SPIRIT-FILLED

by Danna Shirley

            I want to share my experience when I was wonderfully filled up to overflowing with the presence of the Holy Spirit.

            My husband, Ron, and I accepted the Lord together on a Sunday night, May 18, 1980 in an Assembly of God church in Montgomery, AL. I didn’t particularly want to attend this denomination since Ron was raised Baptist and I was Methodist and we hadn’t been in church in all of our married life but the Assemblies was something he had chosen because he liked their beliefs. My only knowledge was what I had heard from others . . . others who didn’t know the truth . . . that “those people” roll down the aisles, swing from the chandeliers, and speak in “tongues.” I was scared of the unknown. Aren’t we glad the truth does set us free?

            God touched our hearts and salvation came quickly. We attended this church with no thoughts or desire to “speak in tongues.” We just wanted to soak up the Word of God and grow in the grace and knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ just like any other Christian.

Seven months later we were off to New Jersey on a brand new job right at Christmastime. Since we were also brand new Christians, we wanted to stay in the same denomination where we had received Christ, so we searched for another Assembly of God church in Cherry Hill, NJ.  

            One Sunday morning the pastor announced there would be a teaching that afternoon on receiving the baptism of the Holy Spirit. Ron was anxious to receive; I was apprehensive. Although the experience is very real, that afternoon was disappointing to say the least.

The leader had everyone sit in the first row across the front of the sanctuary, very structured and controlled. He shared the scriptures that applied accompanied by his commentary of how to prepare our hearts and minds to be baptized in the Holy Spirit. Then he started at one end of the row and moved down the line praying over each with instructions to begin moving our mouth and speaking syllables until we were praying in a new language. He only spent a moment with each person and then proclaimed, “You have received,” and to the next, “You have received,” and on and on down the row.

What I learned that day more than anything else is that NO ONE can tell you that you have received anything and you don’t seek tongues, you seek Jesus, the Baptizer, and when He touches you, you know that you have been touched by the Spirit of God. Then YOU proclaim to have received the baptism in the Holy Spirit, without doubting, and no one can take that away from you.

            We left Cherry Hill after eight months and made our way to the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Even though we had a disappointing experience in New Jersey, we were not disappointed in God. Ron asked me to visit around until I found a church and then he would start attending with me. Cedar Lake Christian Assembly in Biloxi had just been built at a new location off of I-10 and I loved the church. It was a 42-mile round trip from where we lived but I drove it three times a week. Brother Kenneth Broadus was a great preacher and the worship was beyond wonderful.

            I had probably been attending for a few months when he preached on the baptism of the Holy Spirit. My first thought was, Oh, well. I’m not going through that again. I’ll be just fine the way I am. Being baptized in the Holy Spirit is in addition to receiving the Holy Spirit at salvation, not a prerequisite. I decided there was no way I would raise my hand, or go up for prayer, or attend some later seminar on the subject.

            At the close of the service Brother Broadus invited anyone who wanted to receive the baptism in the Holy Spirit to come forward . . .“right now” . . .“don’t stop to think about it”. . . “just come!” My feet started moving down the aisle. It was just what I needed; not to analyze, not to remember New Jersey, not to think . . . just come!

Several others joined me in the front. There was no rhyme or reason, no prayer line or organized presentation. Brother B started moving among us, stopping to pray here and there and lay hands on each forehead. Arms were raised in surrender to God. I was lost in the moment but still totally aware of my surroundings. When he finally stood before me, I began praying immediately in an unknown language without his touch ever upon my forehead. My heart was ready, my faith was sure, my Baptizer was Jesus Christ.

So how did I feel with this new experience? I remember thinking that my language didn’t sound as beautiful and melodic as some I had heard but I soon learned that I was a “baby” in this new language. I had to grow and develop into maturity just as in any area of learning. Babies crawl before they walk. I had to exercise my prayer language at the same time I exercised my faith to receive this gift from God. I would not speak evil of it. I can give many, many testimonies of the presence of the Holy Spirit in my life but two stand out in my memory.

First, it was just a few years after being baptized in the Holy Spirit that God put me in a Baptist church. I couldn’t understand why He would take me out of my comfort zone but I was obedient (reluctantly) and followed His will. I was always conscious of honoring this church’s beliefs and doctrine by NOT praying in tongues.

This congregation had split from a well-established Baptist church so it and the preacher were now a fledgling non-denominational group. Everyone was in a honeymoon period but very soon the honeymoon was over and gossip began to abound. Part of the chatter was that the preacher was beginning to lose his enthusiasm for his calling and discouragement had settled on everyone. Satan was having a heyday.

Then one Sunday night the entire service lasted less than an hour—the worship, the prayer, the sermon, the closing prayer, and the preacher was out the door to go home by 6:50. The core people were shocked and dismayed to say the least.

            Word must have gotten back to the preacher because the next Sunday night went smoother and was more ministry-minded. At the end of this service we all formed a circle and held hands to pray; then he asked if anyone wanted to say something before we closed. No one spoke.

            The Holy Spirit zapped me with a rush of heat and adrenaline. It wasn’t my place to say anything. They knew my background and I always felt their critical eyes upon me. My mind raced and my spirit denied His promptings to speak a word to repent and reconcile. I defended myself to God,  I have no right to say anything . . . I’m not a Baptist . . . they’ll never accept what You want me to say . . . only seconds passed but it seemed like an eternity as I made excuse after excuse to God why I couldn’t open my mouth.

