Category: Church

Lenten Reflection–The Flooded Path

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photo by Josh Scholten

God of our life,
there are days when the burdens we carry
chafe our shoulders and weigh us down;
when the road seems dreary and endless,
the skies grey and threatening;
when our lives have no music in them,
and our hearts are lonely,
and our souls have lost their courage.

Flood the path with light,
run our eyes to where the skies are full of promise;
tune our hearts to brave music;
give us the sense of comradeship with heroes and saints of every age;
and so quicken our spirits
that we may be able to encourage the souls of all
who journey with us on the road of life,
to Your honour and glory.
Augustine

Those final few days may have been like this:
the sky oppressive with storm clouds,
the shouldered burden too painful,
the soul weighed down, discouraged, disheartened.
Each step brought Him closer
to a desperate loneliness borne of betrayal and rejection.

But the end of that dark walk was just the beginning
of a journey into new covenant.

Instead of rain, those clouds bore light, flooding the pathway so we can come together to lift the load.
Instead of loneliness, there arises community.
Instead of stillness, there is declaration of glory.
Instead of discouragement, He embodies hope for all hearts.
The promise fulfilled, spills over our path.
We are drenched.

photo by Josh Scholten

Lenten Reflection–Letting Go

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Forgiveness is letting go of a bell rope. If you have ever seen a country church with a bell in the steeple, you will remember that to get the bell ringing you have to tug awhile. Once it has begun to ring, you merely maintain the momentum. As long as you keep pulling, the bell keeps ringing. Forgiveness is letting go of the rope. It is just that simple. But when you do so, the bell keeps ringing. Momentum is still at work. However, if you keep your hands off the rope, the bell will begin to slow and eventually stop.
Corrie Ten Boom

In just two weeks our Chapel family will begin observing Holy Week. Before the Sunrise Resurrection Sunday worship on our farm hilltop followed by a service inside the church and Easter brunch together, we gather for a soup and bread communion supper on Maundy Thursday and a Tenebrae (Shadows) Service on the evening of Good Friday. At the end of the somber Tenebrae service, our steeple church bell tolls, the bell rope pulled repeatedly as we sit within darkness in the sanctuary. This knelling of Christ’s death resonates in our own bodies. It is unmistakeable, hearing the pealing of our guilt and shame reverberating out for all to hear.

When the bell rope is released, the bell continues to ring a few times but then quiets itself. We sit in ensuing silence, aware the debt we could never pay on our own had been paid in full for us. We have been forgiven, the tolling of the bell now ceased, and the toll of our sin reconciled.

God has let go of our debt, freeing us from the shadows where sin had trapped us. We are able to then stand and walk out, redeemed by a flesh and blood God suffering in our place.

In the morning of the third day, we hear Him say our names from the empty tomb. Forgiven, all guilt and shame let go, we rise from our shadows to answer His resonating call.

Chapel Bell Tower

Lenten Reflection–He is Enough

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photo by Josh Scholten

Let nothing disturb you, nothing frighten you, all things are passing. God never changes. Patience obtains all things. Whoever has God lacks nothing. God is enough.
The Prayer of St. Teresa of Avila (1515-1582)

There are sleepless nights when the burdens of our waking hours weigh heavily on our brows. Almost anything feels more overwhelming at night, as we struggle to see clarity in the dark through our tears. Even in broad daylight, the puzzle pieces of our lives may well be scattered, making no logical pattern or sense. We can feel as random as pebbles on a beach.

In those helpless moments, we must remember that even in our emptiest moments, if we have God, we lack nothing. This too shall pass. God does not change, even as we brace against the waves of life which shift and turn us over and over, smoothing our edges, leaving us upended.

Patience, patience.

He is enough for now, for tonight, for today, for tomorrow.

And forever.

Called to Advent–voicing

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photo by Josh Scholten

Consequently, faith comes from hearing the message, and the message is heard through the word about Christ. But I ask: Did they not hear? Of course they did: “Their voice has gone out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world.”
Romans 10:17-18

Tonight the annual Wiser Lake Chapel Children’s Christmas Program blessed the folks who attended and especially the children who participated. Once again the rickety manger was pulled out of storage, with its baby Jesus doll wrapped in swaddling cloths. Yet another generation of children is draped in forty year old white sheet angel costumes with tinsel halos and striped shepherd bathrobes with terrycloth towel head coverings and loopy yarn beards. The familiar songs are sung, the story of the nativity read and acted out by the children. Young voices were raised in “Away in the Manger” and those tender notes went out the double doors of that little Chapel, to the ends of the world.

