tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45988623018654014632024-02-19T13:01:02.289-05:00Heart, Soul, and MindStories, thoughts, and comments (... some would say ramblings!) about my journey on this side of eternity: trying to live a life worthy of the calling I've received. (Ephesians 4:1)Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-47187079361085785272018-09-23T18:08:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:06:37.366-04:00Of auto correct and the smaller things in life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9ldYSiSoA4KHW-yNA36gYRBsM_7cnUHg61G-SpTni8GK3Pl7YsgK3FulH_s4Ssg1Wg4HLnLAVspINfzRYelLRg28o0p1SHOG2MfAtImqYB9aPTAUc1V8ooFdEeDpvi2WXjgb_HnfqiCe/s1600/Killdeer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9ldYSiSoA4KHW-yNA36gYRBsM_7cnUHg61G-SpTni8GK3Pl7YsgK3FulH_s4Ssg1Wg4HLnLAVspINfzRYelLRg28o0p1SHOG2MfAtImqYB9aPTAUc1V8ooFdEeDpvi2WXjgb_HnfqiCe/s1600/Killdeer.jpg" /></a></div>
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There are moments when you can't help but just laugh. Take the time when my wife, Wendi, texted me and asked where I was. Apparently, the software writer didn't like my answer... so instead of replying the way I had intended, which was "On my tractor", autocorrect corrected me and said, "On my Tracy". So you can imagine Wendi's surprise and immediate response... "You're where? And on who?" Ah, good laughs!<br />
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But, it's this tractor that had me thinking this past week. If you know me, you know that I've never placed a lot of value in 'things'. As far as 'toys' are concerned, I would qualify my 1992 Kubota L2950 as one of my few, and maybe my only, treasured toys. There's nothing fancy or shiny about it, but it has served me well. And, I'll confess that when the day arrives that I have to let go of 'Tracy' I'm sure I'll shed a quiet tear or two.<br />
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I've had the pleasure of sitting in my Kubota's seat for hours. Truthfully, these have probably been the most peaceful and tranquil times of the ten plus years we've been at our current address.<br />
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From its seat, I have seen the spectrum of God's creation - life's joys and miseries:<br />
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The sunrise and the sunset...<br />
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The frost roll in and the dew dry up,<br />
The barn swallow chasing bugs in the stirred up grass,<br />
Frogs hopping out of the way of the approaching tires,<br />
A killdeer puffing up its chest and pretending to be lame to protect its nest,<br />
Deers on the horizon chewing leaves in contentment,<br />
Fresh tire tracks in the recently cultivated soil,<br />
My children and wife working side by side on the family farm,<br />
Rainstorms approaching rapidly from the west,<br />
Seagulls gulping back a fresh meal visible in the new furrows,<br />
Small bunnies seeking safety in the comfort of their nest<br />
An employee comedically slipping in the mud,<br />
My daughter falling to her knees in anguish and despair,<br />
Ice precariously hanging on a dahlia stem,<br />
A new dawn and a new day rising,<br />
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The sunset and the sunrise.<br />
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Most of these things I count as gain. Some I count as loss.<br />
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As for autocorrect... and my Tracy... uh, my tractor... until we meet again.<br />
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<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-46091240295895146722018-09-16T17:07:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:06:48.201-04:00To me... it's always been a morning dove... not a mourning dove.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLX__5V0i7ak28B-pAqNR4PNq2bruIFlbOaMR8qViwyRyy1sdiFMDCmSQBzp6UBhc3VH6lBWiu2E3_U6HOUGnslED_eopaqsaWGQncILVO184h4BY12rs611n2cRQjy8Ium-BzdRiZWbjI/s1600/Mourning+dove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="607" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLX__5V0i7ak28B-pAqNR4PNq2bruIFlbOaMR8qViwyRyy1sdiFMDCmSQBzp6UBhc3VH6lBWiu2E3_U6HOUGnslED_eopaqsaWGQncILVO184h4BY12rs611n2cRQjy8Ium-BzdRiZWbjI/s320/Mourning+dove.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 'morning' dove on our porch rail</td></tr>
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There's an eerie sound I hear almost every day (oddly enough, it's one of my favourite outdoor sounds) during the summer months. It's that of a mourning dove - that I think has its nest in the spruce trees next door. As this dove sits on our roof peak he sings his "distinctive, plaintive cooOOoo-woo-woo-woooo" (thanks Wikipedia!), I listen intently, and I invariably drift into a mental sort of paradise regained. This bird, that calls our home his home, is one of my favourites of all God's animals.<br />
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I can picture the Holy Trinity with just the perfect amount of creative juices flowing designing this unique bird. After putting the black spots on its wings, giving it contrasting black and white tail feathers, colouring it with a light grey-brown plumage, their finishing touch was the dove's song - what 'we' call a mournful cry. Here's the irony though: when God created there was no mourning, or crying, or such a thing as a sad song, there was only a new morning and God called it good. My heart says that Adam called it a 'morning' dove... to which we've added a single letter to change the meaning from bright and new to brooding and mournful.<br />
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It's a stretch, I know. Even maybe a little simplistic and naive. But I wonder how many of God's creations we've changed or modified ever so slightly and completely twisted God's perfect artwork into our own warped design. My brief encounter with our roof's living ornament, i.e. this 'morning' dove, a few days ago reminded me of the peacefulness and gentleness of our good Creator. Normally, skittish and quick to fly away, this bird allowed me to come within inches; almost inviting me into its space. It was a peaceful and gentle encounter that I can only describe as heavenly providence. God granted me peace that morning, in a season that has laid plenty of uncertainty in my family's life, and at that moment I felt the air lighter, the sun brighter, and the breeze gentler.<br />
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Kind of reminds me of the song "<a href="https://library.timelesstruths.org/music/All_Things_Bright_and_Beautiful/" target="_blank">All things bright and beautiful</a>"; especially the refrain and first verse:<br />
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<i>All things bright and beautiful,</i></div>
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<i>All creatures great and small,</i></div>
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<i>All things wise and wonderful:</i></div>
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<i>The Lord God made them all.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Each little flow’r that opens,</i></div>
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<i>Each little bird that sings,</i></div>
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<i>He made their glowing colors,</i></div>
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<i>He made their tiny wings.</i></div>
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Here's the best part though - when Jesus returns the 'u' in mourning will be dropped forever and our earthly mourning shall be turned into an eternal new morning... and it will be good once again. As for my friend, the dove that eventually flew away when I came too close, he'll return with an olive leaf in its beak and we'll know all has been renewed.</div>
Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-87363095436786236622018-09-09T17:13:00.002-04:002023-07-25T09:06:52.703-04:00Hoping for a sunflower stand in Heaven<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5j8igeeMkX54i4zfU1hiCoNm690vkYl5EA3nCdexo1zG7RNlCooJo7bCJYtiqGlZ8KSr5Csjkp56Ppnm8JORNtYkUXOJtrh6zxV2QskC4l8LUGhO4UcuQ-iQjvezgwBc3v2AHla_T-DuM/s1600/Last+stand+of+sunflowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1429" data-original-width="1600" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5j8igeeMkX54i4zfU1hiCoNm690vkYl5EA3nCdexo1zG7RNlCooJo7bCJYtiqGlZ8KSr5Csjkp56Ppnm8JORNtYkUXOJtrh6zxV2QskC4l8LUGhO4UcuQ-iQjvezgwBc3v2AHla_T-DuM/s320/Last+stand+of+sunflowers.jpg" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our last stand of sunflowers - 2018</td></tr>
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Walking back to my house, I spotted a football under a tree. It was probably the last place my son dropped it after tossing a few passes to me or to some other lucky shmo he could convince to play a round of catch with him. As I picked up the football to put it away, suddenly, without warning, it hit me. Hard. I cried. My eyes just didn't get a bit moist. No. I sobbed with short gasps of breath. It was an emotional moment similar to when I first received news of my Dad's death in 1999. As loud of a cry as when I left my friends in Grand Rapids to move home because I had graduated from Calvin College but they had one year of school left.</div>
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But this time, it tore my heart even more. Weeks before our two oldest children left home for university, my wife began to prepare mentally and emotionally. Me... not so much. I thought I could drop them off and I'd handle it with ease. Wrong again. When I picked up that football to put it away, a new reality hit me hard in the face. My kids were taking their first steps toward moving out. Oh, they would come back on weekends, holidays, and summer breaks but it wouldn't be the same. They would always leave again. That's how it works.</div>
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I had one of those moments a few weeks ago. Again, I hadn't really prepared for it but knew somewhere in the back of my mind that it would happen eventually. Wendi and I have grown sunflowers for our roadside stand for the last number of years. It was a way to earn extra money and gave Wendi 'something to do' during the months of summer vacation. For those who know our story, Wendi's health has changed drastically and we don't know what next summer holds. What seems sure right now, is that we won't be filling our roadside stand next July. Which brings me to my moment - as I was pushing the empty flower stand back down our winding driveway to our shed, it hit me. Hard. I cried. This time it was more like last September when I said for the last time: "Lock the door" to my mom's cooling, lifeless body as it lay on her deathbed. I'd tell her to "Lock the door" with a Dutch accent almost everytime I left her apartment whether it was at her condo, her retirement home and even during her stay at the seniors' care centre where she spent the last months of her life.</div>
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Everything comes to an end. It has to... "nothing lasts forever". What we don't realize during the most generic moments of life is that a story is being written, and that story will say "The end" on the last page. We don't like to think about anything pleasant coming to an end because... well... that's unpleasant. We're reminded that everything has its own time, as Solomon wrote in the book of <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Ecclesiastes+3&version=NLT" target="_blank">Ecclesiastes 3</a>:</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A Time for Everything</i></div>
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<i>3 For everything there is a season,</i></div>
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<i> a time for every activity under heaven.</i></div>
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<i>2 A time to be born and a time to die.</i></div>
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<i> A time to plant and a time to harvest.</i></div>
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<i>3 A time to kill and a time to heal.</i></div>
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<i> A time to tear down and a time to build up.</i></div>
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<i>4 A time to cry and a time to laugh.</i></div>
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<i> A time to grieve and a time to dance.</i></div>
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<i>5 A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.</i></div>
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<i> A time to embrace and a time to turn away.</i></div>
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<i>6 A time to search and a time to quit searching.</i></div>
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<i> A time to keep and a time to throw away.</i></div>
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<i>7 A time to tear and a time to mend.</i></div>
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<i> A time to be quiet and a time to speak.</i></div>
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<i>8 A time to love and a time to hate.</i></div>
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<i> A time for war and a time for peace.</i></div>
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We may not be selling sunflowers next summer, our kids will move back home only to move out again, I won't see my parents in this life again, and reuniting with my old college buddies seems like a day far, far away, if ever. There's only one thing that I know will last and will never end and that's the promise of a new heaven and a new earth given to us in <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Revelation+21&version=NLT" target="_blank">Revelation 21</a>:</div>
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<i>The New Jerusalem</i></div>
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<i>21 Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the old heaven and the old earth had disappeared. And the sea was also gone. 2 And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven like a bride beautifully dressed for her husband.</i></div>
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<i>3 I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, “Look, God’s home is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them.[a] 4 He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.”</i></div>
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I wonder if there will be room for our sunflower stand in this new city? Just asking. :)</div>
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Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-18535250515836883152018-09-03T14:57:00.000-04:002023-07-25T09:06:55.145-04:00Why I quit writing and said 'No' to God's gift... until now.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI3jLKJzmkDgi-nTS8ctuqUzOrY7OOnDu0FAIw2TPtZT9c77c1y2vG4y7fZvZnY9ZaLP3MPIfBOvgRnD6KWAS8wMKiUBfgdkg_hFYSMjvY6S1Q7wHJ5Cxsl8wrvVmH5idJ_cQzfsNWnebu/s1600/pen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI3jLKJzmkDgi-nTS8ctuqUzOrY7OOnDu0FAIw2TPtZT9c77c1y2vG4y7fZvZnY9ZaLP3MPIfBOvgRnD6KWAS8wMKiUBfgdkg_hFYSMjvY6S1Q7wHJ5Cxsl8wrvVmH5idJ_cQzfsNWnebu/s1600/pen.jpg" /></a></div>
