A TRIBUTE TO MRS. NIGHTINGALE
by Lygia Lovelace

 

While we lived in Portugal, a very special guest came to stay in our home for a week. Her name was Mrs. Nightingale. She was an elderly lady with a servant’s heart and a joyful spirit. She had been crippled years before in an accident and walked slowly, with a cane. However, in spite of the challenges she faced, she was a lady on a mission. God had called her to travel to many foreign countries, handing out tracts to people in their own languages, and spreading the joy of Jesus to everyone she met. She certainly spread the joy of Jesus to us during that week!

When she wasn’t hobbling through the streets, passing out tracts, Mrs. Nightingale would perch joyfully on our couch and laugh at the antics of four silly little Lovelace’s. She contributed to the children’s play by allowing them to hobble with her cane, and allowing little Chase to crawl all over her lap, grab her glasses, and run his fat little fingers through her hair.

How she ministered to us! I could write a whole book on the wisdom that Mrs. Nightingale imparted to us those few days, not just through her words, but by her prayers and her willing heart.

Upon leaving, she gave to each of my tearful children a sheet of old stickers--not just any old stickers, but precious reminders of Mrs. Nightingale.

Several years have passed since we have seen our dear friend. Some time ago, Bracken held up his few remaining stickers and whispered through his tears, “Mom, this is all I have left of Mrs. Nightingale.”

Memories sprang forth in my heart, as I thought back to that precious week so long ago. What I have left of Mrs. Nightingale can never be used up.

Do you know, sweet lady, how you ministered to a young mother in Portugal, weary and homesick, spiritually dried up and joyless? You have become a part of me that will never be used up.

Father, help me to be an encourager to others, an oasis in the midst of so many dry lands. Thank you, Father, for creating Mrs. Nightingale.

Thank you, Mrs. Nightingale. We love you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I HAVE TO TELL HER!
by Lygia Lovelace

 

Many years ago, when Grandpa died, Grandma felt all alone. So, she came to live with my family! What a joy! For many years we have enjoyed her presence, her experience, her wisdom. And now, living so far away from her, I miss her. Several years ago, when she reached her 90’s, she began to forget many things. But she never forgot about me. She prayed for me, and kept up with me. When Ken and I felt God calling us to the mission field, she encouraged us and supported us wholeheartedly. The last time I saw her, she told me that she probably would not see me again on this earth, or if she did, she may not remember me. “But God will always be with you, as will my love.” she said. That day, I took with me the special gift of her wedding ring, which I wear on my finger as a precious token of her love and support.

Now Grandma is 96 years old. Little by little, her body is weakening and her memory is almost completely gone. But she has never forgotten her Creator, the One for Whom she has lived all of her life. Several months ago, she said to my mother, “Look there, out that window. Do you see? Do you see those people dressed in white, standing out in the yard? What a beautiful sight!”

“No, I don’t see anything. They must be angels, Mom, waiting to take you with them to Heaven.”

And Grandma smiled and nodded. What a wonderful new life she has to look forward to!

Several days ago, I was walking with a Portuguese friend. We are very close friends, yet she does not yet believe in Jesus. While we were walking, she was telling me about her father, who died last year.

“At the end,” she was saying, “it was terrible! My father was always weeping and screaming! At times, he would shout, ‘NO! THE DARKNESS! LET ME STAY!’ ’’ Then, with a wave of her hand, she added, “I’m sure it was just because of his medication...”

She kept on talking, but I couldn't think of anything else except her father. My heart felt like it was ripping apart because of the desperation of this poor man in his final hours. What a contrast between him and Grandma, standing at death’s door!

The truth is that all people, without Jesus, will experience this desperation in the moment they die, including my dear friend who told me this story. How can I just stand by and let her die that way...without hope, without peace, without anything?

I want a better death for her. And I know the Someone who can give her a better life.

I have to tell her...over and over again.

 

O Death, where is your sting?
O Hades, where is your victory?
The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is
the law.

