Monthly Archives: March 2017

Prayers for a Holy Spirit Revival of Senior Citizens (3/28/2017)

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“Honey, the Lord told me on the way home tonight how blessed I should feel to have a godly husband like you,” said Carol as we slipped into bed at the end of a long weekday.

“That may be true, but I’m going to shoot Fern,” I said looking at the ceiling.

“Sweetheart, what?” she said, her green eyes blinking in unbelief.

“After I shoot her, I might hang her by the neck, and then drop her over a steep cliff.”

“Dear, that’s not like you at all. You wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially my mom.”

“After today, I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things. I just might shoot her right between the eyes.”

We rolled over and fell to sleep.

This conversation actually took place in Glidden, Iowa, when Carol and I stayed at her mom’s five-acre farm. Fern was seventy-eight years old at the time, but don’t go thinking her age caused her to be a weak link in the local farming scene. Nothing could have been further from the truth. If anything, she still resembled a pioneer woman ready to hitch up a Conestoga wagon with a pair of oxen and head over the Rockies to Oregon.

Everything had been great between Fern and me up until that week. Her humor and intelligence made her a joy to be around, but all of the warm fuzzies ended when sweet corn season arrived.

 

Now, let me set the stage, okay?

The late July temperatures hovered near one hundred degrees with the humidity approaching tropical rainforest levels. No air conditioning. Ten zillion, pesty, ornery farm flies, and two acres of sweet corn. Carol worked for a company in Carroll, Iowa, and I had just finished detasseling for a hybrid seed corn company.

“Larry, would you like to help harvest some sweet corn?” asked Fern one morning.

“Sure, of course,” I said, not foreseeing any problems.

The next four days were an absolute “hell on earth” for me. The heat, humidity, and flies took their toll, but what pushed me over the edge were Fern’s drill sergeant’s tactics.

“Do this. Don’t do that. Be careful. Watch out. Grab this. Let go. It’s not that hot outside. Can’t you go a little faster? What’s wrong with you?”

She counted the number of pints of corn already done on the fourth day.

“We’ve already done one hundred and twenty pints so far, which is a record for me, but I know we can do at least two hundred pints, maybe even more.”

Her eyes gleamed with the possibilities of being listed in the Guinness World Records and the Prairie Farmer. That night I spouted off to Carol about offing her mom.

The next morning I crept out of bed at an early hour and tiptoed down to the family room. There I dropped to my knees on the carpet.

“Lord, what’s my problem? Why do I want to shoot a sweet, seventy-eight year old lady?” I prayed.

The Lord spoke to my heart after a long while: “You’ve given up on senior citizens. You think they just want to collect their social security checks and sit on porches, taking it easy until they die. You don’t believe I will use them in a move of My Spirit in America.” Then, He added, “I haven’t given up on them and neither should you. Repent of your attitudes.”

I repented before the Lord that morning.

Fern Fielder, a great mother-in-law (1920 to 2008).

(Excerpt from The Hunt for Larry Who by Larry Nevenhoven, © 2014, Amazon eBook)

The above event took place in July of 1997.

My prayer today:

Lord, breathe Your Spirit upon the senior citizens of America to bring them back to life so that they stand on their feet and become an exceedingly great army for Your glory. (Based on Ezekiel 37:10)

Join with me on Tuesdays to pray and fast for senior citizens in America to undergo a Holy Spirit revival.

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Mountains Melt at the Presence of God (Part 4)

 

One of the prominent ministers of the Welsh Revival (1904-1905) was Evan Roberts.

It was a supernatural experience to be in an Evan Roberts’ meeting. He carried the ability to usher in the presence of the Holy Spirit as almost a tangible force. He made the common church-goer aware of the spirit world, especially in the area of purity and holiness toward God. Since he rarely preached, Evan allowed three female singers – Anna Davies, Maggie Davies, and S. A. Jones – to travel with him. Many times they sang an inspired message from God to the congregation. Evan would rebuke anyone who tried to hush the singing. He believed the Holy Spirit should be given the primary role and that no one had the right to interrupt Him. He felt that so doing invited the wrong kind of authority and control.