            The preacher asked again, “Would anyone like to say anything before we close?” Nothing!

            Now my heart was racing out of my chest and I knew the pressure was on for the Holy Spirit would not let go of me. Again . . . Lord, they just won’t receive from me . . . I’m not one of them! The argument raged until the preacher began his closing prayer. The heat, the adrenaline, and my racing heart immediately went from the highest high to the lowest low. I was empty and alone. The Holy Spirit had left me.

            People began to say their goodbyes and leave the building. The night was moonless and when I got in my car, I couldn’t move. I sat there holding the steering wheel and cried and cried and begged God to forgive me for my disobedience. If He would just give me another chance, I would try never to quench the Spirit again. I’ve been pretty bold to speak out ever since, sometimes to the embarrassment of my children. J

            The preacher soon resigned from the church and left the ministry. I learned he had divorced and was working at a casino. The building was sold and the people reunited with their former congregation, which is now thriving. I don’t believe not speaking up that night led to any of these consequences but the lesson I learned was that my disobedience made me fearful to ever lose the presence of the Holy Spirit again. It was like a death knell in my soul.

            Secondly, my daughter, Kristen, was a senior in high school and two of her best friends were Theresa and Tony, twins who had lockers right next to hers. They lived farther out in the country than we did along a straight stretch of road before making a curve to the right to go to their house.

            Since it was their senior year, there was lots of fun and fiascos, as they neared graduation. One day a water balloon fight ensued and Tony got drenched. His mother was called by the school office and she gave permission for him to drive home and change clothes. When he reached that long stretch of road before the curve, he gained more and more speed until he lost control and hydroplaned into a tree several feet above the ground. He was killed instantly. Charlotte heard the crash from their house.

            Word quickly got back to the school and Kristen was devastated. I got a call from the office that she wanted to come home. I stood in the driveway praying furiously in the Spirit while I waited.

“Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.”  (Rom 8:26)

She stopped her car in front of me and jumped out. We held onto each other until she finally said, “We have to go to Miss Charlotte; we have to go to Theresa.”

            Their property looked like a parking lot. Friends, neighbors, church family had already arrived. Everyone stood helplessly. Kristen fell into Theresa’s arms. I searched for Charlotte. She was sitting in Tony’s bed alone, numb, with all his clothes piled up around her. Others in the room were standing against the wall talking in whispers. I sat on the bed and held her in my arms. What does one say? Nothing! All you can do is hold on tightly. My mouth was near her ear. I began to pray in tongues; softly, slowly, not knowing myself what I was praying but God knew. Charlotte was Catholic and I wasn’t sure if my praying in tongues would help her or scare her. Soon I was released from my prayer and I backed away.

Tony’s funeral took place in their small Catholic church with standing-room-only. I kept in touch with Charlotte for a while afterward but they eventually sold their house and moved to a neighboring town. I guess the memory was too much for the family, having to drive by the scene of the accident every day.  

She told me later what happened when I had prayed for her that day. Of everyone who came by I was the one she remembered. Why? Because what I had prayed was the most comforting, even though she couldn’t remember exactly what it was and I didn’t know either.
While I prayed, however, God was speaking to her spirit and brought peace in the midst of the storm. I wasn’t the one who comforted her—the Holy Spirit did. After all, Jesus called Him the Comforter (John 14:16 KJV).

Praying in tongues is your spirit praying through the Holy Spirit to God’s ear, bypassing all reasoning and understanding. We don’t have to know what we’re praying, just that through the Spirit it is the most perfect prayer one can pray.

“Now He who searches the hearts knows what the Mind of the Spirit is, because He makes intercession for the saints according to the will of God.”  (Rom 8:27)

  To clear up any confusion about the presence of the Holy Spirit, there are two distinct experiences described in the Bible. First, we receive His indwelling presence at the point of salvation.

“…do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and you are not your own?” (1 Cor 6:19)

“And I will pray the Father, and He will give you another Helper [Comforter], that He may abide with you forever—the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees Him nor knows Him; but you know Him, for He dwells with you and will be in you.” (John 14:16-17)

To be baptized in the Holy Spirit, however, is an additional gift, one which you pray and ask for from the Baptizer, Jesus.

John the Baptist said, “I indeed baptize you with water unto repentance, but He who is coming after me is mightier than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He [Jesus] will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” (Mt 3:11)

“And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.” (Acts 2:4)

The following scripture describes the Samarians as believers who have already been water baptized. However, when Peter and John arrive, they prayed that they might receive the Holy Spirit.

 “Now when the apostles who were at Jerusalem heard that Samaria had received the word of God, they sent Peter and John to them, who, when they had come down, prayed for them that they might receive the Holy Spirit. For as yet He had fallen upon none of them. They had only been baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus. Then they laid hands on them, and they received the Holy Spirit.” (Acts 8:14-17)

As believers, they already had the indwelling Holy Spirit. So why pray? It was to receive the infilling of the Holy Spirit. Therein explains the two experiences.

When I hear someone say that “tongues” was for then . . . not for now, I am reminded of the scripture assuring me that . . .

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.” (Heb 13:8)

SNAP BEANS and TURNIP GREENS

by Danna Shirley 

          I know I’ve provided some laughs to my in-laws over the years…and they’ve given me a few, too.  It’s that culture thing, ya know…the South vs. the West Coast.