But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory
through our Lord Jesus Christ!
I Corinthians 15:55-56

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DOES GOD HEAR US WHEN WE PRAY?
by Lygia Lovelace

 

We love apartment life! We live on the 14th floor and it is always an adventure! I remember the first time that our clothes fell from the clothesline, or when we saw the sailboats from our window moving across the river on a beautiful day. I remember the first time that the electricity went out and the elevators wouldn’t work! And, I remember when the children began asking for a special pet...a parakeet. You know this kind of bird...nervous...dirty... generally disagreeable. We were not enthusiastic about a parakeet. We tried to change their minds, “Fish are cuter, don’t you think? Fish, or maybe a little turtle?” “A parakeet!” they insisted. Even our 3 year old insisted that he wanted a parakeet, though he wasn’t sure what one was. We continued to say no. Little did we know that our oldest son, Bracken, began secretly praying for a parakeet.

It was 10:00 p.m., at least a month after our conversation about the parakeet. All the children were sleeping. We were enjoying the sounds of the night: the wind passing through the windows, people coming and going in the elevator, little snoring sounds coming from the children. Suddenly, we heard a strange noise! What could it be!? We walked into the kitchen and couldn’t believe our eyes! A parakeet?! Where did it come from? We thought that evidently it had fallen out of a neighbor’s window and desperately flown into ours. Ken asked around immediately, but no one was missing a parakeet! Hmmm...we became a little suspicious.

The next morning, when the troops were awake, we had a family meeting. “Well now,” I began, “WHO has been praying for a parakeet?”

After a moment of silence, Bracken confessed. “Me. But why?”

Upon seeing the new arrival, the children were surprised. Actually, they were shocked, especially Bracken! Since no one claimed the parakeet, what could we do? His name is Lego. And in spite of being nervous, dirty, and generally disagreeable, he is now a prominent member of the Lovelace family.

I think that many times, we are like Bracken. We ask God for something and when we receive it, we are shocked! But it is written many times in the Bible that God hears and answers our prayers. Remember Hannah? She prayed and prayed for a child. There is no doubt that God heard her. And Paul. He prayed that God would free him from some problem that he had. There is, again, no doubt that God heard. In these two different prayers, God answered in different ways, according to what was best for each person praying. Nevertheless, God heard and responded. God IS interested in our requests. And He wants the best for us. I don’t know what you are asking God for, but He knows, and He WILL respond. Don’t be shocked!

I have to finish the parakeet story. The night after Lego flew in, Ken began closing all the windows.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m closing all the windows in case someone prays for a pony!”

“A PONY?!!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

UNNATURAL COURAGE
by Lygia Lovelace

I could tell that the cat was very annoyed. The children were rescuing something from her jaws and she was not going to give it up without a fight.

“What is it?” I asked at the doorway.

“Look, Mom, it’s a lizard, and he’s bleeding. It’s a good thing we rescued him from Esther. In another minute, he would’ve been dead…or eaten!””

Not really a lizard fan, I bent down with only half-hearted sympathy to inspect the little victim my son was holding. The poor thing was indeed bleeding, and gasping for air, apparently from fright. But it was the hair between the lizard’s jaws that caught my attention: the cat’s hair!

In spite of my lack of love for furtive, and darting little creatures, I had to admire this one. This lizard had fought back with unnatural courage! Not knowing that my children would rescue it from an untimely death, the creature had fought bravely for its own life! Never mind that the predator was 100 times the size of the lizard itself! No one told the lizard of the incredible odds or that fighting back would be futile.

It was unnatural courage. As the children and I marveled at the cat’s hair dangling from the lizard’s mouth, we watched as my son released it once again to freedom.

So many times when the predator, the prince of this world, pursues me, I run. Marriage struggles, family pressures, sick babies and ministry heartaches can send me into a panic, and cause me to lose all courage. After all, the odds are incredible; fighting back seems futile.

Give me unnatural courage, Father. Please, let it come naturally, as I seek to face what pursues me.