To Evan, the Holy Spirit wasn’t some unseen force, but a Divine Person who must be praised and adored in His own right and totally obeyed. It even came to the point that when one or two people in the congregation wouldn’t participate, Evan would stand up and say, “The Spirit can’t be with us now.” Then, many times, he would leave the service.

It was common in Evan Roberts’ meetings for members in the congregation to suddenly fall on their knees and pray aloud. Waves of joy and sorrow would flood the congregation. Women fell on their knees and men laid in the aisles weeping, laughing, and praying. All the while, there was no Bible reading or instruments playing. A few were inspired to stand and sing hymns. It was even said that the people were so caught up in God that they would forget to go home for Sunday dinner. This was unheard of in southern Wales in those days. As the day progressed, the evening service would become a continual prayer service. Evan could be seen walking up and down aisles swinging his arms, clapping his hands, and jumping up and down.

Though his success had become the talk of the nation, many still didn’t know what to think of Evan Roberts. They were used to the fiery eyes of the old-time preachers, and Evan never raised his voice. Sometimes, he was called the “silent preacher.”

As a result of the Welsh Revival, local stores couldn’t keep Bibles in stock. The Welsh coal mining industry also took on a new look. Their workhorses had previously been trained to respond to instructions that included profanity. But with the coal mining crew now born again in the Revival, they found that their horses had to be retrained because the animals didn’t know how to follow normal commands without a curse word in it.

(Excerpt from God’s Generals by Roberts Liardon, Albury Publishing, © 1996 by Roberts Liardon, pages 87, 89).

Unlike most revivals, the Welsh Revival was not known for its great preachers, but rather for the presence of God.

Shouldn’t we hunger for the same today?

(Continued in Part 5…the full series to date can be read here.)

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Inside Israel

SHUK

The Shuk in Jerusalem

 

Once again, it’s time to hear from our sister in Jerusalem about what she is witnessing there as a believer in Yeshua. Put your prayer shawls on and pray for Israel and Sister J. Now here she is —

Blessed greetings dear sisters and brothers, in The Name of Yeshua – Jesus – King of kings, Lord of lords, may He alone be glorified and lifted up and may you be blessed and edified.

Passover may well be the central theme song of Judaism. Although still three weeks off, here in Jerusalem it feels as if it is fast approaching.

As a child there was a sense of holiness and a sense of weightiness mixed with the excitement of the preparations:

 “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part…” (1 Corinthians 13:11, 12)

When I was a child, I watched my Mother prepare our apartment, particularly the kitchen, meticulously hiding away the everyday dishes, cutlery, pots, and pans in a box way in the back of the uppermost cabinet shelf. Carefully, lovingly,  unwrapping the Passover item, the special dishes saved only for this most special holy time.  The dishes had been my Grandmother’s dishes. My sister and I would look at them with wonder.

Since immigrating to Israel I have learned of the traditions of some of our other ancestors who had been dispersed to different ends of the earth when God’s Hand of righteous Judgment came upon our people. We became the wandering Jews, ( having been well warned by the Prophets and written Word and The Spirit of God).  I learned that the Jews from Ethiopia, for example, would break all of their dishes and have the potters make new ones for Passover each year.  Others would bring (still a custom here in Israel) their dishes, pots, and pans to huge boiling caldrons set up on various street corners where they’re submerged into boiling water for a specified amount of time before being pronounced “kosher for Passover.”

The shuk is also filled with ‘ahat pa’ami’ or disposable tins and dishes that many use during Pesach (Passover).  I remember pulling out the haggadot –  special soft covered books that contain the story of Passover, songs, directions for the order of the service, and an awful lot of cryptic teachings this and that Rabbi said.

My favorite part were the illustrations, often woodcuts, dramatic depictions of the Biblical events.  Even when we couldn’t understand the words, we would gaze at the pictures in hushed tones of reverence.

