My Eyes Have Seen Your Salvation
Stories
Object:
Contents
Sharing Visions, "My Eyes Have Seen Your Salvation," by Mary Downing
Good Stories, "An Unlikely Angel," by David Michael Smith
Jo's Yarn Basket, "The Seasons of Church Life"
Sharing Visions
My Eyes Have Seen Your Salvation
by Mary Downing
... now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation ...
Luke 2:29a
It was a summer evening in the year 2000 when four of us, friends through church for more that 20 years, decided on the spur of the moment to drive from Port Washington to Hartford, Wisconsin, to make what we knew in our hearts would be a final visit with our dear friend, Valerie Arveson. For several years, Val had been waging a courageous struggle against ovarian cancer. The end was imminent. We needed to say goodbye.
We arrived, hesitantly, at Val's home. How do we do this? What can be said? How terribly kind it was of her to even allow us to come.
As we entered her living room, Val's husband, Arv, was completing tubal administration of the liquids that had been sustaining her for some time. We sat down and it was immediately apparent that this was the first time we had ever been with Val that she didn't have the energy to be Val anymore. Her role tonight would be as listener.
We hadn't been there long when one in our group, Jean, got up, walked across the living room and sat down next to Val on the sofa. Taking Val's hands in her own, and sitting almost face to face, Jean proceeded to share her story. Amidst gulping sobs, and to the total amazement of the rest of us, she poured out a story of light and peace, comfort and incredible love.
You see Jean, too, was undergoing treatment for cancer at that time. While her health had not yet declined to the end stage, as Val's had, I strongly believe that, in her heart, she knew victory would not be experienced here on earth. What Jean had experienced, and needed so urgently to share with Val, had happened to her within the last several months.
Early one morning, Jean was awakened by a startling and intense light - brighter and warmer than anything she had ever seen or felt before. It filled the room. Then a voice, which she was certain belonged to God, said to her, "It's not time to go yet." The experience lasted only briefly, but over and over again, Jean said to Val, "You have nothing to fear. The love that enveloped me at that moment was greater than anything I have ever felt in my life. I didn't want it to end. I was transported to a place so beautiful, so wonderful, that it defies description. Nothing in my worldly experience could even begin to compare."
Following this pre-dawn experience, Jean's initial reaction was to remain silent. Who could possibly understand? Folks would consider her crazy. It was too personal and too life-changing to share. Being seated in Val's home, however, surrounded by longtime friends in faith, changed that. Seeing a dear friend so close to death loosened the bonds, and it was as though Jean was propelled across the living room. Remaining silent was no longer an option. News of the glory that awaited Val in the next life had to be shared.
Reactions to Jean's story varied among the rest of us. It was so amazing and we were so unprepared. Some of us felt a little bit cheated. Each of us came intending to say goodbye. Opportunity for that diminished as the evening became totally centered around this one amazing experience.
Jean's admission of being not only ready, but also anxious to die, left us confused. We wanted her to continue fighting and she was saying no, the future held such incomparable glory, it was to be embraced, anticipated, longed for. Her words to Val were, "You go and I will follow."
A month or so later, on September 26, 2000, Valerie died. Cancer took Jean's life on November 10, 2001. Each of these women, in her own personal and private way, approached death fearlessly. The fight had been long and painful. They were ready to Share the Light.
Mary Downing is a member of Grand Avenue United Methodist Church in Port Washington, Wisconsin.
Good Stories
An Unlikely Angel
by David Michael Smith
Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord from the heavens; praise him in the heights! Praise him all his angels; praise him, all his host!
Psalm 148:1-2
He staggered in fifteen minutes after the traditional holiday hymn sing had begun, plopping with a thud in the wooden pew directly behind me. It was Christmas Eve night at historic St. Paul's Episcopal Church in the small and quaint town of Georgetown, Delaware, and midnight mass scheduled to commence in about twenty minutes. Dozens of candles cast a warm glow throughout the church. The pipe organist was playing a seasonal tune, the congregation joining the choir in a unified voice of celebration and joy.
I recall smelling the strong odor of alcohol right behind me. Trying to appear inconspicuous, I nonchalantly turned at an angle while still pretending to sing so I could glance at the whiskey-breathed intruder. A young man, perhaps age 25, maybe younger, sat alone in the pew, a drunken smile plastered across his unshaven face. His hair was bushy and uncombed, his clothing unbefitting of a holy and reverent church service. I did not recognize the fellow, and later would learn that nobody else knew who the man was either.