Here's why I quit writing and said no to the gift God gave me...<br />
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Ever since I was 16 or so, I've realized that putting pen to paper was 'easy'. Rarely did I struggle with an opening sentence or a closing thought. I even freelanced as a writer for a season when my children were small. For a time, I thought my writing ability was going to catapult me into preaching full time!<br />
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I think self-acknowledged gifts can be a huge blessing. However, if you're not careful with those gifts, they can be a self-imposed curse. In my case, I got sucked into the online vortex of seemingly endless online checks and rechecks of my blog's hit counter. I became a slave to thinking about how many Facebook 'likes' I received, how many times my blog was shared, how many people commented and... and... and. The more public acclaim and acknowledgement I received, the more I felt affirmed. If I didn't hear about peoples' tears, or if fewer people read my blog than a previous post, the more I felt I had to hit the next blog out of the park. So, I quit. I quit writing because I felt unnecessarily tied to my blog's popularity and that's what I told myself. The focus of my writing became internal, and not external as God intended.<br />
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Here's the truth as I see it now. Since Wendi's diagnosis of Stage IV Glioblastoma Multiforme a.k.a. a brain tumor, I have become more aware of the hidden powers of darkness and light battling each other. For when we feel confident in Wendi's healing, there often follows a distraction that turns our attention away from God and his healing to unrelated sources of family stresses and outside tension. It's like when the phone rings when you are about to pray. That's not a coincidence by the way! There is another world that we can't see, and if you stick your head in the dirt long enough, you'll stop discerning between good and evil. You'll stop sensing that there are outside forces that seek only to destroy what is good, and you'll merely accept those disruptions as 'one of those things'. 1 Peter 5:8 states clearly: "Stay alert! Watch out for your great enemy, the devil. He prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour." The wolf can wear all sorts of deceptive clothing!<br />
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That was me. I was outwitted. My gift of writing - that is meant to be for God's kingdom - became self-idolatry and I told myself to stop writing. I was tricked into thinking that I should stop writing because it was being a hindrance to my relationship with Jesus. I hope that makes sense! What I didn't realize is that people who read my blog were being blessed by it and were receiving something of God's joy from it. Maybe not all the time, but sometimes! And, that's okay. God's word never returns to him empty or void no matter what we may think.<br />
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If this has happened to you - if you have a gift or special talent that you know has blessed others, don't deprive them of that gift. Don't make it about yourself. Don't get tricked into thinking that your gifts are a burden and that you should avoid engaging in them. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Identify the truth. Ask others how they can support you. Go ahead, sing, dance, play music, write a poem, carve stone, mold clay, repair a car, paint a room, visit a stranger, cook a meal, pick lice out of hair if that's your gift... and bless others with arms spread out.<br />
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I'm going to write again. I don't know for how long but I already have some ideas that I can't wait to share! This time, I'm going to try really hard to ignore 'the stats', the comments, the likes and only focus on what matters. Maybe, in 50 years, this blog will still be online and someone may blow the dust off of it and be blessed. Only God knows.<br />
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It's not about me or you. Or my wife's battle with brain cancer. It never has been, never is, and never will be.<br />
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It's about Jesus... always has been, always is, and always will be.<br />
<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-2745006877597923172018-08-26T15:56:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:06:57.456-04:00God's cradle - our hammock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmhNN0tqR2Yow7P-ni9xgc_MsANWr43T9Zh6xjbjFOSZTRXO-mN3ahso6lpHT_vMH1KTkG1BlWfOOUzP6GXxf7ko8TnDb7NfA4G2c48pXkKyjfoZcFVGYUpzZ7_8W5vGa1HHrvrjgJLY8E/s1600/08+26+2018+Wendi+in+the+hammock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1347" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmhNN0tqR2Yow7P-ni9xgc_MsANWr43T9Zh6xjbjFOSZTRXO-mN3ahso6lpHT_vMH1KTkG1BlWfOOUzP6GXxf7ko8TnDb7NfA4G2c48pXkKyjfoZcFVGYUpzZ7_8W5vGa1HHrvrjgJLY8E/s320/08+26+2018+Wendi+in+the+hammock.jpg" width="269"></a></div>
Just one more pull, one more time...<br>
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Recently, I had an image come to mind of when my children were small. They would want to get onto a chair, couch, or their bed, and they would run and pull themselves up on their stomachs. Their tiny legs would kick and their little arms would wrestle their way onto the cushion or mattress. And having passed the hurdle, they would lay on their backs and be the most content in all the world. I miss those days. Days when I would give them a little push so they'd make it onto the chair, hold their hands as we cross a street, say a bedtime prayer, or cut their sandwiches into squares... just like so. Truthfully, though, God's design for our children is that they grow up, move out, and repeat the whole 'life thing' as independent adults. And, I wouldn't have it any other way.<br>
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There's another image that caught my attention this week. That of a cradle, of God's cupped hands, and my wife, figuratively on her stomach, kicking her legs and wrestling to get into his 'hands'. Finally, after achieving her goal, she would lay on her back and be the most content in all the world.<br>
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God's hands, his cradle, has been our hammock this week. During one of Wendi's low points, while lying in the hammock, she told me that she was worried. Worried about the future, about the cancer treatments, about her own longevity; and I really didn't know what to say anymore. And then I saw God's hands, in the shape of our hammock, and I had peace. For just as the hammock is shaped to every contour of our body for our optimal comfort, I picture God's hands shaped in such a way that Wendi's every ache, soreness, and worry are soothed by his special grip.<br>
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It has been this hammock that has given Wendi the most comfort and contentment this week as she heals from surgery and awaits the next stages of treatment.<br>
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And while she lies in contentment and rests on the hammock, in God's cradle... I get to sit next to her...holding her hands... and pray.<br>
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Kind of reminds me of when we'd sit on the edge of our children's bed after they had just kicked and squirmed their way onto their mattress. And lying comfortably on their backs we'd say a bedtime prayer.<br>
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"Now I lay me down to sleep,<br>
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;<br>
Guide me safely through the night,<br>
Wake me with your morning light.<br>
Amen."Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-51559474501694765912017-10-09T15:25:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:07:02.418-04:00A stumble, a tear and a rainbow<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaD1GXkTsf5CiqUTDN7Ssu-5t4hBzI2lvm_HDcriDzcoI4Y9udN4dTIggs8Dp19vYBwaagHR15CtUtu05wWaC0SQNYytZ14ir1klD9iOLUhDC25UMz3b-D_BqO5TCCwklheeMHi2jbj8C/s1600/20171004_090549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaD1GXkTsf5CiqUTDN7Ssu-5t4hBzI2lvm_HDcriDzcoI4Y9udN4dTIggs8Dp19vYBwaagHR15CtUtu05wWaC0SQNYytZ14ir1klD9iOLUhDC25UMz3b-D_BqO5TCCwklheeMHi2jbj8C/s320/20171004_090549.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Greeted by a surprise rainbow <br />on Mom's birthday!</i></td></tr>
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It was at a dressed up gravesite that 40 or 50 people gathered around last Tuesday, October 3. Complete with all the trappings: artificial turf to camouflage the freshly dug grave, and a spray of fresh flowers to 'dress up' the wooden box, add a pinch of reality - a truckload of city workers waiting to backfill the hole, and a few too many commuters rushing down the 7th Concession to nowhere; it was death that grabbed centre stage. A scripture reading, a sung blessing, a spoken Apostle's Creed, and a hushed rendition of 'Amazing Grace' seemingly flowed without pause. The fine-tuned orchestration by the funeral home and minister to conduct a graveside memorial was going as planned.<br />
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We each took a flower from the arrangement that draped the coffin and either knelt, stooped, bent or did whatever it took, to get nearer to Mom for the last time. While setting the flower down in her remembrance, some placed their hand on the coffin and felt the warmth of the sun's glow on the wooden chest, while others, with muted whispers, closed their eyes and mouthed a final farewell. My nephews' sobs were muffled into the sleeve of brother Scott's jacket as he attempted to remain composed. However, he, too, eventually wept aloud. Death confronted us that Tuesday and was directing its 'billionth' performance.<br />
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From where I stood, I observed my four uncles and one aunt, - Mom's brothers and sister - who had flown in from Nova Scotia, each cautiously approach what remained of their sister. First Uncle Bill, bum knees and all, placed a flower on the grave. Then my aunt, Tante Tini, with all the grace and composition of a younger sister, she, too, placed a flower in tribute. Uncle Joe was next. And, you know that artificial turf meant to hide the mounds of soil and the wooden frame which held the coffin temporarily in place, well, Uncle Joe stumbled over it. As he fell headlong into the grave's opening, thankfully his reflexes did not fail him and he put out his hands to prevent a more disastrous tumble. Uncle Joe's hands landed on the coffin, shifting it slightly, and we who witnessed this event unfold gasped in unison. As quickly as it happened Bill and Tini were there to help their older brother up. Death's 'billionth' performance was becoming unhinged.<br />
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Perhaps, from embarrassment or shock, Uncle Joe did not want to try again. But, with a little encouragement and assistance, he finally did place a flower successfully. After navigating his way off the platform, the five-some siblings, Bill, Tini, Joe, Gerry and John moved into a row and stood to face the grave. Their backs were to me, sun glistened off their mostly silver hair, and I heard a short cry.<br />
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"Siny, you were a good sister. We will miss you. We love you." was all my aunt said. It was a simple and moving tribute - uninhibited, unscripted, and unrehearsed.<br />
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Slowly people headed toward their cars. But, as with gravesite exits, there was an unremarkable hesitation to leave by some of the mourners. Just one more look, one more touch, one more reflection...just one more...one...last...time. Time marched on and death was eager to search for its next performance. Next act. Same as the first.<br />
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The following morning, October 4, would have been Mom's 80th birthday. I didn't want to miss it. I had never missed that day without saying, "Happy Birthday, Mom." So, as I headed down my driveway I spotted a rainbow. Odd, I thought, it hadn't been raining. Quickly, I jumped out of my car and snapped a picture. As I drove toward the cemetery, which is just a few kilometres from my home, I noticed I was driving in the direction of the rainbow.<br />
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A left onto the 6th Concession, a right onto Garden Lane, a left onto the 7th and I was at the cemetery. There in front of me was Mom and Dad's marker, shaped like a teardrop or a flame depending on your perspective, the fresh soil raked neatly and the spray of flowers - now visibly missing many blooms - served as reminders of the previous day's events.<br />
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As I stooped down to say "Happy Birthday, Mom", the rainbow I had observed was now perfectly aligned with the gravestone. It was God's promise sketched into the heavenly realms and it was though I heard him whisper, "I'll never leave you, nor forsake you." This wasn't in death's script. It was outside the 'norm'. It was as if God grabbed the sickle holding, hooded playwright's pen, scratched out the next line of the all too familiar play, and in celestial penmanship with a panoramic font, wrote: "Death exits stage left."<br />
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<i><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+Corinthians+15%3A55-57&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">“Where, O death, is your victory? </a></i><br />
<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+Corinthians+15%3A55-57&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><i>Where, O death, is your sting?”</i> </a><br />
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1 Corinthians 15:55Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-54436472041113649232016-08-17T21:33:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:07:05.463-04:00Beyond my wildest expectations<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; height: 239px; width: 306px;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late night fun in Douglas, MA</td></tr>
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They say God doesn't give you more than you can handle. Every time I felt maxed out, he piled it on even more. Stretching me beyond my wildest dreams and expectations.<br />
I can do it, I thought. Six days, plus or minus 50 teens, volunteer work. No problem. It will be over before I know it. SERVE. Douglas, Massachusetts. I was ready. Bring it on. I had something to prove.<br />
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Last Saturday, I rolled out of Burlington with 15 young people and 2 parent leaders. I had 8 hours of driving ahead of me to Douglas, MA, so I had plenty of time to mentally prepare. I had spent several evenings studying the devotional material that I would have to lead my small group with, and even downloaded the suggested study guide. I was prepared. Or, at least, I was prepared to fake it really well if I had to. I was going to a week long event with 50 random teenagers from Southern Ontario and approximately 15 youth from the greater Boston area. I had this. Game on.<br />
