"And it shall be, when you hear the sound of marching in the tops of the mulberry trees, then you shall advance quickly. For then the Lord will go out before you to strike the camp of the Philistines.” 2 Samuel 5:24
 
I once knew an elderly woman who never made a move without asking God for His direction. She dressed in the morning based on what she thought was His leading. She made her way through the grocery store asking for His advice on what kind of cereal or soup she should buy. She consulted Him on which news broadcast she should listen to at the end of the day, and what time she should go to bed.
 
Some might see that as a little excessive. Maybe so, but somehow I think it probably pleased Him.  
 
After all, we are prone to do just the opposite, as Chris Carrillo pointed out in a recent message to those gathered for the Christian Music Hour at Care-age of Brookfield – to leave Him out of even major decisions.
 
Entitled “Are you listening to the mulberry trees?” Chris’s message provided us with ample biblical reminders of how critical it can be to seek God’s counsel in humble prayer, and to await His answer – and how disastrous it can be to simply plunge ahead, doing what seems right in our own eyes.
 
“Let’s cultivate a habit of inquiring of the Lord and waiting for His answer,” Chris said. “The more that we seek direction from God in prayer, the more we desire to know His will, the more He is honored and the more we are blessed.”
 
If that sounds like a good reminder to you, I invite you to invest a quarter hour in listening to this terrific message. (If you are reading this via an email, please click on the post title above and you’ll be taken to the original post, complete with audio link.)  ​

There are a handful of movies I like to watch again and again, and “The Trip to Bountiful” (1985) is one of them. I saw it again recently for the fourth or fifth time. And it reminded me once again of what may be the second-greatest gift we can give the elderly.
 
In case you haven’t caught it yet, here’s the story line:
 
Living in 1940s Houston with her son and daughter-in-law, 70-something Carrie Watts (Geraldine Page) has just one wish to fulfill before she dies: visiting her childhood home in a town called Bountiful. Son Ludie (John Heard) is too busy trying to make a living for them to take her there himself, and his wife Jessie Mae (Carlin Glynn) is too busy pursuing her own little pleasures to care. So Mrs. Watts takes the matter into her own hands, escaping by Greyhound bus to the closest stop. It’s 10 p.m. when they arrive, and pitch black outside. She decides to sleep on a bench in the nearly empty bus station, and then to walk the last 12 miles to Bountiful in the morning.
 
Alas, she’s found out, and the local sheriff is under orders to hold her until Ludie can get there to pick her up.  
 
While they wait, the kind-hearted sheriff decides to take Mrs. Watts to Bountiful. There’s not much left – just a few abandoned structures. Her childhood home, too, is a ruin, but the sheriff settles her on an upturned crate at the crumbling front porch and talks with her gently for a few minutes before leaving her alone with her memories. We walk through the house with her, knowing that she sees more than we do, so much more than this empty shell of a home. And she is in fact restored by the visit. She returns to Houston with her son and daughter-in-law, peacefully and finally at peace.
 
This was just the second time I’d seen this movie as a Christian, and oh, what a difference a worldview makes! Mrs. Watts is clearly a believer. Hymns are the sound track of her life, and she turns to her battered Bible throughout her journey. She knows her time on earth is limited, but doesn’t seem to be disturbed in the least by her mortality; she knows that she will spend forever in heaven with her Savior.

I remember weeping inconsolably over this movie in the past. But not now; I may shed a few tears, but they are tears of joy and longing for eternity, not of despair or bitterness.
 
There are two things that really strike me about “Bountiful” now that I'm a believer.
 
First, there’s what the movie reveals about our relationship to time as we age.  
 
We see that Mrs. Watts has little thought of the present, or of her remaining time in this world. Instead, she has an all-consuming longing to revisit her distant past, perhaps as a touchstone on her way to eternity.
 
We see that daughter-in-law Jessie Mae, on the other hand, has no thought of anything but today, of her present comfort and pleasures. Sadly, I can identify with such shallowness; she reminds me of myself before I encountered the living God.
 
And then we see son Ludie, stuck somewhere in between. While he’s sympathetic to his mother’s memories, he refuses to join her on this sentimental journey of hers. He has focused his heart and mind on today, because thinking of the past is painful.
 
“I should have made myself bring you out here sooner,” he says when he finally catches up with her at the old house. “I’m sorry. I just thought it’d be easier, if we didn’t see the house again.”
 
