Lovin' Tellin' The Story: When was the last time you pulled a Daniel?

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Lovin' Tellin' The Story: When was the last time you pulled a Daniel?

Chapter 3 - The Lake

       I was just six years old when I first laid eyes on the thickly wooded lot leading down to

the rocky lake shore. What did I care except that I loved the water and the woods?  Next thing I knew Mama, Daddy, my brother and I were camping out on the spot in a tiny tin can trailer. The men (my father and grandfather and uncles) worked all day long laying the concrete blocks that would become our lake house and my cousins’ right next door. While my mother cooked to keep the men well-fed, I busied myself gathering pretty red holly berries and “cooking” pine bark “bacon” over a miniature rock fire-pit. Each night we’d fall asleep listening to whip-poor-wills calling and mountain lions screaming across the water.

  The houses were finished by the next summer, and soon there was a dock out front with sporty wooden boat tied to it. Weekends became filled with the high whine of the old green Evinrude outboard mingled with the squeals of cousins and friends echoing off the brown water. I'm sure our parents grew tired of the monotonous tunes of  "Found A Peanut" and "She'll Be Comin'  'Round the Mountain" that accompanied us on all boat rides!
          Hot summer afternoons were cooled down with two special treats. When we kids heard the unmistakable "CRACK!" of a cold watermelon being opened on the picnic table under the trees, we'd climb out of the water and dive into a hunk of the sweet fruit until our faces and arms were pink with the juice, then plunge back into the lake to rinse off.  For high adventure sometimes our parents would put the green globe into a cooler with ice and carry us all in the boat to "Turkey Island" for a watermelon picnic! Other days, we'd hope that a boat ride would end up at Mr. Beatty's marina, where Daddy would bring all us kids an icy orange "push-up" to dribble down our chins on the way home. By evening, when we were nice and sticky, we'd grab a towel and a bar of Ivory soap (""It floats!") and head to the lake for our Saturday night bath, with the adults joining in the fun!

          There was just one difficulty for all of us: the only time we could enjoy our special place was on weekends, and that meant missing church on Sundays.  Soon the problem was solved when my Daddy got together with some of the other new property owners and decided to meet under the trees by the lake and have Sunday School.  Sometimes, if it was raining, we'd just sit in someone's car, often Daddy's big  Buick company car, because it was the roomiest.  Before long, one of the men brought along an old portable pump organ, and my Mama would sit on a stump and work her short slender legs, playing the hymns that we all knew. 

      As word spread and houses bloomed like wildflowers over the ragged lakeshore, our numbers increased enough to purchase a lot and build a shelter. We named it the John R. Bender Worship Center, in honor of one of our beloved teachers, who has since gone on to be with the Lord. We sit on hand-hewn wooden benches, made lovingly by some of the men. There's a tin roof over our heads and a nice concrete floor and electricity to run the overhead fans and the sound system. Eventually our congregation grew so that on big holidays (Fourth of July, Labor Day) we'd have as many as four hundred gathered under the trees to worship. Several years ago an addition was built and named "The Fields Pavilion" to honor my sweet parents who dedicated so much of their lives to this special place. Sadly, in recent years the crowds have dwindled as our interests seem to have turned to more worldly pursuits, such as jet-skiing and tubing behind monster power boats. But some things will never change: we still sing the same old favorite hymns, and there are no walls or windows to keep out the rustling of the breeze in the trees or the birdsongs that add to the music.

My Sanctuary

My sanctuary is simple--
No walls and windows hath it
To keep a solitary soul
Either within or without.

Its choir is winged and feathered,
Its hours have no limits or bounds.
Its Pastor is The Good Shepherd,
His flock comes from all around.

My sanctuary is simple--
'Tis but a bright spot in the wood;
But oh how my heart has been blessed from the start
By the times in this temple I've stood.

