I Can’t, I Can’t

I still can't

I Can’t, I Can’t
By Major Betzann Carroll
Dedication to Stephen M. Carroll Jr.

After heart surgery, Stephen was a real boy in every way. He was making up for lost time. He had a real talent for being right in the middle of any and every disturbance. At home, school, or church, Stephen was consistent. His dancing eyes told the story of his quest for excitement and adventure. He wanted to do everything, all at once. He climbed poles in the school hallway, performed stand-up comedy routines during class time and carefully adjusted the temperature dials on Auntie Donna’s aquarium and cooked all the fish inside. He even tried a new language on the school playground, which was interpreted and reported to his father and me, who promptly visited the principal. It was almost as if he was out to prove that although he had a slow start, he could keep up with his friends. “I don’t mean to be bad, Momma. It just happens,” was Stephen’s statement. As hard as he tried, he was always in trouble.

Every morning before I walked him to school we would pray, just Stephen and I. I would take his little hand and say, “Dear Jesus, please help Stephen to have a good day and to be a good boy.” Then he would look up into my eyes, squeeze my hand and say, “I will be good momma.” Then off we would go. When it was time to pick him up there was usually a special message waiting for me. I remember going to visit his kindergarten classroom for Open House. The teacher’s desk was in the room and a student desk was right beside it. I thought to myself that the child who sat at that desk must be hard to control. Later Stephen asked me if I saw his desk. He told me it was the desk right next to the teacher’s desk. He said, “I am the only one in the whole room allowed to sit there.” I had to smile.

One day we were late. It was my delay. I left his sister who was eighteen months younger sleeping and rushed him out the door and down the street. When we were almost there I handed him his snack and pushed him down the street. I encouraged him that he was a big boy and could go the rest of the way by himself. I turned and started for home, when I recognized a scream that stopped me in my tracks. It was Stephen! I knew his cry. “Momma, wait!” he screamed. “I can’t, I can’t!”

Stephen continued to scream as he ran towards me. I could not imagine what had happened. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. I picked him up and tried to comfort him, but there was no comfort for him. He looked me in the eyes and said, “I can’t, I just can’t go to school without my prayer. I will really get in trouble. I need you to say my prayer, so I can be good.” Right there on the sidewalk I held his hand and prayed. He wiped his tears away all by himself and picked up his snack. With a big sigh, he said, “I am a big boy, Momma, and you can go now.”

“Greater is He that is in you than He that is in the world.”






I often close my eyes and remember his words. Being big means we are able to go alone, but never without the presence of the Living God. He learned early where strength was found. Stephen soon began to ride the school bus. Later, he rode a motorcycle. Today, Stephen is in college. He has over come many obstacles, some I would have really struggled with. He is a fine son. I pray he will always realize the value of prayer.

One, Two, Free!

One, Two, Free!
By Major Betzann Carroll
Dedicated to Helen Carroll


I wonder if the enormous spiral slide, which had a prominent, place in the center of the “Cabot Park”, a playground in Newton, Massachusetts, still stands? If the slide seemed enormous to me, I can imagine what my three-year-old daughter thought, who was much smaller than other children her age. Her fragile body ranked in the third percentile for height and weight. But for determination, she was number one.

It had rained all morning and every five minutes Stephen, our five-year-old, would give us a weather report. “Still some more minutes of partly rain,” he would say. By early afternoon Helen and I were racing down the street to keep up with Stephen. Stephen was eighteen months older than Helen. “Helen, you will play on the baby swings and you can wave to me when I get to the top of the slide. You are too little for the slide and besides, you are a girl!”

“No Stephen (Steben), I can do anything I try, right, Momma,” was Helen’s reply.

She was so competitive. How Helen reached the slide before Stephen I can’t remember. Perhaps Stephen stopped to pick up a rock or look at a bug. Helen was at the base of the slide looking up when Stephen noticed her. Her hands gripped the rail. She began to count and take a step with each count. “One, two, free…One, two, free…” Her hearing loss caused her to mispronounce the “th” sound. My heart began to pound as I watched her climb. Could I allow her such a challenge? Was she really ready? She was so fragile. At the top of the slide she froze for a moment.

“Go Helen”, yelled Stephen. He was sure now was not the time for indecision.

Helen sat down and was instantly gone. She turned round and round and before we could reach the base of the slide she hit bottom…Splash! She landed in a mud puddle larger than herself. Covered with mud, she climbed to her feet. She refused any help I could give. Wiping the mud from her eyes and licking her lips she quickly said, “Momma, I did it!” So anxious to conquer the slide, she never saw the final destination, nor did I.

She was the talk of the park. Stephen was furious to return home without even one ride. It was not a pretty sight. I led this pitifully dripping child home. I know it was not the anticipated pleasure Helen was expecting either.

Later that night when she was squeaky clean, I tucked her into bed. When I began to pray with her a big grin was on her face. “Momma, let’s thank God that I can do anything I wanna. I can do anything I try!”


I believe Helen has God-given determination. Not a puddle, nor a ladder; not a heart defect, nor fluctuating hearing loss; not a lung disease, not even dyslexia can stop Helen. Her God-given desire to “over-come” helps her climb one step at a time.

“Faithful is He that calleth you, who also will do it.” I Thessalonians 5:24

Continue to climb, Helen. In the power of God’s Spirit climb and you will count,
One, Two, Free!

Listen This Time

It's Funny what we actually remember. I remember that clearly too. I remember how upset I was that i was being punished for winning the fight. I remember my mom's comment when she saw that the kid out weighed me by a good 40 lbs and was 2 years my senior. I also remember how proaud i was of my mom for standing up to the bully of a princible when she tried to push her around her. My mom did listen to me that time, even though i had given he no reason to trust me, and something changed about our relationship that day.
Steve


Listen This Time
Major Betzann Carroll

Listen this time! Had there been other times? Yes, too many to count! Stephen had open-heart surgery at the age of two. Up until that point he was a perfect little person. So after his surgery he began making up for lost time. He was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. Later, the doctors said he had minor motor skill difficulty due to his surgery, which made it almost impossible for him to accomplish detailed work with his hands. Dancing was not high on his list either, and I don’t think he ever learned to skip. He could not participate in organized sports, because of his heart condition.

With all the “could nots” Stephen learned quickly the “coulds”. He made people laugh. He was ingenious and creative when it came to communication skills. His stories were captivating and his delivery superb. He was not disrespectful to adults but he did and said some funny things. He was the class clown. Most of the time I had to turn my head and laugh too. When he got to high school he joined the drama club and excelled at stand up comedy. Until high school his problem was finding a place to fit. We moved constantly and Stephen struggled to fit in. I was often called to school. I remember one night around 8:00 PM, having a second grade teacher call and say she just didn’t know what to do with Stephen. “Today he climbed the pole in the hall of the school.” She was a young teacher and was crying at 8:00 PM. I thought this poor teacher needed a break.

I told her, “the next time Stephen climbs the pole tell him to come down.” I talked to him that morning.

Sometimes he would put his little head in his hands and cry, “I don’t mean to be bad Momma. It just happens.” And it did, all the time. So it was no shock that I was summoned to the school on that hot Wednesday afternoon.

Stephen and Helen were both attending the Wesleyan Academy, a private school in St. Thomas, USVI. We were stationed there. I left The Salvation Army right away. I had to walk in the blistering sun, because my husband was picking up a donation at the waterfront. I grabbed my pocketbook, locked the door behind me and started the 45-minute emergency journey to the school, all up hill. Mrs. Joseph the principal, said it was imperative that I come right away. Nothing ever happened right away on the Island.