Then, rejecting her invitation to look around: “I don’t see any use in it. I’d rather remember it like it was.”  Except we know that people who say such things go to great lengths to forget, burying their memories beneath an avalanche of activity and entertainment. We know that Ludie is like this, that he keeps a tight leash on his memories.
 
A bit later, as he reflects on his failure to make a good life for his wife and mother, Ludie admits it.  “Mamma, I lied to you,” he says. “I do remember – I remember so much. This house, this life here, the night you woke me up and dressed me and took me for a walk when the moon was full and I cried ‘cause I was scared and you comforted me.
 
“Mamma, I want to stop remembering. It doesn’t do any good, remembering.”
 
And in a way, he’s right. Nothing on this earth can compete with the memory of past joy. Only the promise of eternal joy can eclipse it.
 
The second thing that struck me about my latest viewing of “The Trip to Bountiful” is related: Perhaps the second-best thing we can do for the elderly is to help them go home again, if only in their thoughts. 
 
I’ve done this somewhat instinctively in my nursing-home visits, I suppose, but selfishly; I love hearing about life in the pre-WWII U.S., and seeing pictures from that era, and learning about the people who were dear to my aging friends. It never occurred to me that they might get even more pleasure than I do out of talking about these things.
 
But thanks to this phenomenal movie and wonderful performances by Geraldine Page and John Heard, I can see that it would be so.  From now on, I’ll make a point of helping them focus on the good ol’ days instead of wasting words on the bad ol’ here and now -- after, of course, sharing the best gift of all with them, which is the gospel of Jesus Christ.
 
In the meantime, I may just go back and visit Bountiful once more. If you’d like to see it, for the first time or the tenth, look for it on youtube.

As a corporate copywriter who has personally written many forgettable taglines, I've always been quite a connoisseur of the genre. And there have been some great ones out there. But in my opinion, none has ever been as monumentally apropos as SERVOPRO’s current entry, “Like it never even happened.”
 
SERVOPRO is, of course, referring to the restoration services the company provides to help homeowners and businesspeople recover from virtually any physical disaster, from fires to floods. Have such a problem? Call your local SERVOPRO franchise and before you know it, it’ll be just “like it never even happened.” Perfect.
 
But I think there’s a far more important spiritual application for this tagline, one that the devil himself surely appreciates. Because as far as this world is concerned, within a few decades of your death, your life will be “like it never even happened.” Mine, too. And the lives of nearly everyone who ever lived.  
 
Yet we keep clinging to the idea that our worldly impact will last forever. Just read a column or two of death notices in your local paper, and notice how often you spot something along the lines of “We’ll never forget you, Dad!” But the truth is, Dad will be forgotten, and in relatively short order – usually within a generation or two.
 
Want proof? Think back on your own ancestors – great grandparents or even grandparents, in many instances. How often do they influence you? How frequently do they cross your mind? How much do you even know about them?  If you’re like most people, your honest answers would be “never,” “rarely” and “not much.”
 
Turns out that all those heartfelt promises to “never forget” are as fleeting as our lives are … that Jesus’ half-brother James was correct when he wrote, “For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.” (James 4:14b)
 
What’s even more eye-opening is this: we don’t even have to die to be forgotten. Just one example: Before retiring my freelance copywriting business a few years ago, I spent 30 years serving GE Medical Systems/GE Healthcare as a primary marketing communications writer. Three decades! Yet GE survived my retirement without a whimper or a phone call. They’re still turning out stellar marcomm tools without my help.  
 
And GE is far from the only company to move along nicely without me, proving that my entire career was “like it never even happened.”
 
Which has prompted me to ask you a few impertinent questions.
 
Are you doing anything today that will be remembered a century from now? Better yet, for all eternity?
 
Even more important, where will you be spending eternity? Will you join the children of God in heaven, to rejoice forevermore? Or will they get along perfectly well without you – without, in fact, even giving you a second thought?
 
If you haven’t already done so, please consider these issues before it’s too late! Click here if you need a little inspiration.

It’s now been over five years since my friend and companion "Julia" left her earthly body behind and woke up in heaven. But I still think of her almost daily – especially as I see new signs of the increasingly old me.
 