            Anyway, Ron and I were staying with his family in Montgomery during one of our transitions and Gran mentioned she needed some snap beans for dinner.  I thought to myself that I didn’t exactly know what snap beans were but I was sure I could find them when I got to the store and read the labels on the cans, so I volunteered to go shopping for her.

            I perused the vegetable aisle; up one side and down the other; up again and down again, but I never saw any cans labeled snap beans.  I finally found a stock boy and asked him to direct me.  He said they were down the aisle on the right.  I looked … nothing was labeled snap beans. 

            I said again, “I’m sorry but I guess you’re just going to have to go down there and show me yourself!”  He trooped down the aisle and laid his finger on a can of Green Beans!  I thought, “These are snap beans?”  I picked up a couple of cans and checked out. 

            It was a long time before I admitted to the family that I was totally lost in the grocery store that night.  Then I asked them, “Why do you call them snap beans?”

            Their answer… “Because they snap when you break them apart!”

             Another time I thought I would surprise Ron with some fresh turnip greens.  Since I don’t eat “grits or greens,” I wasn’t sure what they would look like but knew I would find them in the fresh produce area.  After buying what I was looking for, I entered the house and announced that I couldn’t find any “greens” but I did find these “disconnected turnips” and proudly pulled out a rutabaga.  

            They roared and I have never lived it down.  They knew they had a lot of work ahead of them with me in the family.

SIMPLER TIMES

by Danna Shirley

            Some of my fondest memories are of the creativity of my mother.  She grew up on a farm in Arkansas and lived through the depression, so there was no money in those days for buying toys or other frivolous things.  Money bought food and the few clothes that she washed out daily and left to dry overnight.  She married my dad at age 22 and they started their family immediately.  I was the last daughter of three when she again found herself with no money for expensive toys . . . but she was creative, and we didn’t lack for play things.

            Even now I can smell the concoction of flour, salt, oil, and water that Mother mixed together to make play dough.  Our fun began when we added the different drops of food coloring to each batch and mixed it up.  It stuck to our fingers until we could get it thoroughly mixed and then we would make our shapes . . . faces, boxes, worms…or just use cookie cutters.  When the dough was played with beyond keeping, we would shape our final delights and let them harden for posterity.  Of course, posterity only lasted until Mother cleaned our room.

            I remember her tracing our feet on a piece of cardboard and cutting them out, lacing a strap through our toes and around our ankles to keep them on.  I felt like I was a princess walking around in those homemade sandals.  I also knew that I could be pretty rough on them because all I needed was another piece of cardboard and I was a princess again.

            Summer afternoons we would chase butterflies, very rarely catching them, and at dusk we would lie out on the warm pavement in front of the house and watch the stars, seeing what kind of creatures we could shape with our imagination.

Then there were the mud pies out in the back yard.  Mother would give us a bucket of water, a shovel, an old piece of scrap board and we would plop ourselves down upon a mound of dirt, make a hole, and fill it with water.  We would mix and mix our little sprinkles of dirt until we had a nice hole of mud.  Then we patted out our pancake size mud pies and lay them out to dry on the board.  We usually decorated a face on each before they completely dried in the sun.

Then, because we were so-o-o muddy, Mother would spray us down with the garden hose or set up the sprinkler and let us run and jump over it and get wet.  The end of the day brought our tired little bodies in to be bathed and dried and dressed up in our warm flannel jammies.   Special nights we were treated to popcorn and a program on television . . . Jackie Gleason or Ed Sullivan.   

I remember, too, a big vacant field at the top of the hill where we lived.  It’s now overgrown with houses and freeway and shopping, but when I was a little girl, cows were on the upper side.  We would drag big pieces of cardboard up to the edge of the fence and slide down on the overgrown grass.  We were always worn out by the time we got home and I’m sure Mother was glad we were ready to sit down and rest for a while.

And, oh, the forts we would make under the kitchen table with the chairs pulled out and a big blanket thrown over the top, which hung down.  Milk and cookies tasted sweeter under that makeshift fortress.

Mother was a school teacher in lower elementary and was even my substitute teacher a few times before taking a permanent position.  A real treat for me was when Dad lined one wall of our garage with blackboards and I would “play school” for hours and hours.  As I grew older than the class Mother was teaching, she enlisted my help to grade papers and decorate bulletin boards.  One of my favorite vacations was our trip across country from California to New York.  We stopped at every sight-seeing attraction it was possible to see; most were educational but we had fun, too.  Maybe she hoped I would become a school teacher some day but my first typing class sent me in another direction and shorthand confirmed it . . . I would be a secretary.

I wish families today would give their children and grandchildren the opportunity to exercise their creative juices, to have the joy of producing something made with their own hands, and the satisfaction and pride of showing off a job well done. 

Yes, my mother shaped me, and I have many wonderful memories of my childhood.  Thanks, Mom, I love you . . . Elsie Mae (Daugherty) Goines!!!

May, 2005

SHOES

by Danna Shirley

            Women are notorious for buying shoes . . . lots of them! I, for one, hate to go shopping because I can never find a pair that doesn’t hurt my feet. When I can find a comfortable pair of shoes, I wear them into the ground before I again consent to go shoe shopping. I can only peruse about two stores before I am dead on my feet and that is not the time to buy a pair of shoes!

            Not so, with my daughter, Kristen. She can wear anything—heels or flats, in or out of fashion. She is a shoe “horse” and a “bloodhound” for a good sale. I think she gets it from her Aunt Paula because I sure didn’t raise her this way. 