                                                                               -- Charlanne Fields, 1968

“How lovely is Your dwelling place, O Lord Almighty! My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.” (Psalm 84:1-2)

READ:  Psalm 8
PONDER THIS: In a poem, or just a paragraph, describe the place you feel closest to God. Then stop and thank Him for His wonderful creation.

MUSIC FOR YOUR MEDITATION: 

Chapter 2 - Asheboro Street

        Asheboro Street Baptist Church was more to me than music: it was where I first met Jesus. I truly have no memory of not knowing Him. Not everyone has been so blessed, I know, but that doesn't mean He has not always been there beside you, waiting at the door to be let in. I have no idea why He chose to give me the life I've had; I certainly have done nothing to deserve all this grace. But that's why they call it grace-- it's not deserved.

          Some of my earliest memories are sitting in little wooden chairs that scraped noisily on the dull linoleum floors of the Sunday School room. The light filtered through bumpy glass windows to illuminate the teacher and the flannel board on which she placed images of the characters she talked about from her Bible. I saw a golden straw basket placed among the "bullrushes." (They looked like the cattails decorating my grandfather's pond.) I was told the basket contained the baby Moses, who would lead the children of Israel from Egypt back to their homeland. I saw a beautiful young lady in blue robes riding a donkey to a stable where she would give birth to the baby Jesus, who would die on a cross for my sins. I LOVED this baby, because He gave His sweet, perfect life for me, so I could go to heaven to live with God. When I sang "Jesus Loves Me" I never thought to doubt it: I accepted it like I accepted my parents' love for me.
    
          I was, for the most part, a good, obedient child who followed the Ten Commandments to the best of my understanding. In church, I watched reverently as people went into the pool behind the altar in our sanctuary, were plunged into the water and came up dripping and beaming. Each time in my mind I was in the water with them and came up with a new joy in my heart. When I was age seven, one Sunday evening service as Preacher Parker gave the invitation to come to the altar and I sang the hymn along with the congregation, I felt a burning come over my body as tangible as the high fevers I had often experienced. It was as if a great invisible hand came down and urged me out of my seat, propelled me down the aisle to the feet of my waiting pastor. I KNEW, as much as a seven-year-old could know, that I was the sinner that my precious Jesus died for, and I wanted everyone to know I belonged to HIM. It was as if all the shame of my future life was made known to me for a brief moment, and I knew I needed to claim His forgiveness right then.

          “Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”” (Matthew 19:14) 

READ: Matthew 18:2-5

PONDER THIS: Recall when you first heard about Jesus. What did you feel? Did you give Him your life?

(PLEASE NOTE: If you are enjoying the music, there's a link on the right to our website, where you can read more about this wonderful group I am privileged to sing with, Wing and A Prayer. You can purchase our CDs on iTunes and Amazon, as well!)

MUSIC FOR YOUR MEDITATION:

Chapter 1 - The First Nine Years

You can see it in pictures when I was smallB a wispy-haired blond with pale blue eyes always looking off to the side as if listening for angels.  Oh, I wouldn=t have said so thenB just that perhaps it was the alone-ness that made me different.  For my first nine years we lived in the country, no other children close by, so I played mostly by myself with my dolls, building imaginary houses, making up tuneless songs with simple, rhyme-less words.  My childhood was otherwise as Anormal@ as anyone=s, or at least I thought so then.  My asthma kept me from being as active as some, but it was all I knew, so I didn=t mind. 

Daddy was my first Prince Charming. Stunningly handsome even now in his nineties, back then with his thick mane of black hair and dashing moustache he was aptly nicknamed AClark Gable.@  Tall and slender, too, he truly looked the part, especially when he donned his gray felt Homburg hat. It was post-World War II, and we were far from wealthy, but we had a home full of love, and my father provided for his family admirably by being a traveling salesman. I mostly respected (and probably a little bit feared) my father from afar, because he was so often absent-- and when he came home, the administrator of discipline!  I never doubted my father=s love for me, yet I constantly found myself seeking his approval.  I associate him with three things in my youth: ham radio, a new Buick company car every two years, and taking the family to church every Sunday.  