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Sure. I had some expectations. I wanted to know what it meant to have a relationship with Jesus. The prelude to the study guide told me we were going to discover that very thing. Don't get me wrong - I have known Jesus as my Lord and Saviour for some time now. But, truthfully, I really didn't know what it was to have Jesus in my heart. I didn't know what it felt like to have an ache in my heart for Jesus. We were going to study the book of Mark. You know...Mark...the guy who didn't include the birth of Jesus, but jumps right to his hairy and locust-eating cousin John the Baptist. Yeah. That Mark.<br />
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What I didn't realize is the first verse of Genesis and the first verse of Mark are very similar - they are both about new beginnings. Genesis 1:1 describes the beginning of creation. Mark 1:1 describes the beginning of God's redemption of creation through Jesus. Mark dramatically describes Jesus' break through into humanity and his simultaneous assault on manmade laws and godless institutions, while at the same time, offering love and hope to a motley crew of twelve and massive crowds eager to listen to him. Through Mark's account of Jesus' teaching and ministry of healing, we came to learn how Jesus' life was an example of how we should live and what we should strive for. It was about our new beginning when we surrender all to him.<br />
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We were challenged to think of those things that occupy our thoughts for a majority of time. We wrestled with what it means to follow Jesus, to take down our false walls of refuge, and welcome the stranger, the homeless, the poor, the anxious, the wealthy, the visible minority, the drug addict, the sex worker, the teen who tries to remain invisible, everyone...every shape, size, colour, social status...as one of Christ's own. And, if we don't, we're no better than the Pharisee shaking his head when Jesus healed a man on the Sabbath. That's right. Hard to hear. But I'm often more Pharisee than Christian. More hypocrite than authentic.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joel and the Canucks - my team!</td></tr>
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I'm seeing Jesus more clearly. I saw him around the camp fire as we sang. He was present in the surprising peacefulness of Boston. He was in the laughter as two cultures learned to love and accept each other. He was in our van when we were singing at the top of our lungs. He held the hands of anxious teens. He was in Noah, Joel, and Ben - guys I may never see again but I know I'll spend eternity with. He was with my three children as I watched them from afar. He kept my wife safe while she stayed home alone. He was our traffic guide, our night watchman, and our storm shelter. He was in the hospitality of our hosts. He was in the smiles of custodians and principals. He was present in our small group - Joel and the Canucks - as we shared our personal stories and trials and triumphs. He was in the friendly 'hellos' of welcoming teens. He was in the 'good byes' and hugs of new friends. And he was in Andrew. My good friend, and brother, Andrew.<br />
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Minutes before we left to return home, I walked back to the row of cars, and sat down on a bumper. I cried. Not in sorrowful sobs, but with joyful tears. I thought I came to find Jesus.<br />
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I had it all wrong...he found me!<br />
<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-67695184095492548652016-06-12T19:43:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:07:09.632-04:00Crawling off the altar with reckless abandonment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had one of those moments this morning. One of those 'aha' moments. One of those times when you say, "Oh, well, if you would have put it that way I would have understood a long time ago."</div>
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It's the first few verses in <a href="http://biblehub.com/nlt/romans/12.htm" target="_blank">Romans 12</a> (NLT), where Paul writes, "And so, dear brothers and sisters, I plead with you to give your bodies to God because of all he has done for you. Let them be a living and holy sacrifice--the kind he will find acceptable. This is truly the way to worship him." I've always understood (except not always) what was meant by the instruction. Because of the mercy God has granted me, my life ought to reflect his perfect holiness, perfect love, and perfect justice. You're with me, right? It's a tall command. It's a command that many of us struggle with. I know I do. I'm reminded daily of how I fall short of loving - <u>intentionally loving</u> - others. It's hard...because quite frankly there are a lot of unlovable people in this world. And, each time I fail to live up to this instruction I feel failure and regret.</div>
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But this is where my 'aha' moment comes in. This morning, while not at my usual place of worship, the pastor put it this way - <em><strong><span style="color: orange;">"everyday, we keep crawling off the altar."</span></strong></em> Then it clicked. It's like falling off the proverbial wagon. I slip up. Lots. As much as I lack love, I'm probably just, if not more, as unlovable at times. I'm well intentioned; I want to make changes in my life, but then I hit a bump and I'm thrown off. So it is with being a living sacrifice - by daily sacrificing our lives to Christ we're climbing up the side of the altar and saying, "Here I am, God. Warts and all. Please help me to love and to be loveable. I know I'm going to slip, but I also know that tomorrow morning I'll look up, and I'll see you're face and your outstretched arm. You'll say, "Let me help you up. Take my hand. It's a new day. It's a new dawn. It's a great day to be a living sacrifice."</div>
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I want to. I really do. I want to love, be kind, and reflect God's love. But I know I'll manage to crawl off the other side when I think no one's looking at some point during my day. It's just a matter of time. I'll scale down the side of the altar, indulge in some unlovable behaviour, realize I made a bad choice, beat myself up for a while, then finally look up when I can't bear my own self deprecation, and there'll be that familiar outstretched arm.</div>
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"Let me help you up," he'll say.</div>
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And just like that. I'm looking for a latch that's come undone and a quick way off this pile of rocks.</div>
<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-27746517744891595202016-04-24T19:43:00.002-04:002023-07-25T09:07:11.549-04:00For three answered prayers and for four...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother Mac from Bangladesh</td></tr>
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A month has passed since I started working for <a href="http://www.internationalneeds.ca/" target="_blank">International Needs Canada</a> as a Donor Development Officer and the learning curve is no less curved! Have you ever been on a roller coaster that loops several times in a row and then repeats the loops but only in reverse? That's what it feels like having spent 25 or so years in the horticultural field...and when I say 'field' I literally mean 'field'... and then moving to the world of non-profit, no 'jeans allowed', small office environment! To be fair, the staff have been very welcoming, cordial, and patient. Oh, and did I say patient? The more I learn is just an affirmation of how much I really don't know about the world! And the more I learn about my new job, the more I hear God whispering the words from Proverbs 3:5 not "to lean on my own understanding".<br />
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I forgot...did I say patient?<br />
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So, aside from all the patience rendered my way, God answered one of my prayers in a very dramatic way, which is making my transition 'slightly' easier. Let me explain. I have shared with my colleagues, friends, and family that one of my concerns starting at International Needs Canada was my inexperience and the sense of detachment I feel as it relates to the needs of the developing world. Frankly, I've never experienced wanton hunger, abject poverty, and religious persecution. Sure, I've been hungry when dinner is late, upset that I can't afford to travel abroad, and slightly irritated that Christmas has become so commercial, but...really? My lifestyle is far from being on the top needs list of the United Nations. Nevertheless, part of my job is to effectively relay the needs of the poorest of the poor to those with monetary means here in Canada, and ultimately secure financial support without having stepped foot into a third world nation. And that's what I prayed - that God would help me genuinely appreciate those needs.<br />
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It's funny. But I'm usually the last one to see how God answers prayer! It took me a few weeks to figure out that God gave me just what I needed. I was only two weeks on the job and I was assigned to travel through southwestern Ontario with Mac Adhikary, a colleague from Bangladesh, and visit supporters of his ministry. Unbeknownst to me, having Mac sit beside me for hours at a time was an answer to my prayer. Since he was my 'captive' passenger, I was able to listen to Mac's story - and through his story I've come to know one of the most humble, God fearing, witness for Jesus that I've ever met.<br />
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Amid our travels and during visits with supporters, I listened to Mac as he shared stories of hope that he and his staff have brought to the orphans and street children of Dhaka, Bangladesh. Mac's gentle demeanor drew his listeners in closely and together we 'wiped the tears, fed the hungry, clothed the naked, bathed the unclean all in the name Jesus Christ. Unwavering in mission, Mac and his team are quite literally the hands and feet of Jesus...and God provided me a 'captive' passenger so I could experience the same and speak of His grace and love as if I've personally walked the streets of Dhaka.<br />
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As a further testament to his passion for the children he serves, when Mac was about to leave for the next leg of his journey, he didn't tell me to keep raising funds for his ministry or give me any other advice on development work. He only had this to say to me, "Brother Henry, keep serving our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ and His work will be accomplished." I smiled. God answers our prayers in ways we can't imagine. That was another answer to prayer...it's not up to me to do it alone.<br />
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Thank you Brother Mac. Safe travels.<br />
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Until we meet again.<br />
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<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-75364407966768700452016-03-25T19:28:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:07:14.057-04:00It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong><em>It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.</em></strong><br />
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These few words have been floating through my mind since I woke up this morning. Good Friday has always felt a little different from all the other days of the year, and this year was no different. Amid all the 'noise' this world offers, we hope for a new beginning...for new life...for the eternal Sunday that will be when Jesus returns.<br />
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<em><strong>It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.</strong></em><br />
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While preparing to start my day, I glanced at the news feed on my phone. I was reminded of the brokenness that we all endure on level or another - whether personally, communally, or globally.<br />
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Rob Ford.<br />
Brussels.<br />
Jian Ghomeshi.<br />
Ice Storm.<br />
Parkinson's Disease.<br />
Zika Virus.<br />
Refugees.<br />
Food insecurity.<br />
Unemployment.<br />
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<strong><em>It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.</em></strong><br />
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This morning's service gave me another opportunity to feel Jesus' presence. I had an opportunity to participate in the Lord's Supper - or Holy Communion - in a way I've never done before. I was a 'cup bearer' - meaning I held the cup containing juice, which participants dipped their piece of bread into before eating. While they dipped their bread, I was to say to each guest, "The blood of Christ shed for you."<br />
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The blood of Christ shed for you, Wilfred.<br />
The blood of Christ shed for you, Rudy.<br />
The blood of Christ shed for you, Harrison.<br />
The blood of Christ shed for you, Jane.<br />
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I would have liked to have added:<br />
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<strong><em>It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.</em></strong><br />
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The blood of Christ shed for you, Sonja.<br />
The blood of Christ shed for you, Darlene.<br />
The blood of Christ shed for you, Elliot.<br />
The blood of Christ shed for you, Allan.<br />
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<strong><em>It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.</em></strong><br />
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The blood of Christ shed for me.<br />
The blood of Christ shed for you.<br />
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Did you hear that faint rumble? No, it's not the ice falling from tree limbs and roof tops, it's the angels preparing to roll the stone away from Jesus' grave.<br />
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It's Friday.<br />
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<strong><em>Sunday's coming.</em></strong><br />
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<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-15160691103637548672016-03-11T17:00:00.002-05:002023-07-25T09:07:17.371-04:00Jeremy Scott Vanderlaan - a YES to Life, a YES to Love.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxJ7Fa2-gB5IG012YAvl5M605lv2Xichfr1wFD39Z7BWn9I25T3rUN2TOCT-teAyB5d89jzRBLGVH6RlV20ane-v80_66Lrif1knBpnPzrAGJmvCrx5lnyf7hRndZFbP5DApXzm0Adoe8/s1600/Jeremy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnxJ7Fa2-gB5IG012YAvl5M605lv2Xichfr1wFD39Z7BWn9I25T3rUN2TOCT-teAyB5d89jzRBLGVH6RlV20ane-v80_66Lrif1knBpnPzrAGJmvCrx5lnyf7hRndZFbP5DApXzm0Adoe8/s320/Jeremy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeremy Scott Vanderlaan</td></tr>
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She sat across from us at the kitchen table - bewildered, scared, and terrified. I still remember how the tears flowed down her face, staining her cheeks. Carrying the weight of an unknown future, my sister in law, Teresa, relayed news from the doctors, all of which we hoped we'd never hear.</div>