There was the great challenge for the youngest children: the four questions.  We had to memorize them, sing them in Hebrew (or English if we couldn’t yet master the Hebrew sounds). The questions:  “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

But the part that always frightened me was the parable of the four sons. The wise son who asks, “What are these commanded by The Eternal God?” The wicked son who asks, “What do you mean by this service?” The simple son who asks, “What is this?”

Which one was I? I did not know.

My sister and I would polish the special silverware used only for Passover, and clean the Passover candlesticks and matzo holder.

Yes, there was in my young mind a sense of something holy, but what it was, I didn’t know.

Now, as I read and re-read again and again, The Books. I come to Exodus, a thrill runs through me.  What is Passover?

Well, there is redemption.  Slaves, sold under bondage, redeemed through the blood of the lamb and the death of the firstborn.  Through works?  No, through mercy by grace in mystery.  Because we deserved it?  No, but HE Who created us all, chose us for this part.

Forty two years ago, when I was Redeemed by The Blood of THE Lamb, I wept with shock of recognition. What a work! Redemption promised 5,000 years ago and The Blood still prevails. A lamb for each house, applied on the doorposts.  The remarkable book of Exodus where we read such clear examples of obedience AND disobedience, of rebellion AND submission, of provision AND complaining, and we are commanded to REMEMBER.

Is THAT the central theme of Passover?

To REMEMBER?  REMEMBER our slavery, REMEMBER our deliverance through The Blood, REMEMBER our trek, our teachings, our rebellion, our stiff necks, OUR GOD, and His overcoming mercy.

That’s the conclusion that I came to quite a while back.  REMEMBER.  THANKFULLY we are told that The Holy Spirit would bring ALL THINGS TO REMEMBERANCE THAT HE HAS TOLD US.  OH HOW WE NEED HIM!

 

As my train passed by the shuk, there they were:  THE GARLIC.

I DID laugh.  Huge piles of freshly dug up garlic, earth still hanging from their big bulbs, were stacked high on palates at the shuk entrance.  Well?  What have we got to complain about NOW that so many of the people leave the land that we have been promised for vacations abroad during this wondrous season?  That was one of our FIRST complaints and reasons for wanting to turn back. We REMEMBERED, but it was the wrong thing.

 “We remember the fish which we ate freely in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic;” (NUMBERS 11:5) 

We have them ALL here now, right HERE, growing wondrously out of this land promised to us. The desert that He makes to bloom and blossom and produce, but the grumbling and complaining continues because only HE can change our very NATURE, just as He is changing the NATURE of the desert into a fruitful field producing all that I have just seen at the shuk.

Yes, in the midst of writing this, I had to stop, since my bread man has begun slicing my husband’s favorite onion bread by 9:30. My husband likes it NOT sliced. My pita people have a spicy flat bread that he likes only AFTER 9:30, on Tuesday, my day off, I stop everything and run down to the shuk, determined to just do what needs to be done and head RIGHT home.

But, oh the richness of what I learn at the shuk and on the train at that hour.  I thank The Lord that HE Who told me, and allows me to “what you see, write”… also shows me such jewels in the midst of each day!

   Pesach – full blast.  Two very old men were engaged in a loudly animated discussion of the Torah readings leading up to rosh hodish (the first day of the month) in this most special of months while a third, enjoying the sheer thought of it all, was singing the synagogue liturgy at the top of his lungs.  Although my apartment is just two stops from where the train line begins, the train was already jammed with religious school girls, university students, shopping wagons, baby carriages, and disabled with walkers. Pesach preparations requires EVERYONE to be on the move.