            When Kristen was packing to go off to college, she paid her little brother, Aaron, to straighten all the shoes in her closet and he counted 32 pairs. Now that she’s married with a career that requires a professional look, she has two closets full of clothes and shoes. Out of curiosity, I spent one Saturday morning counting several pairs of black heels, black flats, black sandals, black boots…and that’s just her black footwear. 

            When I was babysitting for my granddaughter, Emma, one evening, I decided to straighten her closet. As I matched up all her shoes and lined them in a row, I counted fourteen pairs. My granddaughter is TWO!!!

            I wonder? Is there something wrong with me that I am not a shoe fanatic and don’t like to go shopping? I would rather pull teeth than fight the mall at any time and especially when I am in need of shoes! My husband was very thankful of that fact because I never dragged him along.

            When the need arises, I can find a “shoe” greeting card to fit any occasion. That tells me there must be plenty of females out there who are just like my daughter . . . either shoe “rich” or shoe “poor” depending on how you look at it!  J

SCARS

by Danna Shirley

            I was twenty-six years old when I received a second-degree burn on two percent of my body. Now two percent doesn’t sound like much but when you’re having your hand debrided twice a day IT IS a very big deal!

            I was staying with my parents and working in the Pharmacy at Kaiser Permanente Hospital in Richmond, California. It was during the days when women wore skirts and dresses on the job; however, this was a Saturday so we were allowed to wear pants to work. I guess that’s what saved my legs from being burned that morning as well.

            I was unfamiliar with my parent’s kitchen because this was my first visit to their new home. I was also not familiar with the circular knobs on their stove. I had cooked bacon for breakfast that morning and thinking that I had turned off the burner, I had actually turned it on high and left the pan on the stove to cool. My daughter, Kristen (4), and nephew, David (12), were watching cartoons while I continued to get ready for work at the other end of the house.

            Suddenly David came into the bathroom yelling that the pan was on fire. I ran to the kitchen to find flames licking the cabinets above the stove. Now I had been well versed on how to put out a stove fire, smother it with a lid or salt or soda, but I was in a strange kitchen and my mind didn’t react quick enough to think where my mother might have stored these things. The flames were beginning to singe the cabinets and my thought was that I needed to quickly get the pan away from the stove. My mom had a big double aluminum sink and I decided if I could set the pan down inside the sink, it would be safe there until I could find a lid. 

            The children stood back and watched as I made my first successful trip across the kitchen to the sink. Unfortunately, there were curtains above the sink and they also began to singe. Then I really lost all logic and began to panic. I jerked the pan out of the sink with not a clue as to what I would do with it next but when the flaming grease sloshed out of the pan, over my hand (my right hand), and up my arm, I knew exactly what I would do—I dropped it! When the pan hit the floor, the grease and flames disbursed in all directions. David had the foresight to get my parents out of bed and they came running. My mom threw a towel over the flames on the floor and then quickly put my hand in a bowl of ice water. She took one look at my skin and started to cry. 

            I said, “Mother, it doesn’t even hurt.”

            “But it will, honey,” she said.  “It will!” She knew exactly what I would be going through shortly. As a young girl in Arkansas, she had burned her back when she tried to get warm at her family’s wood stove and caught her gown on fire. I found out later that the reason I didn’t immediately feel pain was that the nerve endings were burned. They came to life with a vengeance, however, and oh, what a wakeup call I received! I’ve never known such pain. 

            My dad got the car keys and I was whisked away to the nearest hospital which was about five miles. Pain meds were administered and all was a blur after that until I heard the doctor say that he would have to cut away the dead skin. Then I saw my burned hand for the first time and it looked like someone had taken a knife and cut down the center laying the skin open. It was hanging loose on both sides. At this point I was able to handle the pain with medication and thought that I might survive. After the treatment was completed, I was sent home.

            The next morning my mother took me back to the hospital to have the wound debrided.  I had never heard the term before but it came to be something I dreaded.

Debriding: to remove unhealthy tissue; the surgical removal of lacerated,

devitalized, or contaminated tissue.

The process was to remove my dressing, scrub off the dead skin, reapply the cream, and redress the wound. My mother was taught how so she could perform the task twice a day and twice a day we both suffered through it. Eventually, the debriding wasn’t necessary and new skin began to form, but it was so thin that any little bump would break it open. This new skin had a bluish color and was so shiny that it looked like a glazed donut to me—a blueberry glazed donut!

            The doctor checked me regularly and quickly encouraged me to begin using my hand.  The philosophy, of course, was that if you don’t use it, you lose it! He knew if I didn’t begin to manipulate my fingers and wrist, they would freeze in that position and I might never regain the use of my hand. Pain was still my companion and even pulling the refrigerator door open, much less turning a doorknob, was something I avoided. 

            On one particular trip to the doctor he alleviated the problem. He knew my hand was becoming stiff so he held up my arm and bent my fingers and wrist backward. I thought I would hit the ceiling and I thought I would hit him, too, but it was just what I needed to break through that barrier.

            Little by little healing and use came back to me. The first was the least burned area of my arm, then down to the back of my hand, and finally my forefinger. The last places to heal were my knuckles and wrist. Because I maneuvered them so frequently, the new skin would continually break open and the healing process would be extended again. I returned to the pharmacy and used my typing skills, which was good physical therapy for my hand. 