Did you not hear? Yes, of course you did. And will again.
And shall we, can we, ever be silent again?


Doth not all nature around me praise God? If I were silent, I should be an exception to the universe. Doth not the thunder praise Him as it rolls like drums in the march of the God of armies? Do not the mountains praise Him when the woods upon their summits wave in adoration? Doth not the lightning write His name in letters of fire? Hath not the whole earth a voice? And shall I, can I, silent be?
Charles Spurgeon

photo by Julie Garrett

photo by Julie Garrett

photo by Julie Garrett

Called to Advent–overflowing

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photo by Josh Scholten

…continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.
Colossians 2: 6b-7

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.
Romans 15:13

May the Lord make your love increase and overflow for each other and for everyone else, just as ours does for you.
1 Thessalonians 3:12

Overflowing has always been something I’ve been particularly good at, especially first class in the category of overflowing tears. My family knows it doesn’t take much to get my lacrimal faucets going: saying goodbye, saying hello, listening to a childrens’ choir singing, listening to any of our own children singing, a heartstring-tugging commercial on TV, the whistled “Greensleeves” theme to the old Lassie series, not to mention the whistled theme to the old “Leave it to Beaver” or “Andy Griffith” series–you name it, whistling does it.

I would like to think that I’m overflowing with thankfulness, hope, joy and love but it may just be, as my husband suspects, that I’m suffering from an overabundance of sentimentality and nostalgia. …whatever.

He’s right. My easy tears and emotions run amok are not proof my tank is full or my heart overflows. It is only through the power of the Spirit–through the work of His Word preached faithfully each week, feeding my hunger, slaking my thirst, supporting my weakness, easing my emptiness–that I find my heart filling up, bit by bit.

There was a moment today after worship together as a church and a powerful sermon. I watched the Sunday School Children rehearse their parts for next week’s Christmas Childrens’ Program, as a two year old “angel” clasped her hands in prayer over an imaginary manger. I could see what she “saw”. She was looking into the face of God, watching Him sleep, in her mind’s eye. My heart filled even more. I wanted to look into that “manger” right along with her.

I hope when I overflow, it is with Spirit, not sentiment and I continue to look for His face wherever I go.

When the heart is full of joy, it always allows its joy to escape. It is like the fountain in the marketplace; whenever it is full it runs away in streams, and so soon as it ceases to overflow, you may be quite sure that it has ceased to be full. The only full heart is the overflowing heart.
Charles Spurgeon

A beam of God’s countenance is enough to fill the heart of a believer to overflowing. It is enough to light up the pale cheek of a dying saint with seraphic brightness, and make the heart of the lone widow sing for joy.
Robert Murray McCheyne

Adoration of the Shepherds van Honthorst

Calling Me Home

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Photo of children running home in Basque, France by William Albert Allard

I had pulled away, testing how far a connection could stretch, not always thinking of how the tug of resistance felt on the other end. What had been a pulsing vital conduit instead felt withering and restricting, so I sought eagerly to move beyond its reach.

It is turbulent out there without ties and tethers as anchors in the storm. There is hunger and thirst when roots have been pulled out and exposed. There is chill without the sustenance of hearthfire. It is lonely without the enveloping bonds of nurture within a sanctuary of love.

When I heard the call, I knew the time had come to return home. And so I ran, skipping, jubilant, eager, ready, almost weightless in my anticipation of a joyful reunion.

On Loan

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Hilda was sent as part of a mission outreach to our small rural church over fifty years ago by a larger church in town.  She was the music maker of the group of individuals sent to minister to the unchurched children and families in the vicinity of the Chapel, many of whom were Hispanic and Native American.  She played piano and accordion, both with great energy and gusto, so hymns were sung with enthusiasm and a distinct rhythm and style under Hilda’s accompaniment.  There was singing time, some group worship time, and then the age groups would be split into classes for Bible stories and more in depth study.

There was something infectious about a little lady who loved her hymns so much.  She knew all the “old timey” songs like “Bringing in the Sheaves” and “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” with punchy choruses and a parade like beat.  She also knew her Bible and kept careful track of the passages she heard illuminated by sermons Sunday after Sunday.  In fact, Hilda kept track of everything.  She started a daily diary in her early twenties and kept documenting the daily events, weather, who was sick, who was born, who was wed and who was not in volume after volume, resulting in a closet full of diaries that contained more history than most encyclopedias.  She was “blogging” before anyone knew what that meant.