And as my children were indeed there for that fortunate lizard, You will be there—standing in the gap for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE WRONG NEIGHBORHOOD
by Lygia Lovelace

 

Several years ago, after coming home from the foreign mission field, we began searching for a house here in Dallas. It was an overwhelming process! We found a house we liked, and put a bid on it. Bracken and Brooklyn were particularly excited about it. However, several days later, we discovered that our bid was totally rejected. We were a little sad, when Bracken reminded us,

          “You know, maybe God didn’t give us this house because it’s in the wrong neighborhood.”

Knowing that we had chosen the neighborhood carefully, I looked doubtfully at Bracken.

He continued, “Maybe THAT neighborhood was full of Christians. Maybe God wants us in a neighborhood where we can really minister and tell others about Jesus.”

From then on, we began re-directing our praying:

Father, we want the house that will most glorify You.
        Send us to the neighborhood that needs
        You the most. We will be proud to
        move in and represent You.

Here we are, send us…

It wasn’t long before we were moving into a different house—one of God’s choosing. We really had no idea about the neighborhood, but we liked the house.

Shortly after our “move-in”, we began knocking on doors, wanting to get to know our neighbors. Apparently, the word was already out that we were a Christian family—and that Ken was a pastor. Doors shut in our faces, almost as quickly as they opened.

A little discouraged, the children and I brightened one day when we saw a sign out in front of one neighbor’s yard: FREE KITTENS. Great! We could go in, look at the kittens, and become acquainted with our neighbors in this way! We eagerly went up to the front door and knocked.

When the lady answered, we smiled, and I said, “Do you have free kittens?”

The lady inspected all of us and looked at me over her glasses.

“Are you here to choose a kitten?” she asked me gruffly.

“Well, not exactly…” I responded, “…but we’d love to meet you and SEE the kittens.”

“YOU CAN’T SEE ‘EM UNLESS YOU WANT ONE!” the lady yelled, and she slammed the door in our faces.

As we were walking away, the children were discouraged.

“No one wants to meet us, Mom. That was rude! Why do we care about people like that?!”

We stopped right there on the sidewalk, and prayed that God would give us His kind of love for our neighbors—even the rude ones. We prayed that God would begin to literally OPEN some doors so that we could get to know our neighbors. We wanted so much for them to get to know Jesus.

This was the beginning of many prayers! For years we have prayed, asking God to show us how to be a witness to our neighbors. If we saw an ambulance in front of someone’s house, Ken would quickly go to the home and ask if he could pray with the family. If we saw a child outside, we would introduce ourselves and our children. We held Bible studies in our home. No neighbors came. We had garage sales. Few neighbors came. We even had parties in our front yard, inviting our neighbors. They stared—some even came over to see what was going on…but no one lingered.

Finally, after so many years of praying, God opened wide the neighbors’ doors, and they started coming! We held a Summer Bible School for kids in our own front yard, and invited the teens over to play basketball in our back yard. We sweated, we swatted mosquitoes, and we prayed. Every day brought more kids and teens! It was so exciting to tell these children about Jesus when they had never even heard about Him! During that week, we talked about the birth of Jesus…

“Do you know why we celebrate Christmas?” I asked.

No one knew…

“Do you know what gifts the wise men brought to Jesus?” I asked.

No one knew…someone guessed…diapers? A Bible?

“Do you know that God loves you so much that He sent Jesus to earth to die for you?”

Astounded, everyone stared. One girl responded, “I never knew…God loves me? But…why?”

We ended our week with Christ’s crucifixion, and His resurrection. We carried crosses, we wrapped each other as Jesus’ body was wrapped in the tomb. We burst out of those wrappings and cried “HE IS RISEN!” We celebrated Easter in the middle of August!

Now, ever since that week, it has been a joy to have our neighbor kids and teens in our home. On Wednesday nights, they begin coming, even an hour early, to hear stories from the Bible. I love to sit among them and listen to their reactions as Ken tells them truths from God’s Word. We have had the privilege of leading many of them to salvation in Christ, and now we are discipling them through God’s Word.

