Interests:My Family;
Music Composition, Arrangement, Performance;
Christian Apologetics, Hermeneutics, Theology, Philosophy, Missions;
Science and Technology; Political and Economic Analysis. Expertise:Jack of All, Master of None Occupation:Manufacturing Administration Industry:Laboratory Furniture
For those of you who have been waiting, this is the graduation memorial video for Elizabeth Wall. Her mom narrates.
I wasn't sure about the quote from Tozer toward the end and the more I pondered it the better I liked it. It fits well with the song the family sings: "In Jesus' name we press on." On toward a new day tomorrow? No, but on toward a new day today. This is the measure of a life - not that our hope is in the future or that our hope is in the past, but that the hope of Christ is for now. We press on as though to win the race, not hoping for the trophy, but that our steps continue. For we don't reach the end of the race by forgetting that we have another step to take right now. And we don't ever reach the end of a life that is eternal. Emmanuel, the Christ, is with us now. His salvation is available to us now to be sure, but beyond that we are His presence and those to whom we minister present an opportunity to minister to Christ in them. It's no mistake that my previous post is about how we minister to each other. The difference we make in each other's lives is the measure of our life in Christ - not that there is any extravagant and immediate evidence as though to say, "Look at my good life!" But the measure is that which God uses of us in our weakness. I've always had a heart for the underdog. Maybe that's why sports don't interest me much: I always pull for the loser. Competition is okay and comeuppance is short lived, but the losing team that sticks it out bravely has the greater award.
What is the measure of Elizabeth's life? Not that it was short. Not that it took a lot of resources to keep her alive as long as she was. She made a difference in the lives of her immediate family. She made a difference in her church. She made a difference in the children to whom she ministered the gospel. she made difference in the lives of the community at large. She has made a difference in my life even now. May she make a difference in yours.
Someone is hurt at a convention. People rush to assist and the call is made: "Is there a doctor in the house?" Someone has a heart attack and the call for and ambulance is made. The house is burning and the call is made for fire fighters to bring their trucks and extinguish it.
There's a truly spooky commercial I hear on the radio a few times a day. A sea of voices say, "We are your friends." A few of those voices say, "We are the friends you work with." A few others say, "We are the friends you hang out with in Saturday night." This goes on through a few iterations. If I heard voices like that, I always think to myself, I'd have to check myself into the mental ward. Just then a single voice announces herself in so many words as the friend who is your psychiatric counselor. I knew it was coming. It's a public service announcement or some such encouraging people to support their friends who are having emotional problems. I always ask myself, what if the person having emotional problems doesn't have any close friends? Perhaps the call should be made for a friend. Thus the title of this post.
Some recent cartoons:
It's better that someone yell at you like Violet just did to Charlie Brown than to be ostracized by someone who tries not to hurt your feelings by it. That's the southern way, the sickeningly sweet, "Bless his heart."
I really identify with that poor apteryx. I couldn't say in person the things I'm able to type; and if I actually get the chance, I get so nervous I have trouble speaking and forming words. I practice talking to people when no one is listening so I'll have something coherent to say when the time comes. Pathetic, no?
The only person who calls me on my cell phone is my wife. I know other people have my number, but they generally never call. What does that say?
Well, I do have friends. In general, they're not overly close friends. My closest friends outside of my marriage are found on the Internet. I can hear the argument now: get off the computer and go out and make some real live friends. It doesn't happen easily for me, and I suspect that it doesn't happen easily for many of the people who may read this. Generally, people like to keep me at arm's length. I'm the kind of guy who can walk into a crowded room, meander to the corner and stand there alone. Some people may say hello and go on their way to another more interesting person. I see other people who can walk into a crowded room and not be able to make it to the corner without being swamped with people vying for their attention. Charisma is a mysterious thing.
I also know that many who read this are the type of people I just described: people who don't know what loneliness is. They've never felt the hopelessness of not being able to express themselves and be understood. They don't know what it's like not to have people who value their opinion enough to seek it out or to have people the number of which is significant enough to trust their leadership.
I wrote this post for both types of people. Listen to David Moss teach from Hebrews 10:24,25
24 And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, 25
not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but
encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing
near.