It became immediately obvious to me that the man was confused, disoriented. Not just with the Christmas Eve service, which for a first-time visitor can be somewhat perplexing despite the bulletins the ushers hand out, but in general. He stumbled aimlessly through the hymnal and a prayer book like a child leafing through coloring books at the doctor's office. He was intoxicated and his behavior made me uncomfortable. Judging by the numerous nervous stares I observed targeted in the young man's direction, some subtle and some not so subtle, others shared my opinion.
Then, a good-natured parishioner named Bob left his family and his regularly appointed pew, and joined the fellow, shaking his hand and introducing himself with a warm smile. Bob helped the man throughout the remainder of the hymn sing, assisting the delighted guy with locating the proper songs and directing him with basic liturgical functions such as when to stand, sit, and kneel. With each song, the intoxicated stranger zealously sang louder and genuinely off-key, although I suspect he felt he was performing as well as Pavarotti or Sinatra. I found his butchering of the traditional holiday carols both disturbing and amusing at the same time. He was having enthusiastic fun. But he surely couldn't sing a lick! Indeed, our uninvited visitor was certainly a ball of tightly bound entertainment. The hymn singalong ended and the service began with "O Come All Ye Faithful," a procession of priests in robes and acolytes bearing torches entering from the back of the church. Someone in the procession waved a canister of incense around, preparing the sanctuary for worship and God's presence, but it made my eyes water and I sneezed. The service continued without incident with prayer and Bible readings about the birth of the Savior, the infant Jesus. Good Samaritan Bob continued to befriend the man, much to his delight. I traded smiles with the man, my heart softening.
"Why was I angry that he came here tonight?" I thought to myself. "This is God's house, not mine, and all are welcomed in the Lord's house." I wondered if the young man was lonely, depressed on this wonderful holiday eve, first seeking the comfort of a bottle, drowning unknown sorrows, and later journeying by our church. Perhaps he heard the festive Christmas music outside the ancient brick walls, and then saw the church aglow, holly wreaths hanging from the huge oaken doors, like one of those wonderful Thomas Kinkade portraits, so inviting. Something deep within his heart led him to come inside, an inner voice urging him to enter the warmth of the real-life artwork. Maybe he was simply in need of acceptance and love. I pondered about who he was and where he was from. Did he have a family? Was he married? Children? He was somebody.
Then, the priest moved to the pulpit to begin his Christmas homily. The Father had preached for only a few minutes when abruptly he stopped his sermon message. I thought he had lost his place, or was pausing for oratorical effect. But I was wrong. I noticed him looking down on the congregation, a concerned frown rippling across his forehead. A low, curious murmur spread throughout the people. About four pews back from the front, on the left side, often referred to as the Epistle side, Bill, an elderly man who faithfully attended each and every Sunday, had slumped over. Several members of the congregation moved to his aid, thinking he had merely passed out. The situation, however, was far graver. The service came to a complete halt as one parishioner sprinted to call "9-1-1." Several people laid Bill down on his back in the pew and attempted to revive him. Although there were several full-time nurses on hand this evening and a medical doctor by trade, the matter did not appear good. Bill was unconscious, had stopped breathing and his pulse was weak. Even from across the center aisle in dim lighting I could see his flesh turning gray. The oddest feeling ran through me.
Stunned, most of us just sat or stood in our pews, paralyzed with fear and disbelief. A beloved man of our church community was dying before our very eyes, and suddenly it no longer felt like Christmas Eve. I felt helpless, lost. Then a voice spoke out.
"Why don't we all get down on our knees and pray for the old guy," the voice bellowed from behind me. It was our visitor, his voice slurred but strong. "Maybe God can help him."
Like a slap in the face, many of us snapped out of our panicked stupor and knelt in agreement with the man's suggestion. There was no debate, only silent obedience to the idea. As several people continued to tend to Bill, who was near death, the rest of the congregation prayed in honest, pleading whispers. I prayed harder and more sincerely than I ever had, my wet eyes tightly shut.
Moments later, I heard a commotion to my left. I opened my eyes just as I whispered "Amen," and was shocked to see Bill sitting up, his eyes open, the paleness in his face rapidly disappearing. Happy sobs could be heard throughout the church, our prayers gloriously answered! Despite numerous inquiries, Bill determinedly assured us that he was fine. When the paramedics arrived, racing down the center aisle with their equipment and stretcher, he refused to go to the hospital with them, insisting on staying for the conclusion of the Christmas Eve mass. And after everything settled down, the service was in fact finished without further incident.
After the closing benediction and song, a raucous "Joy To The World," I turned to shake the young man's hand, but he was gone. He apparently had left during the Eucharist, as the congregation filed pew by pew for the bread and wine, the body and blood of our Savior.
