She opened her Bible to James chapter three to look for the verses on controlling the tongue, but her eyes fell on verse one of chapter three. “Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly.”
That’s Pastor Paul; he will be judged more strictly as a leader. He’s not where he is supposed to be, and he is leading this group of people where they shouldn’t go. I wonder if I should share this with him? She smiled, remembering Barbara’s advice. I better pray about it a lot before I decide. I sure don’t want to go shooting my tongue off and causing more problems.
She put her feet up on the coffee table and relaxed while she prayed in tongues silently, and with her mind she interceded for the church and Pastor Paul.
CHAPTER 28
“The only humility that is really ours is not that which we try to show before God in prayer, but that which we carry with us…. It is in our most unguarded moments that we really show and see what we are.”
Andrew Murray1
“If you are looking for an example of humility, look at the cross.”
Thomas Aquinas2
Paul was in his office meeting with his trusted confidant, Mike. Mike had heard from Jessica, his wife, who heard from an older member of the church who sometimes babysat for them, who had received a phone call that there was an organized movement against the building campaign.
“Can’t they see, can’t they just see what a good thing this is for the church? I swear, every time I try to accomplish something, there’s someone to oppose it,” said Paul, slamming his palm down on his desk.
“Kind of like Jesus?” said Mike, smiling.
Paul looked a little less intense and then laughed, “Yea, kinda like Jesus.”
“I’m not sure how to deal with this, are you?”
“No,” said Paul, suddenly serious again, “they didn’t have a class on preventing church splits in seminary.”
“Apparently they should have.”
“Maybe if we can find out who the informal leader is, we can talk to him. If we succeed in changing his mind, the opposing structure will naturally deteriorate.”
“I don’t think it will be quite that easy. From the sound of it, most of the older adults feel strongly enough to sign a petition, withhold their tithe, and boycott Thursday nights,” said Mike.
“I could care less about their petition and few of them visit on Thursdays anyway, but if the majority withholds their tithe, it could be serious. The over 60 group gives nearly 65 percent of the budget. How long could we last with that kind of a reduction?”
“Well, the group health insurance for the staff just went up, and the parking lot is going to have to be repaved. I’m afraid someone is going to fall and get hurt. We’re also looking at a new roof pretty quickly; the old one is leaking in the women’s bathroom, third stall—”
“All right, I get the picture.”
“I’ve got to get home. I’m late for dinner,” said Mike.
“Me too. If you come up with anything, give me a call.”
In a special effort to bless Paul, Kathy had cooked all day making his favorite food, her homemade enchiladas. But Paul was preoccupied; he wasn’t so much eating as he was shoveling his food around the blue floral plate.
“Honey, are you OK?”
“Yea, just discouraged. I just talked with Mike, and apparently most of the members over 60 don’t want the building campaign and are threatening to withhold their tithe.”
“That’s terrible,” said Kathy.
“Terrible,” mimicked Jordan, who had stirred a bite of enchilada into his milk and taken a big swig, causing Hael to laugh.
“You’re telling me,” he said shoving his plate across the table. “How could they oppose this plan? It’s best for the whole church’s future.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” said Kathy. “I meant it’s terrible that they’re choosing such an ungodly way to protest. The tithe is holy and paid to God. You don’t withhold it if you don’t get what you want. It’s not leverage or a bargaining chip.”
“That’s right, too, and the Lord isn’t going to bless their crappy little efforts,” said Paul with a scowl.
After a slight hesitation Kathy spoke, “I know someone else whose attitude He isn’t going to bless. I know this is hard, Honey. I know you’ve been formulating this plan since the minute you walked in the door. I know that, but you have to respond appropriately. You have to respond in a godly way even though you’re being opposed. It’s really not even you, personally. It’s just your plan.”
“Godly way,” mimicked Jordan.
“See, out of the mouth of babes,” she said chuckling at Jordan, but turned serious again when Paul threw down his napkin. “You always side with other people, and you always belittle my ideas. I can’t tell you anything.”
“That’s not true. I want to be more involved, but you’re shutting me out. Paul, you just don’t want to entertain any opinion but your own. It’s like you’re afraid that if I have any ideas or thoughts that I’ll hijack your authority, but I just want to work together as a team.”
“You’re not the pastor. You don’t carry that responsibility. The buck stops with me.”
“No, but I’m your wife, and you really should consider my input before you immediately discard it, on any topic, church related or not.”
“If you come up with any wonderful words of wisdom to deliver me from this situation, I’ll be in my office.” Kathy didn’t speak what she was thinking, I suggest you come up with a plan and then do the total opposite.
Paul’s manipulative spirits were circling around him, hissing, spitting, and generally working themselves into a froth at the rich opportunities that lay ahead.
“As long as he’s filled with anger, he’s in our clutches.”
“We can take him down and his marriage, too.”