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First, she was told he'd never walk. Then, she was told her baby boy would never hear or see. There was nothing the doctors could do.</div>
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We cried with her...but in an almost unimaginable way she was alone in her tears that day. While her son, Jeremy, laid in the ICU of McMaster Hospital's neo-natal ward clinging to life, her husband and Jeremy's father, Scott, laid on the 4th floor of the same hospital fighting Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swimming with Dad (Scott Vanderlaan)</td></tr>
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So, surrounded by a few family members, Len, my brother-in-law, in a moment of uncertainty and unfamiliarity, asked if he could pray. He prayed for Scott, Teresa, and Jeremy. He prayed for mercy, healing, strength and courage. God heard his prayer that day. Maybe his prayer wasn't answered the way we wanted it, but God answered. He answered with a mighty 'Yes'. He said 'yes' to Scott and 'yes' to Jeremy. </div>
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<strong>It was more than that, though - it was a 'Yes to Life'... a 'Yes to Love'.</strong> </div>
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On March 13, my nephew, Jeremy Scott Vanderlaan, will celebrate his 16th birthday! On a day when most teenagers race out of the house to get their driver's license, Jeremy will sit in his chair with his family at his side. Teresa will spoon feed him is cake. Scott will watch with deep compassion and love. And his brothers - I can't forget his devoted brothers: Isaiah and Mason. They will sing 'Happy Birthday' to their big brother, Jeremy.</div>
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Jeremy was born very premature on March 13, 2000 and weighed only 2 lbs at birth. Doctors and nurses fought valiantly to save this little life. His survival was a miracle. But Jeremy suffered from oxygen deprivation at birth and lives with a severe form of Cerebral Palsy as a result of injury to his brain. Jeremy's Cerebral Palsy is classified as a Level Five - meaning that he has severe head and body control limitations. He requires extensive use of assisted technology and physical assistance; and is transported in a manual wheelchair. He cannot achieve self-mobility by learning to operate a powered wheelchair. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwL0s0CPSPINIBokSulPBrxTWcEpEDYpgxxLFDDKOutkE7vDYvX-XZv2AHafjMCT_NkLLbQvczhWFuQ-N8Fp1wU6WWMfycjZ7KluSC7z56Ss6d2Md2Ew517RBbhTdCGdo68_Ly1HHGXcE/s1600/Jeremy+and+Teresa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrwL0s0CPSPINIBokSulPBrxTWcEpEDYpgxxLFDDKOutkE7vDYvX-XZv2AHafjMCT_NkLLbQvczhWFuQ-N8Fp1wU6WWMfycjZ7KluSC7z56Ss6d2Md2Ew517RBbhTdCGdo68_Ly1HHGXcE/s320/Jeremy+and+Teresa.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging out with Mom (Teresa Camera Vanderlaan)</td></tr>
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Thankfully, the doctors' prognosis was wrong! Jeremy can see, he can hear, and he can laugh! While Jeremy is fully dependant on others for everything, we have become dependant on him. In his observant silence, and in his infectious laughter, Jeremy blesses our family get-togethers in ways unimagined. His Aunt Denise has developed a unique bond with him that lights up the room when they are together. Singing "Row, row, row your boat" is a favourite activity of his and he laughs with delight as Denise sings the last line "throw your teacher overboard and listen to her scream. AAAAHHHHH." No sooner does he stop laughing and he's asking for more "Row, Row, Row". I have heard Denise sing this song many times, and with each rendition, it seems it's the first time Jeremy has heard it. I have also watched with admiration as Teresa's family cares for him as if he was one of their own children.</div>
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Several weeks ago, while celebrating family birthdays together, I asked Teresa if Jeremy would want an ice-cream bar. I never anticipated her response - "I don't know. Try it", she said. Although, I wasn't planning to feed Jeremy myself, I was challenged by her reply. I've spoon fed my own children when they were very young, but have never fed a teenager. So, pretending I knew what I was doing, I started to feed Jeremy some of the ice cream. He loved it, and with his mouth open, he wanted more! Before I knew it, he had finished the dessert. I don't know if he ate more than what landed on my clothes and the floor, but it was a moment I'll never forget. My soon to be sixteen year old nephew allowed me to do something reserved mostly for his mom and dad. He allowed me to participate in his enjoyment of that chocolate covered ice-cream bar!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzO-bzJRe1EdnCosRwx50sNwvkH-3i6OJavNLgyF3vb3lHmbGxG7iRdXnkm0TM8Xq1BrlndVUt0FNjFH8xRr7N72j5ZjGmMh6lkGNIaulvaNXnVxiUIDgAtoNtny3SEgE_QGsWmHEduee/s1600/Brothers+fishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJzO-bzJRe1EdnCosRwx50sNwvkH-3i6OJavNLgyF3vb3lHmbGxG7iRdXnkm0TM8Xq1BrlndVUt0FNjFH8xRr7N72j5ZjGmMh6lkGNIaulvaNXnVxiUIDgAtoNtny3SEgE_QGsWmHEduee/s320/Brothers+fishing.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fishing with brothers, Mason (left) and Isaiah (right)</td></tr>
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Teresa and Scott, Isaiah and Mason, are some of the most blessed people I know. Life and times have been, and can be, difficult for them. Raising two young boys with a teenage son, who requires 'round the clock care, is challenging at the best of times. However, they are blessed with a son who loves them unconditionally, and their love for him knows no bounds. Their family has been given a special gift. Through Jeremy's life, they are able to see beyond the frills and empty promises that our world offers. Jeremy's dependency reflects our own dependency for love, affection, and acceptance from and by those we call family.</div>
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Thank you Scott and Teresa. Thank you for being model parents as you care and provide for your family.</div>
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On March 13th, it's not about his mom and dad or his brothers. It's about Jeremy. I know when the time comes for the candles to be lit, the birthday song to be sung, I'll look over and see something in his parents' eyes that I've seen a thousand times. It'll be a look of admiration mixed with overflowing love and I'll hear the hear the unspoken words, "Yup, that's my boy."</div>
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Happy 16th Birthday, Jeremy!</div>
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Now, shove over and save some cake for the rest of us!</div>
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(<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo credits: Denise VanderLugt.)</span></div>
<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-60237316328669733132016-02-14T19:01:00.001-05:002023-07-25T09:07:19.155-04:00Home at last<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflrAp7k4NkO5dls9Zj9Kt5I-fJZt0OSXmP1AMLtFZfK7khXwz8pSdjFqRml_Vi4k5Efzr2pRgI4SEWqso8C4hHvvbpqrW-rJ1JgIxcJQ61iFK4uQCv-odAJScucNz8GBHYYsbUzvDc0zK/s1600/home-sweet-home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflrAp7k4NkO5dls9Zj9Kt5I-fJZt0OSXmP1AMLtFZfK7khXwz8pSdjFqRml_Vi4k5Efzr2pRgI4SEWqso8C4hHvvbpqrW-rJ1JgIxcJQ61iFK4uQCv-odAJScucNz8GBHYYsbUzvDc0zK/s320/home-sweet-home.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
It's neither the drive-to, the walk-in, nor the sit-down that makes it familiar. It isn't the artwork on the wall, the colour of the carpet, or the smell of coffee that reminds me. It's the man up front; and he doesn't have to speak long before I know I'm home again. It's with these words: <em>"Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ"</em> (<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Philippians+1%3A2&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Philippians 1:2</a>) that I can breathe easier and silently acknowledge ... ah .... 'Home Sweet Home.' It's awesome! Every Sunday, I have the privilege of hearing God's greeting! The words are always the same (well mostly), but it's my queue to bow my head in humility - just like I observed my own Dad bowing his head to receive the greeting. To me, bowing my head allows me to silently pray, "God, my father, thank you for your invitation. I'm not worthy to be here...I've sinned against you...but you love me...and have invited me in." It's a "Welcome home. I'm happy you're here" hug ... every week!<br />
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There's something very welcoming about coming home. Familiar sights, sounds, and smells gently remind us of the place where we belong. (You can almost hear John Denver's '<a href="https://youtu.be/1vrEljMfXYo" target="_blank">Country Roads</a>!') Think about how many songs in all music genres refer to going home as a highlight of Christmas and Thanksgiving celebrations. The mental picture of a home where music softly plays, a fire crackling in the wood stove, the smell of home-made apple pie filling the air, and children running freely throughout the house is very familiar...and comforting. These images create a certain homesickness that most can identify with. And we crave for that void to be filled.<br />
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I think that God has placed something else in each of us - something that only he can fill. Some people try to satisfy their itch with 'stuff'; thinking that toys will bring contentment. Others, will try to find satisfaction in 'snuff' i.e. drugs and booze to fill the void. Yet, a third group will try 'smut' - consume pornography - to escape reality. Still, others will overeat, shop, or exercise to excess. I've thought about this often in my own context as I've struggled to find lasting contentment. And, sometimes, I wonder if this constant drive within me is an ache that can only be filled by Jesus. Because, there's a place when that itch vanishes... and it seems to vanish every Sunday morning when I hear God's greeting at 'home'.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Returning home from FLA!</td></tr>
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You know what's better than God's greeting? Nothing, actually. But, there's something special about God's blessing that is spoken over us at the end of each service. As the minister speaks, I'll close my eyes, extend my open hands, and symbolically receive God's blessing. And, here's the best part - when the words: <em>"The <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> bless you and keep you; <span class="text Num-6-25" id="en-NKJV-3849">The <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> make His face shine upon you, </span><span class="text Num-6-25">And be gracious to you; </span><span class="text Num-6-26" id="en-NKJV-3850">The <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> lift up His countenance upon you, </span><span class="text Num-6-26">And give you peace"</span></em> (<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Numbers+6%3A24-26&version=NKJV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Numbers 6:24-26</a>) are spoken, I've occasionally caught a glimpse of one of my kids extending their hands, too. And, I know they've come home. Home at last. Thank God, they're home at last.<br />
<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-33846414184982585592016-01-31T18:07:00.000-05:002023-07-25T09:07:22.100-04:00Like a bird with a lion's heart we let them go<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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We have been preparing for this moment for years...we just didn't know it. Every time we dropped them off at a friend's house, a movie, or at the mall, we were setting the stage for the big one. Today, we watched our children pull their suitcases toward an airport's security clearance - together, but apart. Together as brother and sisters; but apart from us, their parents. This is a moment that will be etched in our memory just like the first day we brought our children home from the hospital. Sure, parents of all times have watched their children take flight, but until it's experienced it's a foreign concept.</div>
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As parents, we live in tension. We bemoan the fact that time goes so fast. "I can't believe how time flies" is the expression heard around the world, millions of times per day, as each birthday is celebrated. We look at old pictures and home videos and wish we could turn back the hands of time and recapture the days when our children crawled along the floor. But at the same time, we look forward to milestones in our children's lives such as graduations, weddings, and new births. Inwardly, we long for the hugs and kisses our children used to give us. Outwardly, we're training them for life on their own - knowing that their full independence is our goal.</div>
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It's an old and often used image of a mother bird pushing her young out of the nest, but it models our lives so closely. During the early days and weeks of new life, in all types of weather, the mother works night and day, evades predators, protects her nest, and scavenges for morsels of worm and weed to feed her young. And then the day comes - and only she knows - when the time is right for her fledglings to leave home. It must be a bird with a lion's heart that can push her baby out forcing it to fly. If it fails to fly, it will die. So, she has to be sure it's ready for the first flight.</div>
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We didn't push our kids out of the house this morning. They were eager to leave! As parents, we've tried to give them the tools for survival and life skills to flourish. Are they fully ready to live alone without us? Probably not. Hopefully, not yet! But they're close. Close enough that we didn't include special notes in their luggage the way we did when they went off to summer camp or a friend's cottage.</div>
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God has been good to us. He has graciously given us three beautiful children that are now testing their own wings and are flying solo. For a few days, we'll be empty-nesters. But by God's grace, they'll fly back to us...on a wing and a prayer.</div>
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Here's hoping time flies!</div>
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Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-10443477145105272952016-01-03T19:42:00.002-05:002023-07-25T09:07:24.012-04:002015 - The Year of "Barb and the Italian Chef"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The year was 2015...well...it was just three days ago...and it goes something like this...loosely.<br />
