Loony as Heck: Losing Hope in the Hooey I Hear
I was happy for the high school senior when she announced to our West Virginia church years ago that the father of her best friend was paying her way through college. Although the man had a better than average job and was generous in his giving to the church, I knew he was not wealthy. When I asked him privately how this could be, he explained that he had unexpectedly come into a significant amount of money. Pressed to tell me a little more, he said he had received a notice from Ed McMahon informing him that he was the winner of their multi-million dollar giveaway. Of course, the revelation of that information was disappointing to the hopeful young girl and her family who had already begun making preparations for her leaving. So we weigh twice what people say.
Also, some of what we hear can be dismissed at once. During my last run on a park trail in Atlanta, I came upon several little oriental girls sitting and giggling on a landscape rock. I smiled and waved just as one of the little cuties pointed to me and said, "My mommy says you are my daddy." I got the heck out of there and don't think I'll go back.
Then, sometimes, we don't know what to think about what people say. I sat reading a book in a doctor's waiting room recently when a distinguished black minister and his first lady walked in. He held a large Bible up close to his heart. The large gold letters on the cover identified it as "The Spirit-Filled Believer's Bible." After learning that they were in the wrong office, the couple turned to leave and was out the door, first her, then himself. Suddenly the door popped open and he stepped back in to stand in front of me.
"Are you an author?" he asked.
Startled, I said, "Well, no...."
"But am I completely wrong?" he asked.
"Well, I am not published anyway," I said.
"You are definitely going to be!" he declared in his deep, boisterous voice.
"Thank you!" I managed to say.
"And how do I know that?" he boomed rhetorically as he disappeared behind the door for the second time.
Indeed! How did he know that? Was he prophesying a word of knowledge from the Lord? But wait a minute. That did not fit at all with my dispensational theology.
So much for that, I thought.
But then the door popped opened a third time. This time the dynamic pastor only stuck his head inside the room. "It's the shoes!" he said of my tan Bass loafers with kiltie and tassels. "It's definitely the shoes!" he repeated. Then he was gone.
Yes, of course. It was the shoes. That is how he knew I would be published. Now I have hope.
Don Loy Whisnant/Journey Notes 8K08