What was it this time? Last week they were reprimanding Helen for having two pencils on her desk. The week before Helen had entered an island-wide contest by making an art poster for the centennial. She came home in tears because the winners were being announced at the community gathering, which her school attended, and her poster was still sitting in the corner of the classroom. When I inquired, the teacher said that no one else submitted one, so she didn’t bother to submit Helen’s poster. Although Helen had dyslexia, she was an excellent student, at least until that week. It was not unusual to get a call about Stephen though. What had he done now? I was ready to punish him this time. If I made it! My face was beet red. The sweat was dripping down my forehead. The road, which was all up hill, was full of rocks, broken glass, and holes.
Roads, which tourists did not use were, at best, paths, shared with animals of every sort. With every step I thought how I would handle this incident. No television, no desserts, no friends over, no no, no!

My feet were now covered in dirt, the same dirt that was causing my throat to cough. I hunted in my purse for some change. There was a little food stand at the top of the hill and it had bottled water. I hunted but without success. Even the contaminated water at the fountain was looking good.

When I finally reached the school, I stopped to empty the stones from my shoes. There were no mirrors in the bathroom, which was just as well. As I reached the principal’s office I saw Stephen, my eighth grader, sitting on the floor outside the door. My child looked lost for more than one reason. But I had no time for sympathy now, I was too angry. How could he be in trouble again? “Get up, we are going home!”

“Mom, please, you have to listen,” he begged. I was not listening and I didn’t think I could. I could see the door was partially open, and a woman was with Mrs. Joseph. I asked Stephen if that was the other boy’s mother in the office. “No, Mom, it is one of my teachers. The other boy is back in the class. That is why you have to listen.”

I could barely hear the conversation coming from the office, but I knew they were discussing my son. I looked at Stephen and asked, “Has the other boy’s mother had been there already.”

“No, and I don’t think she’s coming. Shymel is back in class, Mom, and that is what I am trying to tell you. Shymel bumped into me at lunch and my tray spilled on his sneaker. I said I was sorry and tried to wipe it up with a napkin. Shymel wanted me to lick his shoe. When I said no, he punched me. The next punch, I punched back. Now I am getting kicked out and Shymel is back in class. Please, mom, you have to listen.”

As I thought for a minute, the teacher walked out of the office and Mrs. Joseph beckoned me with her finger. “Stephen, you sit down and stay there while I talk to your mother!” The sharpness in her voice was a wake up call, because she had never used that tone of voice with me. “You sit here Mrs. Carroll, and I will lay out Stephen’s conduct and why he is going home. He was fighting, and fighting is not allowed. Sign here and then you can go get his things. He is not allowed in the class.” I asked Mrs. Joseph if she had talked with Stephen. “Absolutely not. I talked with the teacher. He was fighting and that’s that. Sign here please, I have someone waiting for me.”

“Is it the mother of the other child who Stephen was fighting with? Is that who is waiting? What was the other boy’s name and has he been dismissed.”

She, Mrs. Joseph, took up the paper, and seeing that I had not signed it handed it back to me. “Please Mrs. Carroll, just sign the paper.”

As I picked up the pen, Stephen pushed the door open and started crying and screaming, “No Mom, you have to listen, you have to listen!”

“Out of the room Stephen. Take your foolishness “out the room”,” was Mrs. Joseph’s scolding.

Stephen had one hand on the mahogany chair squeezing so tightly that his knuckles were pure white, and his other hand was on my arm holding tight enough to draw blood. He had never been this emphatic or pathetic. He dropped to his knees and my seventh grader was now pleading with me to listen. “Get up Stephen and take your place outside my door on the floor, Now!” said Mrs. Joseph.

“No, Mrs. Joseph, I think it is time we both listen to what Stephen has to say. I am not leaving until he is respected enough to express himself.” I pulled Stephen to me and held him for a few minutes, helping him find his composure. Stephen was small in stature and thin for his age. His little back was heaving up and down and his heart (his specially stitched heart) was pounding so hard I thought it would pound right out of his shirt. His trembling hand wiped the tears from his face. He turned around to face his accuser. Then he began to tell the whole story. I asked Mrs. Joseph what a child was to do if someone punches him. Her response was that they were not to fight. “So should Stephen stand there and get beaten?” She said he was to come to the office or tell a teacher. “What teacher do you want him to tell, the one who was here minutes ago laughing? She refused to answer. I asked where Shymel was.

Her reply was, “He is in class.” I asked if his mother was coming and if she was taking him home. The answer was no. Now it was my turn to get excited, but I was not falling to my knees, nor was I going to be ordered around by a school principal. She had belittled Stephen and I had just watched. Memories of Helen’s tears came to mind. Perhaps, just perhaps this time Stephen was right. I was so glad I listened.

“Mrs. Joseph, I know that Stephen gets into mischief,” I continued. “I also know that he tells the truth. If you want to send him home for fighting, that is your decision. However, you are not sending him home without the same treatment for Shymel who started the fight. You are not making my son sit on the floor in the hall to wait for his mother, while the other mother was not even summoned. Mrs. Joseph, I walked here from the market place thinking there was an emergency, and I was right. The emergency is that you are being unfair to my son and I am taking him home. However, I will take the necessary steps to see that this and other incidents are handled correctly. My husband and I will be here tomorrow. As far as I am concerned, Shymel owes Stephen an apology. If you and your teachers choose to show favoritism, then my husband and I will deal with it. There is more to this incident than a fight. It is a fight for fairness for every child.”

Mrs. Joseph was speechless. As she would put it, she was not “a custom” to a parent or student talking back to her. I guess I was surprised myself. Upon reaching the outside steps of the school Stephen stopped. He took his hands and pulled my face directly even with his and said, “Mom, I am sorry and I love you. Thank you for listening and believing me.” I didn’t speak. We sat down on the steps and I just held him for a while. It was my turn to cry. This was my son, my only son. How could I allow him to be hurt?

My husband is much more forceful than I. He handled Mrs. Joseph just fine. It was a defining moment for my son. He knew I believed in him. I wish I could say he never had another problem in school, but there were a few. He graduated from Arlington High School, Eastern Nazarene College, and Salvation Army Training School. He is now a minister with a son of his own. He and I will always remember the day Mom listened.

How thankful we can be that God looks at us in fairness. And He always listens!

You’re the One, The Only One!

You’re the One, The Only One!
Major Betzann Carroll


(Responsive Reading – God listening in on a conversation of two individuals)

You know me, you know me better than I know myself,
From the day I was born to the day I die
Every hair on my head, every blink of my eye,
Through the good and the bad, Lord it’s easy to see,
That you, oh you, you know me.
(Praiseworks)

Speaker #1 That is a great song, fair tune, and an okay voice, however?

Speaker #2 However?

#1 However! I wonder if anyone actually knows who he or she is. I mean, in the scheme of things, which we are (in the scheme of things, of course), it gets so muddled. Am I who I am because of my environment, my experiences, what I have made myself or what my parents have made me? You know!

#2 Right, I understand. I am not from around your neighborhood and you sure are not from around mine. We have not had the same space, opportunities, or even meals.

#1 Obviously!

#2 One of us has had a few more, meals that is.

#1 So if we don’t quite get it, how does God?

#2 Well, God’s got an advantage, you know. He made us. And He knows everything.

#3 I agree with that!

#1 He is the creator as far as the Bible is concerned. I know what you mean. Evolution and all that! Well, the some people may think about that and have an opinion or two. But when it comes to most people, people like you and me, we want the real truth. Hey, this is flesh and blood we are talking about. And I am not sure I can even figure out why I do what I do, so God would have to be good at figuring it all out.

#3 I am perfect, I am omnipotent! I know everything…it is not hard for Me.

#2 You’re right. We are pretty complex. Women are different from men, men are different than women, family members are different, husbands and wives, kids … they are different; not to mention culture and distance…

#1 And just plain being who we are, that makes us different.

