Read: Matthew 5:11-16
Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven. —Matthew 5:16
Bible In One Year: 1 Chronicles 1-3; John 5:25-47
In his book Christians in the Marketplace, Bill Hybels says that people outside the faith often say, "Show me" before they say, "Tell me."
I knew a young man in Germany named Wolfgang who modeled Hybels' principle at a building site where he worked. As an enthusiastic believer, Wolfgang always read his Bible during lunch. Though his fellow workers jeered, he didn't stop his daily reading. He simply prayed for a way to demonstrate Christ's love to them.
When the workers went home at night, they always left their muddy boots behind. Wolfgang began staying late after work to clean their boots. The men were puzzled at first but then realized that Wolfgang was the only one among them who would perform this humble service. Not only did they come to respect him, but sometimes they even asked him to read the Bible to them. Only eternity will reveal the full effect of Wolfgang's shining life. But this we know: When his co-workers saw his good works, they started listening to his God.
Jesus said, "Let your light so shine before men, that they may . . . glorify your Father in heaven" (Matthew 5:16). If you long to lead the people around you to Jesus, radiate His love by doing practical deeds for God's glory alone. —Joanie Yoder
The ones who don't come back
By Fred Afflerbach
Special to the Star-Telegram
To finance my college education, I drive a moving van.
Last winter, I made several trips from Austin to Fort Hood, 75 miles one way. My job was to pack and load for storage the household goods of 1st Cavalry soldiers soon to be deployed.
As a mover, I've witnessed strange lifestyles, overheard embarrassing conversations and fielded countless odd questions. I like to think I've cultivated a bartender's ear. But I was blindsided by the question of a young Fort Hood soldier: "What happens to the stuff of the ones who don't come back?"
I was stupefied at first. Then I panicked.
"You're coming back," I said nervously. "You're all coming back."
As if my saying so would make it true. What do you say to someone going to war?
Upon completion of each job, I would hand the soldier a copy of the paperwork, but I struggled with an appropriate sendoff. Gradually I grew more comfortable with this awkward situation and, with a strong handshake, expressed my respect for what they were doing along with my prayers for their safe return.
I even thought I was clever, throwing in a line about the homecoming parade they'd receive upon their return. But I was unprepared for this reality check.
Most of the work I performed for the 1st Cav at Fort Hood was in the barracks, which eerily resembles a college dormitory -- albeit with dissimilar curricula. And sometimes these soldiers, who ranged in age from their late teens to mid-20s, acted like college kids, too.
A soldier once answered his cellphone, immediately opened his window and tossed something out to a group of soldiers in the parking lot three floors below. Later I learned that his roommate was eating french fries from a local fast-food restaurant and needed ketchup.
Phone the roomie, ketchup descends, problem solved. Somehow I liked this type of thinking, although I doubt it would impress their sergeant.
During my work for the 1st Cavalry, I found a diversity truly representative of America.
Two young ladies, yet to see their 21st birthdays, mirrored Jessica Lynch. A Hispanic woman's room was decorated with religious symbols. I carefully wrapped and packed statuettes, crucifixes and her bedspread -- a blanket imprinted with the image of the Virgin Mary. After Iraq, she was going back home to New Mexico to attend college. Secretly, I crossed myself.
While wielding my black felt marker, I found it sometimes difficult to correctly spell the soldiers' names on their cartons. Some names were confounding combinations of consonants, heavy with V's, Z's, S's and K's. Other names were an alphabet soup of vowels.
I packed a UT graduate's African dashikis alongside his high school football trophies. Another soldier, whose job is equivalent to that of the manager of an auto parts store, remained curled up on his bed as he watched us pack. He said he was sick, but when we finished, he dressed in a flash. It appeared that he was planning one last night out on the town.
Another trip found me 30 miles outside of Fort Hood in a coffee shop, interrupting an old-timers' dominoes game at 7:30 a.m. I needed directions.
With their help, I found the sergeant from rural Georgia at the end of a gravel road in a mobile home, perched on several acres of rock and cedar. He explained that he received a rent reduction by caring for the owner's horses. But I sensed that he wasn't interested only in saving money.
As I packed inside, I looked outside. He was rubbing his face against a pony's muzzle, saying goodbye. I asked who would take care of the horses when he had gone. He didn't know. He said he was waiting for the call, and when it came he had 12 hours to report, ready to go. As I drove away, the horses bolted into the cedars.
• • •
Of all the soldiers I worked for, the young man who asked the tough question stands out.
Packing his belongings was a peek into his past. I wrapped his ribbons and debate trophies from high school and found more books, papers and binders than I normally do.
"I love to write," he said. I smiled -- a kindred soul.
"What do you write?"
"Poetry."
A few months later, my dispatcher asked me to deliver a "bluebark" shipment from storage. In military parlance, a bluebark shipment consists of the household goods of a deceased service member.
I was about to find out what happens to the belongings of "the ones who don't come back."
Shortly after we began unloading, the young widow offered us coffee and doughnuts -- a demonstration of class and hospitality. Her two toddlers were constantly underfoot. Something that normally was irritating now seemed unimportant. And throughout the move there was no mention of her late husband, neither by her nor the several relatives who came to help.
I remained professional, but I couldn't escape the blunt question about the ones who don't come back. I told myself that it was just another move, and I almost succeeded in this delusion.
But then I began unpacking. Nestled in a carton, between two pictures, was a framed memorial to her husband.
I told myself not to look, but my eyes wouldn't obey. I noticed that I was alone in the room and remained transfixed on the plaque. I looked into the faces of the late soldier's comrades and read the epitaph. I leaned the frame against the wall and walked outside, numb. I felt like a trespasser, a peeping Tom, in the midst of her personal tragedy.
Upon signing the paperwork, I discovered that the woman and I attended the same college and that her brother was to occupy the empty extra bedroom -- a fatherly presence for the children, I thought. Clearly, she was coping and continuing with life.
• • •
I was too young to fight in Vietnam and too old for Iraq. I haven't marched a mile in Army boots. I don't know what it's like to have people shoot at me or to watch comrades beside me fall victim to enemy fire.
But I have seen the cost of war. I saw it in the young widow's eyes and in the two toddlers who'll never get another hug from their daddy.
By constantly reminding ourselves of the cost of war, and weighing it against other options, we can help keep our objectives in focus and make balanced decisions.
America lashes out when it feels that its freedom or safety are jeopardized. But we shouldn't act in a blind rage. That much we owe to the ones who don't come back.
Thanks for the devotion