THE DUCK THAT FLEW BEFORE IT HATCHED
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THE DUCK THAT FLEW BEFORE IT HATCHED
I’ve never cared for rodents. My motto concerning them has always been: MOVE OR DIE. This is pertinent information since I’ve moved a lot and lived in many and various conditions. I have left my farm neighbors probably still laughing at my attempts to eradicate the co-tenants of my habitations.
I lived “in town,” (a loose term for a motley collection of dilapidated buildings at the exact edge of nowhere). Our house was about 2 blocks from the only business in town, Martin’s, a gas station.
Now this wasn’t one of the modern grab n’ go gas stations that line our city streets. No sir! This was a full-service station, that served your every automotive need, no aisle after aisle of munchie heaven, just plain old-fashioned car stuff. They checked your oil, pumped the gas for you and washed your windows. Also, for no extra charge you were filled in, whether you were interested or not, on the latest gossip. All the news that wasn’t fit to print.
Also, the owners were the official office holders, mayor, aldermen, etc. they just traded off every few years.
It was a very small town, in every sense. We were just moving into a little house, referred to in the town archives as “the old mill-pond house” that no longer featured either a pond or mill. The house at that time was at least one hundred years old, and not in dog years, either. It had not had any people living in it for some time, notice I said people, ... it was inhabited, however.
While the water department’s only employee and therefore official personage was at our home to turn on our water, I was attempting to open a stuck drawer, (“why” escapes me). That is to say, why I wanted the drawer opened or why we wanted the water turned on yet, because there were only two places in the house with any plumbing, the toilet, and kitchen sink.
At any rate, the stage was set for disaster, with an official person there to record everything for the amusement of all down at Martin’s gas station and rumor mill.
I finally opened that drawer just as the water-man was coming in to tell us that we had no plumbing to speak of, did we still want our water on? At that moment a HUGE mouse jumped out of the just-opened drawer and tried to bite me.
Yes, yes, I know, right about now you’re telling yourself that I’m exaggerating, and that mice are more afraid of us than we are of them. I’m here to tell you T’ain’t so, I’ve had years of experience with these vicious brutes and I know a thing or two about them.
This fearful mouse stuff is fabricated PR put out by the powerful interests in the mouse-lobby. There is no truth to it, and why would they be afraid of a bunch of clumsy, half-witted giants, who can’t reach most of the places where they can hide.
Mice are about a million times smarter than we are (ever try to catch one? They can out-wit almost any trap you can set and still eat the bait.) And, they are ever so much quicker, just try to catch one with a broom. I’ve learned from experience that screaming is all you can do to combat them.
** There are two versions to this story, mine (the truth), and my daughter’s, which is funnier, so I’ll tell hers first. A HUGE mouse leaped out of the drawer and caught a hold of my glasses and hung on with me screaming hysterically which you can tell right away isn’t true because I’d still be screaming.
* *
The truth: A HUGE mouse leaped out of the drawer and tried to bite me as I dodged, sidestepped, leaped, and screamed. It just grazed me in its attempt to bite, but I was too quick for it. This version was actually worse though, as the HUGE mouse fell to the floor and evaporated into the woodwork, only to be seen again and again (or else, horror of horrors there were TWO MICE!), at inopportune times (as if there could ever be an opportune time to see a mouse!)
There is a little known dance done in the wilds of Spectonia, a country not listed in your anthologies, that exactly replicates the aforementioned maneuver. It is called the dodge-sidestep-leap-and-scream-I-just-saw-a- mouse-dance, unfortunately it does lose a bit in the translation, because in Spectonian it is known merely as The chair dance.
* *
At any rate my screaming was so loud and long that they all heard for themselves, down at Martin’s and I was permanently disgraced in that town. I’m forever known as the crazy woman who was afraid of a mouse. See, they all believed the mouse PR.
Some years later, same town, different house, this time out of town, on a farm, I was raising chickens, ducks, geese and goats, and lots of dogs and cats (my favorite cat was named D-Con). I intended to become self-sufficient so an animal breeding program was set up, excluding the dogs and cats of course. Because, as anyone who knows anything at all about those animals knows, they need no encouragement in that area. The other species need some management, however.
The chickens, for instance, were setting before the ducks. Setting means, sitting on the eggs with some earnestness, intending them to hatch out off-spring. This is opposed to merely laying the eggs and frolicking in the barnyard with your pals, showing no earnestness whatsoever towards proliferation, this being the prevailing attitude of the ducks in question.