#3 There are differences!

#2 But there are likenesses too. You know mothers talk about children, and fathers talk about the cost of raising children! Then Bosses talk about employees or is it the other way around? And doesn’t everyone talk about the Red Sox!

#1 No…and politics is not universal either. Politics and Religion…two subjects not to talk about because we don’t agree.

#2 Yea, but that means there are likenesses. Seems some things are the same no matter where you go.

#3 That is because I created man in my image. That’s not too hard! Perhaps they will get to that.

#2 Do you believe then that God is the creator?

#1 Well, someone had to do the creating it didn’t just happen… It is easier for me to believe God created rather than some other theory. And I don’t see any one person smart enough.

#3 Here it comes. This is one of the hardest concepts. Man can believe I created the world, but when it comes to them. To believe that I created them, loved the and want to be a part of their lives, well…

#2 Why would such a mighty God care about the one person? Take me for instance, who has never been president, never been a famous person, never been on TV, except local TV. I have never been places or done things.

#1 But we have to be important to someone.

#2 Ah ha! My mother ones me, most of the time.
And I Once sang in the Sunday school play and they clapped.

#1 Come on, be serious.

#2 I am, who can know me, cares about me? God is too busy, too powerful, too preoccupied.

#1 If that is the case, we are on our own. We will believe in God and his creation, but flounder like a fish, please!

#3 I do know you, you are valuable to me.

#2 I think the song might be right. I choose to believe God loves me, me.
The person I am now…even if I never make a home run or get on TV.

#1 Well, you won’t be disappointed about TV then. Some things just are not meant to be. I wish I could believe. It would be nice to know that someone is in my corner.

#2 Me too. He knows me, loves me, and I can keep going.

#1 Every hair on my head though, that’s a little much.

#2 Not for some, think about it. Every worry in my heart, every tear from my eye, now that’s hard.

#3 Hard for you, not for me. I can do all things. I am interested in every aspect of your life. I know all about you and love you more than anyone else could, more than you love yourself. I created the world. I love the creatures in the world. I sent my Son to save my creatures and make them my children. I want to claim them – My Son died so that there might be life! You are all different, but special. Only one of a kind!

You’re the One, The Only One!

You’re the One, The Only One!
Major Betzann Carroll


(Responsive Reading – God listening in on a conversation of two individuals)

You know me, you know me better than I know myself,
From the day I was born to the day I die
Every hair on my head, every blink of my eye,
Through the good and the bad, Lord it’s easy to see,
That you, oh you, you know me.
(Praiseworks)

Speaker #1 That is a great song, fair tune, and an okay voice, however?

Speaker #2 However?

#1 However! I wonder if anyone actually knows who he or she is. I mean, in the scheme of things, which we are (in the scheme of things, of course), it gets so muddled. Am I who I am because of my environment, my experiences, what I have made myself or what my parents have made me? You know!

#2 Right, I understand. I am not from around your neighborhood and you sure are not from around mine. We have not had the same space, opportunities, or even meals.

#1 Obviously!

#2 One of us has had a few more, meals that is.

#1 So if we don’t quite get it, how does God?

#2 Well, God’s got an advantage, you know. He made us. And He knows everything.

#3 I agree with that!

#1 He is the creator as far as the Bible is concerned. I know what you mean. Evolution and all that! Well, the some people may think about that and have an opinion or two. But when it comes to most people, people like you and me, we want the real truth. Hey, this is flesh and blood we are talking about. And I am not sure I can even figure out why I do what I do, so God would have to be good at figuring it all out.

#3 I am perfect, I am omnipotent! I know everything…it is not hard for Me.

#2 You’re right. We are pretty complex. Women are different from men, men are different than women, family members are different, husbands and wives, kids … they are different; not to mention culture and distance…

#1 And just plain being who we are, that makes us different.

#3 There are differences!

#2 But there are likenesses too. You know mothers talk about children, and fathers talk about the cost of raising children! Then Bosses talk about employees or is it the other way around? And doesn’t everyone talk about the Red Sox!

#1 No…and politics is not universal either. Politics and Religion…two subjects not to talk about because we don’t agree.

#2 Yea, but that means there are likenesses. Seems some things are the same no matter where you go.

#3 That is because I created man in my image. That’s not too hard! Perhaps they will get to that.

#2 Do you believe then that God is the creator?

#1 Well, someone had to do the creating it didn’t just happen… It is easier for me to believe God created rather than some other theory. And I don’t see any one person smart enough.

#3 Here it comes. This is one of the hardest concepts. Man can believe I created the world, but when it comes to them. To believe that I created them, loved the and want to be a part of their lives, well…

#2 Why would such a mighty God care about the one person? Take me for instance, who has never been president, never been a famous person, never been on TV, except local TV. I have never been places or done things.

#1 But we have to be important to someone.

#2 Ah ha! My mother ones me, most of the time.
And I Once sang in the Sunday school play and they clapped.

#1 Come on, be serious.

#2 I am, who can know me, cares about me? God is too busy, too powerful, too preoccupied.

#1 If that is the case, we are on our own. We will believe in God and his creation, but flounder like a fish, please!

#3 I do know you, you are valuable to me.

#2 I think the song might be right. I choose to believe God loves me, me.
The person I am now…even if I never make a home run or get on TV.

#1 Well, you won’t be disappointed about TV then. Some things just are not meant to be. I wish I could believe. It would be nice to know that someone is in my corner.

#2 Me too. He knows me, loves me, and I can keep going.

#1 Every hair on my head though, that’s a little much.

#2 Not for some, think about it. Every worry in my heart, every tear from my eye, now that’s hard.

#3 Hard for you, not for me. I can do all things. I am interested in every aspect of your life. I know all about you and love you more than anyone else could, more than you love yourself. I created the world. I love the creatures in the world. I sent my Son to save my creatures and make them my children. I want to claim them – My Son died so that there might be life! You are all different, but special. Only one of a kind!

I’ve Been There Before

I’ve Been There Before
Major Betzann Carroll

Perhaps you have explored the Rocky Mountains or experienced the view of the great Niagara Falls. You may have watched the sunset over the dancing waves of the Caribbean Sea or climbed the stairs that ascend the Great Wall of China. Some people have gone as far as the corner store and climbed the three or four flights of stairs to a cold cramped apartment. Perhaps you have explored local neighborhoods and experienced the thrill of family reunions and church suppers. Our travels are as varied as our dreams and visions.

However, we have all walked through doors of rejection; climbed mountains of fear, stared at sunsets of doubt and confusion. We have experienced storms of disappointment. The value of our experiences depends on the way we honestly see them. If we can see Christ in the midst of the worse situation, we will find healing and love.

Weeks in advance we start to prepare for Thanksgiving at The Cambridge Salvation Army. With several large dinners to prepare and serve, numerous Thanksgiving food baskets for families to pack and deliver, and services to conduct, we continue our regular weekly programs. One of the dinners is a sit down family style dinner for moms, dads, siblings and children from “Our Place” a homeless center for children. It is a festive event. We decorate, serve and entertain the families. The room was filled with mouthwatering aromas, volunteers excited chatter, and, of course, moms, dads, and children everywhere.

As the turkey and trimmings were being cleared from the table and the squash pie was being loaded with whipped cream, I happened to see a birthday cake on the counter. I asked the cook what the cake was for. There were so many events happening at once I was afraid that I had forgotten someone. She explained earlier in the week one of the moms called and asked if she could serve a cake to surprise her child’s father. She brought in a small cake and the cook frosted it for her. For the mom to bake a cake would be next to impossible. She would first have to find a kitchen stocked with such things as cake pans, a mixer, and an oven. Shelters were equipped with only the basics. The cook said, “She has been calling all week to make sure everything was ready.”

