A Day for Rest & Praise

I love Sundays.  Especially when we wake up on time, all goes well, and we make it out of the house for the 9am service at our church, Friends.  Our pastor always tells us to not only praise on Sundays, but to thank the Lord every day, no matter what kind of day it is.  That's very true, and I'm really working on that, (being thankful and knowing everything is in God's control),  however - after hearing his service, it is so much easier to get back to being focused on God, and the gifts He brings if we just have faith and believe His words.  I really love my church and the fact that our current topic is about how to be HAPPY.  Not just being "happy" in general, but how to not let little things get us down.  There will always be people in your life who TRY to bring you down with an unkind word, an argument, or just downright rude people who don't care how their actions affect you.  At the same time though, it's not easy for everyone to see behind those comments and actions with not-so-kind intentions.  You never know where they come from.  They could be fighting their own battle, having a rough day, an emotional struggle.  Whatever the case may be, I want to try to take everything with a grain of salt - try not to let others attitudes affect my mood and happiness - because at the end of the day, the only one it's really harming is ME.  Our pastor went into greater detail on this, and obviously says it a lot better than I can portray, but you get my drift.  I really loved the service today and if you haven't before, you should come visit Friends Community Church.  It is a great and positive spiritual home with really kind and caring people.  A place that makes me happy to wake up with my family on Sunday and be excited to hear what the message will be and how I can apply it to my own life.

I want to share a story I read on K-Love's website after church today. K-Love is a Christian music station that's also very positive and uplifting, with stories of struggles and blessings, mixed in with Christian music that you can actually get into and sing along with.  Very trendy with words of praise and wisdom.  This story touched me and gave me another reason to be thankful for all I have.  I hope you will like it, too.

Hostage, Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

By: Lisa Kamprath

On September 3, 2004, I was gathering donations from local businesses in my hometown. I lived in South Milwaukee, Wisconsin—a Mayberry-type town, full of mom-and-pop stores that have been in business for decades. The donations were for some friends at church who were struggling with medical bills after the birth of their first son. He had spina bifida, and I was confident this small town of mine would dig deep and help make our silent auction a success.

At about 10:30 a.m. I crossed the street for my first stop of the morning, Donn Powers Jewelers. I heard the door chime as I entered, and since the showroom was empty, I wandered a bit to look at some of the pretty baubles sparkling brightly under the lights. No one came out to greet me, but it was early in the morning, and the employees were probably still getting started back there. The empty space gave me time to rehearse my sales pitch again.

I heard a voice yell, “In here,” from the room in the back. I ignored him, knowing that he would find me when he was finished with whatever he was doing back there.

A second time I heard him shout, “In here.”

“It’s all good,” I shouted back. “Take your time.” Suddenly a young man came through the doorway, and I was imme- diately struck with the thought that the dark T-shirt he was wearing didn’t look at all professional. Still, I moved toward him and the chest-high counter that separated us both, held out my hand to shake his, and prepared to introduce myself and explain my mission. In my left hand I held my purse and my notebook, and as he cleared the counter, I noticed that in his right hand was a matte black semiautomatic gun. He had it cradled against him, and he grabbed my right hand with his gloved left hand. “You picked the wrong time to come in here,” he said, pulling me through the doorway at the back of the shop.

My mind went blank, and I felt numb. In the back room I noticed that there were already four people on the floor as well as another young man with a gun. His gun was chrome plated, and he was much taller than the first gunman. He was also more aggressive and mouthy, swearing at us, trying to intimidate each of us. It worked.

I was told to lie on the floor with my hands behind my back. I am left-handed, so normally I put my left hand over my right, but this time I instinctively covered my left hand (and my wedding ring) with my right. As the first man duct-taped my wrists together, I heard him whisper that he was sorry.

As the five of us lay there and listened to these two young men stuffing jewelry into their black backpacks, I prayed but not for me. I was neither scared nor nervous. I knew that whatever happened, I was going home. I just didn’t yet know to which home that would be. So I prayed that God would be with my husband and help him explain to our children—a six-year-old boy and three-year-old twin girls—why mommy had gone to be with Jesus instead of home to them. I prayed that God would embrace my parents as they grieved the loss of a child.

Suddenly the door chimed, and I heard a third man’s voice as he entered the store. Please, I called out silently to the man, don’t try to be Chuck Norris. Please don’t play the hero. He was brought into the back room, where he tried to reason with the two thieves. It backfired, and the atmosphere changed. As a reward he and one of the employees had duct tape placed over their eyes so they could no longer look at the robbers.

Until this moment I had never understood the idea of tension being so thick you could cut it with a knife. But at this point the metaphor suddenly made sense. I felt over- whelmed by the tension, weighed down and smothered by it. With every second that passed, the men became more frantic to get out with their stolen goods. When they came in the back to ask for the surveillance tape, I felt they had to be nearly done. The female employee on my left told them there was no surveillance equipment. That left the six of us tied up in the back room as the only witnesses. The mouthy one said that since we all had seen their faces, he would kill us all. I honestly believed that he meant it.

I prayed fervently again. I prayed for my family and that my journey home would be swift. I heard the racking of both guns and waited for the first shot. As I wondered who would get the first bullet, the door chimed again. I remember screaming in my head to God, Why are you bringing someone else into this terror? Why allow the evil to spread? One man left the room—I couldn’t tell which one, as I had my eyes closed and head down—and I heard the woman to my right begin- ning to say the Lord’s Prayer aloud.

I heard a man’s voice pleading from the other room. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he said. “Just please, don’t hurt her.” In my mind I saw a young couple coming in to pick out an engagement ring, and my heart broke for them. The tragedy was overpowering. As they were ushered into the back room, I opened my eyes just a little and glanced over my left shoul- der. I saw two pairs of shoes: one belonged to a man, the other to a little girl. Through her sandals I saw that her toenails were painted bright pink. She couldn’t have been much older than three.

The gunmen told her father to lie on the floor. They duct-taped his hands, but they did not touch the girl. They said nothing to her and left her alone. When they got back out into the showroom again, the little girl’s father tried to stay calm for his daughter. He promised her chicken nuggets at McDonald’s just as soon as they got out of the store. He said they would have balloons. When he called her baby, I thought of my own girls. I thought of my son, who would be turning seven in exactly one week. They all would have liked nuggets and balloons.

I again heard the two men talking in the other room. “I can’t do a kid. We’re done.” Then the door chimed as they left. And that was it. We were spared. A child had saved us all.

While the police came and took our statements, I sat on the floor, listening to the little girl talking about the third birthday party she had just enjoyed. She talked, and I smiled, the tension falling away from me with every exhalation. Before I left, I asked her name. It was Kaya. “It’s a pretty name,” I said.

“Yes,” her father replied, smiling at me. “Kaya means life-giving.” 

Have a blessed Sunday!