I remember a few weeks ago, Ken was telling them about Adam and Eve, and how Eve disobeyed, and ate the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

One neighbor kid, a new boy, stood up excitedly, “Wait! Wait! I know this story! She eats that poison apple, and falls into a deep sleep, then the prince comes…”

Another neighbor kid jumps up and yells, “Sit down, you fool! That’s a fairy tale! THIS is a story from the Bible!”

Though they are an irreverent bunch, they hold God’s Word as truth, and with reverence. They have taught me a lot—about the hopelessness of a life without Christ, and about how obvious and bright TRUTH is in a world of darkness.

Oh, how I love them! Oh, how I long for them to know and follow the Truth! Oh, God, let this be a new generation for You—breaking away from the darkness and ignorance that plagues our country. Let these kids someday raise families for You.

Just the other day, Ken walked out the front door to get something from the car. A man’s voice sounded from across the street,

“Hello, Pastor!” Ken raised his hand and smiled, in surprise, as he realized that one of the neighbor kid’s dads had actually spoken a kind word.

Then, at another time, and without warning, there was a knock at our door. We gulped as we saw the “kitten lady” standing out front. Ken answered the door while we all stood silently by.

She stammered around a minute, then she said, “We are putting up a nativity set in our yard for Christmas… could you tell us where to put the shepherds? Where does the Bible say that the animals stood? And the wise men?”

It’s a start, don’t you think?

We won’t stop praying for these parents, these adults of our neighborhood. Perhaps someday soon, they will come to Bible study with their children. Then they will hear of the Truth and Hope—the Savior that loves them so much. They will learn to read His Word for themselves.

Thank You Father, for saving us from that first house so many years ago—it was in the wrong neighborhood. Thank You for this house, this neighborhood, this calling.

Thank You for sending us.

Would you like to be involved with us in this ministry to our neighbors? We need your prayer support! Click here to request a list of names and prayer needs using our Contact Us form.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THORN
by Lygia Lovelace

 

The house next door lay empty for some time. I prayed almost daily that God would send a Christian family to live there—one we could relate to and spend quality time with . I envisioned a house full of lots of angelic children, a mom I could talk to and share Bible verses with…and that’s what I prayed for.

One day a moving van pulled up in front of the house. How exciting! Several angelic- looking children stepped out of the truck with their dad. My children ran out quickly to meet our new neighbors.

“It’s two boys and a girl, Mom! Come and meet them!” encouraged my daughter after she had introduced herself.

That’s when I first met Thorn. He was a fine-looking boy of about 10, with big brown eyes.

As Thorn’s dad introduced himself and his children, I looked around a little sadly for a mom. Though in the months to come, she would come in and out of their lives, there was no mom to be seen on that day.

As the weeks passed, we got to know Thorn better and better. He was determined to commit mischief throughout the neighborhood! He became infamous for knocking over trash cans, paint balling houses, and vandalizing yards. Though he’s been gone now for several years, we still remember Thorn fondly by the holes in our bushes, the fluorescent pink paint stains on our siding and one particularly memorable experience…

“Oh, no!” cried my son, “It’s raining! Our yard sale will be ruined!
We’ll have to pull all of the tables into the garage!”

Just then, a little old lady walked up to our yard to look at the things we were selling. A boyish hand, holding a water hose, appeared over the top of the fence next door and water began to pour down on top of our customer, drenching her hair-do and dress!

By the time Thorn was done, we were soaked, as were our customers, our tables, and our patience!

Day after day we had conflict with Thorn. Fights among kids would break out in our yard—with Thorn in the middle of it. Bad language flew frequently in our hearing, causing us to keep our children away from Thorn. The police even came to our door on occasion, looking for Thorn. He was basically, as one neighbor expressed to me, “a neighborhood nightmare”.

Because Thorn knew that he had done things against us, he avoided us. I couldn’t get him to even acknowledge me when he was walking along or riding by on his bike.

“What can we do, Lord?” I asked Him. “How can we be a witness to Thorn and his family if we are always at odds with him? Show me how we can love him—with Your kind of love.”

Only God could know that hard-hearted Thorn would respond to a mother’s tender care. A mother’s love seemed to be lacking in his life, and surprisingly, that’s how God used us to minister to him.

