I Saw Santa Claus

It was always my Dad's favorite Christmas story and, almost every year, he would ask me to share with others my experience on Christmas Eve, 1955. It was a long time ago, but the memory is as clear today as the experience was that night.

We were living in Goodwater and had been to Ashland for dinner with several family members. We had stayed fairly late, and I was concerned about getting home before Santa came and getting into bed like a good little boy. I was full of anxious and hopeful anticipation.

 As we pulled into the driveway, the lights of the car shined directly into the window of the living room. There he was, Santa Claus, looking directly into the lights of the car. I shouted, "There's Santa Claus next to the tree." The car had barely stopped as I jumped out and dashed to the door. I opened the door, turned on the light, and dashed through the small house looking for Santa only to realize he was gone.

I ran quickly back into the living room and realized Santa had been there and he must have gotten my letter because under the tree was a "Coonskin Davy Crockett hat" and a "Smoke-gun." My Mom and Dad asked me what I had seen that made me jump out and run in as I had. I explained that Santa was standing in the window. He turned and looked with surprise when he was caught in the headlights, and he had scampered toward the back door. When I came into the house, he was nowhere to be found.

That was sixty-five years ago. Until the day they died, our family always liked to talk about that experience, and none of us could ever explain it. But, I know this, "On that night, a long time ago, I saw Santa Claus." And, that vision is as real today as it was that night.

Perhaps, if we allow our hearts to be filled with faith, hope, joy, and love this Christmas, we could catch a glimpse of Emmanuel, "God With Us," this Christmas.

Get Ready! Look and listen! "Some will dream dreams; others will see visions." May it happen for you this Christ-Mass season.

Blessings, Bro. Mike 

The Bridge

Years ago, on the first Walk to Emmaus at Camp Sumatanga in North Alabama, I had gone to sit and pray on a small bridge across the small creek that flows next to Hutto Auditorium. I was about to go into the conference room and give the talk on discipleship to the men there that weekend. I can remember working hard on the talk. I had researched, studied, practiced under critique, and fine-tuned the subject of discipleship to a point with which I thought God would be well pleased. 

No sooner had I begun to pray than a young girl, maybe ten to twelve years old, came along and plopped right down on the bridge with me. Immediately, she disrupted my time of prayer and preparation, “Hi, my name is Shannon, what’s yours?” Hoping she would leave, I told her and she immediately followed up with another question, “What are you doing here?” I began to explain to her that I was about to go give a very important talk about discipleship to a group of men on a retreat. She was not the least impressed and asked, “Where does the water in this creek come from?” I was beginning to get frustrated and was trying to decide how I could get her to leave so I could continue my praying and preparation. However, I took the time and explained to her that about a half a mile upstream in the creek, past the pool camp and above a beaver pond, there was a spring coming out of the side of the mountain that provided the water for the creek. Immediately, she wanted to know if we could go and see the spring. I explained to her again that I did not have time. I was trying to get ready to give this talk on discipleship and needed time to prepare. Her immediate response was, “Why? What’s so hard about that?”

That did it. It was time. I was ready for her to leave. However, that small voice that sometimes speaks to us and moves us to do what we do not want to do spoke to me and nudged me to ask Shannon if she knew what a disciple was. She never blinked or hesitated. She simply said, “Yes.” With more than a hint of skepticism, I said, “Well, why don’t you tell me what a disciple is?” She looked up at me and said, “Sure, a disciple is someone who talks like Jesus talked, walks like Jesus walked, and loves like Jesus loved.” 

Needless to say, my pen was busy instantly; scratching out my well planned conclusion and, only a few minutes later, the men on that retreat heard of an encounter at the bridge and learned that a disciple was someone who talks like Jesus talked, walks like Jesus walked, and loves like Jesus loved.

Thank you, Shannon, for those precious moments at the bridge. It has now been over thirty years since that day and I still use your definition of a disciple. 

Brother Mike Densmore

Humility: A Truly Spiritual Challenge

I remember over thirty-five years ago meeting with Claude Whitehead as a spiritual mentor, listening to his teaching, praying, and seeking a deeper relationship with Jesus. We each had goals and we would share how well, or not, we were progressing toward our goals. As we met one Monday afternoon, Claude began to share how devastated he was with the result of his effort to “become humble.” Trying to be pastoral, I implored into the disappointment of his failure. Claude was quick to respond, “It’s worse than that. This morning, I found myself feeling proud of my humility and, I had a vision. I was climbing a ladder toward humility and I could see the top. As I reached, I said, ‘Got it.’ Then, I fell back down the ladder hitting my chin on every step of the ladder. When I looked up, at the bottom, I saw the name of the first step was “humility.”

