Sadie Sparrow
Sunday, June 17​

On the surface, this year’s celebration of Sadie’s birthday—her eighty-seventh—was just like all the others since Ed died: a week late and executed with breathtaking efficiency by people with more important things to do. Daughter Dana had descended upon The Hickories’ North Sitting Room at precisely 2 p.m., husband Bill and daughters Hannah and Amanda in tow, each setting down bags of food and gifts before, in turn, giving the waiting Sadie Sparrow a peck on the cheek and a squeeze of the shoulders.
         
They unloaded cold cuts, cheeses, sourdough bread, potato salad, coleslaw, chips, an array of condiments, plus stout paper plates and everyday silverware. (“We didn’t have time to polish your silver,” Dana explained, launching into a litany of the week’s family activities.) There were bottles of soda and beer and a thermos of coffee—“decaf, just for you, Mom”—and a store-bought sheet cake thick with buttercream frosting.
         
There were also complaints about the blistering heat, so unusual for early summer. And there was the prayer that Sadie and Ed had taught Dana when she was just three, delivered now without even a whiff of reverence: “Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, let this food to us be blessed. Amen.”
         
For Sadie, it was nearly all déjà vu. Besides the location, the only difference this year was in her own reaction: shockingly, her feelings were not hurt, not one bit. All she felt was sorrow for her family, caught up in lives that would never satisfy, and fear that unless their hearts changed, they were headed for a Christ-less eternity. She would not let herself even think about what that would mean for them.
         
But she probed her feelings as they built their sandwiches and the kids chattered on about their latest highly organized adventures. It was a little like a poking at a once-sore tooth and finding, to her utter amazement, that it had healed completely. Conclusions were difficult to reach—she had to respond appropriately to her grandchildren now and then, after all—but she had the feeling it had come down to this: the only One who really mattered, the only One who really loved her and would be faithful to the end, was God Himself. That was what her life was all about now, and it was a wonderful place to be.
         
“Grandma? Helloooooooo!” It was math whiz Amanda, apparently miffed that she was being ignored. “Have you been listening to me at all?”
         
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear.” Sadie shook her head almost imperceptibly to send her thoughts back into the corner for the time being. “I was just thinking.”
         
“Is something wrong, Grandma?” Future M.D. Hannah this time, her beautiful face expressing serious concern. “Are you feeling sick?”
         
“No, no, just reflecting on some things. Everything’s wonderful.”
         
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Dana said, peering at her mother suspiciously. “More coleslaw?”
 
--From The Song of Sadie Sparrow, pages 342-343

At the most recent Christian Music Hour at Care-age of Brookfield, our peerless preacher Chris Carrillo treated us to a quick biblical tour of Jesus’ life, and its import for mankind.
 
His timing was perfect. After all, Christmas is the season that we focus most intently on the greatest gift ever offered: God's gift of salvation, delivered to us in the Person of a Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. When we receive that gift, we become irrevocably heaven-bound.
 
But as Chris also said, even though we’ve been forever “saved” at that point, there’s still work to be done in us this side of heaven. Please listen as he explains:

(If you’re reading this via email, click on the headline above to access the audio recording at EverlastingPlace.com.)
 
We are so blessed to have monthly messages from this faithful servant of the Lord. To hear more from him, please visit our Messages from Chris Carrillo page. ​

The median annual cost of a private nursing-home room in the United States continues to climb, according to insurer Genworth’s latest Cost of Care survey. Compare today’s figure to the costs revealed by the company in a couple of recent years: 

• 2014: $87,600
• 2016: $92,376
• 2019: $102,204

 
I did the math: Over the last five years alone, the average median cost of a private room has increased by almost 17%! That doesn’t bode well for the less affluent among us.
 
These prices vary by region, of course; to learn about average costs are in your area, select your state on the map Genworth provides on this same page. In Wisconsin, for instance, the average median cost for a private room is currently $112,788/year.
 
Considering that we baby boomers are only beginning to hit the skids, we shouldn’t be surprised if these numbers continue rising rapidly as the demand for skilled nursing care increases, and as Medicaid reimbursements continue falling short of the actual cost of providing this care. That’s a good reason for thinking twice before spending too much on assisted living. It’s also a good reason for taking a close look at long-term-care insurance.  

The older I get, the more time I spend thinking back on my close-to-perfect early years in small-town Green Bay, Wisconsin. What could be more comforting than recalling the people and places that made for a loving, happy, and endlessly fascinating childhood in the worry-free world of the 1950s?
 
So I’m no stranger to Memory Lane. Which is why it was such a shock, just a few days ago, to find myself awash in tears of regret and longing.
 
Here’s what happened.
 
My husband and I were looking for a 1930s-era cookbook containing a particularly tasty recipe for macaroni and cheese. We didn’t find it, but he did find the cookbook published by my parents’ church in the 1970s.
 
“Maybe the recipe’s in here,” he said.
 
I knew it wasn’t, but started paging through the book anyway. And was immediately blown away by all these names from my childhood—the names of my mother’s closest friends.
 
