Ministry Update
Calvary Baptist Church – Urbana, IL
Despite having misgivings about this meeting on Saturday, the Lord has blessed us with a good day today. Last week the pastor called to tell me that he would not be able to meet me on Saturday when we arrived because his mother-in-law was at the point of death eight hours away. Accordingly, both pastor and wife were in Chattanooga, Tennessee today when we opened the meeting. All of Saturday’s misgivings were dispelled today as I saw the work that God was doing in the hearts of the people. When the pastor’s son met me on Saturday, he confided, “Bro. Paul, we really need this meeting this week.” In addition to the pastor’s problems, one of the most faithful men of the church is in the hospital with leukemia right now. They were sure that he would not make it through this weekend. He has been a member of this church for over thirty years and has been the head usher as long as anyone can remember. Both he and the pastor’s mother-in-law are doing better and the pastor plans to return to Illinois tomorrow, provided things go well. It is always preferable to have a revival meeting with the
pastor present, rather than absent.
There was a wonderful crowd this morning and two people responded at the invitation for salvation. Both ended up getting assurance of their salvation. Tonight, the altar was filled with others getting right with God. It was a wonderful start to the meeting. We are looking forward to what God will do the rest of the week.
Many of the people attending this church have recently come from the United Methodist Church. They could take it no longer when that denomination refused to reprimand clergy who supported and accepted Sodomy. Since they came from the United Methodists, they know very
little of the Bible and are full of questions after the service. Today I was asked to explain both the charismatic movement and theological liberalism. My explanation of liberalism hit home with one of the ladies asking me the question – she had been under the teaching of a liberal minister in the Methodist church. Some of these former Methodists have gotten saved, the others already professing salvation, and are quite eager to learn and grow. The entire church is a wonderful crowd to which to preach. One final word of commendation: they work to bring out unsaved. There is no telling who will be in the service on any given night. The last time we were here, a Catholic turned agnostic trusted Christ as Savior.
We are grateful to our home church, Emmanuel Baptist in Kings Mountain, for giving us $1,000 for tires. This gift came at a wonderful time for us and met a very important need. We praise the Lord for His provision and thank the church for their generosity.
Paul
Family Update
Thank the Lord we made it to Illinois without any further incidents with the trailer. We are, of course, without a refrigerator temporarily (we hope), but it hasn’t been too much of an inconvenience. Paul says that it hasn’t been too inconvenient for me because he is the one elected to run to the church’s fridge at all hours of the day and night. I am just trying to keep him in shape.
I had forgotten how nice it is in September in the Midwest. It is cool and windy in the mornings, and warm in the daytime. It has rained off and on for most of the time we have been here so far, but it is still lovely.
Our family devotion time has taken on a unique character of its own since we now have two children actively participating. Josiah participates, and Abigail is just active. Paul attempts to tell a story, while one or both of us attempt to hold down Abigail, who is usually clamoring for the missionary book. The book in question is a 4x6 photo album in which we place all of our missionary prayer cards, along with photos of pastors, friends and relatives. Basically, if you
have ever given us a picture of yourself or your family, it is probably somewhere in that book. This is a much more convenient way to keep all our prayer cards together in some kind of order than just sticking them on the refrigerator (especially when the refrigerator is sitting in the
repair shop a whole state away). Josiah has most of the names of the missionaries learned, and after we pray for the “new” family, we review all the previous ones. This is the most humorous time for Paul and me as we listen to his childish pronunciation. He has no problem with the
Cajiuat and Rovirosa names, but we always laugh when he gets to the several “Sniff” families (Dwight and Amber, Dave and Ginger, etc.) and the “Uggle” family ( Jim and Lisa). There are also a few families that are identified by individual people in that particular family. For instance, the “Amy and Grace family” (Kevin and Jenny Hostettler), the “Rudy family” (Cordeiro is just not pronounceable for a 4-year-old), and the “Nehemiah family” (Scott and Debbie Borrmann). All in all, it is a colorful collection of people and titles. Abigail loves looking at the book, but all of the names are the same to her - “DAH!” We realize the importance of prayer to each of these families that are laboring for the Lord in many areas of the world, and we want our children to be aware that others are faithfully serving alongside of us in the ministry.
Abigail is talking more and more, but we are still only understanding about as much as before. She has discovered a new love - Oreo cookies. We were at my mom’s house this past week, and I was helping her unpack boxes from her recent move. There was a package of Oreos that we had for lunch, and when Paul arrived later in the afternoon, he had a few, but left the package on a low table by the computer. Abigail evidently found the cookies while no one else was in the room and decided to take advantage of the situation. Paul found her with a most attractive Oreo
“beard” when he returned to the room. She had not eaten one, two, or even three cookies, but had cleverly taken one bite out of at least a half a dozen cookies, and had left sufficient slobber on them so that no one else would be willing to eat them, thus reserving them all for herself. Her new nick-name is “Cookie Monster.”