One day, I was walking by the window and happened to see Thorn “wipe-out” on his bike. He was in the middle of the road, holding his knee, and I could see by the expression on his face, that he was trying not to cry.

Just then, the Spirit spoke to my heart, “You go now. Wash his knee and bandage it.”

I hesitated.

“Give him a band-aid, Lord? A band-aid? What will he think of me? He won’t accept it—he already thinks we’re strange. He’ll tell his gang of neighborhood troublemakers—they’ll laugh and make fun--that’s just not going to work!”

But at that moment, thankfully, I chose to obey the prompting of the Spirit.

“…Thorn?” I said as I slowly approached him.

He didn’t look up, but I could hear muffled sniffles coming from his sleeve.

I took a deep breath, and knelt down.

“Oh, look. I’m so sorry you fell. This must really hurt. Let me help you.”

As I began cleaning his wound and applying medicine and a band-aid, he looked into my face. He didn’t say much that day, but the door to his heart began to open.

A few months later, we had another garage sale. I drew in a quick breath as I saw Thorn boldly approaching our yard. We all stood in silence as he began looking at the items on our tables. I wondered if he was planning another water attack!

I was amazed when Thorn began talking to us, as if we were his friends. He and my husband were carrying on a conversation, and before I knew it, Thorn was listening intently as Ken was drawing on paper a child’s presentation of the Gospel. Thorn was now 11 years old, and I prayed fervently in those moments for his salvation.

I wish I could have been in heaven that day. When Thorn prayed and asked Jesus to be His Lord and Savior, I know the angels sang their loudest! All of us Lovelace’s rejoiced and praised God for this precious new birth!

I wish I could say that Thorn was completely good after that, but like all of us, he still struggled with his old nature. I do know, however, that he had definitely begun his journey with Christ.

How do I know?

One day, a friend of ours introduced herself to Thorn. I hesitated, to see if he would actually speak to her. He, in turn, introduced himself to her.

“My name is Jesse.”

I stared at him in surprise.

My friend, knowing his reputation and his story, looked at him and smiled sweetly.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jesse. That sure is a nice name.”

He glanced sideways at me. Then he smiled. “Yeah, it’s my other name. I’ve decided I like it better…”

Jesse and his family moved away a few years ago. I often wonder about him and pray for him. Truthfully, when I see the holes in our bushes, I smile, remembering.

I marvel at the work God did in Thorn…I marvel at the work He does in all of us! And, I praise God that a skinned knee and a band-aid led one troubled boy to the Kingdom.

 

“…and do you not realize that God’s kindness leads you towards repentance?”

Romans 2:4

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOW DID THE MAN KNOW?
by Lygia Lovelace

 

One summer in college, I went to Jerusalem, Israel, with Jews for Jesus. It was the trip of a lifetime. We studied with Bible professors, walked the streets of Jerusalem, toured Israel, and sang and danced in the streets together to Jewish Christian music. I was constantly amazed that I was living in the land and partially, in the culture of our Lord Jesus. It was staggering to see so much religion in that land, yet so little Truth.

One particular afternoon, our group decided to visit the Dome of the Rock, a mosque built over the very place where God had told Abraham to offer his son Isaac on the altar—the very place where the temple had once stood. I stood outside of the massive building, looking around at the Arab children playing in the courtyard area. They were gorgeous! Many of them stared back at me, and we even tried to communicate, since they spoke some broken English. Since the group was used to my lingering among the children, my Christian friends went on ahead, into the building. I pointed at buttons, and toys, and any objects I could find, saying the words in English, as the children repeated them. I smiled a lot and prayed silently that these precious ones would somehow see Jesus instead of me.

Finally, as the children wandered away, I climbed the steps into the mosque. A sense of darkness filled my being, and I pushed away the urge to cry as I saw so many people bowing with their faces to the floor.

“Surely Lord, you see their devotion. It’s just that they’re blinded. Oh, God, how can they find You in this place? Make Yourself known among these people—a people You love so much.”