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The obvious message is to those who have more than their fair share of cool charisma. Be on the lookout for those watching from a lonely corner of the room who are NOT vying for your attention. They are the walking wounded. If you ask them if they need anything, they may be like the apteryx and not know what to say. If so, they need immediate attention. A person having a heart attack may not die anytime soon if nothing is done, but they need immediate medical attention. The socially inept need a friend like a heart attack patient needs to be tested to see if they need a stint, medication or bypass surgery.
The other side of the message is to my fellow lonesome doves. The tendency for those of us who have less than our fair share of cool charisma, when our condition wears on us, is to isolate ourselves. There is no shame in asking for help. It is the call for a friend as one who needs a physician for a physical ailment. If you call for your fellow Christians, they should respond. If they don't, God will be their judge.
I can hear another argument: we should be satisfied with the friends that God has given us - or the lack thereof. This is like saying that we should be satisfied with no food. Humans are design by God to be social creatures. As such, we need other people. I can hear another argument: we need to change in order to attract others. How, precisely? I've not a clue. I hear people keep a group of people enthralled when they talk about themselves. I do that and people tune me out. The only way I can keep a conversation is to get other people to talk about themselves. Then they go away. The arguments for the less than socially astute to be different don't fly.
Now, I must be fair. I'm not unliked. Actually, many people hold me in high esteem. They just don't con how to connect with me on my level and it intimidates them. I don't know how to connect with them until I know better how they respond to certain behavioral patterns and simplify my approach. However, I know people who are pretty much ignored. These are people I try to reach out to.
Are you reaching out? Are you lonely and need a friend? Are you reaching out to your Christian brothers or sisters as though to call for a doctor? Are you endowed with more friends than you have time for? Try reaching out to someone who drives off the people who only hang around for what they can get out of a friendship.
April 6, 1989, marks the day that Lori Elizabeth Wall drew her first breath. Cystic Fibrosis (CF) is a genetic disorder that causes pulmonary and digestive problems by affecting the mucous in the lungs and obstructing the function of the pancreas. Elizabeth had CF. Four years ago it became imperative that she receive a lung transplant. She never got new lungs and her time on earth ended April 22, 2004.
Elizabeth's dad, Charles Wall, is the Pastor of Grace Alliance Fellowship here in Statesville. The Wall family homeschools, which is where I've come to know them. Each year some of the homeschoolers among our group join together in a joint graduation ceremony for graduates. This year, the graduates asked the Walls if they would like to participate in graduation with a memorial to Elizabeth.
I was asked by the family to put together a video for the occasion which I finished only this weekend. I haven't uploaded it yet to YouTube, but when I do, I'll post it.
Elizabeth had a difficult time throughout her life with her condition. Nevertheless, she was no less active than any healthy kid. She loved to jump on the trampoline, climb trees, hula hoop, jump on the pogo stick, ice skate, ski, swim, ride horses, fish, go on hay rides, and so much more. She sounds like an active kid. She was so much more.
She was often found caring for babies. She loved to share the gospel with other children. She was active in Child Evangelism Fellowship
(CEF), where she would share her faith. Where many who call themselves
Christian shy away from speaking of Christ, even to other Christians,
this little girl boldly endeavored to fulfill the Great Commission.
She also loved to sing. The whole family is musical and has always sang together. I've sung in choirs most of my life. Most of these choirs have been for churches. Some churches are more responsive than others, but normally when the choir looks out at a congregation, there can be found many who refuse to even wiggle their lips in praise to God. One wonders what they're doing there. The typical excuse I've heard is that a person can't sing. I think there's a common confusion between "making a joyful noise" and "talent". Some of the dearest moments I've had in worshiping through special music is when an amateur with a shaky, almost-in-tune voice drops the pretense of feigned spiritualism and offers praise to God with every ounce of childlike humility they have. Elizabeth was practiced, but not professional. As I screened the footage her family provided to me to include in the video I saw Elizabeth, hardly a month before her death, singing praises to God with her failing lungs. What a testimony to the rest of us when we complain about anything we think prevents us from glorifying God.
I don't debate as much as I used to. The reason is that most of the topics I've debated haven't changed and neither has the level of the debate. In other words, most debates pretty much rehash the same arguments over and over. One reason is that people aren't generally convinced. As an example, in many debates I often see one side or the other make “straw man” arguments. That means that they misconstrue what the other side believes and attack this misconception as though to win the debate. For example, many Arminians accuse compatibilistic Calvinists of hyper-Calvinistic beliefs. Muslims often use straw man arguments because Mohammad was not exposed to authentic Christianity and only knew the pseudo-Christian heretics that lived in his area. Therefore, when he dictated the Koran he made arguments against the only “Christianity” he knew.