I wanted ducklings and chicks all at the same time, so against the advice in my How-to-farm books I put duck eggs under one of the setting chickens. If the chicken was surprised, she didn’t let on even though duck eggs are more than twice the size of the average chicken egg. Another difference in the duck eggs is that they require a little water on them every day to compensate for the fact that ducks have generally wetter habits than do chickens. Chickens, on the other hand don’t care much for being wet, hence the expression, more miffed than a damp chicken, or something like that.
Anyway, I was spraying the duck eggs every day when I fed and watered the rest of the herd. Duck eggs hatch in about 28 days, and chicken’s in 21 but I’d lost count, so idyllic was my life then. One day (day 28 in fact) I was doing my little morning chore, when I opened the feed bag and out flew two gray blurs. I nimbly hopped out of harm’s way, and only had to scream a little before they ran away. OK, now, on to the daily spraying of the duck eggs, with one wary eye out for the killer mice
But wait, there was something wrong with one of the eggs! It had a hole and something gray was moving around in it.
A MOUSE HAS COMMITTED THIS PERFIDY AND HAS EATEN MY POOR DUCKLING. So gathering courage I didn’t know I possessed, I picked up the egg with the mouse in it and chucked it outside. And what do you know, a most perplexed-looking duckling sat there in the straw, amidst the wreckage of the egg, presumably congratulating himself on a successful first flight.
As a post-script, the duck of this story went on to lead a very normal, healthy life, for a duck, and none the worse for wear.
I often think of that little duck when I find myself trying to fly before I’m hatched. I sit in the middle of the wreckage of my plans, wondering how I could possibly have misunderstood God as I most-eagerly ran around doing ‘His’ will. Ah, well, He did call the foolish things of this world, so I shake myself off and wait for further instructions.
Ecclesiastes, chapter 3 speaks of there being a time, or season, for everything. “A time to plant and a time to uproot” Verse 11 says, “He has made everything beautiful in its time.”
The book of John, in the 15th chapter speaks of abiding in Jesus, the true vine. Here Jesus himself illustrates the relationship He desires to have with us, His beloved ones. By abiding in the vine (living in Jesus), we bear much fruit. This is of course the most desirous thing for a Christian to do, to do His will, and in so doing, please Him. If we are as close to Him as the picture of the vine and branch shows, we will recognize His voice when he says, “Go now, this is my will concerning you at this time”. It is when we aren’t as close to His heart to hear accurately that we ‘hatch’ too soon.
LORD, help me to keep my ears so close to your heart that my heart begins to beat with the same rhythm and I know your timing. Help me to see in my everyday life your hand at work so that I can join you instead of being at cross-purposes. Thank you, JESUS, Amen.
GOATS! TO THE LEFT
There was a time I raised goats, so I know a little about goats, never raised any sheep, but I know some people who do know them well. My first goat was named Bella, because at first sight, in the twilight against the sunset, she looked beautiful. But closer inspection showed her to be scrawny, and dirty and not so beautiful at all, so she was renamed Bella La Goat Cheese.
Actually there was a psychology to this which I will take time to explain: At first I wanted a goat very much and it took a long time to get someone to give me a goat at my price, free. I was so happy I had a goat that I thought she was beautiful, later when what I call goat-reality set in, the realization hit that, well, goats can never be called beautiful.
First there is the obvious, they are four-footed, which is ungainly at best. They are furry (their kind of fur is like Velcro and all manner of things stay with them, i.e. straw, grass, dirt, manure, like that). Then there is the odd way their eyes slant. A Cat’s eyes have a horizontal slant, in the pupil, a goat’s eyes are vertical. They are very weird to look at.
Then there are the not so noticeable things, a goat loves his owner, so much so that they would gladly move in with them at any time. This I would not advise allowing as a goat will not be housebroken, the situation would be more like broken-house. Oh, they would be very sorry and all about their clumsy habits, and the resultant destruction, but the damage would be done (also there is the problem of their toileting, any, and everywhere).
* *
Please don’t carry with you any misconception here. I did not invite the goats in my home! Well, then again, I did bring one of the first triplets in , because I mistakenly thought that it might get cold. But this was only overnight and only because I thought it would become a special pet thereby. It didn’t, but a later one did, his name was Jacob, one of Bella’s twins.