“I will turn out the lights and then would you bring the cake out?” she asked. She was bubbling with excitement.

“Sure, I would be pleased to bring it out,” was my reply to what I thought was a simple request. I looked down at the little round cake covered with chocolate frosting. “Happy Birthday” was written with white chocolate chips and an eight inch lighted candle was stuck in the center. The cake was placed on a foil covered cardboard. It appeared that most of the other mothers were in on the secret, because when the lights went out, they began to sing.

First, the father said nothing. His silence started to make everyone uncomfortable. His face became red. Then he rose to his feet as if he were ready to explode.

He slammed his chair against the wall. Before we had time to even respond he ran out the door. The mother burst into tears, pulling her child out of the highchair, and she too was out the door. The day care director followed them. There I stood with the little cake, as the 8” candle provided a pool of red wax for the white chocolate chips to swim in. Everyone’s face displayed his or her disappointment. At first they, as I, were trying to make sense of this situation. They felt the hurt the young mother experienced and more. It was as if they identified with her. They seemed to know the pain she was feeling. They were left wondering why the loving gesture she had attempted to provide was rejected. And then I heard the piercing words come from the front of the room.
“I have been there before!”

I felt helpless! I had been there before as well! I had stood in the place where what was meant as a kind and loving act was rejected. I looked again around the room as the lights were turned on. For a few minutes the room seemed to be in slow motion. Then gradually the chatter of the children broke the silence. The volunteers passed out the desserts. Soon there was whipped cream everywhere and the dinner continued, but without any birthday celebration. The cake found its way back on the counter in the kitchen.

Perhaps you have been there! Not the Rocky Mountains or the great Niagara Falls, but a place most uncomfortable. The place where your dreams were shattered, your confidence betrayed, your love spurned. It is in those places that Jesus asks us to draw close to him. Walking through the storms of disappointment and rejection we can find a shelter in His comfort and love. It is in the very lonely places of our life that Jesus wants to be. He promises to take us up when we are abandoned, to walk with us when we are alone. We can choose to allow Jesus to heal our wounds and be our source or we can remain broken and abandoned. We can be thankful for his presence while we mourn the hurt or loss. We can choose Christ.

Have you been there before? Look to a new beginning. Find a way to be surrounded by his love. Christ’s love allows us to say,

“I have been there…but I am not there anymore!”

Call to Worship

I have been avoiding my mom's sketches skits and other dramatic presentations. I realized tonight that that is a mistake. I had been skipping them because while most of my mom's material fit the traditional format of most blogs these sketchs don't. But as i read this over i thought this isn't about 'you' the reader. It my tribute to my mom. and these sketchs are a significant part of her writing ministry.

Growing up i would often be handed on of these scrips fresh of the press on a thursday ocasionally even later. In some appointments it would be me and mom some times it would just be me. One Easter she came to me with a monologue from the perspective of Simon of Cyrene I was around 13 and that monologue became the sermon that easter morning mom got up after and gave the alter call and people came. So feel free to read the scripts use them in your services send me an update on how God worked through them. ~Steve JR~



Call to Worship
Major Betzann

(A Responsive Conversation - taking place between two friends in church)

Reader #1 Hey, I am not sure what they mean by “call to worship.” I know the leader in the front is asking us to be quiet.

Reader #2 Yes, we can’t talk anymore. We have to listen now and ask questions later!

#1 But, I don’t know what he means by “call to worship.” You invited me to come, so can you tell me? What are they calling us to do now?

#2 Be quiet, that’s what.

#1 No, I am serious. Why do they want us to listen?

#2 They say that if you listen, I mean zero in on what is being said, then you are able to get the point of the service now and later.

#1 What is the point?

#2 The point is…the point is…what you need to listen to!

#1 Okay, if now is right now, then when is the later?

#2 That’s why they want you to listen, to get the point. Get the point now and later. I guess the point is when you listen to God…or somehow you listen to the people speaking up in front and you hear God, you get the idea of what the service is about. You get a sort of preview. It helps now. And later is, this afternoon guess.

#1 Preview! A preview like at the movies. A preview, okay it is like an introduction.

#2 Right, I guess?

#1 So, why call us? We are here. Why say, “Call to Worship”?

#2 Because some folks, like you, need help to get zeroed in. So you are called to worship like you are called to dinner. You eat when you are called to dinner, so you worship when you are called to worship. Get it?

#1 How do I get zeroed in? I am hearing the call. Now what?

#2 Let God have your mind. Let Him be your focus. Don’t let anything around you be distracting. And certainly don’t let anyone around you be distracting. Just listen to Him.

#1 I am listening. I am quiet. And, I am not quiet too often!

#2 You’re telling me!

#1 God, are you there? God, do you hear me? Do you actually want to talk to me, help me, and teach me? I know, as I am quiet, my “rushy” spirit, “got-to-go” attitude is settling down. I am here for a while and I am trying to listen.

#2 What are you doing now?

#1 Quiet, I am listening. I am trying to listen.

#2 Listening to what?

#1 I am trying to listen to God. Why don’t you listen and focus in? God will talk to you! He will be there for you.

#2 So, you’re listening?

#1 God is good and His mercies endure forever. He is mighty! Yes, listening!

#2 Wow! I better listen.

Together Come, let us worship and bow down.
Let us give praise to God our maker.
For He is our God
For He is our God!

Not This Time!

Not This Time!
Major Betzann Carroll

I would often complain about the careless way the War Cry, a Salvation Army publication, was handled. After folks read it they would leave it here and there for someone else to pick-up. I would often complain,
But, not this time!

The War Cry cost money. It was poor stewardship to leave it lying around. I must admit I did not read each issue from cover to cover, but I would always find valuable reading within its pages. Why waste it, I would often complain,
But, not this time!
There are times in our life when going without the familiar helps us to realize its value. Our attitudes change. Such was my experience.

I was waiting for a bus or a “blue van” which it actually was, on the busy Daytona Beach Street. The hot sun was beating down and there was nothing cool about the breeze, which tossed litter from corner to corner. Often there was an afternoon thunderstorm, which would bring relief. Relief, which only lasted long enough to realize how very hot it, was. It was not the tropical paradise I had envisioned when I decided to leave New England and move to Daytona Beach. The dust filled the air and clung to whatever was moist enough to hold its residue.

While I waited, I realized that it could be a very long wait. Often the bus would pass without stopping. There was only seating capacity for eight at the most. I was thankful for the wooden bench provided to rest on. As I reached down to adjust my sandal so it would not rub against my blister, I noticed a pamphlet lodged between the sidewalk and the leg of the bench. It was the War Cry. Yes, who would have ever thought a War Cry would be stuck there. Since my time in Florida I had not seen a War Cry. Now, it was in my hands. I would have complained that the War Cry cost money and should not be left to blow in the breeze, but not this time! I said thank you.

I read every word and then searched for familiar faces. I had recently resigned my commission as a Lieutenant to marry. Somehow I confused affection for love and had decided to marry someone, the wrong one! He did not love Christ as he said. He had changed after I arrived. Now, with the reality of my situation, I knew I was really not in love. There would be no marriage. I was in danger of leaving all God had for me. God had not called me to the ministry and then changed His mind. I was empty, worn-out and alone. As I closed the War Cry, I looked at the back cover. Printed on a beautiful scene were the words of Albert Osborn’s song, From A Fount I Know.

“Wash from my hands, the dust of earthly striving.
Take from my mind the stress of secret fear.
Cleanse Thou the wounds, from all but Thee far hidden,
And when the waters come, let my healing appear.”


The bus finally came. The sun continued to beat. The breeze continued to push litter about. I was refreshed. I was washed. The words of the song had encouraged my heart. God had spoken to me through the War Cry. I took it with me. I had never realized how much I appreciated the written word, the War Cry,

But, I did that time!

