Pentecost Sunday

During holidays, I often wonder if sparrows know what day it is.  Does God give them an understanding of days or times?  Do sparrows take time out for special religious days?  The fact that an entire Psalm is written about them going in and out of the Holy Place in the Hebrew Temple tells me that they could go places that man was forbidden to go but once a year.  Which could make someone jealous, if it weren't for the fact that the Bible says Christ lives in us all the time.  Sparrows don't have anything on us.  

This is Pentecost Sunday, and the sparrows are going crazy in my front yard as the day begins to break.  This day became special to me a few years back when I realized that Pentecost was not only a special day in Christianity, but also for the Jewish people for whom the feast was instituted.  That's often the problem with Christianity. We often frame everything in terms of our faith in Christ, and neglect the Jewish roots from which we have our faith.  I've been a Pentecostal Christian from the time I was a young child of about ten years old.  I gave my heart and life to the Lord after hearing Rev. Gene Rayburn talking about the book of Revelation at a two week revival not long after my Mom started going to church again. My mother, who'd allowed her relationship with Christ to grow cold during the early part of my life, rededicated her life to Christ and began taking us to church on a regular basis just before I turned ten.  Don't get me wrong, we'd gone to church before that, but not with any consistency.  The name of the church was Glad Tidings Assembly of God, and it was a small cinder block building with a 'Spanish Mission' styling that was typical for El Paso, Texas.  It was in this small church that I learned about Pentecost, and what it was all about.  It was also here that I witnessed the power of Holy Spirit in almost every biblical manifestation.  Sadly, it was also here that I saw how a people could lose their fire, and zeal for Christ through a love of this life more than a love for God.  

As an adolescent I saw and heard things I'll never forget.  I met a man who'd been through a fiery crash of a B-52, surviving only because an angel held him up after his parachute failed.  I remember listening intently as he told how he plummeted to the earth below as the fiery wreckage fell around him.  His parachute caught fire and disappeared in flaming tatters above his own burning flight suit.  As he removed his shirt sleeve I was amazed to see the one inch wide band of perfect skin around his bicep framed by the horrific fire scarred skin covering the rest of his arm.  It was then, without fanfare, I believed in the miracles of God.  The man's quiet recitation of the event, coupled with his revelation that it was the fire that caused him to have faith in Christ, spoke to my young heart.  God existed, and he cared.  

After accepting Christ at ten years old, I soon found out something I didn't understand at all.  There were about four or five ladies, and maybe  three men who would often begin speaking loudly in a foreign language during the service.  This would occur often times between songs, or during the transition between worship and the preaching of the word. Eventually someone would 'interpret' what the other person said, and I would be riveted in wonder.  The messages were often calls for salvation to someone, or a warning to avoid sins, or a prediction of the future coming of Christ.  Occasionally, a man or woman would get what I called 'happy' and start running around the the inside of the building.  Then there was this sweet old man named Jimmy who rarely spoke or sang, but once in a while he would get 'happy' and start doing this funny dance that carried him all across the front of the church.  I loved watching him get happy.  He could dance without music, or with it, but I knew when he was dancing he was someplace else other than on earth.  

My young life was filled with thousands of things like this, and they were part of the physical manifestation of God's Holy Spirit that worked to convince me of the genuineness of my faith,and cement that faith forever in God.  I still remember Sister Mays lifting a 1957 Chevy off of her teenage son, Donny, after it fell on him while he was working under it.  She told the church how when she saw her son under the car she asked God for strength and she lifted it with one arm while pulling him out with the other.  There was no denying this miracle because we saw the bruises, and the Doctor's report.   

There was the time my little brother Jeff contracted Leukemia when he was 3 or 4 years old. All I remember now, is that he was gone from us for almost a week, and whenever we saw our mom she was heartbroken.  I remember the prayer meeting where our Pastor said we would stay there all night until my brother was healed.  I remember the joyous call from my Mom saying that the doctors said his blood count had returned to normal overnight. 