 I remember hearing about the church orchestra Daddy played in and directed before World War II took him off to the Civil Air Patrol, and some of my most vivid childhood memories take me back to adult choir rehearsal on Thursday nights. On Sunday mornings I would sit with an adult friend while Mama played the beautiful old pipe organ  and Daddy waved his arms in the choir loft above me, the two of them creating ethereal music for God’s ears. The Christmas cantatas they led still play in the soundtrack of my memory , as fresh as the pungence of the pine boughs we gathered on my grandfather’s farm to decorate the church the Saturday before Christmas.  I loved helping arrange the candles and red bows that adorned the stained-glass windows.

          My mother was my constant companion and caretaker, and as soon as I went to school so did she, as a school secretary and later a teacher. Mama got me up every morning and took me to school where she worked.  After the bell rang at the end of the day, I would join her in the office until her day ended.  Then we'd proceed home, sometimes stopping at the A&P for groceries.  I was her little helper-- whether it was putting "blueing" in the old wringer washing machine, running sheets and pillowcases through the "mangle" or fixing us dinner on the big electric stove--until she tucked me in at night.

Today she would have been called a Asuper-mom,@ a liberated woman for the 1950s, because she did it all, from running the household day in and day out to driving her own column-shift Nash Rambler to work every day!  I=m sure I didn=t appreciate all she accomplished, because to me it was an embarrassment that my clothes, beautiful as they were, were homemade, as were our curtains and slipcovers and my dolls= clothes.  On top of all this, she helped look after her own parents and sisters, and kept my father and teen-aged brother happy.  And somehow she also  managed to entertain several of my cousins and an occasional neighbor=s child, once in a while taking  us all to Youth Fellowship or Vacation Bible School.

The other male in my life was my brother Charles, who was ten years old when I was born.  As with my father, then, I always admired him from afar, and he probably has no idea to this day how involved in his life I was.  Rather than being either my best friend or my arch-enemy, as often happens with siblings closer in age, my brother became my idol.  There=s an old black-and-white photograph (which Charles probably developed in his darkroom in our upstairs) that brings back such fond memories with me in my child=s rocking chair sitting beside my brother talking on his ham radio. 

When I was small, I had a vicarious adolescence through Charles.  I remember the excitement when he began to drive and polish his Acool@ cars in our driveway, and I had terrible crushes on his friends who came to our house. The music in our home didn=t fail to influence him.  I can still hear the haunting notes coming from his gleaming brass trumpet, the sound as graceful as the curves of the instrument.  Whether he was playing at church or in the high school marching band I must have beamed like the light flashing off the trumpet, I was so proud of my big brother!

I suppose I will never know which was the greater influence on my later yearsB the music that filled so much of my young life or the six years of piano lessons I was forced to take as a child.  Whatever the cause, I don=t remember a time when my head was not filled with music nearly every waking minute (and many sleeping minutes!).  Yet I do not consider myself an accomplished musician by any stretch of the imagination.  I can read notes on a page, yet if I ever knew much theory, most of it is lost to me now.  I have no gift for creating musical combinations or even playing an instrument.  My gift is an ear for harmony, and for the harmony of words.  Perhaps more than anything it was all those early years of going to choir practice with my parents.  Certainly, singing in choirs and musical groups has been my passion since my youth, and I have been privileged to sing with many excellent choirs under several gifted directors.  For all of these blessings of music God placed in my life, I shall never be able to express my gratitude, but most of all to my parents I wish to extend my deepest thanks.

“Since my youth, O God, you have taught me, and to this day I declare Your marvelous deeds.” (Psalm 71:17)

READ: Proverbs 31:30, Proverbs 22:6

PONDER THIS: Take as much time as you need to think and write about your important familial relationships, the people you grew up around, and those that are important to you now. Try to see threads that have come together to make you the person you are today.

