The flight to Dallas had not been on time from any perspective…delays texted to me before my airport arrival, more delays after checking in, and even more delays at the gate. Further waiting occurred on the runway and then evaluation delays before landing. My arrival time to the wonderful home in which I was staying was delayed from around 8:30 pm to 11:00 p.m. But the warm hospitality of this wonderful couple in rural Briar, Texas made it worth the wait. They could not have been more kind and they situated me most comfortably in this land of beautiful bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrushes.
The ladies day was a soul-refresher, too—renewing old sisterhood relationships and forging new friendships that I am sure will last a lifetime. Watching young teens ( and some older ladies, too) using their talents to lead our worship gave me hope for the future of our great sisterhood. Our study of the sower and the soils in Matthew 13, Luke 8 and John 4 was a refresher course in evangelism that I needed. The peace of this study of the Master Sower and His Seed was almost palatable enough to make me forget that the lightning was flashing, the thunder booming and the rain crashing down on the outside of that old country church building. I heard about the baseball-sized hail that was falling nearby, but my mind was focused, for the entire morning, on the serenity of trusting Him.
Until I got in the car for that mad dash to the airport and realized that my flight had been canceled. The text message had come while I was speaking. Not only that, but the flight on which I’d been rebooked was taking off before I could possibly make it to the airport. The estimated call-back time from American Airlines to try and find sufficient information for booking yet again were over 2 hours. Updates online were slow coming. Word was that over 80 planes had been grounded at DFW due to hail damage. and most of the ones not grounded were having a pretty hard time exiting the stormy Dallas/Fort Worth atmosphere. There was a 9:10 pm flight that was still posted as “on-time” and that was my only choice to fly back without missing Sunday worship. So I asked my sweet hosts to drop me at the airport and let me see if that flight really could get me home.
When they dropped me off at the BNA, I exited a car full of warmth and real hospitality. My every need had been met with extreme consideration. I’d marveled at the secret cellar door Brother Bradberry had constructed—a bookshelf that magically opened to a stairwell. He’d played the violin for me and even given me some violin and harp music to enjoy in my car. (His music teacher was, to my surprise, a former member of The Sons of the Pioneers.) They’d fed me breakfast and taken me out for dinner. They’d patiently waited for my incoming flights and given me a cozy place to sleep. They’d shown me lots of bronze sculptures by an amazing artist who had lived his life as a member of the church there. His pieces were showcased in public arenas around Dallas. Sister Bradberry has shown me gorgeous quilts that she had designed and pieced and quilted. All in all, I felt as if I had a VIP pass to a museum of culture and art. And it was all there in a sweet little house in a rural spot just between Boyd and Azle, Texas.
And then I went into the world. There at the curb for departures, I left genuine fellowship and concern, warm handshakes and hugs and walked into chaos and havoc, anger and disgust— on faces, in audible snarls and in cursings of the weather, of the various airlines and of airline representatives who could not have possibly been responsible for all the mayhem. It was kind of like exchanging a security blanket for a muleta at a bull fight. I think I have never heard so many profanities, expletives and gutter words in one thirty minute period as I did during my check-in process at the airport. Police had just handcuffed some drunkards who’d had a little too much time and drink in that airport that day. Angry travelers who’d survived long flights 24 hours ago had then spent the day, unexpectedly, waiting…and waiting…and wandering from switched gate to switched terminal …and waiting some more. Frustrated airline representatives were snapping back at rude customers and sometimes even at entire groups of passengers waiting at their gates. The storm on the outside had made its way into the airport and the explosive tempers there made for a choleric mood in every crowded terminal passageway. People were hungry and had been drinking too much and many had spent far more than they’d ever intended, leaving themselves wanting for provisions for the rest of their journeys. To put it mildly, people were mad.
Lesson one from that stormy night: In times of distress and anxiety, there’s a vast difference between the dispositions of the few people who have chosen the narrow “rural roads” and the multitudes who are crowding from gate to gate through the broad “terminals” of life. When I see them in clear contrast, I’m so happy to be a part of the family of God. And may I see them in clear contrast; not just on the stormy days, but every day.
I’m sitting here in the dark in a hotel room in Sevierville, Tennessee on the Lord’s day, with two sleeping grandchildren on the bed beside me. During the past four days, I’ve spoken to ladies groups seven times, heard my husband speak once about the responsibility of elders from Revelation 2 and 3, heard my son do a Q and A session and then another on Joy, and wished that I could go and hear my daughter talk about how our God is not extraordinary. I worshipped the Lord this morning in a conference center where thousands of others were worshipping Him and heard a decidedly comforting sermon about how my Lord cares for me through the storms of life. I know it sounds like heaven and it really feels like I must be in the very vestibule of it; after all, I am walking these halls with hundreds who will share in that eternal abode. I’m putting my arms around the necks of brothers and sisters–bodies that will rise to meet Him in the air. I’m getting to eat and drink with family that’s untethered to this earth, already having its sights set on another feast above. I talked to ladies about how that caring for my earthly father, who left this life last December, has taught me that the heavenly Father can never be repaid. But my Father can be honored. I know he was honored when someone went home and cleaned out her closet after hearing a lesson on modesty. I know he was honored when another went and purchased alternate clothing onsite after hearing that lesson. I know He was glorified when one sister I love said, “It has been a very hard and dry year. I came so thirsty and I have been filled.” I know He is being magnified on this mountain at Polishing the Pulpit 2018. Sometimes I think, in a perfect world, Jesus could just come on back for us while we are at PTP.
I’m excited about the trip to Israel! More details will follow about that trip. But it opens up to all members of the body tomorrow at 12:45 pm. Several of you have approached us this week and said “I am going!” This will be a life-changing trip for us and I can’t wait to board the plane for Tel-Aviv next May. Registration will be open until we reach our maximum number. We have currently registered around 35 people from the Digging Deep group alone.
If you are a Digger and you see me or another Digger in the hall today, tap me on the shoulder and say “I Escaped!” You can do this and keep walking to your lecture It will be a fun way to lead up to our session on Tuesday, for which I absolutely cannot wait!
It’s thrilling to see the list of travelers growing as we plan the Digging Deep Israel trip. I’ve been thinking about what our Lord said about marriage in Matthew 19 and Mark 10 lately. Every time I go to the Word now, I think about how his surroundings must have appeared. I’m told that much of the ancient areas we will see look a lot like they did when he was walking and teaching on this earth.
Yesterday was the fiftieth anniversary of the Westside church in Salem, Virginia. It was a blessing and honor for Glenn and me to be invited back to speak to the regulars and home-comers as faithful saints gathered on this day, as they have faithfully done in this locale for fifty years. Interestingly, our local work with this congregation began on it’s twentieth anniversary. We were extremely blessed to have lived and worked there for a wonderful and memorable five years. That means that twenty-five years have elapsed since we made the decision to move from Salem to Alabama. That sweet family of God, where the candle of Revelation two is very much still aflame, will always hold a deep and dear spot in our hearts. 
That’s a good thing. It means we went somewhere else, to a place where we thought the need was greater for us—for our family in His cause, for ministry to my mother who was dying, at the time. Certainly we are never irreplaceable. In fact, those who followed us have done greater works than we could have done in that place. For those men and those works, we are profoundly grateful. There’s a great work still happening in that place. God’s goodness is everywhere in Salem, Virginia in 2017. 
Tonight I showed my dad a couple of You Tube videos that feature the San Saba, the navy ship on which he traveled around the world during the second World War. Now, I’m pretty sure there must have been some momentous things that occurred as that crew delivered troops to shorelines, launching them in smaller boats to finally put troops ashore in enemy territory. 