I know for a fact that many cancers were healed, and great wonders done.  For me, it was a time of wonderment, and I've never been the same since.  It wasn't perfect, and there are things that happened that caused me to wonder if I would be able to stay true till Christ returned.

You see, I saw many 'wrong' things in our little Pentecostal church.  I saw people act with spiritual pettiness that was not born of the Spirit of Christ dwelling in them.  I saw people come and go over silly things like whether we should wear jewelry or go to football games.  It was in these things that I learned how Holy Spirit "guides" us into all truth.  He doesn't drag us, he leads us, sometimes taking a long time to convince people of the truth.  Other times He leads us away from error and mistakes in our doctrine, till one day, we are mature and able to stand in His power with the ability to overcome ourselves.  

I've learned a lot since those early days.  I've learned not to judge a persons faith by what they say or do, but how they change through time. I no longer think a person has to be perfect before being filled, and baptized with the Holy Spirit. One thing that hasn't changed through the years is my joy at seeing young children baptized in the Holy Spirit.  I giggle when I see someone get happy, and dance a Pentecostal jig.  I still celebrate when a teenager says; "I want that."  Pentecost is the core of my being even after 50 years of having lived for Christ.  I still get goose bumps when Holy Spirit nudges me to give a message.  That's not to say I've been perfect or arrived at a place better than others. I haven't been a pillar of righteousness, but Holy Spirit is still my guide after all these years.  I still get happy, and I still speak in tongues, I still interpret, and I still lay hands on the sick to heal them.  These are the gifts God gives to those who believe.  

Sadly, calling yourself a Pentecostal believer in today's world conjures up images of snake handlers, and frenetic, wild eyed people rolling in the aisles.  According to scripture, none of these things are associated with being baptized in the Holy Spirit.  Christ said those signs would accompany those that believe. (Mark 16:18)  I grew up being teased mercilessly for being Pentecostal, but in the end, here I am at 65 years old, still in love with Christ, and in love with Holy Spirit.  I'll go to my grave being a Pentecostal believer. 

WATCHING YOUR PARENTS GET OLD

This is a difficult post for me.  I don't think anything in this life reveals more about our inner belief system than the process of watching your parents age.  I'm at a distinct advantage over a lot of people because my parents were both within months of turning 20 when I was born.  So, if I want to tell people how old my parents are, I just have to do a quick add of twenty years.  My Mom turned 85 on May 4th, (NO, she doesn't understand the pun,) and she isn't the woman I remember when I was a child.  My Dad turned 85 one month before her, and sadly I've had to watch his body betray him just within the last year.  Although I know my two younger brothers would love for the two of them to move where they live, I'm the one who is living within four miles of them. 

Their situation is like a lot of couples their age, in that one is fading mentally, but still physically able to get around, and the other while very much in control of their faculties, has begun to fail physically.  As I watch them both cope with their respective issues, I can't help but wonder what my lot in life will be.   

From the time I can remember, my Dad was a mountain.  His hands were like mallets, and if he laid a hold on you, there was no escape.  At the same time, I never once saw him hit another man, or my mom.  I don't know if he was always that controlled, but I do know that he said he loved to fight when he was in school.  I never saw it.  Still, I wouldn't wanted to have been in a fight with him.  I worked with him from the time I was eight years old, till I was 21, and he was a difficult man to work for.  He worked hard, furiously, and expected you to know what he wanted before he wanted it.  I didn't. This caused me to be at the blunt end of his acidic tongue, and stern stare.  He worked long hours, often leaving before 7 in the morning, and sometimes coming home later than seven at night.  To say he was a worker would be a massive understatement.  So, you can imagine how I feel watching this force of nature shrivel up, and become a shadow of the man he was.  It has only been in the last couple of years that I've seen him slow down, and especially more so in this last year.  There are a lot of things that happened to him over the last ten years, and I am convinced that the medications he takes have taken a toll on his strength, and his vigor.  Thankfully, he still has his mental capacity.  Although, I'm not sure if that is a blessing or a curse, because he knows he's failing, but he doesn't want to go.  He is sometimes overcome with panic attacks, and he snaps at people in public, something he never did before.   I'm sure it's because he's afraid.  He is one of those men who get angry when they get scared.  I remember being in a bad motorcycle accident as a teenager, and having to endure him yelling at me for nearly thirty minutes.  At one point he yelled out "If you weren't hurt so bad, I'd kill you."  That was just the way he dealt with fear.  