Julia, you see, was a veteran volunteer at the nursing home where I now spend a chunk of my waking hours. A relatively young widow, she first signed up with its Activities Director in 1993, not long after the place opened. She was 67 then. And she continued serving there, two days a week, for the next 20 years, until back pain and driving difficulties forced her to hang up her “volunteer” badge.
 
Julia is the reason that I became a volunteer there myself, because it was also in 1993 that my mother moved in and befriended her.
 
“Julia was here today,” my mom would often report during our nightly phone calls. “She was wearing the most beautiful outfit, and here’s what we talked about.” Occasionally she would add something along these lines: “Julia is so kind. If I’d known how lonely it can be living in an old-ladies home, I would have gone visiting at one myself.”
 
What else could I do, when my mother died in May of 2000, than report for volunteer duty the following week?  
 
Within days, Julia's path and mine had crossed, and we soon began visiting residents together. We continued to do so for the next dozen years. In fact, except for my husband, I spent more time with her between 2000 and 2012 than I did with any other human being.  
 
On the surface, our routine didn’t vary much. We would meet in the lobby at around 9:30 a.m.  Julia always got there first, even though she’d be arrayed in full makeup, elaborate upswept hairdo, stand-out jewelry and the flowing blouses and skirts that she’d found at Good Will; she slept from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. and so had plenty of morning time to put herself together.  Perpetually running late, I would race into the lobby, disheveled and breathless, to find Julia sitting there regally, often immersed in conversation with an admirer or two. She usually had an empty, three-shelf utility cart at her side to transport my silk flower arrangements. “I thought I’d save us a little time,” she would explain unnecessarily, “and look at the nice cart I found!”
 
We became a familiar sight, the two of us strolling down the halls, flower-laden cart in tow, making frequent stops along the way – sometimes just to say hello and deliver a new arrangement, sometimes to sit a spell to read Scripture, share the Gospel, catch up on a resident’s family or medical news, look through yellowing photo albums, even to play a game of Scrabble.  
 
Julia and I would have lunch with the Activities staff, eating whatever the residents were having that day. Re-energized, we’d continue on our way through the building. There were always a couple of crabby residents we stopped to see only because we were Christians serving the Lord; but mostly we got as much pleasure out of our visits as the residents themselves did.
 
Sometimes a special assignment would be added to our agenda – for instance, we were occasionally sent out to try to warm up a particularly recalcitrant new resident (Julia was a master at softening hearts). And sometimes we invented our own special assignments, as was the case when a new resident’s daughter started a weekly Bible study. Julia and I attended her opening session to evaluate her doctrine, and could tell within five minutes that the teacher was a closet Jehovah’s Witness determined to convert every last attendee; over the next few weeks, we raised biblical objection after biblical objection to her claims, until she finally gave up and left the theological training to the genuine biblicists who frequent the home.
 
What wonderful times Julia and I had  together! And for me, there was an important bonus: She taught me everything I know about service and sacrifice, about kindness, about when to be silent and when to speak up.  
 
Perhaps the most important lesson she left me with is this: For the Christian, volunteering at a nursing home is a ministry conducted on behalf of the Lord Himself, and it therefore deserves to be treated as a top priority in your life. Of course, stay home if you’re sick. Otherwise, as long as you’re able to do so, just show up. Be there even if you’re feeling tired, or useless, or have better things to do. Schedule your life around the nursing home, not vice versa. Short of being germ-laden yourself or being faced with a loved one’s medical emergency, there’s really no excuse for missing your appointed rounds.
 
That’s how Julia approached her own time at the nursing home, and she taught me to do the same.
 
It was in the autumn of 2013 when Julia headed home to her apartment for the last time. I didn’t really believe she wouldn’t be back again, but she knew; the Lord had whispered it to her heart. We still saw each other fairly often. I’d pick her up for lunch, even bring her to a volunteer party at the nursing home, but she never again walked those halls to visit her old friends. She was failing, physically and mentally. She soon moved in with a son, and our visits and phone calls became less frequent.
 
Around Christmas of 2014, my calls began to go unanswered and unreturned, and in late January 2015 a mutual friend from the nursing home called to say she’d seen Julia’s death notice in the local newspaper. It was a blessing, of course; she was home at last, rejoicing in the presence of her Lord and Savior forevermore. She’s more alive than we are now, and I’m sure her new life includes plenty of fellowship with friends and loved ones who've gone before. In that joyful group I include the many residents she called on over the years – most especially my mother. And so I’m eternally happy for Julia, and cannot wait to see her again.
 