It's easy to win a debate against someone who uses straw man arguments if your purpose is to win the debate on logical terms. If your purpose is to convince someone that your conclusions are true, then you must first help them to understand your conclusions. Typically, someone who makes straw man arguments either believes that his opponent actually believes it or thinks his opponent's position is logically dissonant. This is because he's using a different set of presuppositions and doesn't understand his opponents presuppositions.
Therefore, if your goal is to actually convince your opponent to change his mind, then the prospect of waging a debate becomes more difficult. It's not enough to simply call a straw man a straw man. You must help your opponent understand your presuppositions.
Perhaps the most interesting debate I ever had was with a college fellow who wasn't quite settled on the issue of Reformed theology. As a compatibilist, I argued from one extreme to the other working him into a mind frenzy until he realized that hyper-Calvinism and libertarian free will are both untenable. He was then willing to consider compatibilism.
The most difficult people I've debated are Darwinists. The problem is that Darwinists typically refuse to discuss presuppositions. They have a set of mid-level presuppositions that they use as an acid test. If you accept these, then they'll talk. If you challenge them, they shut down and resort to ad hominems and are generally dismissive. The reason they don't go any deeper than these mid-level presuppositions is that down deep they are afraid they might be wrong. This is where Dawkins is instructive. He goes deeper and verbalizes it. Then, when he all but admits that the more foundational presuppositions to Darwinism are conflicted, he becomes dismissive and retreats back up to his mid-level presuppositions.
All you can do at that point is say that you gave it a try, but your opponent was unwilling. As it goes, for those of us who know the Holy Spirit, a desire to assent to the truth requires no foreknowledge of the truth, because that desire cannot be debated into someone either evidentially or presuppositionally. That desire is only given by the grace of God.
LEt's start with a school photo from South Elementary School in Greenville, Oh:
We had four neighbor girls next door. These were the oldest two, Charlotte and Gerri Enicks. I don't have any photos of their younger two sisters, Jo Anne and Kelly. If I was Charlie Brown, Gerri was my Lucy van Pelt. She's the one sitting at the top of the slide. She's the one that let go of the bike when I was coasting down the small hill between our houses. I learned to ride then, but I crashed and burned big-time.
This is the front of our house. It was a duplex and we rented out the other side of it until the mid-70s. Then mom tore out a few walls and build doorways to the other side. I got a piano room out of the deal. Dad got a ham radio room. Mom got a washroom and me and my brother got a spare bedroom and bathroom to play in during the summer. During the winter, the upstairs of the other side was closed off. I remember goin up there and seeing the water in the toilet frozen. That was weird.
This was when Happy Days was the rage. The Fonz was cool!
My cat, Tasha, liked to have kittens. She's being held by my brother, Mark. Another girl, Julie, from across the neighborhood is holding the other kitten.
In the summer of 1976 we took a fishing trip with my aunt Wilma and her family to Bemidji, Minnesota. That's me trying to climb up Paul Bunyan's leg. My brother is squatting in the front. Cousin Marie has found herself a boyfriend there and cousin Eric fancies himself a junior giant.
Back at the lake we fished. I'm at the bow. Is that great-grandpa Oaks? There's dad in his Bocephus look with Uncle Jerold at the motor.
After Wilma and Jerold had moved to North Carolina, we came to visit and went camping at the beach. That's one reason why almost all the guys are shirtless. Here I am reading and practicing poor posture.
My brother was sleeping on cousin Bill. I'm not sure who the guy behind us is, but he and some other people hung around us while we were there.
Whenever we camped, we hoed down. (That's easier to type than to say.)
We also stopped and saw some historical sites. This is me with my Gilligan hat, jeans jacket, clod-hoppers and stripey jeans. This is very 70s.
The winter of '78 we had a blizzard. The front of the house wasn't too bad.
This was our church after the parking lot was grated. I was baptized here that February.
We moved to North Carolina after that because my mom had been diagnosed with cancer and dad already had a job in Statesville, NC. At my aunt and uncle's house in Lexington, NC, the hoe-downs didn't stop. I'd say "pickin' and grinnin'" but I don't see anyone grinnin'. They're just pickin' hard.
Later that year we moved to Statesville and mom died. We buried her back in Ohio.
True