Mom on the other hand is frail, but still able to get around, albeit gingerly. Her problem is her failing memory.  It began about three years ago, but now it is almost unbearable to be around her.  She knows who I am, and she has a descent memory for things long ago, but, she can ask you the same question at least five times in about ten minutes.  We tried to get her to get help about a year ago, but she felt as if we were trying to have her put away in a Nursing Home.   If you try to tell her that she has asked the same question numerous times, she gets angry.  This is heartbreaking to all of us boys because when we were growing up she was at the forefront of the technology curve.  She worked out at White Sands Missile Range from the time I was thirteen years old, and eventually learned to program in Cobalt, which was amazing for a woman who didn't have a college education.  I still remember the first time she brought home this weird looking box that allowed her to connect to her computer at the installation. Now, she can barely connect to Facebook.  We've all tried to bring her into the 21st century only to be frustrated.  Like my Dad, she was someone I was in awe of as a child.  She was only 4 foot 10 inches tall, but I knew better than to talk back to her.  A matter of fact I never once thought of myself as taller than her until I was in my thirties.  Losing her short term memory is painful to watch, because we've started to see her long term memory erode.  There was a day when she could tell you everyone's birthday, where they were born, and other fascinating things.  All of my childhood friends loved to spend hours talking with her because she engaged them in love, and genuine interest. 

Both of my parents have lived through some pretty tough physical situations.  Dad had both of his knees replaced when he was 68 years old.  In the same year, he had a pulmonary embolism that nearly killed him.  He's also been fighting Diabetes since he was seventy, and now his kidneys are failing.  Mom has endured three types of cancer in the last 25 years, and her legs are almost gone.  They're both on blood thinners and the price of their long life is somewhere near a thousand dollars a month in medications.  I think the worst insult of all is that Dad can't drive long drives like he used to.  He was a truck driver for years, and driving has always meant freedom for him.  Now, he can barely drive more than two hours.   

This is difficult for me, because I always felt as if I would die before they got old.  Call it being melodramatic, or morbid, whatever, I never thought I'd live to see them both at this point in their lives.  Both of my grandfathers died in their sixties, and I have always done 'dangerous' work.  I knew I would never make it to my sixties, so it just never occurred to me that I would see my parents deteriorate before my eyes.  It isn't kind, and it isn't easy.  Life isn't like a Dylan Thomas poem, and not everyone has the ability to 'rage against the night'.  Sometimes the thief come in and steals your memory while you weren't looking, or steals your vitality while you are asleep.  I'm sure I'm feeling sorry for myself, and I'm probably being just a little selfish, but I wish they could remain the vibrant, and energetic people who formed me into the man I am today.  

While talking with Dad about his most recent panic attack, I reminded him that he's lived a long life, and has lived to see two of his great-grandchildren become adults.  "Well," he said with tears in his eyes, "I'd like to live long enough to see my great-great-grandchildren."  Who can argue with that?  I also know one of his fears is knowing that if he dies, Mom would have to be put in a nursing home.  He's worked hard to keep that from happening.  Both of my grandmothers lived well into their nineties, so no telling how long mom will live.

Now, I have come to a point in my own life where I wonder when the call will come saying that one of them has died.  Watching your parents get old is no fun.