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On August something, in their not-so-collective wisdom, my family renamed our family pet. (Actually, I'd like to see the official stats on the success of renaming pets. But I digress.) You see - our cat, Smartie, began to sneeze in uncontrollable fits. These fits lasted so long that she could not finish her food or even sleep, and she became lethargic and 'un-catlike'. In fact, things like running up the stairs and leaping on to the top of our fridge - a.k.a. her lair lookout - became impossible feats for the four-footed, flea-less feline. Smartie, in her dopey state, wasn't so smart...and one of my kids, whom I will mercifully leave unnamed, decided Smartie was having a mid life crisis and needed a new name! And on one summer day, this child announced unceremoniously, I might add, that Smartie shall be called 'BARB' for she shall come, go, and sneeze as she <em>pleezes</em>! So, in the summer of 2015, Smartie became Barb. Frankly, I haven't heard any complaints from 'Barb' on this matter...except for the occasional litter box 'miss', which is probably more about her than us!<br />
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And what about the Italian Chef? Well, didn't you hear? He pasta-way! Yup. That's it. I've got nothing more on this mysterious, mustachioed, Mediterranean <em>maschio</em>. But for a week or so this summer, the same, previously mentioned, unnamed child spoke kindly of this fictional character, and at every opportunity reminded those who would listen of his unfortunate fate! The answer never changed - he always pasta-way!<br />
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And then came along Apple, iPhones, and group chats! Just around the same time as Smartie became Barb, and when we would hear of the Italian's demise, a group family chat was formed. We couldn't just go with 'The Vanderlaan's', or 'HWKAJ', or anything normal. Nope - the same child (who will still go unnamed) decided that our group name shall be 'Barb and The Italian Chef'! And as life has a way of adding humour along the way, the name stuck!<br />
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For me - this family chat name is more than an ice breaker or funny story. It's more than that - it's about family. It's what connects me to my wife and children. I'm forever grateful that God has blessed my life with these remarkable, intelligent, beautiful, and funny people...and cat. In 2015, amid some major life changes and trials, God has also awarded me with irreplaceable moments of humour and laughter!<br />
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As for Barb - after a few trips to Dr. Albert, she's back to lurking us - enjoying her lavish, lazy lifestyle atop her lair lookout whilst uttering the occasional lewd and lascivious laugh...uh...meow.<br />
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Oh, what was that noise? <br />
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"I'm coming, Barb!...And what would you like, m'lady?"<br />
<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-29225832680104707082015-12-27T19:18:00.002-05:002023-07-25T09:07:30.245-04:00A Very, Merry Easter!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I remember standing a few steps away from where all the excitement was and I was smiling. I couldn't get the most ridiculous and silly grin off my face. She - my wife - got most of the attention, and I was the 'coat rack'...and that was just fine with me. Guests would come into our room, shake our hands, (I mean...mostly her hands), maybe leave a gift, balloons, or flowers, and then leave. Smiles. Hugs. Tears. Pictures. Stories. And more stories. I've had the utmost pleasure of experiencing these moments twice...at the births of our three children. These brief encounters with joy and happiness usually went on for several days and then life would go back 'to normal'. Or not. </div>
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Actually, as I recall, life never returned to 'normal'. Unannounced visitors stopped coming by. The phone was quiet. Cards and flowers stopped arriving. It was a stark contrast to the rush of excitement that was so palpable just days before. As new parents, we were vacillating between joyful anticipation and terrifying fear. When the last of the visitors left, I recall looking at my wife, who then was gently rocking two babies in unison, and saying, "Now what are we supposed to do?" The lives of our son and daughter that were hidden 'skin-deep' for nine months were now an actuality, and our lives have never resembled anything close to that of pre-parenthood. Life again would change dramatically, although with more predictability, with the birth of our third child, a daughter, just three short years later.</div>
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With all these changes came a few constants - smiles and tears, laughing and crying, controlled chaos and serene calm. We learned quickly enough that the crying will stop - eventually. Temper tantrums will become hugs and cuddles - eventually. And the occasional "I wish you were more like..." will become "I'm so thankful you are..." - eventually. Parenthood is like a roller coaster with near vertical drops without any warning, and twists and turns so sudden and unexpected. But I know that in a few minutes I'll be getting off the ride, walking down the steps toward the exit, and I'll look back at the ride and say, "Let's do it again!" And, like a kid, I'll run back to be first in line.</div>
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This Christmas, I wondered if God smiled proudly when the shepherds and wise men visited Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Was he taking in all that he could? Was he listening to Mary recount the story of not being able to find a place to sleep? I know Joseph must have...but did God? We know the angels rejoiced, but what did God do? With my finite i.e. human understanding of God's majesty and omnipotence I wondered if God wept when Jesus was born? Did he cry knowing that his son would endure the slings and arrows of humankind? Did he mourn knowing that his only son would endure hell and agony for three days? Was he anxious to get the whole crucifixion and resurrection thing over and done with knowing that the day would be here before 'he knew it'? I don't know.</div>
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I know one thing...Jesus' heavenly father never said, "Lets do it again." </div>
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About thirty-three years later, somewhere on a hill outside of Jerusalem, the Father, through his Son, declared, "It is finished."</div>
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Merry Easter to all, and to all a good night!</div>
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Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-34255042534317354242015-12-13T16:39:00.000-05:002023-07-25T09:07:31.836-04:00One of my favourite words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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Before you start guessing all sorts of possibilities of what my favourite word is, let me just say that...no...it's not 'hamburgers', 'fries', or even 'chocolate' - contrary to what you think you may know about me! It has nothing to do with the savoury delights that tease the tongue for brief moments at a time. Ask me around my usual 'feeding-time' and I might change my mind. Might. #Might.<br />
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For me, this favourite four-letter word packs a punch; and I was reminded of its power again during a Christmas open house, which was held at my Mom's retirement home last week. Every year, the staff at the Village Manor of Waterdown, hold a special evening where residents can share memories of Christmas' past, sing a favourite Christmas carol, or read an amusing story. One of this year's contributors was a 90 year old resident who sang "Have Yourself a Very, Merry Christmas" followed by "Silent Night". It wasn't this lady's singing that caused my throat to tighten, and my eyes to moisten, it was because my Mom was singing quietly along. She wasn't struggling to say the words. She sang them with ease. I understood her fully...and it brought me HOPE.</div>
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It brought me HOPE of the things to come because my Mom hasn't been able to speak clearly for almost 20 years due to a debilitating stroke she suffered in 1996. For some reason, that I don't pretend to understand, my Mom can sing more clearly than she can speak. Mom's inability to speak clearly has had such a profound impact on her life that, unfortunately, none of us can truly appreciate - except those who suffer from the same restriction. Nevertheless, on that evening, I strained to tune out the singer on the stage so I could focus on my Mom's words. On that night, my hope was renewed - my hope for a new world, when Jesus will make all things new, and when my Mom can carry on a conversation without any struggle or frustration.</div>
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You see - it's not like a wish. I wish for snow on Christmas Day, I wish that the Leafs would make the playoffs (you have to start somewhere!), or I wish that a new career might come sooner than later. All these things happening would be nice and very welcomed. No, this was hope. This was the kind of hope we read about in <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Hebrews+11%3A1&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Hebrews 11:1</a> - where faith is described as “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen”. When I hear Mom singing with ease, I have a confident expectation that Mom's speech will return one day because these glimpses into the future give me the assurance and conviction that Jesus' return WILL happen.</div>
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Two days later, we lit the second purple candle of Advent called the Candle of Hope, which represents the hope of Christ coming. As the candle was lit, I could hear again my Mom softly singing, </div>
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"Silent Night, Holy Night,</div>
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all is calm, all is bright</div>
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Round yon virgin, mother, and child</div>
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Holy infant, tender and mild</div>
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Sleep in heavenly peace,</div>
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Sleep in heavenly peace."</div>
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And I prayed for Mom. I prayed that one day I would hear her speak without frustration and without pain. On that day of Christ's return, I will hear her speak as she did when I was younger. It's my firm hope...not a wish.</div>
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Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-42872973140675968132015-11-23T11:11:00.000-05:002023-07-25T09:07:34.990-04:00Canada didn't flinch then and it shouldn't now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I only had to re-read a few stories written by family members about the first few days in Canada to be reminded of the sacrifices made by their sponsors. A name here, a reference there - all but a mere mention of the men and women who laid down their self interests to sponsor immigrants 'fleeing' from a country. My grandparents, like many of the 100,000 or so Dutch immigrants who made their way to Canada in the early 1950's, in a sense, fled a country where opportunity and hope for a better future were practically non-existent in post WWII Europe. Theirs wasn't a flight from death and despair like today's Syrian refugees, theirs was a flight toward a brighter future - they were in a broader sense: economic refugees. Their home had suffered the ravages of war and oppression; brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles had died at the hands of the Nazi regime; they experienced starvation and deprivation; and their cities and villages were erased from the face of this world by a madman who believed in a Third Reich. After the dust had settled and victory won, the survivors needed sponsors to make a fresh start in strange home on a new continent.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLdKBgwoqO8QvJ9iP9FFzkxxrLJFmFhQEh8COXn6d8IErmnEvLmlQeTG5jWKCvQa70W1pX-FkwvNeW1pWHMPzuBlF71pGkmsCkmynUIDXhhHnCX9EehhGwbE0I_s0GT_FTGfWnyIiysEI/s1600/on+the+ship+Veendam2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLdKBgwoqO8QvJ9iP9FFzkxxrLJFmFhQEh8COXn6d8IErmnEvLmlQeTG5jWKCvQa70W1pX-FkwvNeW1pWHMPzuBlF71pGkmsCkmynUIDXhhHnCX9EehhGwbE0I_s0GT_FTGfWnyIiysEI/s200/on+the+ship+Veendam2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On board 'The Veendam' (1952) -<br />
my Dad is on the far right.</td></tr>
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We don't think of the sponsors as heroes. Unfortunately, they are the forgotten. The memories of sponsors continue to evaporate with every immigrant's death. Yet - it was the sponsorship of immigrants that made it possible for new beginnings to take root. Without sponsors, my grandfather's dream of owning his own farm would not have been fulfilled. Without sponsors, hundreds of thousands of immigrants in generations past could not have made a new start. Like it or not, I'm willing to suggest many of my readers have benefitted one way or another from the sponsorship of strangers.<br />
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So, why are many Canadians raising red flags about refugee settlement? Have we learned nothing from history? Are we embracing protectionism and fanning the flames of xenophobia? The likelihood of bringing a terrorist among the refugees is similar to the risk of bringing in Nazi sympathizers, and those guilty of committing atrocities against the Jewish people. It did happen - ex-Nazi soldiers and those who denied the Holocaust were among the boatloads of economic refugees. But, Canada didn't flinch. While it's true that not all sponsorship stories are lined with butterfly kisses many stories do reflect the unselfishness that most of the sponsors possessed.<br />
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If we choose to ignore the political or economic refugee, we choose to hoard our wealth. We are hoarding the wealth of Canada that the sponsors of our immigrant families chose to share, if we deny the same to the Syrian, Iraqi, Palestinian, or Sudanese refugee. Look back in history, and to more recent times, to the refugees from Hungary, Vietnam, Serbia, Croatia, Kosovo, and Somalia. Have all these people committed atrocities or perpetrated violence in their new homes? I'm willing to go out on a limb and say no more so than the 'natural-born' Canadian.<br />
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If the children of immigrants who made Canada their home deny entry to political refugees by choosing not to sponsor, we forsake those who welcomed our 'parents'. We forsake the sponsors who lined up along the ports of Halifax, who met the 'refugees' at the end of Pier 21, and who waited for the immigrants to clear customs and security.<br />
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But, it's much more than forsaking the memory of our sponsors. If you believe that you were rescued from slavery into a land flowing with milk and honey i.e. slavery from death and sin into eternal life, then welcoming the foreigner, stranger, and alien within our collective walls isn't an option. It's a command. In fact, if your truly believe that you were rescued from sin and are now alive in Christ, love for the foreigner, alien, and refugee will be a natural outpouring of your gratitude for God's free gift of salvation in Jesus Christ. Remember - God's love didn't end with simply sponsorship. He met us at the cross, picked us up, and paid the ultimate price so we could live.<br />