Jacob was the only spotted one I ever had, no naturally he was named Jacob. His sister was jet-black, and I named her Rachel. But Jacob was special, he followed everywhere I went. Though it’s true that goats love people, only the adults usually do that, the babies stay by mamma, always keeping her between you and them. Jacob was different, and hard to resist, he was just plain loving, even as a youngster. At night I’d go out in the dark to close the coop and I’d hear clopping sounds coming towards me and I knew it was Jacob. I’d have to pet and scratch his back for a long time or he’d come up behind me and put his hoofs on my back.
This was okay at the time, but I knew when he got as big as his daddy he flatten me. I was too sentimental to ‘fix’ him so he wouldn’t be a buck. God’s mercy, though it didn’t seem so at the time, he was bitten by a rattle-snake and died. This was when I got out of the goat business, I’d lost the heart for it because I really cared for Jacob. I hope that the LORD sees me like Jacob, always coming around for attention. That I desire God, even in the dark He knows it’s me when He hears the footsteps. I want to endear myself to God, not by works but by sheer adoration of Him. I don’t want to be far from his heart.
* *
I had Bella for some time in town along with 6 dogs, and 3 cats who used to go on walks with us in the evenings, all of them. In retrospect, this may have been one reason why our neighbors thought we were odd. Picture this: a middle-aged couple, a recalcitrant teenager, (I realize THAT is a redundant phrase), 6 dogs of various sizes from poodle to collie, 3 cats who weren’t at all sure why they were there, and a goat bringing up the rear, all out for a stroll, so what’s so odd about that?
Some time later, after we’d moved to the farm, I ordered baby chicks to be delivered in the mail. This is a Gala event marked by great elation, expectation and triumph. It begins on the appointed day at approximately 9am by the distraught postmistress phoning to tell me to please come right over for a special package. You see, she is distraught because there are 50, count ‘em, chicks all cheeping madly and in great distress, because this is not what they had in mind when they hatched so laboriously the day before. They are frightened, hungry, and they are chickens-to-be after all, and as such, not terribly bright, who knows WHAT is on their minds!.
They have set off a terrible din at the otherwise peaceful post office. (Please remember, that small-town post-offices are too poor to issue M-16’s or AK47’s to disgruntled ex-employees, so they are usually peaceful.)
Then there is the harrowing ride TO the post-office. First of course, who goes, who stays, yes, I can drive by myself, but they won’t let me, how many dogs go? No, cats stay, kid stays, (as if!). No, the goat may not go this trip. ( I also didn’t, as a rule, travel with the goat.)
I drove the two miles to the post-office then, clutching my trophy, drove home so fast that I arrive home in about a minute and a half flat.
Now, to dip each hungry but stupid beak into sugar water to teach them how to eat. Count them, Yeah! 50 and all alive, and healthy. Then I installed them in a special box, with a light-bulb on top for warmth and for the first two weeks a heater next to the box. All this is kept in the bathroom for 4 weeks until they can go out in the coop. By the way, chickens generate lots of dust, and assorted debris creating a fire hazard with the heater, but ... that’s another story.
Later came the ducklings, and goslings in the mail also, after that of course the parents did the breeding and raising, whew!
Chickens eat a lot of food, which is expensive. In the first 6 months at least, there’s no return on the investment because the eggs don’t start rolling until a good deal of food has gone through the goose, so to speak, thereby causing a need for some creative measures of supplemental food gathering. Sometimes even doing things that are considered by some to be unconventional.
One day, I was making a withdrawal (a thing of excruciating embarrassment for my daughter) at the dump, picking up food that had been thrown away by the food bank. There were 50# bags of millet, wheat, potatoes, rice bran, and hundreds of pounds of slightly moldy cheese, all of which makes excellent chicken food. A man happened by to make a deposit. He asked why I was taking food from the dump. My explanation must have been good because he told me he had chickens also and would take some cheese to them. Then the talk turned to farmin’, as it always does when two farmers get together, “Would I like to trade some chickens with him?”, he asked. That sounded fine with me because I was still experimenting with different breeds to find out which were the best for our needs. I didn’t, at that time, know he was a policeman, so when he showed up, in uniform, the next day I was alarmed at first.
“THINK,” I told myself,” what have I done to occasion a cop at the door”, before I recognized him. It wasn’t easy, because a policeman, off-duty is a much smaller, less encumbered person. Then I realized I’d just lost a little more dignity in the eyes of the community, because an Official person had seen me ‘withdrawing’ at the dump. Oh well, I thought, “They’re probably still laughing over my, by that time, well-known fear of mice.”
This policeman had a good buddy who had four unwanted goats, would I like to supplement my ‘herd’ with four more? Why certainly.