I looked around the building as I saw my group, scattered among the people. There was silence among all of us—silence, and sadness.

Then, I noticed a man from the mosque speaking harshly to one of our group members. My friend looked startled as the man stormed away. Later, after we walked back to our hospice, he told us what had happened.

“My heart was broken,” he said, “as I watched the people—so lost, without hope, yet trying to be so devout. I began to pray inside my head, asking God to remove the demons, to remove the blinders—the chains that gripped these people. I was standing silently against the wall, praying, in Jesus’ name… I wasn’t even moving my lips!”

My friend continued: “Then this angry man approached me! With hatred in his voice, he spat out, ‘You are not allowed to pray to your God here! Get out! No praying to your God in this place! You must leave now! Get out!’”

“…But what I don’t understand is,” pondered my friend, “how did he know? How did he know I was praying to God in my head? How did he know that I was praying, in Jesus’ name?!”

Although I listened and kept silent, I knew the answer! I was reminded of when Jesus was speaking to the people, particularly the Pharisees, about who He was:

“I am the Light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness,
but will have the Light of life.” John 8:12

There was a bright Light shining that day, in that temple of darkness…a Light so bright that there was no doubt about the Source.

My heart is hopeful, even today, when I think about that time. God is among all people—whether they are blinded or just rebellious—living in hopelessness or false devotion. He is the Light; He is the Hope. All they have to do is look for Him.

He is obvious amongst the lies, the darkness, and the deception. When we live for Him--truly follow Him in Jesus name--we too are obvious.

That’s how the man knew.

 

 

 

THE MESSAGE OF THE DOVE
by Lygia Lovelace

The summer I was in Jerusalem, Israel, (see previous article: How Did the Man Know?). the Jewish believers taught me so much about living the Gospel, in boldness and in truth. Every time we would go out on the streets, just walking silently, we would be confronted with those who knew we loved Jesus. But how could that be? We weren’t carrying signs that proclaimed the Way, and many times we weren’t even speaking. But the enemy knew we were there. Rocks were thrown at us, as were curse words and threats. Being a shy young lady of 21, I hung close to my Jewish brothers and sisters, hoping to “catch” their courage and strength just by being near them. Many times I just watched them in admiration, as they engaged their Jewish comrades in conversation, and communicated God’s love to them--sometimes subtly, and sometimes outright.

We worked hard together, to learn songs in Hebrew and to learn the folk dances that the Jewish people loved. Even as a Gentile, I hoped to be understood and to communicate the Message God has always had for His beloved people there. Whether we were in Bethlehem, Nazareth, or in the streets of Jerusalem, we wanted the people to know of Jesus’ love for them.

One afternoon, my Jewish friends decided to take their guitars and their music to a nearby street corner that was a particularly busy place. They set up boldly in front of a little market, and began to sing and play Jewish music. A crowd began to gather. Many of them clapped; some began dancing to the music they loved so much. Then, as the crowd began to understand the words, and to hear the name of Jesus, their joy turned to anger and they began to shout and spit. The owner of the market came out, yelling and gesturing for our group to leave.

With tears streaming down their faces, my Jewish friends continued proclaiming the name of Jesus in song. Oh, how they loved their Jewish brothers and sisters! How they longed for them to know and believe the truth, to become a “fulfilled Jew” as many of my friends called themselves.

Many times, when these conflicts would arise, I wanted to turn and run, full of fear. But although God didn’t involve me directly in the spiritual battles going on, He kept my feet firmly planted there beside my brothers and sisters. I literally felt Him standing beside me, holding on to me, as I watched.

Finally, in complete fury, the store owner grabbed a water hose on the street, and others did the same. With hoses in hand, they turned on the water and sprayed our group. I’ll never forget how the store owner—rushing up to my Jewish brothers--put his hose inside their treasured guitars, and filled them with water, one by one. Would there be a fight? My brothers only smiled and kept singing until their song was over. Wiping their faces so they could see to pack away their guitars, they lovingly looked at the people, blessed them in sweet Hebrew words, motioned for our group to come, and we walked away.