Later, I discovered that no one had ever seen the man leave. It was as if he simply vanished into thin air. No one knew his identity or anything about him. He was no one's relative, or neighbor, or co-worker. Who was the man that visited us on that precious, special night, a night we each witnessed a true miracle? A dying man was revived, saved from death, neither by science nor medicine, but by faithful prayer to God in heaven. Prayer initiated by a common stranger, a person like you or I perhaps, or the guy we pass every day in the street and pay no attention to, an unlikely angel.
David Michael Smith is a banker by day, author by night, and has published two books, The Invitation and Stories From The Manger (more information is available at his website, http://www.davidmichaelsmith.net/). "An Unlikely Angel" also appeared in All Is Calm, All Is Bright: True Stories of Christmas, edited by Cheryl Kirking (http://www.cherylkirking.com/), published by Fleming H. Revell / Baker Book House Company (http://www.bakerbooks.com/; telephone 1-800-877-2665). "An Unlikely Angel" is used here by permission of David Michael Smith.
Jo's Yarn Basket
The Seasons of Church Life
As I write this, I am four days away from the Sunday school Christmas program. I finished my Director of Christian Education year-end report today, and we have two weeks of Sunday school and two Christmas Eve services to go until the end of the year. Bliss! Then, after a week off, it all begins again -- Lenten all-church nights and kid's classes; Confirmation Spring retreat; Palm Sunday palm procession and hot cross buns; Easter Sunday; Confirmation Sunday; Summer Sunday school; Vacation Bible School; Summer church camps; Fall Sunday school start-up; new Confirmation class; Advent celebration; Christmas program....
Everyone who works with children, youth, and adults in the church knows this endless cycle of seasonal activities that keeps us perpetually planning. Our minds churn with ideas - what worked well that we will keep; what we need to revamp or rework; what needs to be replaced; what we can do that will be totally new and different. We constantly seek. And out of these seasons of church life come our stories - the three-year-old who escapes his parents during worship and ends up in the choir loft; the children's choir member who knocks over the Advent wreath; the baby who spits up on the pastor's robe during a baptism; the four-year-old who thinks the pastor is God or Jesus. Not all stories are about the holy, but the holy often shines through.
I invite you to join us in this StoryShare adventure. Together we can keep the cycle of seasons alive with our shared experiences, triumphs, lessons learned. We are excited about StoryShar-ing with you!
Sharing Visions, "My Eyes Have Seen Your Salvation," by Mary Downing
Good Stories, "An Unlikely Angel," by David Michael Smith
Jo's Yarn Basket, "The Seasons of Church Life"
Sharing Visions
My Eyes Have Seen Your Salvation
by Mary Downing
... now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation ...
Luke 2:29a
It was a summer evening in the year 2000 when four of us, friends through church for more that 20 years, decided on the spur of the moment to drive from Port Washington to Hartford, Wisconsin, to make what we knew in our hearts would be a final visit with our dear friend, Valerie Arveson. For several years, Val had been waging a courageous struggle against ovarian cancer. The end was imminent. We needed to say goodbye.
We arrived, hesitantly, at Val's home. How do we do this? What can be said? How terribly kind it was of her to even allow us to come.
As we entered her living room, Val's husband, Arv, was completing tubal administration of the liquids that had been sustaining her for some time. We sat down and it was immediately apparent that this was the first time we had ever been with Val that she didn't have the energy to be Val anymore. Her role tonight would be as listener.
We hadn't been there long when one in our group, Jean, got up, walked across the living room and sat down next to Val on the sofa. Taking Val's hands in her own, and sitting almost face to face, Jean proceeded to share her story. Amidst gulping sobs, and to the total amazement of the rest of us, she poured out a story of light and peace, comfort and incredible love.
You see Jean, too, was undergoing treatment for cancer at that time. While her health had not yet declined to the end stage, as Val's had, I strongly believe that, in her heart, she knew victory would not be experienced here on earth. What Jean had experienced, and needed so urgently to share with Val, had happened to her within the last several months.
Early one morning, Jean was awakened by a startling and intense light - brighter and warmer than anything she had ever seen or felt before. It filled the room. Then a voice, which she was certain belonged to God, said to her, "It's not time to go yet." The experience lasted only briefly, but over and over again, Jean said to Val, "You have nothing to fear. The love that enveloped me at that moment was greater than anything I have ever felt in my life. I didn't want it to end. I was transported to a place so beautiful, so wonderful, that it defies description. Nothing in my worldly experience could even begin to compare."