She kept it up until the day she fell on her floor at age 95, sustaining painful compression fractures in her back, and waited patiently for someone to find her hours later even though she had an emergency call button to use, but was concerned it might be a bother to someone if she pushed it.  To recuperate, she went to live in an extended care facility, and there kept a running list of who came to visit.

Hilda and her family loved her little mission church, which eventually grew to become its own congregation with its own pastor, and twice a year, in celebration of her birthday and the anniversary of her arrival at the Chapel, during the offertory she would either play several hymns on her accordion or on the piano, or both.  If she wasn’t satisfied with the quality of the singing from the congregation, she would tell us all “I know you can do better!” and play the hymn again.  We learned to sing it really loud the first time because her hearing was going.

Her last time playing for church was only a few weeks before her injury.  She was as punchy and enthusiastic as ever.

Yesterday morning, Hilda was awakened by a nurses’ aide for breakfast, and was alert and ready for the day.  When the aide returned a short time later, Hilda’s spirit had left and gone away, leaving her earthly shell behind.

She was on loan to the Chapel all these years, she liked to remind us, having never become a member.   Hilda was clear that when the time came, her original home church in town would be the one to take care of her final journey.   So next week, the Chapel people will go to the larger church in town to celebrate Hilda’s favorite hymns and favorite scriptures, knowing with full confidence that she was one of our own, on loan from God.


A Place that Reflects the People Inside

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( a writing class assignment on a building that is particularly meaningful to me)

Back in the early days of Whatcom County,  the little church on Wiser Lake had been constructed through “contributions of the people” in a rural neighborhood only a few miles from where we now live.  $600 in lumber was provided by a local farmer whose trees were cut and milled and brought by horse drawn wagon to a building site adjacent to a one room school house along a corrugated plank road. The total property was “valued at $1800, but of even more value to the community.” The dedication ceremony was held on Sunday, August 27, 1916 followed by “a basket dinner—come with well filled baskets for a common table, under the direction of the Ladies Aid”. This was to be followed by a “Fellowship Meeting, special music and fraternal addresses” and the day ended at 8 PM with a Young People’s Meeting.  So began the long history of the “Wiser Lake Church”.

For reasons unrecorded in the history of the church, the original denomination closed the doors thirty years later, and for awhile the building was empty and in need of a congregation. By the fifties, it became a mission church of the local Christian Reformed Churches and launched a Sunday School program for migrant farm and Native American children in the surrounding rural neighborhood.  No formal church services started until the sixties. By the time the building was sixty years old, so many children were arriving for Sunday School, there was not enough room so the building was hoisted up on jacks to allow a hole to be dug underneath for a basement full of classrooms. Over the course of a summer, the floor space doubled, and the church settled back into place, allowed to rest again on its foundation.

Over seventy years after its dedication ceremony, our family drove past the boxy building countless times hurrying on our way to other places, barely giving it a second glance. It had a classic design, but showed its age with peeling paint,  a few missing shingles, an old fashioned square flat roofed belfry, and arched windows. The hand lettered sign spelling out “Wiser Lake Chapel” by the road constituted a humble invitation of sorts, simply by listing the times of the services.

On a blustery December Sunday evening, we had no place else to be for a change.  Instead of driving past, we stopped, welcomed by the yellow glow pouring from the windows and an almost full parking lot. Our young family climbed the steps to the big double doors, and inside were immediately greeted by a large balding man with a huge grin and encompassing handshake. He asked our names and pointed us to one of the few open spots still available in the old wooden pews.

The sanctuary was a warm and open space with a high lofted ceiling, dark wood trim accents matching the ancient pews, and a plain wooden cross above the pulpit in front. There was a pungent smell from fir bough garlands strung along high wainscoting, and a circle of candles standing lit on a small altar table. Apple pie was baking in the kitchen oven, blending with the aroma of good coffee and hot cocoa.

The service was a Sunday School Christmas program, with thirty some children of all ages and skin colors standing up front in bathrobes and white sheet angel gowns, wearing gold foil halos, tinfoil crowns and dish towels wrapped with string around their heads. They were prompted by their teachers through carols and readings of the Christmas story. The final song was Silent Night, sung by candle light, with each child and member of the congregation holding a lit candle. There was a moment of excitement when one girl’s long hair briefly caught fire, but after that was quickly extinguished, the evening ended in darkness, with the soft glow of candlelight illuminating faces of the young and old, some in tears streaming over their smiles.

