Saturday we spend a few hours in New Buffalo. We strolled along Lake Michigan, ate at The Stray Dog, and puttered around a few shops. It was a good day. We found a little custard stand. They had a car that looked like it would get good gas mileage.
It’s Not a Real Bear
Standing in the yard across the street from Granville Cottage is a nine-foot tall bear sculpted with a chain saw. It’s pretty imposing and impressive and an interesting conversation piece.
A couple years ago our oldest son and his family came for a visit. I went out to the car to greet our grandson, little Kyle Kenneth. I got him from his car seat and started to carry him into the house.
“What’s that?” he said, looking wide-eyed at the bear in the yard.
“O, It’s just a bear,” I said.
He tightened his grip around my neck.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m tough. I’ll protect you.”
“I’m scared, grandpa.”
“It’s OK. I will protect you. He can’t hurt you. I’m here.”
“Grandpa, he’s coming to get us.”
“No. He’s not coming to get us, Kyle. He’s not a real bear. He is just a piece of wood. He can’t hurt us. He’s not a real bear.”
After that he kept a wary eye on the bear whenever we went out into the yard. In the daylight he was pretty bold, but in the dark he would stay close and cling to my neck when I put him in the car.
A few weeks ago he came to visit. I went out to get him. He’s older now—braver. He walked and I held his hand. On the way into the house he glanced over his shoulder toward the bear and said, “Hey, grandpa, that’s not a real bear. It’s not a real bear, grandpa. It’s not a real bear, grandpa, is it?”
I answered him, “No, buddy, it not a real bear.” But I don’t think he was talking to me. I think he was talking to himself. He was telling himself the truth. There must have been some inner voice lying to him and still trying to convince him that the bear was real and that he was in danger.
He was muttering the truth to himself—trying to calm his fears. “It’s not a real bear. It’s not a real bear. It’s not a real bear.”
For years well-meaning people have tried to construct schemes, initiate programs, institute religious systems, and discover “new” insights to help people in their struggles against guilt and shame and sin. Whole religious sects have sprung up promising to produce perfect families, holy lives and dynamic churches. They are fads and movements. They come and go.
Wherever God’s people get together and sing and pray and consider truth from Scripture some good things are bound to happen, but over the years I have noticed that there is no scheme or system or spiritual “secret” that is more powerful against sin and guilt, shame and self-righteousness than the gospel applied and continually applied.
We need a return to the gospel. I’m thankful for voices across our nation that are calling for a simple return to the simplicity of the gospel. I want to join them for the rest of my life and ministry. It is the gospel that is the power of God unto salvation and it must not be diminished, neglected, distorted, ignored or replaced.
When voices rise up within you to condemn you or when you are tempted to rely on self-righteousness there is no way to improve on the simplicity of preaching the gospel to yourself. There are voices within you that would lie to you and drag you into error and bondage. Don’t listen to them. Speak and sing and murmur the truth to yourself. Preach the gospel to the lost. Preach the gospel to one another. Preach to gospel to your children. But most of all, preach the gospel to yourself.
Ken Pierpont
Granville Cottage
Riverview, Michgian
June 26, 2011
Carsickness Forgotten
Seeking a way to comfort families grieving the loss of their loved ones I wrote this story:
There was a boy who always grew deathly ill of carsickness on long trips. It happened especially on the way to his grandparents home when the hills began to roll. He was in such pain, that he would complain to his father;
“Daddy, you have to do something. I think I am going to die. I can’t take it anymore.”
His Daddy wouldn’t say much. He would just keep driving toward the farm. “Well, if you get sick, don’t make a mess, son. Tell me if I need to pull over. Look outside the car. You’ll be better when we get there.”
Finally, mercifully, he would arrive at his grandparent’s farm and his suffering would end.
When he got to the farm he would take off his shoes and roll up his jeans and wade in the stream-
cold water washing over his feet
Smooth rocks beneath.
He would run in the grass,
Pick flowers for his mother.
And chase butterflies
He would fish
He would swim
He would climb trees
He would swing in the barn
And jump in the hay
And chase the dogs
He would lay on his belly in the field
and eat wild strawberries…
Then they would call him for dinner…
He didn’t eat too much…
Then after dinner they would put a piece of warm pie in from of him with a big glob of melting home-made ice cream.
And then as evening came he would lie on the porch and he would look up into the night sky at the bright stars.
Then he would climb the wooden stairs to bed
Crawl into the big poster-bed
And lost in the soft covers
With hay-scented air billowing the white curtains he would listen to the murmuring and the soft laughter of adult voices from down below and sounds of the frogs and the crickets out in the night.
Lying there with the weight of his grandmother’s quilt on him he couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be sick. He was so happy to be in such a wonderful place with people he loved
and with people who loved him.
We may be car sick on the way but there will come a time that the beauty of eternal life and the presence of perfect love will make us forget all of it and remember it no more.
Paul said it like this: For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. (Romans 8:18)
Christopher Yen’s Story
Here is a link to Christopher’s site. Check out his videos. His story give hope for homosexuals.
Here is a news release from Moody Bible Institute.
Our Home
Photo by “Weeza” (Wesley Josiah Pierpont)
“My” Dogwood
It’s cool and rainy this evening as I write. The kids started a fire to take the chill off the house. Out toward the Lower Huron River this evening, after church, I noticed that the Redbuds and the Dogwoods are in flower. Even though it is cool tonight, it is fully spring. My study at the church has a beautiful arched window. Just outside the window the men planted a Dogwood tree last summer. (Thank you Craig, Rick, Matt). This is the first May it is in flower. This week it should open up in large, white blossoms. It reminds me of the hills in central Ohio around my grandfather’s farm.
Last night as I left the study I noticed something that I have never heard before–it was the song of the Wood Thrush in the woods across Blakely “Creek.” If you don’t recognize the song of the wood thrush you can listen to it here:
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