Sarah had her own secret resentment with God. She was growing impatient for the healing she knew should come. Physically, each day was harder than the next. Lord, who’s going to minister at the jail if I’m not there? I know it’s Your will that I be there so why are You withholding my healing? It says that if You made the ultimate sacrifice of Your Son that You will freely give us all things, 3 that if we ask for bread, You won’t give us a stone,4 that You had compassion on the multitudes and that You healed them all.5 She thought of withholding her medicine again to call God’s attention to her faith, but remembered the embarrassment it caused and her promise to Barbara. She tried to get off the couch without her walker. After a few ineffective attempts, she gave up and grabbed for the dreaded contraption. I hate, hate, hate this thing, she thought. In her honest moments, she knew she could not stay by herself very much longer. The thought of leaving her home and moving into the Manor felt like death.
God, where are You?
Joel, radiating with divine light, spoke firmly to Sarah, “You are not a victim, but an overcomer. Put on the whole armor of God to resist the enemy’s attack. He is already defeated, but you must fight. If you let down your shield, he will seize that opportunity to advance against you and bring destruction. Don’t give in to Anger or Self Pity.”
Malta played on his flute to comfort Sarah. The notes were swirling around her, but she couldn’t receive the soothing music. Joel drew his sword to plunge it deep within her heart and spirit, but the sharp tip would not penetrate. “She’s built a wall. She’s angry at Father,” said Joel as tears welled in his eyes.
“This might just be the toughest thing Sarah has to face in the rest of her time on earth. This is a deception that will lead her astray in every area of her life. Unknowingly, she has opened a door to the demonic, and she needs to confess her anger quickly,” replied Malta.
“No one should ever doubt Father’s goodness, regardless of how bad the circumstances appear.”
Though Sarah couldn’t see or feel it, Joel and Malta watched as a highranking, black spirit of Accusation flapped int
o the room, circled Sarah, and came to rest on her shoulder. Delighting in its malicious assignment, it dug its gnarled talons into the tender flesh of her neck and sneered at the angels. Joel and Malta grimaced, revolted by its evil and arrogance. But without permission to act against it, their weapons and worship would help Sarah very little as long as she clung to her bitterness against the Lord. They didn’t speak; they didn’t want the demon to derive great pleasure from hearing it, but they were both thinking it: She had invited the spirit and it had come.
Joel and Malta stood by Sarah’s bed as they did every night. Accusation was beside her in the bed, feeding her its lies and poisoning her mind. Joel and Malta were grieved to tears, but knew they were not allowed to intervene until Sarah changed her attitude and repented.
“Where is God now?” Accusation’s slippery, beguiling voice whispered. “If God is so good, why did He let George die, and why is He letting you die, slowly, a little each day? If He loved you, He would have healed you by now. He’s not going to heal you; you’re going to die in that nursing home, old and alone.”
“Can’t you just picture it?” whispered the spirit of Fear. “Imagine yourself fetal in the bed, unable to move or even swallow, an IV tube pumps liquids in and a catheter takes them out.”
Laying in the dark, Sarah succumbed to the demonic suggestions. Her heart raced, her blood pressure shot up, and she was starting to breathe heavily. She pictured the terrifying scene in great detail. She’d be trapped inside her uncooperative body, a prisoner, possibly even unable to communicate her wants and wishes. How long would she hang on like this? Weeks, months, years? The tormenting spirits continued their taunting images.
Joel and Malta were enraged that Sarah was terrified, that her mind was being violated by these demons sent to destroy her. The yellow eyes flashed at them, the raspy voice of Accusation taunted, “I’ll undo in one day what it’s taken you a year to do.”
“Your power is not as great as you pretend. You’re nothing but defeated cowards,” said Joel. “Your only weapons are bluff and deceit. Sarah doesn’t even have to entertain you, much less be influenced by you. She has complete and total authority over you.”
“But she doesn’t believe that, does she?” said Accusation, smirking as he shielded himself from the glory radiating from the angels. “She doesn’t really believe that at all, and I’ll exploit that weakness to its fullest extent—all the way to the nursing home.”
Sarah didn’t visit the jail the next day like she’d planned, or the day after. She was slowly being drawn into a black vortex of depression. She lay on the couch. She wasn’t hungry. She was restless and agitated. She tried reading the old love letters, but they only made her cry and feel sorry for herself because she missed George so much. For some reason, they weren’t therapeutic anymore.
The demon voices seldom rested. “If God loved you, He would have healed you. He’s all-powerful; He could do it in a moment. What other explanation is there? Why would God love you? You spent 70 years living for yourself without giving Him a thought.”
She became more despondent as she entertained their vile demonic lies. The more negative and critical ideas polluted Sarah’s mind, the more debilitated her body became. Sarah was already imagining how it would feel to be totally incapacitated.
“A cheerful heart is good medicine…”6 said Joel to Malta, “Unfortunately, the opposite is also true.”
Barbara was out of town at a church conference and unaware of the situation. The jail’s director noticed her absence and called, but by the time she got up from the couch the phone had stopped ringing.
CHAPTER 29
“We will never be satisfied in the pursuit of false and temporary fulfillments. Only when we begin to touch and experience some of these eternal satisfactions will we be empowered to let go of the inferior ones.”