It felt like home. We had found our church. We’ve never left. Over two decades it has had peeling paint and missing shingles, a basement that floods when the rain comes down hard, toilets that don’t always flush, and though it smells heavenly on potluck days, there are times when it can be just a bit out of sorts and musty. It also has a warmth and character and uniqueness that is unforgettable.

It’s really not so different from the folks who gather there.  We know we belong.

Lenten Meditation: From the lips of children

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Matthew 21:16

“Do you hear what these children are saying?” [the chief priests and teachers of the law] asked him. “Yes,” replied Jesus, “have you never read, ‘From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise’?”

Children have a gift of getting to the heart of the matter.   The children in the temple during Holy Week continued to shout and praise Jesus’ name, shouting “Hosanna!”  just as they had done on the road to Jerusalem on Sunday.  For them, the triumph was not over.  The children continued to celebrate when the adults around them were losing momentum in their faith.

The grumbling of the chief priests and teachers of the law about the noisy children is met with a response from Jesus that is a reminder of what they know all too well themselves from reading the Psalms–praise from the children is actually prescribed by God and is therefore made holy.

I’m reminded of this every Sunday when I play piano for the Sunday School singing time for about thirty children in our small church.  For over twenty years now I’ve watched a generation of Wiser Lake Chapel children, including my own three, grow up in that church basement, singing the same praise and worship songs from the time they sit as toddlers on a bigger sibling’s lap, to the point when they “graduate” to the high school class.  Some of those children have become the Sunday School teachers, with their own children sitting in the very chairs they sat in such a short time ago.  There is nothing more invigorating than hearing children singing energetically with joy, knowing that God Himself has ordained their voices should be lifted up in praise.

So on this sad and lonely week that marches inexorably to Friday, to Golgotha, to suffering and death, the unwelcome shouts and songs of the children must have been soothing balm to Jesus’ soul.  The children knew His heart when the adults around Him were too blind to see and too deaf to hear.


The Sunday School Express

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photo by Gary Herbert

The rusty, scratched and dented shell of a school bus sounded as if it would barely make it around the corner. Yet it always ran if Pete was at the wheel as he drove the “Sunday School Express” in our rural neighborhood, picking up all willing (and some not so willing) children within a 6 mile radius.

This was the only way these children would get to attend Sunday School at Wiser Lake Chapel. The bus was the cast off donation that made the pick up routine possible. Pete provided the fuel for the bus and, along with his wife and a few other steadfast volunteers, was one of the teachers of the classes. This was a mission effort to reach the local kids, most of whom were growing up poor. Their immigrant and Native American parents were too weary from a week of working the fields, logging or fishing to get to church themselves, so were grateful for the two hour respite from their noisy children offered by the Sunday School Express.

The chapel was a humble destination. It was a boxy building with flaking paint and loose shingles, with a squared off steeple and a large bell to ring in the belfry. The children would take turns tugging on the rope inside the front door each Sunday, announcing the clarion call to all within a ½ mile that once again the Word of God was being proclaimed in this little building.

Pete made sure these hungry children were fed from the Word along with a lunch that would carry them through the day. He taught them the old hymns and made sure each one received their own Bible by age eight. For years, he and his family spent their Sunday mornings at this little chapel, not attending a church service with a preacher or a sermon, except when it came time to do the rounds of local congregations to ask for continued financial support for the mission outreach he was doing.

He came to know the children well as he picked them up in the bus and then delivered them back to their homes and would occasionally stop briefly to chat with their parents, to ask about any needs they may have and encouraging them to consider coming to one of the larger churches in town for worship. As he traveled about his Sunday morning bus route week after week, he’d sometimes discover the children’s homes abandoned, suddenly dark and empty, with no way to know or find out where the family had gone. He would pray they would find another home and another church would find them.

His unique ministry continued for almost a generation. As Pete’s own children grew up and moved away, he and his wife Esther helped recruit a pastor for the little chapel, and it grew to become the vibrant worshiping community it is today, to include some of the adults he had taught when they were young. They had been fed to the point of being able to feed others and a number of them became Sunday school teachers themselves.

Pete passed away several years ago, a beloved and respected father to his own children and teacher to many hundreds of others’. His funeral service was a simple service befitting a devout and faithful servant. What made it most remarkable was the overflowing chapel sanctuary, filled with people who he had picked up and delivered over the years in his rickety Sunday school bus, picking them up from their humble surroundings and delivering them into the grace and glory of God. He had fed them the Word and he had fed them lunch. And they returned in the fullness of their gratitude.

http://www.wiserlakechapel.org