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Ours is a nation flowing with milk and honey...wine and cheese...beer and wings. Share the wealth and don't flinch now, Canada!Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-51352774854505528252015-11-15T16:54:00.002-05:002023-07-25T09:07:44.732-04:00Waiting for the sun to rise - #comequicklylordjesus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQXZGUDxuBzRapOdObGDAtX3XpZuBw8Racx8BbgveyhUhTFGpJxn9sHtx2d9PNfyHQ54d-VIFCLsGPkq33vtfZIw_Yn19sMnp-gFclhrFrGSPWhsXKWexafOAKWtBM461seAy0g__lGjyD/w450-h599-no/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aria-label="Photo - Portrait - Aug 19, 2013" border="0" class="SzDcob" height="320" jsname="uLHQEd" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQXZGUDxuBzRapOdObGDAtX3XpZuBw8Racx8BbgveyhUhTFGpJxn9sHtx2d9PNfyHQ54d-VIFCLsGPkq33vtfZIw_Yn19sMnp-gFclhrFrGSPWhsXKWexafOAKWtBM461seAy0g__lGjyD/w450-h599-no/" style="transform: translate3d(0px, 0px, 0px) rotate(0deg);" width="240" /></a>Just a short time ago when cutting flowers this fall, I frequently found myself looking eastward for the rising of the sun - especially on days when the morning dew had fallen more heavily on the plants, and when temperatures hovered a few degrees above freezing. Slowly, and with predictable precision, the sun would rise above the row of pine trees along my field's perimeter; and finally I would feel its promised warmth on my back...and on my hands. Aching hands that from the cold and dew resembled more like claws frozen in time (think of an eagle's talons on the wall of a taxidermist) than that of dexterous and flexible appendages they were made to be! It never took too long - once the sun rose above the trees and its warmth penetrated my gloves - for my hands to return once again to full usefulness. And, it could never happen soon enough.<br />
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I was reminded of these cold mornings spent in the flower field during a recent meeting. The facilitator read aloud <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+130&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Psalm 130</a> as a prelude to our round-table discussion. And, when he read verse 6, <em>"I wait for the Lord, <span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">more than watchmen<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-16147L" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-16147L" title="See cross-reference L">L</a>)"></sup> wait for the morning, </span></span></em><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6"><em>more than watchmen wait for the morning",</em> it made me wonder if my longing for the autumn sun to rise in my field was similar to the author's 'waiting' for the morning. Did his body ache from 'waiting' as my hands ached to be relieved from the cold? Much like the sun being the only salve to my discomfort, was he racked with an internal longing like a homesickness that only a mother's touch can relieve?</span></span><br />
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<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">I wonder. I wonder, too, if my childhood minister's prayerful plea, "Come quickly, Lord Jesus", had a tinge of homesickness and bodily ache like that I imagine of the psalmist. It was the prayer that I recall causing me - a pre-ten year old boy - to recoil with fear. Each time he prayed it, I had the same thoughts - Jesus, don't come yet, because I have so much to do. (With all the singing I heard they do in heaven it didn't sound to appealing to a pre-teenaged boy!) But Sunday after Sunday, no matter how much internal pleading went on inside my head for him not to, Reverend Zantingh would say those words in his prayer, "Come quickly, Lord Jesus". It <u>was</u> a plea, and, sometimes to my horror, he even said it twice.</span></span><br />
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<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">Strange though, how almost 40 years later, my pastor's plea for Jesus to return quickly has become my plea. It feels like a yearning - like frozen hands aching for the sun to rise. It feels like the separation anxiety that a young boy experienced during his first days of kindergarten. It feels like the homesickness of an 11 year old boy that longed to be in the comfort of his own home. I know...I was that boy.</span></span><br />
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<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">If you're waiting for the sun to rise</span></span><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">,</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">for floods to recede,</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">for hearts to thaw,</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">for heartaches to heal, </span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">for loneliness to dispel, </span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">for forgiveness to fall,</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">for peace to endure,</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">for laughter to ensue,</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">for tears to dry,</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">then wait, wait for the Jesus' return. </span></span><br />
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<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">Like God's promise found in the presence of a rainbow, I know of no greater hope and promise for the future of humankind than Jesus' return.</span></span><br />
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<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-130-6">#comequicklylordjesus #comequicklylordjesus</span></span>Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-9567700494838561512015-11-01T20:24:00.000-05:002023-07-25T09:07:46.808-04:00Hanging up my boots<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today is the day. <br />
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Much like Pierre Elliot Trudeau's "long walk in the snow" on February 29, 1984 during which time he decided to retire after 15 years of being Prime Minister of Canada - I, too, after hours of driving to Quebec City and home again this past weekend, have decided to officially announce...to the world, "I'm hanging up my boots". Okay...it's not quite the same as PET's dramatic and stunning announcement, but it's up there! No? Just humour me, ok!<br />
<br />
But, how do I announce to the world (the world that I'm a part of) I'm selling the cut flower business, which my wife and I spent the last 9 years toiling to build by tooth and claw? How do I tell my loyal customers that I won't be calling on them next summer? How do I say thank you to Glenna W., Mona S., Dan L., Mike T., Terry M., Justin W., and Michelle S., to name a few? How do I say good-bye to the soil? How do I say farewell to working shoulder-to-shoulder with my wife and three children? Since it will take a small book to tell my full story and convey my gratitude to all of my supporters I've opted for a few paragraphs to start.<br />
<br />
When I first started nine years ago the mantra I repeated often to myself was: "Failure is not an option." To me, selling or losing my business never entered my mind. Come hell or high water I was determined to make this a go. I didn't own a tractor, any equipment, a storage facility, or a delivery vehicle. The only things I had were some very, very perishable dahlia tubers, a small customer list, some very wise advice from my mentor, Mr. John VanWissen, a dream, and what I like to call 'raw courage'. Some might have called it insanity, if not borderline! As a good friend of mine told me frequently I was "living the dream"!<br />
<br />
However, God has other plans and it's apparent that Horizon Flower Farm won't be my final stop. In his marvellous way he has caused me to rely on him more fully. I thought through my hard work and sheer will power Horizon Flower Farm was going to succeed and go on 'forever'. Although I knew God's presence I never fully accepted or acknowledged his provisional hand. God is persistent, though. A flood here, a drought there, a windstorm, a hailstorm, a crop failure - have all caused me to know where my help comes from.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn0MJJa8qrcU8KzPQqfkwoWNOlQrd4pygkoZWr64mQut4lhZr-gw22PrZ8VQITgdOjvN7Y8Co3hx3BctnnJR7E1BlynfzyjqCGmdKvBgCWH6-yTdpBXMMxjMLlwcO9q7uMt-3D5eMYtMw/s1600/Hamilton+2-20130626-00876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn0MJJa8qrcU8KzPQqfkwoWNOlQrd4pygkoZWr64mQut4lhZr-gw22PrZ8VQITgdOjvN7Y8Co3hx3BctnnJR7E1BlynfzyjqCGmdKvBgCWH6-yTdpBXMMxjMLlwcO9q7uMt-3D5eMYtMw/s320/Hamilton+2-20130626-00876.jpg" width="240" /></a>Last week, while harvesting my tubers for the last time with my son, I asked him if he knew what I was really going to miss. He took a few 'stabs' at it. "Your customers? The flowers? Being your own boss?" Squeezing the soil with my hand and letting the clump fall to the ground I said, "Yeah - all those. But not as much as this soil. I'm going to miss the soil." It's the soil that provides the necessity of life for my flowers. It's the soil that provides the stability and a place for roots to anchor. It's the soil that draws the worms inside for shelter, nutrition and life.<br />
<br />
But more than the soil - I'm going to miss working with my family. Smiles and laughter were not always present - but hard work and dedication were never in short supply. From the bottom of my heart I say, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for allowing me to 'live the dream' even for a short while."<br />
<br />
Above all this, I give thanks to God for being my rock...and my soil.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="passage-display-version"></span> </div>
<div class="line" style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span class="text Hab-3-17" id="en-NIV-22786"><sup class="versenum">17 </sup>Though the fig tree does not bud</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Hab-3-17">and there are no grapes on the vines,</span></span><br /><span class="text Hab-3-17">though the olive crop fails</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Hab-3-17">and the fields produce no food,<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-22786A" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-22786A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)"></sup></span></span><br /><span class="text Hab-3-17">though there are no sheep in the pen</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Hab-3-17">and no cattle in the stalls,<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-22786B" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-22786B" title="See cross-reference B">B</a>)"></sup></span></span><br /><span class="text Hab-3-18" id="en-NIV-22787"><sup class="versenum">18 </sup>yet I will rejoice in the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>,<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-22787C" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-22787C" title="See cross-reference C">C</a>)"></sup></span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Hab-3-18">I will be joyful in God my Savior.<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-22787D" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-22787D" title="See cross-reference D">D</a>)"></sup></span></span></strong></div>
<strong> </strong><br />
<div align="center">
<strong><span class="passage-display-bcv">Habakkuk 3:17-18 </span><span class="passage-display-version">(NIV)</span></strong></div>
Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-1559099906587869772015-10-18T18:58:00.002-04:002023-07-25T09:07:54.210-04:00Three year-old Syrian Alan Kurdi, and the sweet, sweet sound of a voter's pencil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDlcZuL_zP3Rsd7dWmmjlmx6-BKKULwDDRm04fMq5WuwKem6BQbAoA1m590D_bZwFzCGyTF9v5xuyDE7oi1Pdo1chhCIu97qF3W5cqNErmvp91odR8jYZzN_B5kSaj0J8ISAviza0Jv5JJ/s1600/alan+kurdi.jpg" /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alan Kurdi - from <a href="http://www.canadim.com/">www.canadim.com</a></td></tr>
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If you're not voting in tomorrow's federal election, or if you make it a regular practice not to vote, let me guess your reason. Is it:</div>
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Because one less vote won't matter?</div>
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Because the polling station is too busy?</div>
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Because you don't understand the political platforms?</div>
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Because you don't know the candidates?</div>
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Because many politicians break their promises?</div>
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Because you don't believe in the pledge: "We stand on guard for thee"?</div>
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Because you are exercising your right not to vote?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Or maybe...just maybe...not enough people died for your right to live in freedom. Maybe 42,000 <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_War_II_casualties" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Canadian military casualties</a> in World War II wasn't enough for you. Maybe the civilian deaths of an estimated 29,000,000 from related military activity during WW2 were too few. Maybe the ultimate sacrifices made by millions of men, women, and families for the sake of freedom wasn't ultimate enough, or sacrificial enough. Maybe the cries of a child learning that Daddy isn't coming home again because he's dead isn't sorrowful enough. Maybe the tears wept by our aging veterans every November 11 aren't genuine enough.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutyOMuwPmFAzC9P5dlaO93UbCdAn1WNdvcJmFfdNIzyRrLABDp8xMDJ-J86TAiiV4y8lPb74Ies2-l5BKLacmpC7O31yHLwkqqiF-OOUTftMZPCyH6SQRLTqtwRdsSTsItZPL94lO0Nl4/s1600/charter_ofrights.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutyOMuwPmFAzC9P5dlaO93UbCdAn1WNdvcJmFfdNIzyRrLABDp8xMDJ-J86TAiiV4y8lPb74Ies2-l5BKLacmpC7O31yHLwkqqiF-OOUTftMZPCyH6SQRLTqtwRdsSTsItZPL94lO0Nl4/s320/charter_ofrights.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Or maybe...you just don't care. You don't care about your rights and freedoms set out in the <a href="http://laws-lois.justice.gc.ca/eng/Const/page-15.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Canadian Charter of Rights</a>. You'd be perfectly at peace with giving up your:</div>
<ul>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
freedom of conscience and religion;
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</li>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
freedom of thought, belief, opinion and expression, including freedom of press and other media of communication;</div>
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<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
freedom of peaceful assembly; and
