Oct. Fence Post of Faith

Sorry for getting this out late, but you ever notice that events or tragedies that happen in our lives make you think. A few things that we need to pray for this month are first, for the Caleb Moody family on the loss of there Barrel horses. And we also need to keep Patty Konecny in our prayers and a quick recovery on here broke leg when she went down with her horse at Waterloo also. We need to keep Betty Wudtke family in our prayers for her lost of her brother, he had been taking care of his wife as she battled cancer, and he was Swain and Lisa Wudtke uncle.  One more sad note, prayer go out to the Doug and Cindy Stark family, we got a call this morning that there son Curtis Stark was killed driving home from work this morning. Many of you would remember him from the IRCA, URA, IRA, High School Rodeo, he was an avid, and very good calf and Team Roper. I don’t think I ever seen his with out a rope in his hands. He college rodeo for Dodge City Kansas Rodeo team. He will be missed by many. And especially his High School Rodeo Team Roping partner Colby Lenhart.

This last week I was a pallbearer for Elsie May Burns, Sigourney Iowa, she was like a second mom to my girls at the horse shows. I wrote a cowboy poem and spoke at her Funeral. It was a tuff to stand and speak about someone that was so special in my kids growing years, she was 69. We don’t like to think or speak on death in our lives, but it is reality that we all have to face some time in our lives. We have all been subject to death someway, weather it was a family member, a good friend, or even favorite horse. I believe spiritually we have to view them as more than a memory, they are a living presence…. We never really lose them; they just become a part of all of us…

One of my many purposes for writing Fence Post of Faith is to ensure that thru faith, all things are possible. I believe that cowboy’s need Christ also. Yet we rodeo and barrel race on weekend, but that shouldn’t stop us from finding or starting our own faith journey. You may never find God, but in the end God will find you. My story this month is a 17 years olds view of heaven. I hope you enjoy it. I will be at Lincoln and Columbia BarrelBash’s to do church services. So while you’re up feeding early, just slip over to cowboy church, come in your pj’s I don’t care just come.

A Teenager’s View of Heaven

17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a class. The subject was what heaven was like. ‘I wowed’em, ‘he told his father Bruce. ‘It’s a killer. It’s the bomb. It’s the best thing I ever wrote…’It also was the last.
Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was driving home from a fiends house and went off the road and struck a utility pole, he emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was killed. The Moore’s framed a copy of Brian’s essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room. ‘I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of it, Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband wanted to share their son’s vision of life after death. ‘I’m happy for Brian. I know he’s in heaven. I know I’ll see him.

Brian’s Essay: The Room

I that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read ‘girls I have liked. ‘I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the action of my event moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn’t match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named ‘friends’ was next to one marked ‘Friends I have betrayed.’ The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird ‘Books I have read, ‘ Lies I have told, ’Comfort I have given, ‘Jokes I have Laughed at. ‘Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: ‘Things I’ve yelled at my brothers. ‘Others I couldn’t laugh at: things I have done in my anger’, Things I have muttered under my breath at my parents. ‘ I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.

Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked TV Shows I have watched’, I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly and yet after two or three yards, I hadn’t found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of show but
More by the cast time I knew that file represented. When I came to a file marked lustful thoughts, ‘felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its details.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. And almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: no ne must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!’ in an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn’t matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it… the title bore ‘People I have shared the Gospel with. ‘The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of files shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw him.

No, please not him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as he began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn’t bear to watch his response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at his face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own.
He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did he have to read everyone? Finally he turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in his eyes. But this was a pity that didn’t anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put his arm around me. He could have said so many things. But he didn’t say a word he just cried with me.

Then he got up and walked back to the wall of files. Stating at one end of the room, he took out a file and, one by one, began to sing his name over mine on each card.” NO!’I shouted rushing to him. All I could find to day was “NO, no,’ as I pulled the card from him. His name shouldn’t be on these cards. But there it was written in red so rich, so dark, and so alive. The name Jesus covered mine. It was written with his blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled and began to sign the cards. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how he did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed his had on my shoulder and said, ‘it is finished. I stood up, and he led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.-John 3-16. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me-Phil. 4:13. May God bless us all.

Adios Jeff Metcalf