            In searching for the positives I remembered my legs were saved from being burned. We later found little burn holes all over the pants legs of my slacks. I also had on a short sleeve blouse that Saturday so the flames didn’t catch my clothes on fire. 

            It was a year before I could bring myself to cook bacon again. I believe this is also the reason why I don’t like to cook today. 

            The scar is still there. Now my left hand looks normal for my age but my right hand looks about 75 years old. Most people don’t even notice the scar unless I point it out to them. I see it every day and thank God that the years have diminished the incident in my memory. 

SALVATION--Betty Baxter

© Danna Shirley

            I was an okay person. I hadn’t murdered anyone. No criminal record, no addictions, etc. If anyone had asked me, I would have said I was a Christian because my parents took me to the Methodist church growing up. I quit attending at age 16 when my parents also quit attending.

            Then twelve years into our marriage (I was 32), my husband, Ron, began reading the Bible at night. I don’t know where he found one although we must have had one in the house somewhere. I noticed immediately he had quit drinking his usual six-pack per evening and his bad language had all but ceased, both linked to when he first began reading the Bible. I was elated to see these changes but hesitated to draw attention to them, so I remained silent and just watched to see what would happen next.  

           This behavior, reading his Bible and not drinking or using profanity, continued for a few weeks before I finally asked what had spurred on this new development. He said he realized that drinking was going to kill him if he didn’t stop. I assumed he was looking to God for help in this area. 

           Ron’s life changed drastically with this new found faith. I, however, was my usual self. One night he shared with me an experience that he had with God. Ron had been a drinker since his teens and much more of a drinker during his Navy days. Quitting cold turkey seemed an impossible feat but he had done it with God’s help. Then one afternoon, sitting at his desk, a craving for a cold beer came over him. He sat there and prayed, “Lord, take this desire from me.” He said he felt a physical sensation of a huge weight being lifted from his shoulders. He never craved alcohol again. He was 33 at the time.

           Then Hurricane Frederic hit the Alabama coast on September 12, 1979 and because Ron worked for the Alabama Power Company in Demopolis, he was sent down to the coast with a crew to help restore power. His orders were to give the guys anything they wanted. Some of the first places they restored were restaurants so people could at least get something to eat. Of course, the restaurant owners fed the crew handsomely for their trouble. 

           After a few long, hot fourteen-hour days, the men wanted something cold to drink so Ron sprang for a keg of beer. Unfortunately, he was hot and thirsty, too, so decided to have a few beers with the guys.  His thought was that he had quit drinking so easily the first time it should be a snap to do it again after the job was finished. Not so! He suffered through three days of pain and sweats to cleanse his system. At that point he realized God’s grace had helped him quit the first time but He was not so merciful the second time. It was a hard lesson learned and one for which he never put God to the test again.

           Shortly thereafter, Ron resigned his job in Demopolis to return to Montgomery and pursue his Masters Degree. We settled into the house behind his parents on North Panama Street. So far, his Bible reading had not affected my life until he announced one Saturday that we would all be going to church the next morning.

      My response: “Well, you can go if you want to, but I’m not going!”

      Again he said, “We’re ALL going to church!”

      “And just where are we going to church?” I asked. I had been raised Methodist but had not darkened a church door on a regular basis in sixteen years. Ron was raised Baptist but his mother now attended an Assembly of God.

           His answer, “We’re going to First Assembly of God!”

           I sputtered and spit my protest. All I knew of the Assemblies was what I had heard my mother say, “They roll down the aisles and swing from the chandeliers.” I did not want to go to that church!”

           “Why don’t we at least go some place familiar, like a Baptist or Methodist church?” I asked.

           “Because I like what the Assemblies believe,” he replied. “It’s all Bible!”

           As we walked into First Assembly on Sunday morning, we were greeted with friendly faces. Even by 1980’s standards, this was a huge church. Ron and I retreated to the back of the upper balcony to blend into the woodwork. He was just as uncomfortable as I about being in this strange place. I decided I was just there for observation. I would not participate! As I looked around the sanctuary, the first thing that jumped out at me was the joy on everyone’s face; they were truly happy to be there, something I had never experienced in my own childhood church.    

           As a product of the sixties, the Beatles and Rolling Stones, I immediately enjoyed the praise service. The music was full of fire and the words were glorifying God. There was clapping and jubilant singing with hands raised. Ron and I stood there like statues. Even though I was thoroughly enjoying the music, I was afraid to let myself be ‘caught up’ in the moment. Then the music changed from joyous praise to reverential worship. The tempo slowed and hearts were in deep worship. I shut my eyes and allowed myself to feel this expression of awe. I didn’t want to ever leave God’s presence. As wonderful as the worship service was, the sermon by Dr. Coy Barker captivated me. I had never heard the scriptures preached with such insight and understanding. 

           When we left the church, Ron asked what I thought. “Uh, it was okay,” I said nonchalantly, but I walked away with a hunger for more. For three months we continued visiting First Assembly during the morning service only. In that length of time, we had moved from the back row of the balcony to the front row.  I had begun to clap with the music, just a little, but I still refused to raise my hands, although I had since learned that it was just an expression of surrender to Almighty God and it agreed with many scriptures.

          Then one Sunday morning we had a guest speaker, Betty Baxter, standing in the pulpit straight and tall. She gave her testimony of how God had healed her from a crippling deformity. Again we were mesmerized as she shared this miracle from God. Her last words were, “If you wish to hear the rest of my testimony, you’ll have to come back tonight.”