 

I remembered a day last week that I had planned to share with you when there was a hefetz ha’shood – an unidentified package (thankfully USUALLY someone’s forgotten lunch or shopping) was left at the tracks and the bomb squad had to be called to take care of it.  Everyone groaned as our train stopped for an unspecified length of time and people weighed the length of the prospective walk to their destination against their strength.  I stayed seated as I was still a good 40- minute walk away and had much to carry.  A young Haradi (ultra orthodox – black and white clothing with long side curls) man stood by the door and decided to step outside for a smoke.  He kept tapping the door open to make sure that he could get back on, but, in an unusual move, the train driver SUDDENLY just locked the doors and took off, leaving several outside the train.  When we stopped at the next stop, this young man boarded the train again, red faced, huffing and puffing, having RUN the entire way and to my amazement, grabbed THE BABY CARRIAGE he had left on the train.

Everyone applauded but I pointed up ward, “Toda L’El!” Thank You Lord.  I said and he nodded grinning widely and meekly.

The things one gets to witness on the train and bus. What wonders!

 

Today, the shuk was LOADED with new and wonderful looking produce, crowned, of course, with the fresh GARLIC.  These garlic aren’t dried, but are still moist. The early ones have yet to divide into what we know as the cloves. They are still one large, highly fragrant, moist bulb with very tall leaves.  I resisted and bought just 3 to roast with our chicken this Friday.  By next week the wonderful braids and wreaths of garlic – such a lovely gift to receive or give at Pesach – will begin to be seen.  Although breads and baked products are still available, very soon they won’t be and bakers will receive their well earned vacations.  Many of them still work in old style hot kiln ovens, Middle Eastern style, baking through the night or from early morning.  I am impressed by them, working so hard.  Macaroons and other kosher for Pesach food have already appeared in assigned places for the incredibly diligent who have already cleansed their homes of leaven.

According to my daughter, who married into a Haradi family, what we have translated into the English word leaven isn’t accurate.  According to the interpretation that she has learned, the word means fermented of a sort applying to wheat products.  Since The Lord looks upon THE HEART, my heart is free about the possibilities of the definition.

When a tender soul searching to please a Holy God tries to sift through the multitude of traditions and translations that have come to us over 5,000 years. MAY HE LEAD US TO THE ROCK THAT IS HIGHER THEN US TO SEEK AND FIND HIS FACE AND WALK IN HIS LIGHT.   May we REMEMBER HIM and truly GLORIFY HIM in the midst of all of the preparations that He offered to us as a tool to bring us to REMEMBERING.  HE IS ONLY WONDERFUL.

God BLESS you and keep you and make His Face to shine upon you and give you His Peace.  Lovingly,

your sister J

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Geezer Up (Part 15-b)

Jane

Two hours later, I sat in the lobby of Effingham and Effingham between J. C. and Shira. A thin middle-aged secretary with auburn hair typed on a computer keyboard at the receptionist desk in front of us. Off to our left, two suit-clad men sat huddled over their iPads.

“Jane Matthews, Mr. Effingham is ready for you now,” said the receptionist, looking over the top of her reading glasses and pointing to the right. “Go down that hallway and take the first left. His office is the last one with his name on the door. Just knock on the door.”

The three of us stood up and walked past her desk down a cherry paneled hallway. After we turned the corner, Effingham’s office was straight ahead.

“Jane, how are you feeling?” asked Shira.

“Scared to death and like throwing up.

J. C. patted me on the back. “You must be ready for the big game then?”

“How can you say that?”

“Bill Russell, Hall of Fame Boston Celtic basketball center, vomited before every big game he ever played in. His coach thought it was the team’s good luck charm and would not let the team run onto the court until Bill vomited.”

“Thanks for encouraging me…I guess.”

J. C. tapped on the tall six-panel door. A deep voice directed us to enter. J. C. then opened the door and ushered us into an office that in my wildest dreams I could never have imagined ever existed. It was a basketball court with a large walnut executive desk in the right corner. A round table with four chairs sat on one side of the desk and a leather sofa sat on the other. Prints and photos of the Golden State Warriors’ stars hung on the walls.