We are all doing well, and we thank the Lord for His blessings on our lives, and for the prayers of faithful friends and loved ones. Continue to remember us in prayer.
Sarah
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Monday, September 05, 2005
Lesson on Youth
Although recently posted, the event of which I speak in this article actually occurred in May of 2005. I give it here to serve as an example of the content that we send out in our e-mail updates.
I have never before had such a grim reminder of age as I have had this past week. As the pastor and I sat together at McDonald's after the Wednesday night service, he invited me to go to the gym with him the next morning. The last time I had accompanied him to the gym, we played basketball, a rare opportunity for me. I was eager to go until he informed me that Thursday was his day to lift weights. This will be hard for most who know me to believe, but I have never been a weightlifter. Running, yes; basketball, yes; volleyball, yes; weightlifting, count me out. I told my wife before I married her that physiologists assert that men have a pair of muscles called pectoralis major. In my case, I informed her, I have pectoralis minor. Accordingly, I did not want to embarrass myself by showing the pastor how weak I really am when it comes to weightlifting, and I told him so. He assured me that there would be no embarrassment and I consented to join him.I was the second one to show up at the gym the next morning, arriving ten minutes early at 5:20. The men getting of their vehicles looked they would be more challenged to bench press their cars rather than anything the gym could contain. One man's arms were bigger than my legs. The pastor's words echoed in my ears, "No embarrassment." It was not long before the pastor showed and we began his morning routine. It began with two laps around the gym at a brisk walk. I can do a brisk walk. Before long, however, the laps were over and we began working on various exercise machines. The pastor always went first with each routine. Allow me here to identify the pastor as Marc Monte. He stands at least two inches taller than I, and outweighs me by 100 pounds. Simple physics and probability told me that there was no way I could lift as much weight as he could. Still, he was impressed with what I did lift. It wasn't long before I began to be impressed as well. For example, after finishing a set of 13 reps on what he called a military bench press, he informed me that when he started, he had lifted less than half of what I had done. Although most of the routine was done on machines, we did some exercises with free weights. One of them was called a walking lunge. For the walking lunge, I carried fifty pounds of excess weight - the same as Pastor Monte. In what he called a power lift, I lifted fifty pounds less than he. From what I can discern, I had my own body weight on my shoulders, and was lifting it with my legs. When it came to lifting with my stomach muscles, I was only limited by my own body weight - pulling myself off the ground rather than lifting the prescribed weight. Yes, I had grossly underestimated my own strength! Between each set of twelve reps on the various machines, we took another lap at a brisk walk. After about an hour and fifteen minutes of working out, we joined two teenage boys from the church for a game of basketball. Forty minutes later, we headed home.
It felt so good to have had strenuous exercise, especially when I knew that it was a total body workout. A few hours later, however, my overly healthy ego became seriously ill. It should have been no problem at all -- a routine I had performed thousands of time with no problem. Yet the intensity of the pain in my legs as I attempted to rise from a seated position was a harbinger of trouble to come. The next morning, ego died. The only muscle in my body that was not sore was my jaw. As I attempted to rise from bed, I found to my chagrin, that my wife had tethered bowling balls to my lower appendages. Nor was lifting my legs possible without intense pain. Instinctively, I called upon my arms to help me sit up in bed. Alas, they too, had fallen victim. It was small comfort now that I had doubled the initial lifting weight of a 250 pound man on my first attempt. Somehow, the man who owned the gym had managed to reattach all that weight to my arms while I was sleeping! I was barely able to move all day long. Routine chores became painful and slow. While working on the trailer, I found myself thinking hard to achieve maximum efficiency. I wanted to make sure that while I was kneeling I got everything done that needed to be done - I didn't think that, assuming I was able to resume a standing position, I could make it to my knees again. Nor was my wife any comfort. The Ozarks of southern Missouri still echo with her guffaws. I thought the soreness had greatly abated. I had not felt any for several hours. Then we stopped at a rest area, and I was obliged to get out of the truck. I nearly collapsed in a week-old puddle of diesel fuel deposited in the rest area by some unknown trucker. Throughout the day, another one of Pastor Monte's assurances recrossed my mind: "No pain, no gain." If the pain is any indication of how much I gained, I should be, by now, a shrewd combination of Atlas and Arnold Swartzenegger. This fact alone might have been enough to revive ego, except that our bedroom mirror offers ample evidence to the contrary. The only difference now in my pectoralis minor is that they are painful and minor. My legs still remind me of a malnourished flamingo, and my arms are as big around as crab legs. Worse, though I am not yet thirty, I feel as if my threescore and ten expired long ago. Sarah is urging me to join a club, such as the YMCA, evidently in an effort to perpetuate my semi-paralytic condition. There is, however, an upside. For the first time since I began pulling my trailer, the retirees in their RVs at Flying J accepted me as one of them.