Following this pre-dawn experience, Jean's initial reaction was to remain silent. Who could possibly understand? Folks would consider her crazy. It was too personal and too life-changing to share. Being seated in Val's home, however, surrounded by longtime friends in faith, changed that. Seeing a dear friend so close to death loosened the bonds, and it was as though Jean was propelled across the living room. Remaining silent was no longer an option. News of the glory that awaited Val in the next life had to be shared.
Reactions to Jean's story varied among the rest of us. It was so amazing and we were so unprepared. Some of us felt a little bit cheated. Each of us came intending to say goodbye. Opportunity for that diminished as the evening became totally centered around this one amazing experience.
Jean's admission of being not only ready, but also anxious to die, left us confused. We wanted her to continue fighting and she was saying no, the future held such incomparable glory, it was to be embraced, anticipated, longed for. Her words to Val were, "You go and I will follow."
A month or so later, on September 26, 2000, Valerie died. Cancer took Jean's life on November 10, 2001. Each of these women, in her own personal and private way, approached death fearlessly. The fight had been long and painful. They were ready to Share the Light.
Mary Downing is a member of Grand Avenue United Methodist Church in Port Washington, Wisconsin.
Good Stories
An Unlikely Angel
by David Michael Smith
Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord from the heavens; praise him in the heights! Praise him all his angels; praise him, all his host!
Psalm 148:1-2
He staggered in fifteen minutes after the traditional holiday hymn sing had begun, plopping with a thud in the wooden pew directly behind me. It was Christmas Eve night at historic St. Paul's Episcopal Church in the small and quaint town of Georgetown, Delaware, and midnight mass scheduled to commence in about twenty minutes. Dozens of candles cast a warm glow throughout the church. The pipe organist was playing a seasonal tune, the congregation joining the choir in a unified voice of celebration and joy.
I recall smelling the strong odor of alcohol right behind me. Trying to appear inconspicuous, I nonchalantly turned at an angle while still pretending to sing so I could glance at the whiskey-breathed intruder. A young man, perhaps age 25, maybe younger, sat alone in the pew, a drunken smile plastered across his unshaven face. His hair was bushy and uncombed, his clothing unbefitting of a holy and reverent church service. I did not recognize the fellow, and later would learn that nobody else knew who the man was either.
It became immediately obvious to me that the man was confused, disoriented. Not just with the Christmas Eve service, which for a first-time visitor can be somewhat perplexing despite the bulletins the ushers hand out, but in general. He stumbled aimlessly through the hymnal and a prayer book like a child leafing through coloring books at the doctor's office. He was intoxicated and his behavior made me uncomfortable. Judging by the numerous nervous stares I observed targeted in the young man's direction, some subtle and some not so subtle, others shared my opinion.
Then, a good-natured parishioner named Bob left his family and his regularly appointed pew, and joined the fellow, shaking his hand and introducing himself with a warm smile. Bob helped the man throughout the remainder of the hymn sing, assisting the delighted guy with locating the proper songs and directing him with basic liturgical functions such as when to stand, sit, and kneel. With each song, the intoxicated stranger zealously sang louder and genuinely off-key, although I suspect he felt he was performing as well as Pavarotti or Sinatra. I found his butchering of the traditional holiday carols both disturbing and amusing at the same time. He was having enthusiastic fun. But he surely couldn't sing a lick! Indeed, our uninvited visitor was certainly a ball of tightly bound entertainment. The hymn singalong ended and the service began with "O Come All Ye Faithful," a procession of priests in robes and acolytes bearing torches entering from the back of the church. Someone in the procession waved a canister of incense around, preparing the sanctuary for worship and God's presence, but it made my eyes water and I sneezed. The service continued without incident with prayer and Bible readings about the birth of the Savior, the infant Jesus. Good Samaritan Bob continued to befriend the man, much to his delight. I traded smiles with the man, my heart softening.
"Why was I angry that he came here tonight?" I thought to myself. "This is God's house, not mine, and all are welcomed in the Lord's house." I wondered if the young man was lonely, depressed on this wonderful holiday eve, first seeking the comfort of a bottle, drowning unknown sorrows, and later journeying by our church. Perhaps he heard the festive Christmas music outside the ancient brick walls, and then saw the church aglow, holly wreaths hanging from the huge oaken doors, like one of those wonderful Thomas Kinkade portraits, so inviting. Something deep within his heart led him to come inside, an inner voice urging him to enter the warmth of the real-life artwork. Maybe he was simply in need of acceptance and love. I pondered about who he was and where he was from. Did he have a family? Was he married? Children? He was somebody.