Time after time, I watched as my Jewish brothers and sisters were persecuted—screamed at, spit at, cursed at. I watched as they would take out their handkerchiefs and quietly wipe away the spit, or the blood that would trickle out from wounds they received when rocks were thrown at them. Time after time, I marveled at how the people of this country knew! The Goyim, or Gentiles—like myself—were not harrassed as much! A root of bitterness began to grow in my heart.

One such time, I was walking with another friend, a female friend, toward the old market of Jerusalem to where we were staying. Again, the enemy knew who we were as we chatted quietly to one another and attempted to make eye contact and smile at the passers-by on the street. For an instant, I looked down at my feet, and when I looked up again, a bicyclist was a few inches in front of my friend, punching her and trying to run her over.

I was indignant!

“Hey!” I screamed at the young man. That bitterness rose up quickly in my throat as I screamed angrily at him, and I shook my fist as he rode away. He smiled wickedly and turned his bike again to face us. I looked at my friend to see if she was alright, and then looked up to see him charging her again. She gasped as he slapped her in the face as he rode by.

“Leave her alone!” I once again screamed at him—my whole body trembling with the indignance and anger I felt. This caused him to stop again, turn his bike around and charge at her. I jumped in front of my friend and stared at him, daring him to come again. He laughed loudly and came at full force. My friend was begging me to calm down, but I wouldn’t listen. How dare this man mistreat her!

When the man got close enough for me to touch, I grabbed his front handlebars and shoved the bike sideways as hard as I could. Thankfully, the man lost his balance momentarily, and fell to the street. My friend and I took off running and lost ourselves in the old city market before he could find us again.

When we got back to our hospice, news spread quickly about what I had done. I looked with shame at the precious Jewish faces looking back at me. They held love in their eyes, some even smiled at one another, but there was disapproval in most of their expressions.

“I just can’t stand the way they treat you! Why do you let them treat you like that!?”

One of the older Jewish men—a well respected leader of our group, took me aside, and handed me a cup of tea.

“I know what you did was out of love for us,” he said, “but what we do is out of love for our people! Remember, it is not flesh and blood that we are fighting against. It is our enemy. This has become his city, his nation, and he knows that we are here. The only way that we can fight this battle, Lygia, is with the Messiah. We must fight back with Love.”

Then he quoted from Matthew 10:16: Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves; so be shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves.

 “You must stay in the Scriptures, Lygia, so that you continue the wisdom, AND the refining that our God wants to do in your life. You must be bold and courageous, it is true, but like a dove. Never forget the Message of the dove.”

I haven’t forgotten.

Over the years, people have asked me, “Aren’t you angry with the man who attacked Chase?”

“How can you forget what Caleb’s birthmother did to him—drinking alcohol while she was pregnant!?”

“Aren’t you furious at those people in that church who claimed to love God, and yet treated your husband so hatefully?”

“Doesn’t it make you mad that you have to do all the work? Where are the other church members? Why isn’t someone helping you?”

Yes, I must admit, I’ve been angry. I’ve even struggled with it for a time. But through that anger, I haven’t forgotten the Message of the dove. I haven’t forgotten where the true battle lies—not with those around us, but with the enemy of God Himself. As I’ve stayed in the Scriptures, this Message has made me stronger—refining me, making me bold and courageous. It’s definitely a lifelong process—at least for me.

I will live by this Message to honor my Jewish brothers and sisters. I will live by this Message to honor my Savior.

What about you--are you angry? Are you bitter? Perhaps you’ve been mistreated. Are there marriage struggles? Problems at work? Someone you’ve vowed never to forgive?

Remember the Message of the dove.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MADALENA
by Lygia Lovelace

 

“You say you know God personally? Aren’t YOU special!”

Madalena just looked at the gruff old white man.