Mike Bickle1
Sarah was depressed. She passed the next several days laying on the couch weeping off and on. When she became overcome by boredom, she’d turn on the television. “I can’t believe I’ve stooped to watching daytime talk shows and soap operas. Even when I wasn’t saved I didn’t do that.” She turned off the television and read her Bible, but it seemed dry and irrelevant. After awhile she turned the television back on. She tried to pray for the actors, but gave up.
Lying on the couch she remembered that the pilot light was still lit on the furnace. George used to turn it off each year to save money when the weather warmed. I think I’ll do that.
Immediately Malta whispered, “Sarah, it’s not wise. You can get a neighbor to do it for you.”
She lifted herself slowly off the couch and with the aid of her walker headed toward the basement door, grabbing her cane on the way. When she passed through the door to the kitchen, she automatically started praying.
She threw off additional warnings from Joel and Malta, which manifested as that nagging feeling that what she was contemplating wasn’t wise. She slowly opened the basement door and transferred her first hand from the walker to the handrail.
“This is great,” snickered Depression, in an uncharacteristic burst of pleasure. “We don’t have to do anything except stand back and watch.”
“After all our failed efforts, she’s doing it to herself,” laughed Intimidation.
“I can only hope it will be a fatal fall,” whispered Death.
She stepped with one foot onto the first step. She released the walker, grabbed the cane and threw it to the bottom of the stairs. With both hands holding the rail on either side of the stairs she slowly, painstakingly descended. At the bottom, with one hand still clutching the rail she stooped to pick up the cane. Success.
She moved to the furnace and undid the latches holding the cover plate in place. It fell to the floor. She took care of the pilot light. After staring at the plate, she decided to let it lay. It would require two hands to reinstall. That meant no cane; it was too risky. She turned back toward the stairs and slowly began her ascent. She was surprised at how much harder it was going up. Her legs were already exhausted and she was less than halfway. She paused to rest for a second and her legs buckled, jerking both hands from the rails. She was falling before she knew it. She landed on her right side with a thud on the cold cement floor and let out a scream as a sharp pain ran the length of her body.
She rolled to her back and lay still, praying. She lifted her head and looked down her body. Her left foot was pointing toward the ceiling. Her right foot was pointed toward the wall.
“You’ve done it now,” screeched Discouragement. “You’ll definitely live your last days in a nursing home for sure.” Sarah began to cry as much from fear as from the pain. There was no getting around it; she knew that her actions would cause major changes in her life.
When she’d agreed to get the necklace, she’d never really planned on using it. It was just part of an agreement to let her stay in her home.
“Sarah, this isn’t going to go away,” said Malta. “You need help.” Reluctantly she pushed the button.
In a few seconds, her phone was ringing; she counted 17 times. Then it stopped. In a few minutes she heard the siren in the distance. Another minute and it was screamingly loud. She heard pounding on the front door. Then running feet went past the basement window to the back. There was more knocking, then the sound of splintering wood. At the top of the stairs stood a fireman. “She’s down here,” he yelled, shoving her walker aside. Seeing that only added to her humiliation. She shook her head at her foolishness and choked back more tears.
In just a few seconds she was surrounded. One intense-looking fireman put a blood pressure cuff on her while another asked an unending string of questions. “What’s the president’s name? What’s the date? What city are you in? What happened? What medicines are you taking? Are you having problems breathing?” They scooped her onto a long, cold plastic board and strapped her down. The movement caused her to cry out in pain, especially the trip up the steep stairs.
As they were carr
ying her across the kitchen, Malta prompted her to speak her thoughts. Through her tears she managed to say, “All this just so I could blow out the pilot light and save a few dollars.”
“Ma’am, did you say ‘blow out’ the pilot light?”
“Yes.”
“Did you turn off the gas?”
“No. I didn’t know I was supposed to. George always….” her voice trailed off as she watched him run for the basement door.
She didn’t think it was possible to be more embarrassed, more humiliated, than she was already, but when she saw the firemen shaking their heads and smirking at each other, she felt like a chastised, incompetent child.
“Ma’am,” said the returning officer, “I don’t want to say you’re lucky that you fell and hurt yourself, but it’s a good thing we’re here. You would have blown up yourself, your house, and possibly your closest neighbors.”
The ambulance arrived at the hospital within minutes. Nothing in Bradbury was very far from anything else. Sarah was X-rayed in the ER, which confirmed a broken hip. The good news was, instead of needing a hip replacement, the bones could be pinned. They whisked her into surgery late that afternoon.
Her exhaustion and the medication caused her to sleep all through the evening and night. When she opened her eyes she looked up into the face of a smiling nurse.
“Good morning, my name’s Jan. How do you feel this morning?”
Sarah assessed the situation; she felt pain, a sharp unrelenting pain in her right hip. She had an IV in her left hand and her right arm was one big bruise. Then the memories of last night all came flooding back. She teared up slightly, “How long will I be here?”
Jan patted her arm gently, “That’s partly up to you. We’ll keep you on this floor and start rehabilitation therapy. Probably after a week or so you’ll be moved to a temporary facility to continue your therapy, all together you can expect rehab to take about six weeks.”
Angels of Humility: A Novel Page 18