I Remember …When!

I Remember …When!
December 14, 1996
Major Betzann Carroll

I am never quite sure what prompts a memory. Perhaps we remember because of the season, or because of our age. Perhaps we are drenched by a flood of memories because of a sensitive moment, which opens our eyes to the bridge between the present and the past.

As we prepared for the first “Doll Tea and Teddy Bear Parade” many individuals visited us. For the first time in Arlington, The Salvation Army had bought and distributed to interested persons, dolls and teddy bears to be dressed for needy children. It was an excellent way to share Christmas joy as we entrusted volunteers to be creative. How exciting to watch the dolls and teddy bears returned, arrayed in a kaleidoscope of color. Who could have imagined how “special” each entry would look? Residents of Arlington would look them over before they made their way to new homes, beneath many, many Christmas trees.

As one woman entered, she hesitantly handed me her dolls. She said they had kept her company and she would miss them. They were neatly packed in a brown box and covered with tissue paper and string. Most of the dolls had been numbered and tagged by Marion or Chris, but this time I lifted the dolls gently out of the box. When I uncovered the doll with the red dress, my eyes filled with tears and I remembered…

My mind went back almost forty years. I remembered a young six year old girl who also removed the tissue and string from a bundle packed neatly in a brown box.
She started school that year. She was the apple of her daddy’s eye and the baby of the family. September quickly turned to October and her father passed away. Her mother and family were overtaken by grief. Whether or not she understood the reality of the situation, she knew the pain of separation. October turned to November and December. She and her mother moved from the home they lived in, to an apartment in the housing project. It was not the home she was used to, but it was a clean two bedroom apartment. This is where she would celebrate Christmas, or would she? All of her older siblings were married or on their own. Her mother never seemed herself anymore. Learning how to care for a coal furnace, balance a checkbook, and keep up with life, took all the strength she had. Christmas was not her first concern. Her mother was not able to celebrate Christmas.

The six year old dreamed of another life, sometimes pretending she even belonged to another family with a mother and father. Two days before Christmas she heard a knock at the door. Her mother was not home from work and she was not permitted to open the door to strangers. But no one ever said she could not peak out the window. There on the front steps was a package. When the coast was clear, she ran out to get the box. She couldn’t wait for her mother to return so she could open the box. It just had to be for her. Finally, her mother came home. “It’s for you,” Mom said. “I don’t know where it came from, but it’s for you.

You might as well open it.” She opened the box with some struggling and gently pulled out a bundle of tissue and string. Minutes later she was holding the most beautiful doll wearing an exquisite red dress. Her mother was moved to tears as she held both her daughter and the doll tightly in her arms.

I remember this scene so well, because the little girl was “me.” I never found out who gave me that doll or how anyone knew my mother and I were needy. But, I remember when … God provided.

I placed the doll with the red dress on the shelf with the rest of the dolls. I thanked the woman for the time and effort represented in the dolls she returned. And I thanked God for the doll with the red dress that someone dressed for me so many years ago. Memories do help to bridge the present with the past. The time and energy spent in making a doll or teddy will have lasting affects. As time repeats itself over and over, there will be many little girls and boys who will remember when … someone cared and God provided.

Thank you!

Tithing On a Shoestring!

Wow I have heard this story before in various pieces and i have even read this article several time. "Mom" I was just completely struck by how open and vulnerable You make you yourself for the sake of the message thank you




Tithing On a Shoestring!
by Major Betzann Carroll

You can decorate on a budget and travel on “next to nothing”. So, why not tithe on a shoestring? Sounds like it could be done, giving ten percent of the whole.
But…is it possible to give all!

After resigning as a Salvation Army Lieutenant (minister) in Boston, MA, I took my meager savings ($689.00) and a few boxes containing everything I owned in the world and moved to Florida to marry a man I hardly knew. I worked with him right after high school. Although there was no formal engagement, he did say he wanted to marry me. I was sure he had. As I watched my every penny disappear I asked the question, is it? What is left? How do you tithe on nothing? What if I give all?

I arrived at the Daytona Beach Airport for the second time in my life. The first time I visited for a week, now I was going to live here. On the plane my mind scrambled over the details. I would live with his grandmother until I found my own place. I had a job lined up as a teacher at a Christian school. I thought I would be married and live happily ever after. Wrong!

My husband-to-be was at the airport but there was something about his welcome that made me uneasy. We recovered my belongings and after his complaining, we were on our way. Funny, but a few boxes representing twenty-four years of my life didn’t seem excessive to me. He dropped my boxes off in front of the house, introduced me to his grandmother, and was on his way to work. After lugging the boxes into the garage, I had supper and was shown to my room. This was my first night and the beginning of a series of events, which would deplete every penny I had.

First, a place to live!
I paid an agency to help me find an apartment. The agency simply dropped “the book”, a collection of current listings in front of me. Somehow I thought there would be an interview, personal advice or someone to show me apartments. The listing, meant nothing to me without a car or knowledge of the area. The listings were just addresses. I started looking myself. I found a rooming house and rented a room with kitchen and bathroom privileges. The room was fair. I moved in. The first night I slept with the lights on to keep the roaches away. The second, third, and fourth nights I slept with the lights on for a very different reason. All night long I heard men coming and going. Funny, there weren't any men living in the house when I moved in. On the fifth night I heard more than voices, and I was out the next day. Again I walked the streets until I found a garage apartment. It was small but mine. I lost the rent on the first room and paid a security deposit and rent on the new apartment. The money I paid the agency was gone as well.

Second, a job!
The teaching position I was promised was no longer available. The school said they did not have the funds, but I also knew they had other reservations. After my first interview I realized they felt very different about women in ministry and the types of ministry The Salvation Army practiced.
I looked in the newspapers and then paid an employment agency to help me. Since age eleven or twelve I had never been without some kind of job. There went more of my savings!

I guess I should have learned but the agency merely offered me “a list and a promise to do better next week”. I finally asked my “husband-to-be” to hire me since he managed three Burger Kings. His reply was that it would not be good for our relationship. What relationship! I barely saw him. He was working or with his friends. He had not mentioned the word marriage since I arrived. He asked me to join him once and said, “If my friend offers you a drink just take it. Don’t embarrass me.” Yet, when the drink was offered, I simply said no thank you. I guess he was embarrassed because he never asked me again. Working for him may not have been good for our relationship, but it would have been healthy for me, since I needed to eat. There had to be a job somewhere. I walked the full length of the beach stopping at every business, store and stand. At the city limit I turned and continued on the other side of the street. When I stopped to look at the ocean I saw the motel sign “Inn On The Beach” hotel. The billboard in front said “Why Go Further, Stop Here!” So I did. I went in and was hired on the spot. Management reminded us all the time that maids were a “dime a dozen”, but it was a job. Another woman, Marilyn, was hired the same day. She was my first and only friend in town. She lived in a camper with her daughter.

Third, the doctor bills!
The combination of the blazing Florida sun, my stressful quest to get settled, and my diet, or should I say lack of “one” made me weak. Finally, I could not keep going and passed out a few times. Forced to go to the doctor, he said I had anemia and a few other “little” things, but the cost was not “little”. I could not afford the medication and I would not ask “my husband-to-be” or anyone else for help. The realization of a zero balance set in. Even my job held a week’s pay back.

I had Sunday off. That Saturday night I had ten dollars to my name and a handful of change I found in my pockets and boxes. I called The Salvation Army. There was a church by the hotel. I could take the bus with the coins. That morning the minister spoke about tithing and the conflict began. The church also took the offering after the sermon. How could I tithe? How could I give? All I had was a ten dollar bill.

“Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house…and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that you will not have room enough for it.”
Malachi 3:10

“When you hold back on God you are stealing from Him.” I knew that.
“When you give to God and trust Him, He will care for you.” I knew that.
“God knows your situation.” I knew that too. .Everything I had planned for was gone, along with my savings. How could I have thought this was God’s leading? I was lonely, bewildered, and confused. All I had was a ten dollar bill. That’s it! If I gave the ten I would have to walk home and walk to work. I guess I didn’t have to eat. Sometimes vacationers would leave food in the rooms and the maids could have it or throw it away. I would find something. Listen to me! There wasn’t much difference between the” ketchup sandwiches” I was eating and the cornhusks that the prodigal son ate. “God, I know I am not where I am supposed to be but here I am.” The music played and the offering plates moved from row to row. How convenient to take up the offering after the sermon. What would I do? Should I put the ten-dollar bill in? “Lord, if I put this bill in I have nothing. It is all I have in the world,” then I dropped it in the plate. I had nothing! I walked home, I walked the beach all afternoon alone and afraid, cried myself to sleep and walked to work the next day.

In the morning as I opened the door to the hotel Marilyn greeted me. I was worn out. Frizzy hair, scarlet cheeks and a film of mud and sweat dripping down my face made it obvious that I had walked a distance. “Hey, listen I heard the office staff talking”, she said. “They said some customer checked out this morning talking about the spelling of your name. They left an envelope for you and if you don’t ask for it, you won’t get it.” So she gave me a push and said, “So, go ask for it!” There was an envelope with my name on it. The envelope I signed and left in the room I cleaned. . I was almost afraid to open it. My last ten-dollar bill was now in a church treasurer’s hands or on the way to the bank. I ripped the envelope open and then slowing, reached in. Marilyn watched as I pulled out the contents. Inside the envelope was…not a ten-dollar bill! Inside the envelope was a twenty-dollar bill and a note “God Bless you.” Can you believe it? I gave God my last ten; my only ten and He gave me a twenty! He doubled my gift. I gave Marilyn ten dollars for helping me and we went to work.

God answered my question. You can tithe on nothing. Later I received my first check. At the end of the summer I had earned enough to return to the Boston area and leave what I think of now as “my training ground”. I went back to the very place where I resigned. Today after thirty years of ministry as a Salvation Army officer with my husband and family, I will always remember this valuable lesson. However, I will never question tithing again. My husband and I practice the Biblical teaching of tithing and teach our soldiers as well. Thank you, Lord, for your personal answer at a very difficult time in my life.

I Love You, Dad

I Love You, Dad
Betzann Carroll

I took one last look at my husband’s picture as I prepared to take our daughter Helen to the doctor for her physical. She was going to be a part of The Salvation Army Camp Staff. It was actually the note beneath the picture, which caught my attention. It was a note in Helen’s handwriting. It was a note she wrote to her dad two years ago. It simply said, “I love you, Dad. You are the best dad in the world. P. S. I am trying to be good.”

She wrote the note after a very difficult summer. Now, at the age of seventeen she was about to graduate high school, fifth in her class. She had overcome so much in her seventeen years: heart defects, lung disease, dyslexia, and other obstacles. Learning sometimes took Helen longer, but when she knew it, she knew it.
And she knew her dad loved her.

My dad died when I was six years old. He loved me and I knew it. He taught me a valuable lesson. This one I tried to remember when I was dealing with my children.

Once more my dad said, “Watch me.” He took both ribbons from the waist of my dress to the front (still attached) in his hands. First, he tied a knot and then he slowly tied a bow. He explained every step and said, “When you tie your shoe you do it the very same way. Now, you try it.” For weeks I had been trying to tie my shoe. I just could not do it. I could tie a knot, but… Over and over he would show me with patience and interest. I am not sure whether I wanted to learn because I really wanted to tie my shoe, or because I wanted to make my dad proud. It was time for school and my mother rushed me out the door. All day long I would reach down for the ribbons on my dress. I would tie the knot and then try to tie the bow. I just could not do it. The bell rang and I ran out of the door with the ribbons in my hands. I slipped and fell. When I stood up I realized that both ribbons were still in my hands. However, they were no longer attached to my dress. I ripped the ribbons right off when I fell. I walked slowly, still fumbling with the ribbons. Tie a knot, and then tie the bow. Over and over I tried and then I conquered the task. I ran home to tell my dad the news.

When I reached the house my parents were sitting on the porch waiting for me. My dad was home from work for a few weeks, recovering from a heart attack. “I can do it. I can do it, Dad.

“I can tie a bow,” I yelled as I ran down the street. When I held the ribbons up in the air, it was not the bow my mother was focused on.

“You ripped your dress! Look what you have done to your new dress,” my mother scolded. “Give me those ribbons.”

What a conflict. It was true that my new dress was ruined. At least my mother thought so. I could never figure out why a dress needed ribbons in the back anyway.
It really didn’t make a difference. My accomplishment seemed unimportant now. It was also true that I fell and never meant to rip the dress. I simply wanted to make dad proud of me. I had succeeded in making my mother angry.


Then Dad reached down and untied his shoe. He said, “Show me how you did it.” I carefully tied the knot. Then nervously I began to tie the bow. And, I did it. He was proud of me. His huge hands then picked me up and held me tight. Even my mom seemed to smile. He said, “Now that you have learned to tie a bow, you will have to learn to sew and fix your dress.” We all laughed. He knew I wanted to please him, even if I did ruin my dress in the process.

Helen, your dad understood your difficulties at fifteen and he understands them at seventeen. He knows you are trying. He is thrilled with your desire to overcome and do the best you can at everything you attempt. Most of all he knows you love him and He loves you.

God knows the desires of our hearts. He knows whether we love him above all else. He understands when we attempt to please him. And he understands when every now and then we don’t always succeed at what we attempt. He knows when we have tried our best and our best was not what we had hoped for. He simply allows us to start again. He is the God of new beginnings. He knows our intentions, desires, and attitudes. He knows when we are sincere. He loves us!

Do it Again, Daddy!

I was hanging on to this one trying to decide if it would be my Mother's Day post. But, I have another.


Do it Again, Daddy!
January 21, 2004
Dedicated to Stephen M. Carroll Jr. – January 21, 2004

“Do it again, daddy!” was a phrase, which first came alive for me during a commercial of a father and a son. Both were overlooking the ocean as the sun was going down. The raging ball of fiery orange, red and gold blazed the sky, sending dancing flames across the waters. Then slowly dropping lower and lower, and lower, it was nearly gone. Just as the last flicker of light seemed to disappear below the horizon, the complete silence is broken by the whisper of the child to his father, “Do it again daddy!”

Now the phrase consumed my mind and heart. It was not a familiar portion of scripture, or a quote from some great author, or even a friend’s voice of reassurance that gave me strength. It was this simple phrase. “Do it again, daddy?”

Throughout the Christmas season with its grueling schedule, stresses, and joys, I knew that soon our son and his wife “great with child” would arrive. They were not coming to celebrate the holidays with us. They were coming from The Salvation Army Seminary, so he could have immediate surgery. Now sitting in the hospital family room provided for those waiting for surgical results, the future became present. We had been here before. Both of our children called “Boston Children’s’ Hospital” home. We had walked these halls, frequented the coffee shop and occupied this waiting room. It was different, yet it was the same. This time we sat with his wife, his grown sister and his mother-in-law. Yet, as I looked at him in ICU, for a few moments that twenty-five year old body seemed to be the two-year-old baby, twenty-three years prior. I could remember our only son struggling for his life, buried in tubes, and surrounded by nurses and doctors.
God was so faithful then.