But until then, oh, how I miss my dear old friend!

"Oh Lord, I am so useless to You. Why don't you just take me Home?"

Just two hours later, it seemed that Sadie’s prayer was about to be answered.
           
Face washed, teeth brushed, evening pills taken, and wearing her favorite pink-flowered nightgown, Sadie was snuggling down in her oh-so-comfy bed. It was dressed in fresh sheets and blankets and crowned with an assortment of pillows so she could always find just the right one for the night at hand. She stretched contentedly. She was so sleepy, and there wasn’t a place in the world that she’d rather be than right here in her own little nest.
           
Having done what she considered her “serious praying” all day long, she now simply recited the prayers she’d been saying since childhood: “Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep” and “Dear Jesus in Heaven” and “Ich Bin Klein,” the latter taught to her by a little girlfriend’s German grandma a lifetime ago.
           
She thought about that little girl. Ilse was her name, and she’d had the prettiest long brown hair, usually worn in braids, and she often wore those cute little dirndls. She called her grandma Oma, as Sadie recalled. Even though Oma had smelled—well, old was probably the best way of putting it—and had had a heavy accent, she was the nicest grandma ever. And she’d taught them this wonderful little prayer that Sadie had never forgotten, even though she wasn’t exactly sure of its meaning. Something about--
           
What’s this?
           
Sadie’s left arm had started tingling to beat the band, like it had suddenly woken up from a sound sleep.
           
And now her left leg.
           
And the left side of her body, and her head, too.
           
What is going on?
         
Now her arm felt like it was in a very tight sleeve that was getting tighter by the moment. Not the rest of her body, though. Just the left side.
           
And then she realized what it had to be: a stroke, of course. Little Sadie Gottschalk Sparrow was having a stroke.
           
Not that she seemed to be paralyzed or anything. Yes, her arm and leg still moved as commanded. She forced a smile and felt her mouth—no drooping there, as far as she could tell.
           
She debated her options silently.
           
She could hit the call button right now to summon help. That would mean an ambulance trip to the hospital, and hours in the ER, and from what Gladys had told her recently in enumerating her own hospitalizations, a day or two under observation with the doctors doing nothing—absolutely nothing—to make her any better.
           
Or she could wait a while to see what would happen. Maybe this would all go away and she’d get a good night’s sleep and all would be well in the morning. Yes, she’d heard that there was a four-hour window of opportunity for treatment. What treatment, she was not sure, but people were always saying it was important to act quickly with a stroke. So maybe she’d wait a half hour, till 11 p.m., and decide then.
           
Or she could do nothing, and point herself towards heaven.
           
She wasn’t sure about that, though. Had she really been a good enough person to get in? What if she got there and they threw her into the other place? What if she could see Ed waiting there at the pearly gates, smiling eagerly until he saw St. Peter shake his head and Sadie’s face fall--
           
Oh, it was too unbearable to think about! And now her heart was really racing.
           
“Calm down, Sadie,” she told herself softly. “Stop thinking about that. You know you’ve lived a lot better life than most people. You’ve never murdered anyone or stolen anything and you were certainly never one to swear. You’ll be fine.”
           
That thought helped a bit. She thought back through some of the greater kindnesses of her life, the many times she helped their old neighbor Mrs. Grace hang her wash out to dry—no small task!—and the bandage rolling she did during World War II and the time she marched all the way back to Woolworth’s because the clerk had given her a dime too much in change. And even today, advising Meg to pray; that would surely count to her good.
           
She was feeling calmer now, although the tingling hadn’t abated, nor had the tightness in her arm.
           
Besides, Jamie had just said that being a good person was not the issue. Just as Ed had always insisted.
           
What exactly had Jamie said about that? It was something she’d known on some level, like she knew that five times nine is forty-five and that “we” is the first person plural.  
           
Apparently she wasn’t thinking too clearly right now, because that didn’t really make much sense.
           
“Dear Lord,” she breathed. “Please—”
         
Please what, Sadie? 
           
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . .”
           
That was it! That was what Ed and Papa had always prayed for, no matter how dire the circumstances: Thy will be done.
           
“Please Lord, may Thy will be done with this old body of mine. Whatever you think is fine with me.”
           
And she began earnestly presenting Him with the options, and the likely consequences to others.

--From The Song of Sadie Sparrow, pages 120-123

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. ​