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Daily Boost

  • July 11, 2014 - Reflections

    By Jean S. Horner
    The other day while walking down a corridor in a public building, I saw what appeared to be someone walking toward me. On coming closer, I found it was my own reflection in a huge mirror. For a moment it frightened me. Somehow a full-length reflection of one’s self is a startling thing. ...


Daily Boost

June 5, 2014 - Waiting at Walmart

By Scott Harrup

The customer waiting room in the Walmart Auto Care Center seated seven. There were only two of us there, since business can be slow on a Monday morning while the world's workweek kicks into gear. I was typing out my thoughts during an oil change and tire rotation. The other gentleman appeared to be texting. With both of us attending to clearly vital tasks, each of us had an excuse not to engage in conversation.

The coffee was free, but smelled a little burnt.

Waiting. Whether at Walmart, or earlier that day at a clinic, or a month ago at the Department of Motor Vehicles, waiting crops up and I join the rest of the planet in humanity's least-loved but most-common pastime.

Our van was overdue for maintenance, and I had a road trip crop up unexpectedly this week. My last grandparent, known as "Granjoan" to a passel of grandkids and great-grandkids, passed away on Sunday. The funeral was yesterday in Memphis, Tenn.

While I waited on Monday, I thought of Granjoan's wait. As life's demands take their toll on the body and mind, it's only natural to look forward to that final call over heaven's intercom to step out of our common earthly waiting room and step up to eternity's grandstand.

Granjoan waited through years of crippling arthritis. She waited in the aftermath of losing Poppy, her dearest friend and life-mate of three decades. She waited in her quiet corner while the world at large shook itself into a new millennium jarred by the same wars and famines and upheavals large and small that have marked all millennia since creation.

And then, the wait was over. Granjoan received the call to leave our waiting room never to return. To leave behind forever every variety of pain and sorrow and weakness and worry. Why should that make us sad?

Well, of course, on one level all Granjoan's loved ones feel sorrow. Because we're all here in the waiting room still smelling the burnt coffee.

We will miss Granjoan. Her smile. The gentle Southern cadences of her speech. Those eyes that sparkled with a song the rest of us might not be ready to sing until we met up with her and remembered from her example that God's blessings are always present even when our circumstances would try to blind us to His bounty.

Our seats in the waiting room come in all shapes and sizes with every level of comfort or discomfort making itself known from time to time. None of us knows when we get to leave. Sadly, not all of us will choose to go through the door afforded to Granjoan.

That's the most personal decision of all, and so carefully outlined in God's Word with God's very own repeated invitations. One of my favorites is found in Revelation 3:20:

"Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in and eat with you, and you will eat with me" (NCV).

That particular door of the heart, of course, lies on the same set of hinges operating the final portal through which Granjoan passed to meet the Savior with whom she had supped on so many occasions.

Those shared meals with Jesus all along made it possible to bear the arthritis, to bid a long but temporary farewell to Poppy, to watch in a challenged but unwavering faith as this world went on spinning in its countless crazy ways.

And now, that meal is uninterrupted. Poppy, Finley, Fred, loved ones from far and wide and through the generations, all join the table.

That feast will last a very long time. Every last one of us has been invited to join the guest list.

I've accepted my invitation.

Granjoan's question to each of us would be, "What have you done with yours?"

— Scott Harrup is managing editor of the Pentecostal Evangel and blogs at Out There (



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