A tall man wearing a blue Warrior’s basketball warm up suit stood up and pointed toward the round table. He appeared to be in his middle forties, but it was hard to judge his age because of his fit shape and dark hair.

“Hi J. C. and Shira. This must be Jane Matthews, right?” he said, holding his huge hand out to me.

I shook his hand and nodded at him.

“Do you actually play basketball here?” I asked, looking around the gigantic room.

“All the time,” he said. “In fact, my dad purchased the glass backboard and hoop from the Warriors when they moved their games from the Cow Palace in Daly City to Oakland. It’s a one of a kind.”

We sat down around the table. Effingham had a legal pad and silver pen in front of him.

“Okay now, you’re planning on pleading your husband’s right to free speech versus San Francisco’s new hate crime law by taking your case to the media, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you done much public speaking before?”

“No, none at all.”

“Do you have idea what you will say?”

“No.”

“Do you realize the interviewers will infer that you and your husband are hate filled Christian bigots and will paint you as being worse than the most vile member of the Westboro Baptist Church? How do you plan on handling this?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no clue.”

He dropped his pen and blew out a deep breath. “So, you want me to help you without letting me know ahead of time what you will say or do? Is that correct?”

Before I could answer, a mantle of boldness draped itself over my shoulders. I smashed my fist on the table without planning to do so, causing his pen to fly onto the floor.

“Listen up, Effingham, the Lord said not to worry about what I would say ahead of time because He would give me a mouth and words which my adversaries would not be able to contradict or resist. I plan on trusting Him. How do you feel about that?”

Effingham’s dark eyes bulged out for a second and then a smile etched his lips. “I think we’ll make a great team. But what I’m really going to do is just stay out of your way and toss you into the toughest lion dens in the city. I pity them. They won’t know what hit them.”

He stood up and shook my hand. “So, give me the rest of today to work out the details. I’ll should have a speaking schedule ready for you sometime tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Do you have a restroom? I think I’m going to throw up.”

(A new sequel to Unhitched Geeser, which can be checked out here.)

(Continued in Part 16…the full series to date can be read here.)

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Prayers for America (3/23/2017)

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After Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, cell phone towers were downed almost immediately and electrical power outages blanketed the city. A few sporadic text messages squeaked out to people outside the city, but otherwise, the hurricane victims were shut out from receiving any communications about rescue responses to their plights. The victims were kept in the dark until rescuers showed up at their homes.

What little communications the hurricane victims did have, after Katrina hit, were with their nearby neighbors. Life and death decisions were hurriedly made without much insight.

The second communications dilemma of Hurricane Katrina was the lack of adequate communications after the hurricane hit. And if you think about it, it was a major miracle so few people died because of this.

All plans and preparations for upcoming calamities must address this second dilemma. It may well be a matter of life and death for many people.

…do not go to your brother’s house in the day of your calamity; better is a neighbor who is near than a brother far away. (Proverbs 27:10)

Californians and other West Coast citizens are some of the worst neighbors in America. This is not due to being mean and unfriendly, but rather, many of us commute to workplaces far away. We leave early and arrive home late. Our time is limited for interaction with neighbors during the week.

When Saturdays roll around, it’s family time. We travel to see parents or go to beaches or Disneyland. We attend churches on Sundays, which are often miles away. We travel, travel, travel.

Most of us don’t even know the names of our neighbors next door or how many kids they have. This information can only be gleaned by spending time with them.

Okay, let’s assume a disaster strikes here in California or the West Coast.

A nuclear bomb hits the area. Your wife and child are seriously injured. Both need help right away, but the phones are dead, the streets are impassable, and the air is filled with screams. What will you do?

The obvious answer is to run next door to your neighbors.

What do you think they will say to a person they don’t really know? And how much energy will they really invest helping you when they themselves probably need help, too?

…You shall love your neighbor as yourself. (Matthew 22:39)

Therefore, whatever you want men to do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets. (Matthew 7:12) 

We Southern Californians need to make extra special efforts to know our neighbors. If this means breaking our present Saturday or Sunday routines, then let’s take a hammer and smash away.