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<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
freedom of association.</div>
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</ul>
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If that describes you, I know of a few places in the world where you could live. Places controlled by ISIS, al Qaeda, Boko Haram, and Al-Shabaab (to name a few) all seem 'very welcoming'. They'll even take away your mother, wife, and daughters...you don't even have to ask! And, the best part is: you won't have to worry about such silly and time wasting activities such as casting a vote.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Who knows? Maybe the millions of Syrians trying to escape their homelands have it all wrong. But I doubt it. I do know this, though - <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_Alan_Kurdi" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Alan Kurdi</a>, the 3 year old Syrian boy (pictured above) who was found dead on the shores of Turkey last month, will never know the sweet, sweet sound of a graphite, HB #2 pencil checking off a name on a voter's ballot. Never.</div>
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For the love and honour of those who sacrificed their lives so you can vote, and out of thankfulness and gratitude to God for our country - Canada, I urge you to vote.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbAuycovsv4cyYkkslCdj6xsAo_mv_tsWs-in-6VN8P7twuE7BE6sfzx9R5qy-mdxDLXuuz561AUUbV0EOU979AuP61XVOYmfIj9Sfx9PAvqinQ-jRtuFl0wzLQcI24SI8bOJThRFZa3j/s1600/ocanada2010a.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbAuycovsv4cyYkkslCdj6xsAo_mv_tsWs-in-6VN8P7twuE7BE6sfzx9R5qy-mdxDLXuuz561AUUbV0EOU979AuP61XVOYmfIj9Sfx9PAvqinQ-jRtuFl0wzLQcI24SI8bOJThRFZa3j/s320/ocanada2010a.gif" width="302" /></a></div>
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Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-29016964216693877952015-10-04T20:13:00.002-04:002023-07-25T09:07:55.993-04:00"I wonder God if you'll take my hand"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0i7euCqu-h0HzmcjHJFYDAW-cmDAOD0D8G2q_qKMxPFnJXVFWojdmVdAjR4Aeb2bSFk7WpmV1aE6uY5UwyOeXap-_Y6_oe4oUiVQoL_cVh2zYffUaYXNnF_1X97omuFvCmLMuDbfneUaB/s1600/father+holding+hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0i7euCqu-h0HzmcjHJFYDAW-cmDAOD0D8G2q_qKMxPFnJXVFWojdmVdAjR4Aeb2bSFk7WpmV1aE6uY5UwyOeXap-_Y6_oe4oUiVQoL_cVh2zYffUaYXNnF_1X97omuFvCmLMuDbfneUaB/s1600/father+holding+hand.jpg" /></a></div>
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"Mother buries 3 children and her father following a week-end crash."</div>
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<em><strong><span style="color: orange;"> Because I live, you also will live.</span></strong></em></div>
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"A mother to four young girls succumbs to cancer."</div>
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<em><strong><span style="color: orange;"> Because I live, you also will live.</span></strong></em></div>
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"A sister in Christ shares her testimony about her terminal illness."</div>
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<em><strong><span style="color: orange;"> Because I live, you also will live.</span></strong></em></div>
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</div>
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Three sentences.</div>
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Seven deaths.</div>
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Countless tears.</div>
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One promise.</div>
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</div>
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In the span of two days, I read the tragic headline about the mother burying her children; heard the news about the death of an old friend's wife through another friend; and listened to a testimony of a dying sister in Christ shared with us by her husband. Sometimes when we hear tragic news we hardly give it a second thought. At other times news like this can shake our foundations and we ask questions about life and its meaning.</div>
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</div>
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So what are we supposed to do with this? Why does a mom have to bury not just one but all three of her children plus her father? How is a father to raise four young girls without their mommy? Why is a godly man asked to live out his retirement years with out his dearly loved wife of 27 years. I ask lots of questions...but receive few, if any, answers.</div>
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But amidst all the deafening questions that are screaming for answers we hear Jesus' voice rise above the noise and whisper his promise, <em>"Do not let your hearts be troubled...Because I live, you also will live"</em> (<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=John+14&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">John 14</a>) and we remember that our life on earth is but a blink of an eye compared to the eternity we will spend in Heaven. When we remember this promise from Jesus - death's sting is less painful, and its finality less dreadful if we have placed our trust and faith in the only person who died and was raised victoriously.</div>
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If I believed that all there is to life is a few short years and then we die, I would find no consolation, no reasonable cause for hope, and no ultimate purpose to carry on.</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
However, it is becoming more and more apparent as I get older, that time is slipping away and the need to share the saving news of Christ is more urgent than ever. Too much time is wasted on 'getting ahead', crossing off 'bucket list' items, feeding destructive habits, reopening old wounds, and not letting go of the past. The source of our <u>only</u> hope and comfort in life and in death is Jesus Christ. Without him, there is no hope for you and I. This message of hope doesn't get any clearer!</div>
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Frances Angermeyer, a WWII soldier, wrote this dramatic poem of his own conversion in 1942.</div>
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Lord God, I have never spoken to you,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
but now I want to say how do you do?</div>
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You see God they told me you didn't exist</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
and like a fool I believed all this.</div>
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</div>
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Last night from a shell hole I saw your sky,</div>
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I figured right then they had told me a lie.</div>
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</div>
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Had I taken time to see the things you made,</div>
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I would have know they weren't calling a spade a spade.</div>
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</div>
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I wonder God if you'll take my hand,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
somehow I feel that you'll understand.</div>
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</div>
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Funny how I had come to this hellish place,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
before I had time to see your face.</div>
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</div>
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I guess there really isn't much more to say,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
but I'm sure glad God that I met you today.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I guess zero hour will soon be here,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But I'm not afraid since I know you're near.</div>
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The signal, well God I'll have to go,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I like you lots, I want you to know.</div>
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</div>
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Look now this will be a horrible fight,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
who knows I may come to your house tonight.</div>
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</div>
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Though I wasn't friendly to you before,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I wonder God if you'd wait at my door.</div>
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</div>
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Look I'm crying, I'm shedding tears,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'll have to go now, God, good-bye.</div>
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</div>
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Strange now since I met you,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm not afraid to die.</div>
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If you live because Jesus lives in you; if your peace within comes from knowing Christ as your Saviour; if you believe that death does not have the final say, don't wait to share it. Someone's life depends on it. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
If you want to know more about this faith I have in Christ, if you want to be convinced of Christ's authenticity, then I urge you check out Lee Strobel's, a former legal journalist for The Chicago Tribune and one-time atheist, compelling argument: <a href="http://www.faithgateway.com/case-for-christ-video-study-lee-strobel/#.VhG0F52FPIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">"The Case for Christ: Evidence for the Resurrection"</a>.</div>
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Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-5769395250621166172015-09-27T19:56:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:08:05.434-04:00He really said that?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWLNyHZfMMEpEReZVNhbI8pZrD8KuC5B5YvxNXmmcaemoWjkO0fe5nsgHoWXpd-qiLcRRiwUGffYczgLj5MhpGjKdxgRhFYs96PiGQK1vTDb08sbUVUAJqmO0L1RbEH7N_QEcdbSGYz2JI/s1600/Anticipation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWLNyHZfMMEpEReZVNhbI8pZrD8KuC5B5YvxNXmmcaemoWjkO0fe5nsgHoWXpd-qiLcRRiwUGffYczgLj5MhpGjKdxgRhFYs96PiGQK1vTDb08sbUVUAJqmO0L1RbEH7N_QEcdbSGYz2JI/s1600/Anticipation.jpg" /></a></div>
"She said that?"<br />
"And then what'd she say?"<br />
"No way!"<br />
"And then what?"<br />
"K. Tell me more when we hang out together."<br />
<br />
If my teen children ever spoke on the phone with their friends, I'm sure that's what I'd be hearing on my end...or something like that. I'm sure though that their texts to each other bear resemblance to phone conversations my sisters would have with their friends when I'd <em>occasionally</em> (read: rarely) eavesdrop on them. (C'mon...like you never did that! Unfortunately, only those who had multiple phones on a single land line know what I'm talking about.)<br />
<br />
But that's how it would go in my home when I was growing up in the '70's and '80's. The black rotary phone would ring - 2 shorts and 1 long because it was a party line - and usually 2 or 3 pairs of legs would run spastically to answer. Each pair's owner yelling progressively louder "It's mine. I got it. I got it." And finally, in an equal mixture of shame and disgust, the triumphant answerer would embarrassingly hand it over and whisper with disappointment. "It's for you" and slowly walk away. And, if you were in ear shot, or if you could pick up the upstairs phone without the distinctive 'click', you would hear a conversation very similar to the above one-sided dialogue.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJrn2A7h0meVgUVaR2Xw4OU16Fqpfarabn4v22yxsbY31qHQDY3T9BKStVoHTFIiSbMLHp3TMSEVytEs8Df_vGPgUgSWovh-cKhVrzctacdGXUZM4oZBXY-TCoIkLjNpnk4g-ZR4jYfTq/s1600/roller+derby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJrn2A7h0meVgUVaR2Xw4OU16Fqpfarabn4v22yxsbY31qHQDY3T9BKStVoHTFIiSbMLHp3TMSEVytEs8Df_vGPgUgSWovh-cKhVrzctacdGXUZM4oZBXY-TCoIkLjNpnk4g-ZR4jYfTq/s320/roller+derby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Anticipation. Excitement. Thrill. Eagerness. You pick the appropriate descriptor. That's how these phone conversations always - well, usually - started. We didn't know who was going to be on the phone and we wanted to be the first to answer, especially if we were waiting for some news. Body checks. Hip checks. Tripping. Pushing. Shoving. It was a free-for-all. It was a roller derby sans the skates, pads, and helmets...and track!<br />
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Anticipation. Excitement. Thrill. Eagerness. What if that's how we went to church on Sundays? What if we would race (not speed!) to get a front row seat to hear what God has to say to us? What if, when we were seated, we would be so out of breath because we ran to hear the voice of God? What if everyone came and was seated thirty minutes early because they didn't want to miss a thing? What if there was a silent, restless hush while we all thought about the impending greeting from God? What if?<br />
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That's what I was questioning last week while reflecting on the current series on Leviticus that our pastor has begun. Last Sunday, he opened the series with an explanation, <em>almost</em> apologetically, (I say <u>almost</u>) because he knew that many listeners would be less than eager to hear about God's instructions to the Levites. He knew that ancient directions on sacrificial giving, temple building, and clerical dressing would have a high propensity to fall on disinterested ears. And, it saddened me to hear it. Not because he felt he had to give reasons why he chose to preach on a book that is difficult to draw parallels to today's world - but because I, too, was one of those who quietly said, "Leviticus. Really?"<br />
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So, why don't we race to church or impatiently grab for the Bible? Why don't we repeatedly say to a fellow worshipper, "What'd he say? What'd God say?" "Really? Tell me more when we hang out together." I suspect that's what the travelers to Emmaus felt when Jesus explained to them the past events after his resurrection in <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+24%3A13%2D35&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Luke 24:13-35</a>. I suspect that's how Phillip's guest felt when he was invited into Phillip's chariot to hear more on the words of Isaiah in <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Acts%208&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Acts 8:26-40</a>. I wonder if that's how the thief who was promised eternal life by Jesus felt as he hung on the cross awaiting his own physical death in<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+23:43&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"> Luke 23:43</a>. Might he have pleaded with Jesus..."Tell me more Jesus, tell me more. What else did God say? I only have a few more minutes left before I meet him face to face. Is he really as gracious, loving, and forgiving as you say?"<br />