True humility has forever been a spiritual challenge for us humans and true humility can only come through authentic surrender to the Lordship of Jesus. It is a challenge for each of us and especially to us as Americans. We are a blessed people, free and independent, with rights, privileges, and blessings second to no other people on the face of the earth. However, with that, comes tremendous liability and responsibility.

How do we become humble enough to yield our freedom to the Sovereign control of God? How do we become humble enough to serve Jesus as Lord? How do we become humble enough to surrender our lives to the Authority of all authorities? It’s a truly spiritual challenge.

Beware this challenge! It must be an authentic search and it’s a goal that can never be claimed. Oswald Chambers called conscious humility, “The most satanic type of human pride.” Think and pray before you begin this journey, you just might get your chin bruised.

Blessings,

Mike

Don't Shoot the Hog

I learned a lesson over fifty (50) years ago that I think about from time to time and have a chuckle. I was deer hunting with a group of men and boys on a really cold morning. The frost was heavy, and ice was everywhere. The Hunt Master for the day was the landowner, an ole country man by the name of Leo, who had decided our first drive would be across a thirty-acre swamp thick with briars and shallow water. Since this group often called me "Swamp Cat," Leo asked me to go through the swamp with him. Then, the lecture began. He explained he had hogs living in the swamp, and we needed to be careful to only shoot "deer with horns on their head" and not his hogs. Several times, we listened as Leo gave specific instructions how to ensure we were hunting deer and not hogs. After several versions of instructions, the hunt began; everyone went to stands on the other side of the swamp, and Leo and I began to work through the swamp. His final instruction to me was, "Whatever you do, don't shoot my hogs."

As we began moving through the swamp, it was miserable and cold. Saw-briars and vines were thick, and it was hard to see more than fifteen to twenty feet anywhere you looked. Leo and I stayed in communication by whooping at each other several times each minute. We were about half-way through the swamp when it happened; I heard something big jump out of the brush and quickly heard Leo's old single barrel shotgun. Then, stone silence. I stood still and silent for a couple of minutes before calling out, "Leo, did you get him?" I got a very curt response, "Shut up, boy." I started to make my way toward Leo when I heard the shotgun roar a second time. I paused again and asked, "Leo, did you get him?" The answer came back more frustrated than before, "Shut up, boy."

It took me a few minutes to make my way to Leo, and as I broke through the swamp to him, he was kneeling in the water. Looking up at me, he said clearly, "Don't you ever say a word about this; I just shot my _____ hog." After a few minutes to gather himself and one more warning to me about silence, we made our way through the swamp. Everyone had seen several hogs come out of the swamp, and one young boy had seen "a big buck with a big rack too late for a shot." Leo didn't miss the opportunity, "That must have been the one I shot at. All I saw was the rack through the brush." Believe it or not, the "Swamp Cat" learned some lessons that day:

1. When you are the landowner of the hogs, they are your hogs.

2. Sometimes what other people don't know doesn't hurt them or you either.

3. Protecting another's dignity and respect without harming someone else feels good.

4. Leo was grateful. When he processed that ole boar, we got a whole ham and five pounds of bacon.

5. There is grace in silence. Leo (now gone) and I never mentioned that hunt again. 

With a chuckle, Mike  

Memorial Day

This weekend has always been a special time for me. When I was a young boy, we would always go to some cemeteries in Winston, Cullman, and Walker counties for Decoration Day. I remember walking among the graves, reading the headstones, listening to stories, and imagining those departed saints as heroes and leaders. We added dirt to sunken areas of graves, accented them with river pebbles, and placed flowers in awe and respect for their lives. Then, we would all share “dinner on the ground” and sing a bunch of gospel songs before going home. This was always a special day and until this day, precious memories remain.

After a few years, I noticed a few rows of special headstones on the edge of the cemetery As I spent  time there, I learned they were casualties from the Civil War, both union and confederate soldiers. I asked my grandfather (“Pop”) about them. He explained Decoration Day was also known as Memorial Day and it was intended to honor all veterans who had died in service for our country. He said that no one really knew, exactly, how or where it started. There were several stories from over a dozen places from during the Civil War. When people had gone out on Decoration Day, they were inspired to place flowers on the graves of soldiers from both armies. Ever since, the practice had grown to honoring all soldiers who died while defending our freedoms and liberty as Americans. I am not sure my “Pop” knew  a few years earlier, our government had made the last Monday in May official as Memorial Day.

I would ask each of us to remember this weekend is rooted in recognition of those who gave their life defending the rights and liberties we enjoy today in a time of pronounced internal conflict as a nation and, since that time, hundreds of thousands of others have sacrificed their lives to protect our lives and our “rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

As we remember, may we resolve that it is our time to learn to sacrifice and face some inconveniences for the sake of others.

God’s Blessings & be safe, Mike. 