All I could pray, all I could even think was, “Do It Again, Daddy!” You can do it! You did it before! The God of the universe could hang the world in space and paint glorious sunsets. The God who created the world and gave His very own Son to save it. The God who was intimately involved with our son, and had saved him before, He could do it again.

I also realized that He would do what He willed; He was God. His will was ultimately best. I knew what my will was. I knew the will of an anxious, loving wife. All I could think, feel or pray was, “Do It Again Daddy!” as I seemingly drew close to Him. Just as the son in the commercial believed his father could do anything, I knew it to be true.

“Do It Again, Daddy!”… And He did.
Thank You!

The Button

The Button

I am intrigued by words. We can strip them down to their roots or expand them on each end. We can dress them in exciting, enchanting adjectives or energize them with fast moving adverbs. We can customize them to fit our own needs or create brand new words, being careful, of course, that no one else has put a different meaning to the word. You can give them rhythm and rhyme and even make them dance to music. They can be compound, complex, or as simple as one word standing alone. Sometimes the speaker uses a sentence with a clear meaning: however, the listener hears a totally different message. Sometimes a sentence that is used to give a particular direction can actually be used to direct so much more. Could God take a simple direction from the lips and voice of an unknowing person and reach the listener (me) with a far more transforming message? Yes! The button…just push the button!

I was lying on my side on a cot wired for everything but sound. Wires, pads, machinery and other instruments all in place and it was time to flip the switch, push the button. “We are ready for the E-Stem treatment now, she said. A young therapist was beginning a procedure on me to relieve the pain I was experiencing, and I, the patient, patiently waiting. So the we – was really I! Just before the therapist started the procedure, she had one more message for me, one more direction, and a direction with two meanings. “Wait just one minute!”

“I forgot!” she said. “You need the Stop Button. I never want to leave you feeling trapped and unable to get freedom from the procedure if it becomes more than you can bear. If the treatment is painful or uncomfortable and you need help, just push the Stop Button.” Then she flipped the switch and walked out of the room. My leg danced uncontrollably. It resembled some sort of 50’s movement. Then came the pulsating pushes and pinches, which were uncomfortable. The treatment paused for a few moments and started again. Although it was uncomfortable, it was not unbearable. When the treatment was finished, my leg was still even though it felt like it was still moving. The therapist entered the room shortly after everything was still. There was no need for a button, a bell, or an alarm. I was fine. Mission accomplished! However, if there had been a reason to feel trapped or pain or danger, I had the button. At any time in the procedure I could have pushed the button, the emergency button. I was not alone.

I Corinthian 10:13 NIV “No temptation has seized what is common to man. And God is faithful. He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted (trapped), He will also provide a way out, so that you can stand up under it.”

The E-stem treatment was quite helpful. But, if I felt threatened, I had the button. Yes, the button would stop the procedure. However, life gets threatening and we sometimes feel trapped. There are times when we feel overwhelmed with problems, decisions, and on and on. What happens then? How do we get through the procedure called life and how do we escape when we feel we are trapped, unable to cope. The button, push the button. We have faith in Christ.

Yet, there are situations, which call for allowing Him to stop everything and reassure us of His presences. The Christian life calls for living and walking in places that are frightening and sometimes down right uncomfortable, and even painful. In every situation we have a power button, an escape. Paul reminds us that if we stand up in the face of trouble and perplexity, we do not stand alone. Face the challenge, stand in his strength, and if you get too frightened push the power button. Find the escape in Him. When we get to the point that we feel shaky, trapped, or pushed to the limit beyond what we can bear, He will make a way of escape.

The button…push the button! What God said to me came from the heart of God and was spoken by the therapist. .

During an E-Stem procedure came an eternal lesson.

Where Do Feelings Come From Anyway?

“Feelings, Nothing More Than feelings!” was a popular song in the seventies, which seemed to reduce love to mere feeling. “Nothing more!”

We arrived Easter Sunday morning ready to celebrate, encourage, and up-lift the congregation. Prior to the service a car drove into the parking lot. A mother got out, obviously in torment and pain as she made her plea. In the car was her twenty-six year old son sprawled out on the seat and having difficulty even speaking. “Please help me with my son? He’s been here in the recovery program before. I don’t know what to do. I am his mother and I love him. I have done everything I know, I am at a loss.” She had been picking up the pieces for him time after time, taking on his responsibilities and caring for her son. We told her to leave her son here. We would try to find him a detox. We told her to get in her car and go home to her eight year old grandson.. This love took a lot more than feelings…could she do it?

An email arrived from a woman whose feelings were raging on Easter afternoon. “I am not sure I can go on. I get so anxious and I am afraid I am going to explode. How can I even give value to my feelings? It is my husband who is dying. I love him. What can I do?” They had raised their children together, paid their bills together, and spent every night together. Feelings, there were many. Good marriages take more than feelings, much more. Now she found herself facing the impending grief and loss of the one she loved and feelings would not change that. She had shared feelings, laughter, but now felt she must go through this experience assisting her husband. Love took more than feelings…could she do it?

Another conversation with a young woman took place. She had two little babies and her husband was in trouble again. Again! How many times was this, she wasn’t counting. She only knew that again she would struggle while he practiced his favorite habit. “I love my husband, but as much as I feel for him, I need help. How can I care for these babies and deal with him. This seemed to be an impossible situation. Love takes more than feelings…could she do it?

Over and over hearts are broken, lives are shattered and hopelessly men, women and children go on wishing for more. “All You Need Is Love” is another song title. We are misled by the notion that the warm, fuzzy feelings are love. We get frustrated when the feelings we seek are just feelings and love. Love is more!

Love is letting your son go even when your heart says no. Love is overcoming the feelings of failure, abandonment and neglect. Love is more!

Love is allowing yourself to acknowledge your feelings, while dealing with your dying loved one. Love is dealing with everyday life and making decisions and plans, when you feel as if your world is falling apart. Love is more.

Love is not allowing your husband to abuse you. Love is caring for your family.
It is saying I cannot allow you to be a husband or a father to our children until you are not just sorry, but sorry enough to STOP. It is because I love you that I will not allow you to destroy yourself and your family in the process. Love is more.
“Love protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres. Love never fails.”

Over and over, hearts are broken and lives are shattered. They go on hopelessly captured by their feelings. Love is more than feelings. Love is hard work. It is perseverance. It is tough. Love is doing what has to be done regardless of how it makes you feel.
Love is much more than feelings.

"Locked Out"

Mom doesn't say a lot about her childhood. When i ask she tells me. But, when she offers her child experiences without being asked it is always meaningful and usually powerful this is one of those cases

It is a terrible thing to be “locked out.” How many times we have misplaced our keys and find ourselves “locked out.” There are doors that do not lock with keys.

“You are too young for a key. I don’t want you inside alone. You stay outside and wait for me,” was my mother’s rule. I wanted a key. I could never understand why it was all right to be outside alone, but not to be inside. So…out of necessity I found a way to get in without a key.

I never said it was easy. Our house was heated by coal in the winter. The large wooden box attached to the back of the house held a ton of coal. We never had a ton of coal, at least not all at one time. We would order a ½ ton of coal in the winter but only when we could not get a ½ cord of wood. The box was called the “coal bin”. The wooden box had a large opening outside, so it could be filled easily by the truckload. Inside, however, the door was much smaller. It was designed this way, so you could open the smaller door and shovel the coal into the furnace without having the whole ton empty into the furnace room. Our coal bin was never full. And…now you know my secret!

When I came home from school I would open the coal bin door from the outside. I would jump in and push the wood aside. Then holding the smaller door open, I would crawl through to the other side. It took real talent not to get covered with dirt and coal dust. I would shut the door behind me and I was home free.