         We had never attended the evening service and I wasn’t about to ask Ron to return but I prayed, Lord, if we come back tonight, there is no way I’m not walking that aisle to receive You as my Savior. On the way home from church, Ron said he wanted to hear Betty Baxter again. My heart was eager with expectation all afternoon. I didn’t realize I could have received Jesus into my heart at any time, in any place; all I had to do was invite Him.

         That night Betty Baxter shared about how God had visited her bedroom and raised her crippled body up to be straight and strong. All eyes were closed when the altar call came for those who wanted to give their hearts to Jesus. As I reached over to Ron to tell him I was going forward, our hands touched; he was reaching over to tell me the same thing. We walked the aisle together on May 18^th, 1980. 

        The next Sunday we moved from the balcony to the main floor. The music was even more heavenly and I found myself raising my hands in worship to God. I opened my eyes and looked at my arms in the air. I remember telling myself, “You’re a Methodist! You can’t raise your arms!” and I pulled them quickly down to my sides. Again, as I was lost in worship, my arms would float into the air as if they had been filled with helium. No matter how many times I made a concerted effort to keep my arms by my side, I would find them in the air—surrendered to God. I’ve never again tried to smother that longing in my spirit.      

          I have been a tortoise Christian, slow and steady.  I’ve had my peak times and my pit times, but God has been faithful. Just knowing He’s only one prayer away gets me through the day and answered prayer continually reminds me of His faithfulness. I don’t know how anyone makes it through this life without the Lord.

          Becoming a child of the King brought calm and security to my spirit and the awesome blessing of being bold for Him to touch other lives. One of my favorite scriptures is 2 Corinthians 1:3-5. He has brought so many people across my path to comfort them in the same way I have been comforted by God.
          For someone who has not experienced the touch of God in their spirit, I realize hearing my story can sound 'sweet and sentimental' but there is a supernatural change in your very being when God gets hold of you. My thoughts changed, my character changed, my words changed. Self came down off the pedestal and others were lifted up. 
           A life totally surrendered to God puts His thoughts and His will first and obedience comes to the forefront. You still have free will to do your own thing...but you don't want to.

  I love You, Lord, and I lift my voice, to worship You, oh my soul rejoice!

I am not ashamed, for I know Whom I have believed

and am persuaded that He is able to keep that

which I have committed to Him until that Day.” 

(2 Timothy 1:12)

Years later I found Betty Baxter’s book in an antique shop in Oklahoma.

RESPECT MY AGE

by Danna Shirley

As we grow older, our bodies become sluggish,

We can’t leap, or jump, or run as fast as when we were young,

We drop like rocks into our seats rather than sit down gracefully,

We rise up pushing against the arms of our chairs rather than jumping up quickly,

If we sit still for any length of time, we take a power nap.

As we grow older, our bodies begin to break down and we need medicine,

Medicine for ailments like arthritis, indigestion, and high blood pressure,

We need glasses to read, and drive, and see our medicine bottles,

We need hearing aids to listen to the radio, the television, and our grandchildren,

Every movement may cause a symphony of sounds, creaks, and groans.

As we grow older, our minds slow down and our memory escapes us,

What happened fifty years ago is vivid but yesterday is lost,

We recollect names but only after going down the roll call,    

We enter a room and forget what we went for,

We start a conversation and then exclaim, “Oops, I lost it!”   

I heard a wonderful senior saint comment recently,

I’m eighty-two years old and I respect my age,

I get help to walk down stairs or step off curbs when I need it,

I pray every morning that my eyes will see and my ears will hear,

That my mind will remain sharp and my thinking lucid.

So, as my senior years come upon me (and they are advancing at breakneck speed),

I want to approach my life with those same words of wisdom,

Give myself every opportunity to be safe and healthy in body, mind, and spirit,

Avoid bringing calamity upon myself and heartache to my family who loves me,

And especially . . .

RESPECT MY AGE

Performance Evaluations...

These are actual quotes taken from performance reviews... 

1. "Since my last report, this employee has reached rock-bottom and has started to dig."
2. "I would not allow this employee to breed."
3. "This employee is really not so much of a has-been, but more of a definite won't be."
4. "Works well when under constant supervision and cornered like a rat in a trap."
5. "When she opens her mouth, it seems that it is only to change feet."
6. "This young lady has delusions of adequacy."

7. "He sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve them."

8. "This employee is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot."

9. "This employee should go far, and the sooner he starts the better."

10. "Has a full 6-pack, but lacks the plastic thingy to hold it all together."

11. "A gross ignoramus -- 144 times worse than an ordinary ignoramus."

12. "He doesn't have ulcers, but he's a carrier."

13. "He's been working with glue too much."

14. "He would argue with a signpost."

15. "He brings a lot of joy whenever he leaves the room."

16. "When his IQ reaches 50, he should sell."

17. "If you see two people talking and one looks bored, he's the other one."

18. "A photographic memory but with the lens cover glued on."

19. "A prime candidate for natural de-selection."

20.  "Donated his brain to science before he was through using it."

21. "Gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming.”

22. "He's got two brain cells, one is lost and the other is out looking for it."

23. "If he were any more stupid, he'd have to be watered twice a week."

24. "If you give him a penny for his thoughts, you'd get change."

