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September 9, 2002 Dear Gabby…I was raised in a Christian home and attended an Apostolic church until the past year or so. To be frank with you, I became disgusted over the course of years. As a businessman working with sound systems, I found Apostolic churches to be the most difficult clients to work with. Everyone in these churches seemed to be lying in wait to see if someone was going to slip up and break a rule. I saw them wearing their "standards" like a medallion while being gossips and perverts. It was obvious that they loved God, but it seemed like they hated people! Most of the churches were so worried about separation, they never remotely reached the world. My wife doesn’t follow those rules of dress and I remember that when she came to church, half the people looked at her like she had three heads. I'll be honest with you. I will most likely never go back to an Apostolic church, but what can be done to change the tide and keep others from being burned and scarred as my family was? I love God, but have lost all respect for the institution of the church. Critical of the Church in California
Dear Mr. California, Most people are surprised to hear that I was one of the first people to see Margaret Moore. You’ll remember that she ended up being one of the most beautiful women America’s ever seen, gracing the covers of many magazines throughout the years. My dearest friend, Julietta Turner Armstrong LeFleur, visited me several times a year so the two of us could work together to feed and clothe the poverty-stricken people in our area. My wise Mama had started the tradition the summer Julietta and I were 15 years old, and we were both so affected by that experience that we continued it for the better part of a century. It was during the summer we were both 26 that Gertrude Gibbons told us about Agnes Moore. Agnes had lived with her old grandfather, Omar Moore, out in the country since she was just a mite and had been alone since his death the year before. We’d also heard that she was reaching the end of a pregnancy and the talk around town was that it was the result of rape. The Moore house (if you could call that leaning shack a house) was the absolute worst I’d ever seen. It was so far out in the country that I’d never seen it before. Boards were nailed every which way in an effort to keep the whole pile of firewood standing. The roof sagged in the middle and was covered with pieces of old tires and whatnot. The “yard” around the house was hard-packed dirt, with an occasional pile of dog droppings to give it character. Miscellaneous trash, a wagon with no tires, and a mangy old mutt (that might or might not have been alive) were spread out around the property. A couple of scraggly chickens pecked at the hard-packed earth underneath a sagging clothesline. No people, however, were in sight. If I’d been driving, I confess that I probably would have continued on. However, Julietta pulled her car off the dirt road with excitement. “This must be it!” she said to me, and since I’d been reading the directions while she drove, I knew she was right. I really didn’t want to go in. Julietta never hesitated, marching around to the back of the car to collect an armful of the supplies we’d brought. “Are you sure we want to…” I began, while, at the same moment, Julietta prodded me by filling my arms with food from the General Store. It was then that we heard the cry coming from inside the house. “What was that?” I asked, as if Julietta would know. “Sounds like someone in pain,” she answered. Again we heard the cry. And it did sound like someone in pain. We both began to hurry. No one came to the door when we knocked, so Julietta pushed the door open and we both cautiously stepped in. It was very dark and very dirty and very smelly inside, and it took our eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. Once they did, we saw a young woman lying on a pallet in the corner of the room, her hair matted, and her face contorted with pain. It was obvious that she was about to give birth. I stepped backwards, almost tripping over the mutt, which had wandered into the shack after us. Julietta did just the opposite. She headed right over to the young woman, setting the groceries down on a nearby chair. “Oh, honey,” she said to the woman, “is it time for your baby to come?” The young woman nodded, looking fearfully at Julietta and me. “I’ve been sick,” she said hoarsely, “and when the pains started, I couldn’t walk to town to Doc’s like I’d planned.” Julietta patted her hand. “I’m Julietta and this is my friend Gabby,” she told her. “We’re going to help you have your baby, right, Gabby?” “Help her?” I looked at Julietta. “Why don’t I go for the doctor instead?” I said, trying to figure out how to get away from the terrible place and circumstance. “Because you don’t drive, Gabby, remember? And it’s too far to walk,” she said. Then she whispered to me, “I think she’s too close to the end to leave her or try to move her.” I looked over at the young woman, and she was moaning again in the grip of another spasm of pain. “Do you know what to do?” I whispered back. “I helped our housekeeper with several births when I lived with my parents,” she answered. “Now, see if you can get some hot water and clean cloths. Maybe there’s a well out back.” She looked around. “Look in the car for clean cloths. I don’t think we’ll find any in here.” I did find a well out back. I found a pot and after I’d washed it, I pumped it full of water. I lifted it onto the wood stove and lit the fire under it so it’d boil. I tried hard to stay so busy with my tasks that I couldn’t see what was happening over on the pallet in the corner. It was impossible not to hear, though. The sounds of pain were mixed in with the sound of Julietta’s reassuring voice, encouraging the young woman in her labor. Soon, though, my tasks were completed and, when I set the water and the clean cloths down by Julietta, she reached out with her free hand and grabbed mine. “Here,” she said. “Hold Agnes’ hand and keep her looking at you.” I clutched the young woman’s hand. Or did she clutch mine? “Smile,” commanded Julia. I did. And when I looked at Agnes’ face, I realized how young and how frightened she was. That was when I realized that I could help her. So I spoke to her softly and let her squeeze my hand when the pains came. And I worked really hard to help her to stay focused and unafraid. Julietta did all the scary work at the other end. And, it wasn’t long until the most gorgeous little baby girl was born! When I say gorgeous, I really mean that. I know that all newborn babies are called beautiful—even when their faces are all pinched and their heads misshapen. But this baby took my breath away. Even when she was only minutes old, she was perfect in every way and when you looked at her face, you couldn’t look away. (That’s what people always said about her beauty, you’ll remember, even when she got old.) Julietta wiped the baby’s face, wrapped her up in the cloth I’d found and gave her to her mother. Agnes just stared and stared. “She really is beautiful,” she said, gazing at the baby with awe. Then she looked at Julietta and me and with a shy smile thanked us for our help. “I’m sorry the place is so poor and dirty,” she apologized. “And, I’m sorry that my beautiful baby had to be born in such a terrible place. I’m amazed that someone like her would spend even a moment in a place like this.” Agnes’ last statement, Mr. California, may help you in your difficulty of seeing the faults of the church body. When you look at the people in the church, you see their sinfulness and their ugliness and their unrighteousness. Yet the pure God deigns to join them right where they are. So often we forget that the people around us at church are just sinners saved by grace. They’re as far from the holy God as the beautiful Margaret was from the shack she was born in. I can’t give you any excuses about how people from church have acted in the past. I’ve personally found it much more helpful to look in the mirror than at the people around me. After all, I’m trying to get myself to heaven and I know that’s a full-time job. And, if God is willing to be with me—my sin and all—how can I look at the sins of others? And like Agnes, who, with Julietta’s help, moved little Margaret to town soon after her birth to give her a better life, I’m determined not to stay in the same pit God found me in. I’m doing what it takes to move my filthy humanity into a place that’s worthy of his holy, Holy Spirit. How about you? Sincerely sincere, Gabby
ninetyandnine.com © 2002, ninetyandnine.com --------- Gabrigail VanBurden has been offering advice for longer than most of you have been alive. Email your practical Apostolic life questions to Gabby@ninetyandnine.com and be prepared for some straight answers! |
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