A little background is necessary here, I lived on a small farm, inside a large alfalfa ranch. The owner of the Ranch was not well, so I worked for him in exchange for the use of a small cabin, and all his unused outbuildings, and corrals.
He didn’t mind that my cats killed all the mice for a three mile radius, neither, parenthetically, did I, or that my goats kept an otherwise untidy, weedy farm, looking like the proverbial park. My dogs kept the coyotes away, and the chickens helped to keep some of the rattle-snakes away (This may be a myth, but I had no rattle-snakes while I had chickens). It was a good working relationship, that I had with the Boss. He also didn’t care if I housed my goats in the old calving shed, or if I used up all of the sacks of oats, both leftovers from cattle-raising days.
The new goats had horns and so were dangerous and had to be kept separate from each other, and in a small shed this was not easy. The large smelly buck (male) goat had to be kept by himself in a stall, which was the only thing that could hold him. (If you have never smelled a buck,by the way, you’re in for a treat, what horseradish does for the sinuses, buck does for the brain, in reverse.
DIET TIP!!!!!! This smell does not want to come out of your nose, and it’ll definitely put you off your feed until the smell is gone). I tried to use tow chains, they broke, rope of course, ditto. Finally for keeping them separate I had to use fire hose, (another dump withdrawal) tied, and looped around their necks, and attached to a drag or to an old truck. I saw the buck run at full-gallop across a bumpy field with a hundred-pound drag flying behind him. The other goats were all females (Does) and were tied in different parts of the shed so they wouldn’t take a notion to spear each other in a fit of pique (they were piqued a lot, too).
In the daytime I’d put each out in fresh pasture, with clean water, close to something large to anchor them. They had to be anchored as they are forgetful. Even though they have exactly what all goats love, and is best for them, fresh, green grass, they think that a forbidden flower garden might just be better, even though they’ve been TOLD NO!.
They’ll eat something bad for them too, even after I’d carefully explained the consequences, they still prefer things that are poisonous. It is a misconception that goats can eat anything and survive.
At night I’d put them back in the shed to keep them safe from stray dogs, and determined coyotes, who think of goats as a tasty, serendipitous meal. However, this is not the easy job I’m making it sound.
The Goats didn’t like to go anywhere I wanted to take them, even though I’d tempt them with the leftover oats from the ranch or fresh alfalfa, or even, their favorite, cracked-corn.
AND THEY KNEW, that every night they would get a scoop of oats, or cracked corn, fresh hay and clean bedding of straw, and fresh water. Every day they had lots of grass, sunshine, enough shade, water, and the company, if at a distance, of other goats, and owners who cared for them, this should have been goat-heaven. Yet, I had to drag them back to their shed, every night!
KIDDING IS NO LAUGHING MATTER, OR THINK LIKE A GOAT- I’m reminded here of one doe, who after kidding (giving birth), decided the she’d done all that was required of her. She sat, just sat, she wouldn’t get up to feed her twins or herself. She was given a calcium shot, because the vet thought she might have milk fever. She was tempted with every tasty treat a goat would like, but she would not eat or get up. I decided to start thinking like a goat. I carried a bag of cracked corn mixed with their all-time favorite, sweet feed (mixed grains and molasses) all of which I had offered to her before. In her sight I took that bag into her private stall, rolled it up and told her, “Now, Angel, don’t you dare eat any of this, because this is not for you.” Then I placed the rolled up bag several feet from her and walked away. The next day I casually checked on her, and to no great amazement, I discovered her standing, nursing her kids, munching on hay. The bag of grains was destroyed, so thoroughly did she tear it apart I found little of it left, and none of the grain.
By February of the next year we had 13 goats altogether due to a population explosion. In the summer I took each adult goat and her kids to a spot just right for her needs and habits (read: bad habits).
Angel, grossly misnamed, for instance, with her twins, couldn’t be kept near a fence because she’d feel compelled to be tangled in the strands of barbed wire. She would resist every attempt on my part to extricate her, the unruly twins further complicating things. She would get a fit of pique and I would be backed up against the wires. She’d loop around me and pin me there with her tether, and you haven’t lived until every square inch of your back is quickly becoming lacerated, while dodging the ever tossing horns of an hysterical doe, trying to push a very stubborn goat through the strands of wire she’d just flipped through from the wrong side, at the same time pushing two bundles of legs (the twins) who love this game, away. I’m sure my neighbors enjoyed watching this and relaying it to the general population.