25. "If you stand close enough to him, you can hear the ocean."

26.  "It's hard to believe he beat out 1,000,000 other sperm."

27. "One neuron short of a synapse."

28. "Some people drink from the fountain of knowledge; he only gargled."

29. "Takes him two hours to watch '60-minutes'."

32. "The wheel is turning, but the hamster is dead."

REINCARNATION by Wallace McRae

By Wallace McRae

“What is reincarnation?” a crony ask’d his friend.

“Well, it starts,” his old pal tells him, “when your life come to an end.

They wash your neck an’ comb your hair an’ clean your fingernails,

Then they sticks you in a padded box, away from life’s travails.

Now the box an’ you goes in a hole that’s been dug in the ground,

And reincarnation starts, my friend, when they plant you ‘neath that mound.

The clods melts down, as does the box, an’ you who are inside,

And that’s when you’re beginning your transformation ride.

And in a while the grass will grow upon that render’d mound,

Until some day upon that spot, a lonely flower is found.

And then a horse might wander by an’ graze upon that flower

Thet once was you an’s now become your vegetative bower.

Well, the flower that the horse done ate, along with his other feed,

Makes bone, an’ fat, an’ muscle essential to this steed.

But there’s a part that he can’t use an’ so it passes through,

And there it lies upon the ground, this thing that once was you.

And if by chance I happen by an’ see this on the ground,

I’ll stop awhile an’ ponder on this object I have found.

And I’ll think about reincarnation, an’ life an’ death an’ such,

And I’ll go away concludin’, ‘Heck, you ain’t changed that much!’”

IT'S A SMALL WORLD--Linda Grasser

by Danna Shirley

My husband, Ron, was from Alabama but we met in California where I was born and raised. I was in the Shirley family for several years before my parents finally met my husband’s parents and Ron’s grandfather, Daddy Jack, who lived with them at the time.

My father, Pa, was born in Oklahoma. When he met Daddy Jack and they began to talk, as people do, they discovered that Daddy Jack knew Pa’s uncle. Evidently, he had left Oklahoma years before and the family had not heard from him again. Discovering that his uncle had settled in Alabama was the end of a lifetime of unanswered questions.

It’s a small world!

            Ron and I were stationed in the Philippines in 1977. I made friends with a few Navy wives, one of whom was Linda Grasser. She was with me when I had my son, Russ, because Ron was in the hospital several hours away. As sometimes happens, we lost track of each other when I returned to the states.

            By 1981 Ron was out of the Navy and employed as a civilian at the shipyard in Pascagoula, MS. We were renting a house on Glen Eagles in Ocean Springs.  Russ was in kindergarten for three hours every morning but taking him and going home was quite a distance so I usually killed some time having breakfast and then hanging out at the local K-Mart until time to pick him up.

            In those days the aisles in K-Mart were not piled high above the customer’ head so you could look across the store and see other shoppers. That’s what I was doing this particular morning when I spied the back of a blond head that looked familiar across the store. Could it possibly be Linda from the Philippines right here in South Mississippi?

            I approached and touched her arm. She turned and looked at me and we both screamed at the same time, hugged and jumped up and down, and embarrassed ourselves among the other customers. Her husband had just been stationed at the Navy base in Pascagoula. I asked where they were living and she said, “Glen Eagles.” I screamed again. She lived just five doors down from me.

It’s a small world!

           I also met a Susan in the Philippines who knew a friend of my sister in high school in California. Paula and Francine were in the same grade and after graduation Francine married and moved to the east coast where she met Susan. After the usual get-acquainted conversation Susan learned I was from the same area in California where her friend Francine was from. Back and forth, back and forth we went until we discovered that Francine was one of my sister’s good friends.

           Yes, it’s a small world after all!

PRECIOUS MEMORIES

by Danna Shirley

            She sat at the desk looking over the faded memories of her life with her husband of thirty-four years. She had always wanted to organize her pictures that were stuffed in drawers, boxes, and envelopes . . . when she had the time! It seemed the time was never there, though.  Well, she had time now! 

            Danna met Ron when “his ship came in.” He was a sailor on the U.S.S. Merrick that had pulled into dry-dock in San Pablo, California for three months. By the time he left for his third tour of duty in Viet Nam, he had proposed.

It was an eight month deployment and Danna wasn’t used to waiting for anyone. Her friends said he would be getting a “Dear John” letter before too long, but it never happened. Instead the “Dear John” letter went to a guy she had been dating before Ron came along. It’s strange how a moment in time can change lives forever. 

            Ron was from Alabama, a sweet southern boy with a completely different background and culture from Danna’s liberal, California roots, but love doesn’t know geography. They only dated face to face for three months and had eight months of strained correspondence.  They were married three days after his return—a quick, round-trip to Reno over Donner Pass in December.  He had only a light sweater, having just hitchhiked up from Southern California, and she wore a cream-colored suit. They arrived as the doors of city hall were opening to get their marriage license and then bought their wedding rings at a little jewelry store next door to Chapel of the Bells where they were married.

            As Danna reminisced over the life she had chosen as Ron’s wife, she remembered the anxiety of her first airplane ride and leaving everything that she knew and loved behind—her family, friends, job, and hometown. Her first flight was to join him and she cried all the way. Why? It’s a fearful thing when you’re 20 years old to step into an unknown life.