MUSIC FOR YOUR MEDITATION: 

A Hole in My Heart - Introduction

Dear Reader,

     This book is dedicated to my family, which as all families do, has changed over the years and is ever-changing still.  No one ever drops outB once you=re there, you=re always there.  Of course my parents, husband, son, brother, in-laws, cousins, aunts and uncles are there. And a host of friends who are as close as relatives. But so are you, if I=ve ever met you, or even just sat beside you on an airplane, passed you on the sidewalk, read one of your books or listened to your song.  And even if we=ve never met, or never do, I consider you family, and I wish I could look every one of you in the eye and tell you this one thing. But then, I=m only human, so this the only way I know how to let you know, if you happen to be on the other side of the world.  Here it is, this one thing I know:

GOD LOVES YOU MORE THAN YOU CAN EVER IMAGINE!

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” –John 3:16 (KJV)

          This is my story, but it’s not really intended to be about me. I write it only to help you write your own story, even though yours will not be the same as mine.  Each chapter concludes with a Scripture and a journal question. Please read the Scripture selections prayerfully before taking all the time you need to answer the questions.  I recommend that you try to complete only one chapter per day, as it is my hope that each one will evoke healing thoughts about your own life.

          Also, please be assured that each one who reads these words has already been lifted up in prayer for at least as much healing as I have received during this process. You must remember, too, that not one of us is ever finished learning and growing as long as we breathe. My journey is certainly not over with this book, but hopefully at its conclusion both of us can say we have made great strides along the way,

     Finally, forever and always, TO GOD BE THE GLORY!

INTRODUCTION: GRACE THAT AMAZES

     I used to think I was somewhere between Adifferent@ and Ajust plain weird.@  I never felt like I really fit in or belonged-- anywhere except sitting in the golden light in the field of dried grass behind our house, or in the soft, fragrant embrace of the pine forest across the road from the lake cottage.  Now I know that makes me just like everybody elseB touched with more grace and mercy than I deserve.

I once believed that I could see things more clearly, feel things more deeply than others.  Even as a child I shed tears over a beautiful sunset or the salty taste of the ocean on my lips.  I knew without a shadow of a doubt God was speaking to me through the elements of His awesome creation. I somehow sensed these were miraculous evidences of His love for us all, just hints of His greatest miracle of eternal life.  In my child-like way I felt that absolutely nothing was Acoincidence,@ but rather all part of an exquisite, perfect plan. 

     Now, of course, I=ve come to realize that this awareness is there for us all, if we just open our eyes.  I=ve also come to understand that I can=t MAKE you see any more than someone else could make me see when I was blinded.  Blinded by the world, my own fleshly desires.  It is, after all, a gift from God, eventually given to all who SEEKB that is the key.

     My deepest longing, now that I have discovered the key, is to share it with EVERYONEB that=s why I=m writing, I suppose.  If I could, I would open your head and your heart and just pour it in, this knowing, but that=s not how it works.  You have to do it for yourself.  Perhaps, though, by reading my story, you might at least want to open the door, look in the mirror, begin to open your eyes, too.

“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands.” Psalm 19:1)

READ:  John 1:16

PONDER THIS: Today, try to see God’s grace and mercy wherever you go—in a butterfly, a sunset, a green light when you’re in a hurry, a stranger’s smile. Record your observation, and more importantly, what you felt.
MUSIC TO MEDITATE BY:  

Spring Forward

      In just a few days we'll be moving our clocks ahead, as days are growing noticeably longer and trees are beginning to bud. Some of us have the sniffles from that annoying pollen that is required to produce the beautiful rainforest we North Carolinians inhabit. Daffodils are already brightening the dull landscape of winter with their sunny yellow faces. Many folks are looking ahead to summer vacation.

     I confess to you here and now I am forcing myself to press forward on a project that has been heavy on my heart for several years. I have begun it, put it down, picked it up, put it down I don't even know how many times over the past six years, at least. Steadily, however, it has progressed toward what I feel is completion, until at last I believe I am ready to share it with at least my little part of the world.