Miss Butts, who more than lived up to her name couldn’t be kept near any other goat or she’d hurt them.
Bambi, with her one kid, Sam, could just run free because she was too young to have learned too many bad habits.
Bella, was a good goat, no horns, and she followed me like a dog to the shed. In fact, she didn’t even need to be tied except to be kept from poisonous plants.
Every morning I’d take them out, and every night back they’d go home to good food and hay. You’d think they’d be glad to be cooperative, but no....I had to force them to get what they wanted.
Sheep can be led, they just follow, blindly trusting that you’ll lead them where they should go, and they obey. That is IF they know you, they run from strangers. Do you see where I’m heading here? Jesus says he’s our shepherd, leading us to green pastures, beside still waters, caring for those who will follow Him without question, in perfect obedience. (Ps. 23, John 10, 21 for a few)
Now, a word about sheep Isaiah chapter 40 verse 11 reads He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; He gently leads those that have young. (NIV) One day after I knew Jesus as my personal savior, he brought that verse home to me. I was looking at a tapestry of Jesus as the shepherd, there were hundreds of sheep around him trailing off far into the distance. There was one seated in a crooked arm looking very comfortable. I asked, without expecting any answer, “I wonder which of those sheep I am? Oh, yeah, I’m the one way off in the distance.” And the Lord spoke clearly to my heart and said, “No, you’re the one in my arms”. John chapter 10 verse 2 says:
The man who enters by the gate is the shepherd of his sheep. Jesus did that by being a perfect sacrifice for our sins. Verse 3 goes on: ...”and the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own by name and leads them out”. Goats won’t be led, even to be blessed, but the sheep who know His voice, and are called will be led and taken to the best of everything God has for them. In Matthew chapter 25, verse 32, Jesus says, “All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.”
I can imagine that my walk with the Lord is one of miraculously being transformed from a goat to a sheep. Verse 33 says, “ He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left”.
I don’t want to be ‘left’, I want to be ‘right’ in the very center of God’s will and the center of obedience.
LORD, I ask, for all your children, that we learn to bend to your will like the reed in the Jordan river bends to the current. Help us, almighty God to know your will for our lives and lean into it with a yieldedness that you can use, in your service. Enable us to flow with your love rather than break in contrariness. And LORD work in me to will to love those who misuse me or are just downright unlovable. And LORD help me to keep from giving offense, to be lovable, not unlovable. Thank you, JESUS, Amen.
THE BODY IN THE DUMPSTER
For some time now, I’ve lived in a city and taken “city” jobs. I worked a few months for a mini-mart, (it taught me that there are some very nice, patient people in this world, people who will stand for several minutes waiting to pay for their gasoline or candy bar, while I fumble to put in a new cash-register tape (as I stand on a crate to be able to see what I’m doing).
There are some people who are kind, loving, and respectful, Christian or not, and some who are none of those.
I see the raw material that God has to work with when we give our lives over to him to fix and I’m grateful that it’s his job, not mine.
Sometimes, though, I do wonder at his seeming roundabout methods. He put me in the country, so I thought, to teach me how to live there, then brought me back to the city, where I feel out-of-place.
For instance, I’m really a low-tech kind of woman, the roller for the toilet paper is really hi-tech for me.
I often feel out-of-place anyway because I’m short. Or to be politically correct I’m vertically challenged. I prefer short, thank you. I’ve always had a tendency to be short, this is not a new thing for me, I’ve come from a long line of short people, this probably explains my stature, which is only two inches over being a certified elf. But, then it might be nice to be certified.
I’m sure God knew what he was doing, though it is difficult to live in the land of giants who all take great delight in placing things in cabinets two feet over my head, and then pretend that they really didn’t mean to hide anything.
So, my job at the mini-mart had to end because I couldn’t breathe the rarefied air while perched on a crate on top of a chair, while changing tapes twice a shift, always corresponding to the times of greatest rush.
Another time I worked in a ten-story building as a janitor, alone, at night. First, I should tell you about the building, it was big, dark, and haunted. I could hear things, scary sounding things, and I was alone.
Sometimes I would encounter someone working late, well, not really late, just late for them, I was alone after 10pm usually.
I got to know some of the people who worked late regularly and we’d exchange light conversation, but then, they would go home, and I was alone.
I worked there for 6 months and quit due to an injury. But while I was there it was well, just me, and did I mention that I was alone. Just me and whatever was lurking right around the corner.
I sang very loud most of the time, making up tunes to go with my favorite Scriptures on God’s protection, and dared whatever might be there to just come out and fight fair.