Then, the priest moved to the pulpit to begin his Christmas homily. The Father had preached for only a few minutes when abruptly he stopped his sermon message. I thought he had lost his place, or was pausing for oratorical effect. But I was wrong. I noticed him looking down on the congregation, a concerned frown rippling across his forehead. A low, curious murmur spread throughout the people. About four pews back from the front, on the left side, often referred to as the Epistle side, Bill, an elderly man who faithfully attended each and every Sunday, had slumped over. Several members of the congregation moved to his aid, thinking he had merely passed out. The situation, however, was far graver. The service came to a complete halt as one parishioner sprinted to call "9-1-1." Several people laid Bill down on his back in the pew and attempted to revive him. Although there were several full-time nurses on hand this evening and a medical doctor by trade, the matter did not appear good. Bill was unconscious, had stopped breathing and his pulse was weak. Even from across the center aisle in dim lighting I could see his flesh turning gray. The oddest feeling ran through me.
Stunned, most of us just sat or stood in our pews, paralyzed with fear and disbelief. A beloved man of our church community was dying before our very eyes, and suddenly it no longer felt like Christmas Eve. I felt helpless, lost. Then a voice spoke out.
"Why don't we all get down on our knees and pray for the old guy," the voice bellowed from behind me. It was our visitor, his voice slurred but strong. "Maybe God can help him."
Like a slap in the face, many of us snapped out of our panicked stupor and knelt in agreement with the man's suggestion. There was no debate, only silent obedience to the idea. As several people continued to tend to Bill, who was near death, the rest of the congregation prayed in honest, pleading whispers. I prayed harder and more sincerely than I ever had, my wet eyes tightly shut.
Moments later, I heard a commotion to my left. I opened my eyes just as I whispered "Amen," and was shocked to see Bill sitting up, his eyes open, the paleness in his face rapidly disappearing. Happy sobs could be heard throughout the church, our prayers gloriously answered! Despite numerous inquiries, Bill determinedly assured us that he was fine. When the paramedics arrived, racing down the center aisle with their equipment and stretcher, he refused to go to the hospital with them, insisting on staying for the conclusion of the Christmas Eve mass. And after everything settled down, the service was in fact finished without further incident.
After the closing benediction and song, a raucous "Joy To The World," I turned to shake the young man's hand, but he was gone. He apparently had left during the Eucharist, as the congregation filed pew by pew for the bread and wine, the body and blood of our Savior.
Later, I discovered that no one had ever seen the man leave. It was as if he simply vanished into thin air. No one knew his identity or anything about him. He was no one's relative, or neighbor, or co-worker. Who was the man that visited us on that precious, special night, a night we each witnessed a true miracle? A dying man was revived, saved from death, neither by science nor medicine, but by faithful prayer to God in heaven. Prayer initiated by a common stranger, a person like you or I perhaps, or the guy we pass every day in the street and pay no attention to, an unlikely angel.
David Michael Smith is a banker by day, author by night, and has published two books, The Invitation and Stories From The Manger (more information is available at his website, http://www.davidmichaelsmith.net/). "An Unlikely Angel" also appeared in All Is Calm, All Is Bright: True Stories of Christmas, edited by Cheryl Kirking (http://www.cherylkirking.com/), published by Fleming H. Revell / Baker Book House Company (http://www.bakerbooks.com/; telephone 1-800-877-2665). "An Unlikely Angel" is used here by permission of David Michael Smith.
Jo's Yarn Basket
The Seasons of Church Life
As I write this, I am four days away from the Sunday school Christmas program. I finished my Director of Christian Education year-end report today, and we have two weeks of Sunday school and two Christmas Eve services to go until the end of the year. Bliss! Then, after a week off, it all begins again -- Lenten all-church nights and kid's classes; Confirmation Spring retreat; Palm Sunday palm procession and hot cross buns; Easter Sunday; Confirmation Sunday; Summer Sunday school; Vacation Bible School; Summer church camps; Fall Sunday school start-up; new Confirmation class; Advent celebration; Christmas program....
Everyone who works with children, youth, and adults in the church knows this endless cycle of seasonal activities that keeps us perpetually planning. Our minds churn with ideas - what worked well that we will keep; what we need to revamp or rework; what needs to be replaced; what we can do that will be totally new and different. We constantly seek. And out of these seasons of church life come our stories - the three-year-old who escapes his parents during worship and ends up in the choir loft; the children's choir member who knocks over the Advent wreath; the baby who spits up on the pastor's robe during a baptism; the four-year-old who thinks the pastor is God or Jesus. Not all stories are about the holy, but the holy often shines through.
I invite you to join us in this StoryShare adventure. Together we can keep the cycle of seasons alive with our shared experiences, triumphs, lessons learned. We are excited about StoryShar-ing with you!