“Train like we are going to fight.” (First Army maxim)

(Excerpt from Planning + Preparation = Survival by Larry Nevenhoven, © 2013, Amazon eBook)

My prayer today:

Lord, help us American believers to use the time wisely during Trump’s presidency to build relationships with our neighbors so that we can be ready to show Your love to them during the dark days in the near future.

What do you think and has the Lord spoken to you today?

Join with me on Thursdays to fast and pray for America.

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Geezer Up (Part 15)

Jane

“Okay, what’s your problem?” asked J. C. when we walked into the tiled foyer of their townhouse.

“Nothing,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Sorry, that doesn’t work with me,” he said. “We can’t help if you don’t open up to us. Now, what’s you problem?”

We walked down a short picture lined hallway and into the family room. I sat down on a soft brown leather sofa while J. C. and Shira sat on a matching one on the opposite side of a glass-topped coffee table. I turned to look out the windows at the Golden Gate Bridge. No fog. Sunny and clear. Traffic seemed light on the bridge for 10:30 in the morning. I turned to face my friends.

“Here’s the deal,” I said, blowing out a deep breath. “The Lord wants me to go on TV, radio, to churches, and wherever He opens the door to defend Dylan’s stand and plead his cause.”

“What a great idea!” proclaimed Shira.

“Not really because I hate public speaking. I just can’t do it!”

Shira moved over next to me and put her arm around me. The gentle scent of her Estée Lauder perfume cajoled my emotions, calming me down a notch or two on my inner Richter scale.

“Jane, what’s the worse that could happen?” she asked.

“I might fail.”

“Really? The Lord would put Dylan’s future into your hands so He could watch you fail. How would that advance the kingdom of God?”

Although still sweet, a different side of Shira emerged at that moment: the exhorter. She had her periscope up, torpedo tubes loaded, and I was in her crosshairs.

“Okay, maybe I won’t fail, but I will most certainly make a fool of myself.”

The words skated past my brain and out my mouth before I could filter them. Shira looked into my eyes and grinned.

“Ah, at last, the truth.”

I wrinkled my nose.

“My answer didn’t sound very good, right?”

Shira shook her head. “No, darling.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, do either of you know how I can carry out this assignment from the Lord?”

“Hobart Effingham III,” said J. C., pulling his iPhone out of his pocket.

“Hobart Effingham? What’s that?”

“Effingham is a Christian businessman who happens to be the president of the largest public relations firm in San Francisco. A few phone calls by him will land you on the top-rated TV and radio programs in the area. As for churches, I can make some contacts to help you.”

Okay Lord, I thought, here I am. Use me.

(A new sequel to Unhitched Geeser, which can be checked out here.)

(Continued in Part 16…the full series to date can be read here.)

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Screech! Halt! Last Chance!

Vinnie opened the door and greeted us with hugs. He then gave me an odd look.

“What?” I said.

“You’re not fifteen minutes early, which means you’re late.”

I pointed at Jane as she walked ahead of me, past the small office on the left and into the great room.

Vinnie and Gracie had completely remodeled the condo, removing two walls, adding dark hardwood floors, white crown molding, and painting the walls a soft yellow. The place sparkled and was perfect for Wednesday night home church meetings. The Sunday meeting still remained at our home, but we also had a morning women’s meeting, a men’s meeting, and an outdoor prayer meeting in a park. We were now a community that enjoyed being with one another.

“Hey, Gunsmoke, over here,” said Phil, standing by the large maple harvest table.

We hugged and patted each other on the backs.

I turned to greet seventy-eight year old Randy Greenfield with a hug, even though he breathed through a nose cannula and held his compact oxygen tank in his left hand. He had been a pack a day smoker until quitting at age sixty-five. His wife, Jessie, sitting at the table, reached up, and held my hands in hers. She suffered from diabetes and vision problems.