     I must thank my writer friend and mentor, Judy Colbert, for giving me the idea to share it in this space. Judy, I believe you were the mouth of God "whispering" in my ear through your encouraging e-mail. I will be happy to report to you this week I've taken my first step in publishing the book He has laid on my heart.

     I won't promise how frequently a chapter will appear, although I often claim to be "a completion person" -- once a project is begun I usually am eager to finish it (with the obvious exception of this one!). I also (with a wee bit of trepidation!) invite you to share with friends, AND to comment either on the blog or e-mail me with constructive criticism, either positive or negative. In other words, you are my "test group" or "reading group" and I WELCOME your comments. I truly wrote every word of this with the purpose of helping someone else, not for the joy of talking about myself. 

     Almost from the beginning I saw this as a sort of guided journaling exercise, with my story serving to stimulate introspection in the reader, and so I suggest you read with pen and paper (even better, a notebook!) at hand. You'll also need a Bible. At best, I hope to encourage growth and perhaps even avoidance of some of the pits I fell into. At the very least, I want you, the reader, to be encouraged about your walk of faith, to understand that a loving God has been with you every step of the way. But now I'm jumping into my introduction, so I will simply say, let us begin our journey together as I share with you A Hole in My Heart.

THANK YOU for traveling with me!

Charlanne

     "Who are my mother and my brothers?" He asked. Then He looked at those seated in a circle around Him and said, "Here are my mother and my brothers. Whoever does God's will is my brother and sister and mother."       (Mark 3:33-34, NIV)

     "Keep in loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it. "     (Hebrews 13:1-2 NIV)

     "Finally, all of you, live in harmony with one another; be sympathetic, love as brothers, be compassionate and humble."     (1 Peter 3:8, NIV)