Ms. Willie Mae

 Ms. Willie Mae

I met Ms. Willie Mae the first afternoon of my first day in my first appointment. All four feet and ten inches of her showed up at the front door of the parsonage with a smile on her face and a plate full of fried apple pies with the steam still rising from them. As I took the pies from her, she pointed to her home, directly across the street, and said, “I live right there. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other real well.”

     Over the next few months, we did get to know each other well. I would go over to her house and we would sit out on the porch and swing in her swing. She was a snuff dipper and was proud of the way she could swing back and spit her tobacco juice into the shrubbery and never get a drop on her porch. I would learn that she had come to live in her little shotgun house when she was fourteen years old as the wife of a man over three times her age and that she had seldom been more than two miles from her house and the five acres of land it sat on. Quickly, I became amazed by the depth of her faith and the intimacy of her relationship with God. Early on, she informed me if I ever came over and heard her talking to someone I should not think it strange because she spent a lot of time talking to Jesus. I asked her if Jesus ever talked back to her to which she retorted, “Of course he does. You don’t think I’m crazy enough to keep talking to somebody who doesn’t talk to me do you.”

     I eventually learned that Ms. Willie Mae had lived a life full of challenges and tragedies. After giving birth to four children at a very early age, her husband died leaving her with nothing but a little 800 square foot house and five acres of land. She went to work washing, ironing, cooking, and cleaning house for other people in the mill village. In addition, she raised vegetables, chickens, pigs, and a cow for milk. Somehow, she was able to take care of her children and see that they were educated and had a good start in life. She was proud of her three sons and her “baby” girl.

     Her second tragedy came shortly after her oldest son had graduated from high school and joined the army. He had returned home on leave, gone out with some friends one night, and, on the way home, been killed in a car wreck. Ms. Willie Mae would often show his picture to me, talk about how much she missed him, and what a blessing he had been from God.

     About a year after we moved into the parsonage, the quietness of a Saturday night was shattered by someone knocking at the door. As I opened the door, Ms. Willie Mae’s next oldest son stepped into the room and asked, “Can you go over to Momma’s with me? Sally is dead.”

I was shocked. This was Ms. Willie Mae’s only daughter. Her husband had just come home from Viet Nam and they had gone to the lake to picnic and ski and, in a tragic accident, she had drowned.

 We went over to the house and knocked on the door. After a few minutes, Ms. Willie Mae came to the door, opened it, began crying, and immediately cried out, “Don’t tell me my Sally’s dead. Don’t tell me that.” Needless to say, it was a long dark night. The next few days were sad as we grieved together and had the funeral. Everyone was concerned as to whether or not Ms. Willie Mae would ever recover and if she would ever come back to church.

I went over to the house a couple of times and, each time, she was sitting in her rocker, holding her Bible, and just moaning. I began to wonder if she would ever return from the darkness of her grief. I wondered if we would ever sit on the porch again and laugh as she spat back into the bushes. I wondered if my sermons would ever again be interrupted by her uplifting, “Praise the Lord,” response to a point that resonated with her spirit in worship.

     However, my worries were short-lived. The first Sunday after the funeral, Ms. Willie Mae was back in church to the shock and surprise of us all. She walked in, just as the service was beginning, with a smile on her face and a little nod to everyone. She opened her hymnal and began to sing as if things were normal. Two times that morning, she even interrupted the sermon with a clear and strong, “Praise the Lord.” We were all amazed.

     Later that afternoon, I saw her in the swing on her front porch and went over to join her. We sat quietly for a while and she broke the silence. “Preacher, you know my life has not been easy. I’ve had to work hard. I never got an education and never had any money. There’s a lot I don’t understand. Two of my children are dead and I’m still here. It’s times like these that I’ve come to understand that, sometimes, you’ve just got to trust God. You just can’t get by no other way.”

     I know, without a doubt, that God nodded and smiled as the swing went back and she spit back into the bushes.

Brother Mike 

Who Is It?

Her name was Ginger, and I loved her deeply. I know I was young and probably didn’t understand, but it was more than “puppy love.” I knew it, and she did too. I’d find a way to get away with her and share my hopes and dreams, my doubts and fears, and she was among one of the best listeners I’ve ever known. We would walk in the woods and sit by the creek almost every day. Any time I was down, she lifted my spirits. When I would cry, she licked my tears. When I needed a confidant, she was all ears. She loved me and was always there when I needed her. We all need someone with whom we can discuss the deeper things of life. Who is that someone with whom you can really be vulnerable and honest. THINK ABOUT IT!

Ginger has been gone for a long time and, today, her name is Patsy-Coe, a blessing from God to me. By the way, she doesn’t get tired when I tell Ginger stories; she loves Cocker Spaniels too.

Mike