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The Bible is God's holy word - in printed form - from Genesis to Revelation. It's not just inspired. It has life and breath as if he was sitting next to you. Don't wait any longer. Find out what he has to say to you. He just might be saying, "Today, you will be with me in Paradise." <br />
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Watch out! Get out of my way! I'll trip over anyone, anytime, anyplace just to hear those words spoken to me! 'Cause that's what I'm praying for...eagerness, hunger, and anticipation for his word.<br />
<br />Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-10694170587524417882015-09-20T19:26:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:08:00.522-04:00Her raspberry stained face gave me a glimpse into heaven<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzsPdS096TM6Vs304AOWajKSTuig9RZKK63_Rrw9bk7eiiRSa7EN5v-Yy_cLGsWjwlOGoj5AOFXapjak-xwiMftrfsGKUQbupZs6Wh1NANQI-QV97MOwmz419bXEP04aFGg2nGFT7euIS/s1600/stained+face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzsPdS096TM6Vs304AOWajKSTuig9RZKK63_Rrw9bk7eiiRSa7EN5v-Yy_cLGsWjwlOGoj5AOFXapjak-xwiMftrfsGKUQbupZs6Wh1NANQI-QV97MOwmz419bXEP04aFGg2nGFT7euIS/s320/stained+face.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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From a distance I saw her canopied stroller parked near my neighbour's bountiful and mouth watering garden. The chair was turned so her face was hidden from me. But as I got nearer I could tell the stroller's occupant was straining her neck to see me atop my tractor. Finally, I was in her full view and when I waved she returned my wave with such enthusiasm that I felt compelled to stop, dismount and say 'hi'. I was surprised when I got closer - her face was covered in raspberry juice! Her two tiny teeth were fully exposed as she smiled and welcomed me with her eyes. She had been eating berries as she watched her 'grandmother' harvest the patch's bounty. There was a peace - a certain contentment - that flowed from her eyes. And she was only a toddler.</div>
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This little girl is my temporary neighbour - she is in the foster care of a couple who have been given special appointment by God to nurture and love her while a permanent home can be found. Lydia (not her real name) arrived as an infant at the home of this couple, (whose children are now adults and living away from home), and is being raised as one of their own. While under their care affection is rendered and correction doled out in ways any parent would give their child if he or she were one of their own. Lydia isn't their first child whom they are fostering - she is one of many that have been blessed within the walls of her 'Oma and Opa's' (Dutch for Grandma and Grandpa) century old farm house.</div>
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Content to sit and watch while Oma picked berries; she patiently waited for a berry (or five) from Oma's outstretched hand. Eagerly, she shoved them into her mouth and savoured their sweet taste while waiting for just one more. Without a worry in the world, Lydia was enjoying a feast of berries under the watchful eyes and protective hands of one who loves her unconditionally. It was Lydia's messy, smiling face - her nose, lips, and chin smeared with raspberry juice - combined with the loving foster care provided by her substitutionary Oma that gave me a glimpse of what I imagine heaven to be like. </div>
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Here's why. <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Leviticus+23&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Leviticus 23</a> records seven feasts, such as the Feast of Weeks, the Feast of First Fruits, and the Feast of Tabernacles. David writes, in <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+23&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Psalm 23:5</a>, about God preparing a table or feast for us. Jesus uses the occasion of a feast at a wedding to perform his first miracle in <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=John+2&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">John 2</a>. In fact, the Bible has 170 references to feasts - 140 in the Old Testament and 30 in the New Testament! And, the Apostle Paul refers to our being adopted as sons and daughters to God through Jesus many times in his letters, such as in <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Ephesians+1&version=NIV" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Ephesians 1:5</a>. Two important and recurring themes - feasts and adoption by God through Christ - run unmistakably clear the Bible.</div>
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So, the next time you need to wipe your face after eating a rack of ribs, a juicy watermelon, a melting ice cream cone, or even when you have to wipe a child's face, remember the feast we'll enjoy for eternity in heaven. Together, you and I as adopted brothers and sisters fostered with God's infinite love, our brother Jesus, and God - our adoptive father - we'll eat an unending course of raspberries, pineapples, grapes, and nectarines! Just hold the cantaloupe (or musk melon). I can't imagine that it will taste better... even if it's on heaven's menu!</div>
Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-91599507347826005662015-09-13T19:45:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:08:08.015-04:00I regret to inform you, but I have a...<div data-mce-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;">
<a data-mce-href="https://yourheartsoulandmind.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/cartoon.jpg" href="https://yourheartsoulandmind.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/cartoon.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="cartoon" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-213" data-mce-src="https://yourheartsoulandmind.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/cartoon.jpg" height="200" src="https://yourheartsoulandmind.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/cartoon.jpg" width="183" /></a>Man cold. Or that's what my lovely wife of almost 21 years calls it! It doesn't matter that I sneezed what felt like a thousand times in a row, or that the section between my upper lip and nose, in other words: the philtrum or the infranasal depression is a rosy pink, or that every time I swallow I'm convinced that a razor blade has taken up residence in my throat. Nope. I have a man cold and my Mom's phone number has been mysteriously added to our speed dial list!</div>
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So...it got me to think. If I have a man cold, what's a woman cold? And, more importantly, can a man have a woman cold? Can a woman get a man cold? Or, when a woman gets a cold, is it just a cold? I mean, with equality and such, I think I'm entitled to have a woman cold from time to time, too. Like I said, after almost 21 years of marriage, I'm feeling bold enough to take a shot at describing a woman cold! If you can say yes to at least 3 of these items, then in my estimation you have a woman cold (or just plain cold): you have a life threatening fever, your body's two primary exits have been conspiring together against you for at least 48 hours, it feels like your head is lodged in a bench vice, you're in desperate need of an iron lung, and all the tea in China won't make your throat feel better! Anything less than 3 of these items - I'm sorry to say - you have a man cold - as defined by a woman.</div>
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<a data-mce-href="https://yourheartsoulandmind.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/sick-cat.jpg" href="https://yourheartsoulandmind.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/sick-cat.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="sick cat" class="alignleft size-full wp-image-209" data-mce-src="https://yourheartsoulandmind.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/sick-cat.jpg" height="300" src="https://yourheartsoulandmind.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/sick-cat.jpg" width="223" /></a>I don't know where in history colds became defined by gender. Maybe, 'man cold' was coined when Alexander the Great delayed his trek into Syria in 333 BC due to illness...as in "Poor Alex. He's got a man cold. Syria can wait." Or, maybe it was because Napoleon was unwell on the day of the Battle of Waterloo and that's why he lost. (Some historians even claim possible hemorrhoids!) Even more likely, it was Winston Churchill's pneumonia in 1943 while leading and inspiring the Allied invasion that the term man cold was coined. But... then I imagine it was used with a very complimentary tone - no sarcasm inferred! But, society, in its twisted fashion, has changed the meaning of the word. Just like the words - sick, bad, and gay have changed meanings over time. I think if you had a man cold pre-1945, you could hang with the likes of Alex the Great, the Little General, and The British Bulldog. Now, if your wife explains your absence using the descriptor man cold, she gets sympathetic nods from her female compatriots and shameful, blank stares from those of the male persuasion.</div>
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I don't know about you - and by 'you' I mean my male readership - but, if ever my cold is described as a man cold by my wife, I'll envision myself among the ranks of the greatest leaders of all time. There I'll be: Alex, Napoleon on my right, and Winston on my left. Ahh...misery loves company.</div>
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Psst...pass the Kleenex...ACHCHOO...I'm going to bed. Oh, and where's the Vics Vapour Rub?</div>
Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598862301865401463.post-76846852832003828952015-08-30T20:21:00.001-04:002023-07-25T09:08:12.179-04:00Hold on to these words<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<b><i>"The life of mortals is like grass, <span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-103-15">they flourish like a flower of the field; </span></span><span class="text Ps-103-16" id="en-NIV-15566">the wind blows over it and it is gone, </span><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-103-16">and its place remembers it no more. <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm%20103" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Psalm 103:15, 16</a></span></span></i></b></div>
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With arms slightly out stretched, he harbored himself between two symbols that time can never erase...and today it only seemed even more appropriate. His left hand was on the baptismal font and his right hand rested on the pulpit that holds a carving of a cross. His back was turned to the congregation as he sang the words to "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtwIT8JjddM" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">10,000 Reasons</a>" that were printed on the screen at the front of the church. On one occasion, I noticed he reached into his pocket for a cloth to wipe away what I can only imagine to be tears. I don't know if this was his usual stance with his arms extended outwards resting on symbols of Christian sacraments as if to give him support. But on this occasion - his farewell sermon - Pastor Paul anchored himself to two undying truths: the cleansing water of baptism and the saving blood of the cross.</div>
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As a visitor at this morning's service at <a href="http://www.dundascalvin.ca/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Dundas Calvin Christian Reformed Church</a> (the church of my youth and teenage years), I was blessed to hear Pastor Paul Vanden Brink's plea to "remember the cross". After 10 years of service, and probably close to delivering 1000 messages, all filled with equal measures of urgency and passion I'm sure, he implored his 'flock' to remember Christ's sacrifice for you and me; to remember the cross. We were reminded that at the end of our earthly days, the cross is the only thing that matters in life - not your job, career, family, house - or anything that you take pride in. It's not how religious you are, how faithful you've been to your spouse, how good of a parent you are to your children, how 'vice-less' you are, or how you never cheat the tax man. If you don't know the bitter taste of the cross, you'll never savour its sweet message of hope. If you haven't heard your own voice accusing Jesus as he hung on Calvary's cross, you'll never hear his welcome, "Well done, good and faithful servant". Christ's death equally and without prejudice atoned the sins of the repentant hooker and the pious 'habit' wearing nun. This - Christ's death and resurrection - is the ONLY thing that lasts forever. Forget everything else.</div>
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It's this matter of 'passing things' that's been on my mind lately. Like the verse from Psalm 103 above, we're reminded that we are here for only a short time. Yesterday, on my birthday, God in his mercy blessed me with another year. I think it's only natural that as we get older we start looking back and evaluating our life. Do I have unfulfilled dreams? What will my legacy be? Have I been the son, brother, husband and father that God wants me to be? All these questions inevitably and invariably end with feelings of regret and failure. Because, after I die, and my great-grand children's grand children are
nipping at the heels of their parents, no one will either think of or
remember me..or you. That's true for 99.99% of the population. I hope this isn't a revelation to anyone! Really.</div>
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So, I can spend lots of time trying to create a 'perfect life'. I can buy the latest toys, live in the nicest home, create precious moments by the vacations I take. I can build an irresistible online profile that everyone would admire, have a high powered career, or even be a devoted homemaker. But it's like the flower - here today and gone tomorrow. Poof. Gone. Finished. What then?</div>
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It's the 'what then' question that was still floating in my thoughts this morning as I prepared myself for worship. And in a moment what felt like divine providence I saw the symbols that Pastor Paul positioned himself between. The refreshing, cleansing water of the font where I was baptised as an infant and the empty cross where my Jesus once hung. That's all I have...and that's all I really need.</div>
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<b><i>"But from everlasting to everlasting <span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-103-17">the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>’s love is with those who fear him, </span></span><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-103-17">and his righteousness with their children’s children<sup class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-15567AE" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-15567AE" title="See cross-reference AE">AE</a>)"></sup>—" Psalm 103:17</span></span></i></b></div>
Henry Vanderlaanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07477705975957992130noreply@blogger.com0