A Season for Miracles

     I wonder how often all of us have missed witnessing a miracle simply for lack of opening our eyes? Do we think the time for miracles ended with the final words of Revelation? Or perhaps with the death of the prophet Jeremiah? I’m not even speaking of the daily wonders of each sunrise, new life, each breath we take, the love shining from another’s eyes. I have been strikingly reminded these last months of 2012 that God is still working miracles today, if we simply ask and believe.
      Jean was diagnosed with thyroid cancer in late spring– “convenient” timing since she is a  teacher. Surgery and radiation took place during her summer break, allowing for recovery time before the fall re-opening of school. All went well, except that Jean experienced one of the forewarned complications: one of her vocal cords was paralyzed from the surgery, and by mid-August she still had no voice. Prayers for her were intensified, and every morning she awoke and tried her voice with only a whisper resulting from her efforts. One week before school started she awoke and did the usual vocal test, and much to her delight a sound came out amazingly resembling her normal voice! At her scheduled doctor’s follow-up appointment a few days later, a scope was inserted in her throat and her doctor was stunned to see that her vocal cord was still paralyzed! The man of medicine could only say, “I can’t explain it. You shouldn’t be able to talk!” Jean replied, “Oh I can!” with a great big smile. She’s back at school teaching her fifth grade class with her miracle voice!
      Jeff has been battling a very rare form of lymphoma, called Waldenstrom’s. He has other health conditions which make treatment very complicated and difficult. He had exhausted all avenues except for a trial at Dana-Farber in Boston. He was accepted for screening and went to Boston to complete qualification for the trial. I can’t possibly explain all the numbers and their significance, but anyone who knows anyone who has been treated for any type of cancer knows the importance of various “numbers.” The next to last day of the week-long screening one of Jeff’s numbers was off-the-charts WRONG to qualify him. A request for prayers went out as the doctor gave him a last-ditch effort shot hoped to improve that number. The next morning the last hopeful vial of blood was drawn and tested. The results: off-the-charts POSITIVE, qualifying Jeff for the trial. After approximately six weeks of the trial drug, Jeff’s numbers are steadily improving, meaning that the new drug appears to be working!
      Daddy (a strapping 210-pound, mentally sharp age 98) went in the hospital with pneumonia November 26. He was treated with mega-IV antibiotics, and after a week released to go to rehab to regain his strength. Almost immediately he began experiencing severe diarrhea and loss of appetite. He grew weaker and weaker and finally was refusing to take even any liquid nourishment. My brother and I had gone every day to try to encourage him to eat ANYTHING, to no avail. Sunday, December 11, having lunch with friends after church, everyone was asking about Daddy and I described what was happening. My friend Linda said, “It sounds like C. diff.” (Clostridium difficile, one of the new “super-bugs” caused by taking too many antibiotics.) “What’s that?” I asked.  Bill immediately looked it up on the internet and concurred that those were exactly his symptoms. Christian volunteered to take me to Greensboro, and so we went. I spoke to Daddy’s nurse about C. diff, and he said he didn’t think that was it. The next morning Daddy seemed even weaker and more distressed. I insisted Daddy be seen by the doctor and be given IV fluids at least. Meanwhile a urinary infection had been discovered: more antibiotics. The test for C.Diff. was done, but results would not be in for a day or two. All the while, before my very eyes Daddy worsened. I decided he must go to the hospital, where he was tested IMMEDIATELY for C.diff with IMMEDIATE positive results. He began treatment in hospital and was transferred back to rehab in a few days, where he is slowly gaining strength and beginning to eat limited solid food. I KNOW God spoke through Linda to set us on the right track for Daddy’s healing!        
      My miracle was one of the heart. I can’t even say how long I have asked God to help me love, I mean truly love, this person who is important to me, yet so different in many ways.  I have loved her with His love, of course, yet we remained distant by more than the miles that separate us. Each time I see her, I offer the same prayer, and each time it has been the same– not unpleasant for the most part, but not the warmth I have longed for for many years. It changed this time– I can’t say exactly how or when. I only know that the night before we parted I cried because I knew it would be a long time before we would be together again. The next day I cried as soon as she was out of sight and all the way to the airport. I cry even now as I write, but these tears are in humble thanksgiving to God for this gift of love, this answered prayer, the one I perhaps believed in the least. But isn’t that just how we are, thinking miracles are for other folks but not ourselves?
    Our miracle is much like mine described above, but of course on a much grander scale. It came for you and for me and for every other human being who has ever lived. Like mine, it is a Gift of Love, the Greatest Love ever given to humankind. Like mine, it was long-anticipated, but probably never really expected, certainly not in the way it came. You very likely know the story, because we’ve just spent millions of dollars, dozens of hours, untold amounts of energy and weeks of planning the annual celebration of This Love, this gift of mercy unprecedented. This arrival of our Creator God Himself in human form among us – a tiny Jewish baby in a humble stable in an insignificant town in Israel – could have gone unnoticed EXCEPT this town, these stables, were the very spot where the perfect lambs for the temple sacrifice were raised! Where else could the Perfect, FINAL Sacrifice for all the sins of the world be born? Does that fact take your breath away as much as it does mine? I feel like I could BURST with excitement over the knowledge of this Good News! Makes me want to do a happy dance and sing and shout all at the same time!
    You know, this may have been a difficult Christmas for you, as it was for me. Things aren’t so great in our world right now, and my world was a little less than perfect this Christmas with Daddy between the hospital and the nursing home, but when I gaze at my Christmas tree covered with lights and stars and think of the light of that first Christmas star, I can’t help smiling. At the center of my tree, all decorated in white, is one red, heart-shaped ornament with one word on it: JESUS. Oh, I know that wasn’t His name in Hebrew, but it’s how we think of Him today.  My Christmas wish for everyone reading this is that you know His perfect love, that you accept His perfect gift of love, even though none of us deserve it. That’s why they call it “grace.”

"But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." (Romans 5:8 NIV)