Cec Evans. Jo Lenfesty. Eva Peterson. Phyllis Zahn.
 
On and on it went—names that reminded me of what I’d left behind when I moved to the big city, and what we as a nation have lost as we left behind the time-tested hopes, dreams and values of the 1950s.
 
I started reading through the recipes, remembering how most of these women—perhaps all of them—viewed housekeeping as both their vocations and their avocations. How they considered their purpose in life to be making loving homes for their husbands and children. And how Jesus Christ and His church were absolutely central to their lives.
 
I guess I’d never really thought about this last point before. When I left Green Bay, one of my happiest realizations was that I’d never again have to set foot in a church. Talk about freedom!  
 
But I thought about it now. My mother had friends outside of her church, but none were as important to her as the sisters in Christ with whom she worshipped and fellowshipped every Sunday and many days in between. 
 
Lucille Hopkins.  Hazel Myers.  Mabel Stiles. Ginny Christensen.
 
I spent some time remembering each of these women.
 
I thought about how blessed they had been, to have lived their lives apart from the corporate rat race, to have had husbands who worked low-pressure 8-to-5 jobs, coming home for lunch at noon and almost always being there for dinner with the family. 
 
And I thought about how blessed their children were, growing up with mothers who were never more than a phone call away should something horrible happen at school. Not that anything horrible ever happened in those days, but still, knowing that Mom could be there in five minutes if necessary was always a source of peace and security.
 
Lois James. Ruth Washburn.  Lucille Ragland. Florence Goedjen.
 
I took a break from my reverie to go grocery shopping at our local megastore. Searching for hot ham and hard rolls, I found the deli department crowded with young women. They were all dolled up in the latest fashions, all waiting impatiently to place their orders, alternately checking their smart phones and glaring at the flustered older woman behind the counter.
 
Sadly, I saw a reflection of myself some 40 years earlier.
 
“Stop!” I wanted to cry. “What are you doing, girls, wasting your lives on jobs that really don’t matter, doing work that may feed your ego today but is ultimately futile? Stop, before it’s too late! Seek God while He may be found. Then find a nice man, one who’ll be a good husband and a good father, settle down and raise up a family. Don’t wait!”
 
Of course, I didn’t say any of these things. The security team would have been on me in a flash. Besides, these young women wouldn’t have gotten it because they didn’t live it.
 
In fact, I’ll wager that most had never even heard of a world centered on faith and family. That most had no idea that safe neighborhoods, small communities and low-cost family vacations had once been the rule for most Americans. That most had never heard a thing about the gospel or their need for the Savior.
 
Instead, they’ve been raised in a culture of pleasure and plenty. They’ve been indoctrinated by an educational system that says there’s no such thing as absolute truth, to live in a world that feeds pride rather than souls and replaces the promise of heaven with the lure of fame and fortune. They’ve never even been tempted to consider metaphysical questions like where they came from, what they’re doing here, and where they’re going.
 
We’ve lost so much in this country over the last half century. Which raises important questions for all believers: How can we reach these young people for the Lord? Is it really too late?  

For way too many of us, Thanksgiving is no longer a day set aside to give thanks to our Creator for all His blessings. Instead, it has become a distraction, a family-, food- and football-filled way to forget all about Him. 

If that sounds a little too familiar to you, take a few minutes to listen to Chris Carrillo's reflections on this great American tradition. It's the message he delivered to the folks at Care-age of Brookfield this past Sunday, and it's a doozy of a wake-up call:

If you're reading this via email, please click on the headline above to be taken to the audio file. Then, if you can't get enough of our preacher's messages, visit our Messages from Chris Carrillo page.

Two years ago, I received a Christmas gift that may be the most brilliant yet--a gift that was made possible by a particularly loving and thoughtful relative of my dear friend Wilma.  
 
Here’s the scoop--only the names have been changed.
 
A recently retired resident of the American southwest, Felicity is an absolute artist when it comes to hand-crafting greeting cards of all kinds, from birthday and Christmas cards to “Thinking of You” notes. And she keeps her elderly Aunt Wilma well stocked with a lovely array of these cards, complete with matching envelopes. In fact, she sends Wilma a large box of handmade cards each year around Thanksgiving, for Christmas greetings as well as general correspondence well into the new year.
 
But Felicity encloses more than cards and envelopes in her Thanksgiving box. She also includes seasonless handmade gift bags, each containing festive tissue paper, each adorned with colorful decorations and an elaborate “Thank You,” and each bearing a tiny envelope and notecard for her aunt to personalize. This, in fact, was the brilliant present Wilma gave me--one of these pretty gift bags with a warm handwritten note and a selection of gorgeous handmade cards.
 
The point being, of course, that Felicity not only fuels her aunt’s letter-writing activities at Christmas and throughout the year, but also enables Wilma to share these unique cards with her friends whenever the occasion warrants.
 
It’s far from the only way that Felicity shows her love to her favorite aunt. But it certainly is one of the most practical and memorable. It’s also one of the most highly coveted, not only by Wilma, but also by all her friends who are fortunate enough to receive one of these special gifts!