I greeted Faye and Gracie who were busy preparing the food. Both Ruth Harden and Pamela Walters waved at me and I moved in their direction. Seventy-six year old Ruth sat in a wheelchair because of a stroke from a year earlier. Pamela was an eighty-four year old woman who suffered stage-three bone cancer, but never let it get her down. The two women hugged and kissed me.

“Where are Mason and Flo?” I asked.

“They called and said they might be a few minutes late,” replied Vinnie.

Ding dong!

Vinnie left to answer the doorbell. He soon returned with Mason and Florence Prewitt, an African-American couple, who were both in their early seventies. Everyone greeted them with hugs.

“Let’s sit down and eat,” said Gracie, carrying a bowl of vegetable soup to the table.

The twelve of us sat around the large table and held hands while Vinnie blessed the meal. Then, the fellowship began in earnest. Different ones testified what the Lord was doing in their lives. A few shared scripture revelations. Faye sang a new song. On and on, it went while we ate. As someone once wrote: home churches that meat together stay together.

“Hey everyone, can you guess what our friends at Jedidiah Smith Community Church call us?” asked Faye during a lull in the conversation.

The clanking of spoons against bowls of vegetable soup ceased. The room became quiet. All looked toward Faye with blank looks on their faces.

“No, what?” said Gracie, not willing to play along with the guessing game.

“The geezer church!” proclaimed Faye. Her dark eyes narrowed and lips puckered to show the acrid taste in her mouth from the name.

“What a great name? I love it,” said Vinnie.

“Yeah, me, too,” replied Randy.

Phil looked at Faye first before giving the thumbs up sign.

“Maybe we should register the name. Then, we can print ‘Geezer Church’ logos on caps and t-shirts. Maybe even bumper stickers,” I said, thinking about royalties.

Jane elbowed me in the ribs and gave me her look, the one that sends me to the guest bedroom to sleep if I step over the line.

“I hate it!” she proclaimed, crossing her arms in her ‘don’t mess with Jane’ manner.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t like being defined as an old bloke.”

“Well?”

“We may be approaching the sunsets of our lives, but I don’t have to be reminded of it with a comedic term. I can still pray and worship the Lord as well as I did in my younger years and maybe even better.

Pamela put her two forefingers to her lips and whistled a shrill-pitched note.

“I agree with Jane,” she added.

“Do we need a name?” I asked.

“Yes,” all the women said in unison.

The men shrugged and gritted their teeth.

“Let’s hear your ideas,” said Faye, looking around the table.

The suggested names ranged from the Agape Home Church to the Temecula Valley Home Group, with numerous cutesy ones in between.

“What about Last Chance?” I said as the conversation died down.

“Last Chance? Why?” asked Ruth.

“For most of us it’s our last chance to serve the Lord. It’s the last chance to speak what is in our hearts to others. It’s our last chance to earn eternal rewards. It’s our last chance to know Jesus better on this side of heaven.”

Phil waved his hand in the air. All turned toward him.

“I’m convinced that Last Chance is a great name for our group. What about the rest of you?” he said, lightly elbowing Faye in the ribs.

That night, we upgraded our name from Geezer Church to Last Chance in a unanimous vote, but yet the slight shiver still remained in place when we drove home.

(Excerpt from Unhinged Geezer by Larry Nevenhoven, © 2015, Amazon eBook)

For many years, I have prayed and fasted on Tuesdays for various reasons. It all began with praying for the suffering Christians of North Korea. Then it included praying for Christians held as prisoners in Asia. Then for India. Then for all of Asia. Then for “one new man.” Then for healing and deliverance.

So now, beginning next week, I will be praying and fasting for senior citizens (geezers) to be revived, set on fire by the Holy Spirit, take their places in a new move of God, and for some Last Chance groups to be planted in America, especially on the West Coast.

 

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Filed under America, Christianity, Church, Fasting, Geezers, Gifts of the Spirit, Home Church, Kingdom of God, Prayer, Senior Citizens, spiritual warfare