Inside I would head for the refrigerator and all the delicacies it held (which sometimes was not much). If I watched out the front window I could see my mother’s bus pull up. When I saw her step off the bus I had just enough time to run out the back door, pulling the door closed behind me. I was nervous at first, but I became very good at what I did. .

Then one day I just did not fit. The small door was the same size, but I was not. I could not go forwards or backwards. I was not in or out. I was stuck. I promised myself if I ever got out I would confess. I was as stuck as could be. I heard the bus. It was all over. I knew my mother would be stepping off the curb any minute. This was my cue to run, but I could not even move. If only she had given me a key. It was all her fault, wasn’t it? It was a terrible feeling to be locked out. However, I was neither locked out nor locked in.

Poverty, education, age, race, sex and many other labels can lock us out from where we would like to be. There are plenty of ways to refuse us entrance.
Jesus said, “I am the door, by me if any man enter in he shalt be save.”
We need not be alone, “Locked Out” inside or outside. To enter the door that really counts…we do not need a key. Nor do we need any secret entrance. Jesus is the door. The struggle is over. The door is open. Jesus has placed the welcome mat at the door of life.
I was eventually given a key. And yes, somehow with help I wiggled my way out of that small door. Since then I have lost my keys a few times and been locked out. But never will I be locked out from the door that counts.

I’d Rather Have…

“There is a young girl coming by with her parents. She is going to attend Boston University in the fall as a voice major. Since I am the Songster Leader, I would like to show her around our corps. There are many corps around and I just know God would Rather have her here.” These were my words of introduction to Annalise. Shari, who was on her way to training, was prayerfully looking for her replacement. She had begun a small group and put her heart and soul into her vision. Now, she was desirious that it continued.

Annalise came to Cambridge. At first she came just on Sundays. You would know what time it was by her entrance. She would quietly slip into her seat and was gone after the service. There were so many other places she could have been. The first year of college is always busy, yet God would Rather have her attending.

One Sunday I asked if she would sing. A voice major must have a song to sing. She said she would practice and let me know. The next week she said, “I can sing four weeks from now.” She needed no accompaniment or amplification, and from her small stature came a voice, which reached to the depths of each heart listening. A beautiful song! Now I know she could have sung any song, but God would Rather have this particular song.

Soon she began to give herself to those in the corps. She began to love without counting the cost; just the way God would Rather have it. Shari’s prayers were answered, and as she went off to training, Annalise took the leadership of the newly formed group of singers. She also was part of the nucleus who started The Cambridge Worship Team. She encouraged other talent in our corps. Cambridge is a corps where talented men and women commence their service and then move on to their God appointed tasks. And that’s the way God would Rather have it. Mark Hood, Billy Francis, Ken Lau and so many others. Then one summer she wasn’t there. She was off to Africa, because God would Rather have her broaden her vision. She was graduating and when she came back, what then? I couldn’t think of a better place for her to use her abilities than here – Cambridge. She became the Music Director and Administrative Assistant. She endeared herself to us and became an intricate part of The Cambridge Corps. She became part of the ministry team leading men and women to new life in Christ. She became part of our family, part of us.

We were planning a Corps Retreat. Our focus was “Spiritual Gifts.” She had lots of dreams and plans. What did God want for her? Would it be a master’s education in voice, a career in the spotlight, a young man? God would Rather have her give back her talents to Him. He would Rather have her totally for His service. That is what she declared at the conclusion of the retreat.

Now she has the right young man, the warmth of God’s spotlight, with a diploma from The Salvation Army School for Officers’ Training. What was that song she sang? What was the message she proclaimed to the congregation that morning and many times hence? What is God’s message from Annalise?

“I’d Rather Have Jesus, Than Anything this World Affords to Own!”

The Easter Beating

Today i had an old friend throw an apple at my head in the middle of our morning service to help me "get people's attention" when i discussed the Fruit of the Spirit and living for Christ in a world that doesn't care. "The Easter Beating" is a hard message. That speaks out to a real world full of brokeness.

Holidays are a time when the Cambridge Corps family works together and that’s what we were doing. It was time to prepare our chapel for Easter. For many who would worship with us on Easter Sunday, it would be a first. Easter Sunday would be the time for lilies, shining white cloths, and a crown. We were in the process of draping the three wooden crosses on the platform with purple. The flowers soon would be scattered about with an array of darken shades of cloth. It was to help us visualize Good Friday. We would remember Christ’s intense pain, extreme loneliness and physical death. Death! Many were familiar with beatings, for many different reasons. But this was Christ’s death.

There was activity everywhere. The kitchen was busy arranging platters, creating salads of every kind, designing desserts and checking off the menu items as they went along. The dining room was filled with volunteers who were setting tables and arranging chairs. There were those who were outside washing windows and gathering trash. And in the chapel men were gathering who would sing in the men’s hours. The chorus was made up of men from our homeless shelter, from our staff, from our soldiery and those associated with the corps. They would sing, “The Old Rugged Cross”. For many of them, words like despised, shame and suffering were familiar. I was in the office making sure I had enough copies of the music.

As I continued to count out each sheet of music, Sam entered the office. He was the shelter director. During the day he ran a drop-in center for anyone who wanted to enter. They could wash their clothes, take a shower, see the clinic or use a number of other services available. At noon there was a meal which had anywhere from 150 – 200 in attendance. After 4:00 PM only the men who slept in the shelter stayed. Sam was very distressed. Now it was not unusual to see Sam distressed, but this was different. It was also just about noon, which would be his busiest time, so what was he doing in the office?

Then he spoke. As he began to describe the tragic event, the whole office was quiet. There had been a beating, such a vicious beating that there was a man dead. Sam continued. A handicapped man who could barely walk was beaten.

At the age of 46 years old, Ed was dead. He had received a brutal beating, which punctured his lung and caused other serious damage. Now, Ed was dead. Sam said, “Ed was a part of our program, our family. He was one of us.”

Ed was well known around our community. He stayed at many shelters. He was well known at The Salvation Army. He stayed in our shelter. It was at The Salvation Army Shelter where Ed rested his cane against the wall and pulled the covers up tight on a cold winter’s night. He was crippled. It was at The Salvation Army where Ed sought medical attention. He was seen at the clinic staffed by the Cambridge Hospital and was housed at The Salvation Army. It was at The Salvation Army where Ed would attend church, although not regularly. It was not uncommon to see him sitting in the back of the chapel participating. He would even go to the altar on occasion.

In fact, Ed even sang in the men’s chorus once or twice. The Salvation Army became the place where Ed found fellowship, clothing, food and where we attempted to introduce him to Christ.

Now, there was one more thing we would do for Ed. We would provide him yet another service. We would now perform Ed’s funeral service.

The funeral was made up of Ed’s friends, those men who spent time with him in the shelter and on the street. The men who often took their meals and washed their clothes at the “Army” would be there. There were family members who attended as well. Although they did not share his life style, they loved him. There were also those who tried to help Ed: counselors, clinic staff, and soldiers. There were reporters, investigators, and even a photographer. At the conclusion of the funeral service there were many who were kneeling at The Salvation Army altar.

Ed died from a senseless death. This beating had no meaning. What was the meaning of beating a crippled, handicapped man to death? Ed was not able to fight back. It was a cruel act. His death was a terrible waste and brought only pain. Ed had no choice he was murdered.

Yet, Jesus’ death brings life. The Bible says, “He was wounded for our transgression, he was bruised for our iniquity.” Jesus was beaten and died so that we might live. Jesus laid down his life it was not taken from him. He was God and yet He allowed himself to be put to death, for you and me, for Ed. He could have stopped the bloodthirsty crowd, but he died and rose again for you and me.

Because Christ died and rose again, Ed’s death, his brutal death, was final. However, Ed lives forever. Christ can make sense of such an unbelievable happening. He died so that we might live.