I have never before had such a grim reminder of age as I have had this past week. As the pastor and I sat together at McDonald's after the Wednesday night service, he invited me to go to the gym with him the next morning. The last time I had accompanied him to the gym, we played basketball, a rare opportunity for me. I was eager to go until he informed me that Thursday was his day to lift weights. This will be hard for most who know me to believe, but I have never been a weightlifter. Running, yes; basketball, yes; volleyball, yes; weightlifting, count me out. I told my wife before I married her that physiologists assert that men have a pair of muscles called pectoralis major. In my case, I informed her, I have pectoralis minor. Accordingly, I did not want to embarrass myself by showing the pastor how weak I really am when it comes to weightlifting, and I told him so. He assured me that there would be no embarrassment and I consented to join him.I was the second one to show up at the gym the next morning, arriving ten minutes early at 5:20. The men getting of their vehicles looked they would be more challenged to bench press their cars rather than anything the gym could contain. One man's arms were bigger than my legs. The pastor's words echoed in my ears, "No embarrassment." It was not long before the pastor showed and we began his morning routine. It began with two laps around the gym at a brisk walk. I can do a brisk walk. Before long, however, the laps were over and we began working on various exercise machines. The pastor always went first with each routine. Allow me here to identify the pastor as Marc Monte. He stands at least two inches taller than I, and outweighs me by 100 pounds. Simple physics and probability told me that there was no way I could lift as much weight as he could. Still, he was impressed with what I did lift. It wasn't long before I began to be impressed as well. For example, after finishing a set of 13 reps on what he called a military bench press, he informed me that when he started, he had lifted less than half of what I had done. Although most of the routine was done on machines, we did some exercises with free weights. One of them was called a walking lunge. For the walking lunge, I carried fifty pounds of excess weight - the same as Pastor Monte. In what he called a power lift, I lifted fifty pounds less than he. From what I can discern, I had my own body weight on my shoulders, and was lifting it with my legs. When it came to lifting with my stomach muscles, I was only limited by my own body weight - pulling myself off the ground rather than lifting the prescribed weight. Yes, I had grossly underestimated my own strength! Between each set of twelve reps on the various machines, we took another lap at a brisk walk. After about an hour and fifteen minutes of working out, we joined two teenage boys from the church for a game of basketball. Forty minutes later, we headed home.
It felt so good to have had strenuous exercise, especially when I knew that it was a total body workout. A few hours later, however, my overly healthy ego became seriously ill. It should have been no problem at all -- a routine I had performed thousands of time with no problem. Yet the intensity of the pain in my legs as I attempted to rise from a seated position was a harbinger of trouble to come. The next morning, ego died. The only muscle in my body that was not sore was my jaw. As I attempted to rise from bed, I found to my chagrin, that my wife had tethered bowling balls to my lower appendages. Nor was lifting my legs possible without intense pain. Instinctively, I called upon my arms to help me sit up in bed. Alas, they too, had fallen victim. It was small comfort now that I had doubled the initial lifting weight of a 250 pound man on my first attempt. Somehow, the man who owned the gym had managed to reattach all that weight to my arms while I was sleeping! I was barely able to move all day long. Routine chores became painful and slow. While working on the trailer, I found myself thinking hard to achieve maximum efficiency. I wanted to make sure that while I was kneeling I got everything done that needed to be done - I didn't think that, assuming I was able to resume a standing position, I could make it to my knees again. Nor was my wife any comfort. The Ozarks of southern Missouri still echo with her guffaws. I thought the soreness had greatly abated. I had not felt any for several hours. Then we stopped at a rest area, and I was obliged to get out of the truck. I nearly collapsed in a week-old puddle of diesel fuel deposited in the rest area by some unknown trucker. Throughout the day, another one of Pastor Monte's assurances recrossed my mind: "No pain, no gain." If the pain is any indication of how much I gained, I should be, by now, a shrewd combination of Atlas and Arnold Swartzenegger. This fact alone might have been enough to revive ego, except that our bedroom mirror offers ample evidence to the contrary. The only difference now in my pectoralis minor is that they are painful and minor. My legs still remind me of a malnourished flamingo, and my arms are as big around as crab legs. Worse, though I am not yet thirty, I feel as if my threescore and ten expired long ago. Sarah is urging me to join a club, such as the YMCA, evidently in an effort to perpetuate my semi-paralytic condition. There is, however, an upside. For the first time since I began pulling my trailer, the retirees in their RVs at Flying J accepted me as one of them.
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