He was a man of the world having joined the Navy at 18. She had never been away from home and was still “daddy’s girl.” He was the oldest of four boys and she the youngest of three girls. What a combination! He was forced to grow up early and she was spoiled rotten. She smiled as she thought of how he had had his work cut out for him . . . but he was up to the challenge. She didn’t mind, either, because he made her a better person.

            Being a Navy wife meant moving anywhere and everywhere!  It was nine years before they returned to live in California and then for only three months. “Precious memories,” she thought.  “How would my life have been different if I’d married a local boy?  I might never have flown in an airplane; never seen Japan, Bermuda, the Philippines, Okinawa, Korea, or Hawaii. Or Maryland, Mississippi, Florida, Washington, Alabama, or New Jersey! And oh, the friends I’ve made over the years of travel! They are strewn around the globe. What a rich, full life to travel the world with the one I love?”

            As the children started arriving, Kristen in Mississippi, Russell in the Philippines, and Aaron in Alabama, that’s when her work really began. They packed, they moved, they unpacked—often! Ron was sometimes there to help but usually left early to find a place to live at the other end. For someone who had never moved from her California roots, she now got “itchy feet” every few years. It took time but she realized home was wherever she made it and her family was always with her—in heart.

            Finally, as civilians, Danna and Ron were able to put down deep roots on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. His Navy days were over! The children were still young, Kristen 11, Russ four, and Aaron one. School plays, cheerleading, sports—lots of pictures, lots of memories.

            Then Kristen graduated and went off to college. Russ and Aaron graduated but they had “itchy feet” too, for paths away from home. Ron and Danna had an empty nest after 30 years and they enjoyed their times together. Every day he went to his job and she went to hers but their evenings were warm and comfortable, quiet and peaceful. 

            That year the media was warning people every day about getting flu shots and how severe the flu bug would be that winter. Ron had a mild case at Christmastime and of course, like a man, thought his cough would soon subside. He complained of how his chest hurt. Finally, in February, he couldn’t ignore it anymore. The doctor said it was pneumonia and wanted to put him in the hospital but he refused, promising to take his five medications and stay in bed.

Danna wanted to take him to the emergency room the next morning but he wanted to let the medicine have time to work. She called every two hours to check on him. He was resting when she got home that afternoon.

            Their last hours together were lost because they didn’t know what was coming. They didn’t have any last words or a last kiss, no last “I love you,” no last look into each others eyes to remember the life they had had together. He died in his sleep that night at age 56. 

            If only the clock could have been turned back two months to treat the pneumonia earlier, or even twenty-four hours just to hold each other one more time. She refused to ask the question that has no answer, “Why, God?”

Yes, she was so thankful she had these photos. She laid them lovingly in their special places in the album knowing the children and grandchildren would someday enjoy these precious memories.

March 24, 2005

RECIPE FOR PEACE

by Danna Shirley

I am not one to cook. I run from anything that smacks of a recipe. However, I propose the following ingredients that would make for a great fruit salad . . . they are listed in the Bible as the Fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22-23) . . .

·        Love

·        Joy

·        Peace

·        Patience

·        Kindness

·        Goodness

·        Faithfulness

·        Gentleness

·        Self-control

How gratified our lives would be if we would mix these ingredients together in all of our relationships . . . with family and friends, in our neighborhoods and community, in our country, and in the world . . .

·        LOVE – covers a multitude of sins . . . ours and others.

·        JOY – of the Lord is our strength in all circumstances.

·        PEACE – can be accomplished even in the worst of situations because God has  everything under His control.

·        PATIENCE – can produce a perfect work in us as we patiently endure.

·        KINDNESS – and tender mercies wrap as a cloak around all the hurts.

·        GOODNESS – is a righteous path to walk.

·        FAITHFULNESS – to our word, to our actions, to our God.

·        GENTLENESS – is precious to the recipient.

·        SELF-CONTROL – is a great service of mind and will in all areas of life.

The final ingredient is to know that we are the fruit bowl in which our Recipe for Peace is held so share it with others and feast on its great taste.

TODAY IS NOT A GOOD DAY...

Today is February 4, 2015. I am not having a good day. Maybe if I write it down, it will help me get through this day...

You know how things kind of pile in on top of one another until you "break" or should I say "blow." Today is that day for me. Today I'm blowing my nose and wiping my tears. I think I've been okay for some years now but this year? No, this year is a different story.

December 19th: Ron and I would have celebrated our 46th anniversary...if he was still alive.
January 24th: We would have celebrated his 68th birthday...if he was still alive.
February 20th: We would have loved each other one more year...if he hadn't died twelve years ago.
March 1st: Pa would still be with us and with Nana...if he hadn't died five years ago.

Today my back hurts but I cancelled my chiropractor appointment because I am hiding out in my room crying.

Today I don't know where my sons, Russ and Aaron, are because they haven't written me. Russ' 38th birthday is February 7th and I don't even know where to mail him a birthday card.

Today I've been in CA for almost two years to help caregive family members and it's been almost one year since I've been home to TN.

Today I guess I'm really feeling the homesickness and I need to hug my daughter and granddaughters.

I need to see my second mom "Gran" (mother-in-law) because I've missed two years of Thanksgiving with the family and missed her 90th birthday party last June.

Today my mind is filled with sorrow and regret and fear of the future. Today is not a good day!

BUT today I will read my Bible and pray...I will seek God and He will comfort me. I will turn my eyes to the Lord from where my help comes.

Tomorrow will be a good day!