It wasn’t really like me to be afraid, either, except for mice, and they don’t count, any sensible person is afraid of them.
* *
I lived alone, once in a tent, no gun, just two small dogs, in a grizzly bear preserve for a whole summer once. There were times when I would walk to my tent in the pitch-dark, finding my way purely by memory, having no fear whatever. Also, I’m a late-night walker in town too, not afraid of people, knowing my God surrounds me with protection, but this building was a whole “nuther” thing as my daughter used to say.
* * *
One night two men drove up to the front in a truck filled with computers, and started to bring out computers from the fifth floor and putting them into their truck.
I went up to check, and one man ducked down behind the counter as I walked up, so I put on my Good-citizen hat and called the police. They came and checked, the men were legitimate. I looked like a Busy body idiot, to anyone who was looking.
Okay, Katy, you’ve just let your imagination run away with you and you’ll never have any credibility with those policemen again. Oh, well, onward and upward, to finish the seventh floor.
The seventh floor office had a shredder which made a very big mess and required a separate preparatory to emptying them in the shredder dumpster, opened the dumpster and O No! There was a body in the dumpster.
I lived in that neighborhood, and participated in a feeding program for the homeless a few blocks away, so knew the faces of all the homeless men, and I didn’t know this man. There was no blood, and the man looked like he was dressed pretty well.
You hear about people finding bodies so this wasn’t a totally unbelievable thing.
* * *
I’ve seen on TV when women see a body on the floor they’ll scream, and I always wondered why. I’ve always secretly sneered at them. Now I know why. Basically the reasoning goes like this,
I DON’T LIKE THIS- SOMEONE-DO SOMETHING!
* * *
So, I screamed, a lot, and with the number of policemen in that are in that area it’s a wonder that one didn’t come to help me. I couldn’t call for them to come out because, I’d just finished calling them for a false alarm and didn’t want to do that again. I screamed and screamed, and the body didn’t move, confirming my worst fears, it really was a dead body.
Then I looked a closer and noticed the lips moved just a little. Now, I was mad! I dumped the shredded paper all over him and slammed the lid down waking him up finally. He crawled out throwing all the paper out I’d just put in. I yelled at him then. “What are you doing, sleeping in my dumpster, have you no self-respect? Don’t you know Jesus died for you and you don’t care anymore about yourself than to sleep in a dumpster.!”
This is not my usual way of witnessing I assure you but it wasn’t a usual occurrence. I doubt if anything I said to him brought him to repentance and I pray that what I said doesn’t keep him from Jesus’ love for him.
A very dear lady once said that if a cup is full of sweet (fresh) water that no matter how it is bumped or jostled it won’t spill any bitter water over its sides.
James chapter 3, verse 10 says: Out of the same mouth come praising and cursing. My brothers this should not be.11Can both fresh water and bitter water flow from the same spring?(NIV)
How much good would I do to be kind to the homeless on regularly scheduled soup kitchen days and turn around in a moment of stress and lash out with harsh words of Jesus’ love for us. Did my words speak love or hostility...
How often do our mouths get used for hurtful things? If we disagree with a brother or sister do we go to that person and quietly try to iron out our differences or do we tell everyone but that person, what we consider to be a fault? It’s really the same thing when we speak anything that does not accurately reflect the way Jesus would speak, out of pure love.
James chapter 3, verse 5 says: “...the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark.6 The tongue is also a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person, sets the whole course of his life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.”
James 3:2, reminds us that:
We are not perfect and we stumble in many ways. If anyone is never at fault in what he says he is a perfect man, able to keep his whole body in check.
But how is one to keep his tongue in perfect check even when something unexpected happens, that scares us, makes us angry or is very offensive?
The answer is hinted at in verse 10 mentioned before: “Out of the same mouth come praising and cursing...”
If we were praising God with every breath we wouldn’t be able to cause people to shy away from God because of what they hear from the members of God's family.As ambassadors of Christ we need to do our utmost to accurately portray the God we say we serve. As it is written “God is blasphemed among the(unbelievers) because of you. Nothing is done by our strength but by Christ’s work in us and our obedient following of his leading.
LORD, help me to speak words of spirit and not flesh. show me, LORD, how to see beyond the offense and see your love shining forth through those people you graciously put in my life to love with your love. O heavenly Father set me as a city on the hill, shining your light out to all. Thank you, JESUS, Amen. SEE PART 2 FOR MORE STORIES