her last night when she ran to the missionaries. I watched as they gathered around her. They held hands, men and women together. I think they must have been praying to Jehovah God.


My father was looking for her with murder in his eyes. I saw him headed toward the missionaries and I ran to meet him.


“Have you seen mother?” I asked.


“Go home boy.” He growled.


“Father, I heard you trying to teach her the ways of Allah. I thought she may have fled to the infidels to become more defiled. I knew you would want to know of her dishonor and so I ran and looked everywhere. But – she is not there.” - I lied.


The murder in his eyes turned to an evil grin. “I thought her perversion was about to poison your mind too.”


“Father, I must admit I thought this through and now I see Allah for who he really is.”


“I see.” He said as he looked toward the river. She must have gone to wash the bl--- to wash.” I think he started to say; “blood off her face,” but decided against it.


We walked home in silence.

TO BE CONTINUED