I hesitated as I approached them…wondering if I should intervene. After all, he was giving this 14 year old African girl a hard time…

African war orphans were everywhere in the streets of Lisbon. There was bitter war going on in various parts of Africa, and the Portuguese sent boats to the African shores. Mothers and fathers desperately placed their children on these boats and sent them into the unknown, hoping to save their lives. Most of these children never saw their families again. If they were lucky, they had a cousin or a distant relative in Lisbon to live with. Otherwise, they lived in the streets or were taken in by the Portuguese military. These African countries spoke Portuguese, so the language was mostly the same, but for these war orphans, nothing else seemed familiar to them.

While the Portuguese love children, the average Portuguese family only has 1 child, and they are not too fond of orphans—adoption is rare in Portugal, and international adoption does not exist. There is a barrier and even prejudice that exists between the African culture and the Portuguese culture.

However, while living and working as missionaries in various churches in Lisbon, we found one particular church that was especially tender to these orphans. African children would come from several miles away, even from their homes in the streets, to attend Sunday school at this church. They were welcomed with open arms. Little orphan children would be brought by older siblings…I wanted them all! We sought ways to house them, or adopt them, and even our beloved pediatrician Dr. Sandi (see previous article A Scar to Remember) joined us in trying to get some of these orphans placed in our American home, but the laws would not allow it. The Portuguese were puzzled as to why we would even want these homeless children, when we already had 4 children of our own.

More and more orphans came to this church. The Lovelace family fell in love with them, and we began attending regularly to help lead these children and teens to Christ, and to disciple them. We began meeting with them additionally on weekdays. New orphans came each week, and so we started over each week…

“This is a Bible. It is God’s Word—His letter to us. He loves you so much. He sent His Son Jesus to earth many years ago…”

Almost every week, an orphan would raise his/her hand and claim to know this “Jesus”.

“He’s about 10 years old—he lives 2 streets over…”

“Oh! You’re talking about my cousin!”

Nearly everyone knew someone named Jesus. But almost no one had heard of the One and Only Messiah, Jesus—the Holy One—our personal Savior.

We watched orphan after orphan embrace Christ eagerly. And although we couldn’t adopt them ourselves, we rejoiced as our heavenly Father adopted them HIMself—welcoming those precious black children with open arms.

As these children learned more and more about their Savior, they wanted to tell others about Him in some way. One thing we noticed was how much they loved music. I searched through the Bible, choosing Scripture after Scripture in Portuguese and putting them to music—using either some tunes I knew from Steve Green’s music, or using these orphans’ own tunes from their made-up songs. I took my keyboard to our orphan Bible study one day and began to sing a little nervously in Portuguese and play these tunes.

Huge toothy smiles appeared on their faces. They began to join in, using sticks from the streets or other objects to beat the rhythm along with these songs. They learned the Scripture songs quickly, and were soon begging to sing them on busy street corners. We began going out after each Bible study, and proclaiming the name of Jesus in song. Our favorite place to sing was on the trains—the main form of public transportation in Lisbon. After each stop, we had a captive audience until the train stopped again. And the acoustics were wonderful!

After each song, whether we were on the streets or on a train, the children went to the people and told them that Jesus loved them. We passed out Bibles, and literature about Jesus. The Portuguese didn’t quite know what to think of our “African orphan choir”. They were certainly a rag-tag bunch. And, sandwiched right in the middle of them were our own light skinned children. What a beautiful tapestry, in God’s own image!

One particular 14 year old girl, Madalena, wholeheartedly embraced this mission. We had already watched as Jesus had totally changed her life. Her whole countenance was different. She never missed a Bible study, and always insisted that small siblings and other children she knew came along with her. I fell in love with her instantly! She would help us feed and wash the children when they came to Bible study, and then she would join right in with us “missionaries,” teaching them how to be “washed in the blood.”

She was a quiet, soft-spoken girl, and often responded with shyness to adults. That’s why I considered coming to Madalena’s rescue that hot afternoon in the park. I noticed the gruff, old Portuguese man walking near her. I watched as she spoke to him, and when he stopped and began talking, I walked behind her at a distance. Evidently, she had told him of her adopted Father and how He had saved her.

“Look at you—you’re just an orphan. Do you think that you’re perfect, now that you know God personally—now that He’s your Father?!”

I held my breath as Madalena looked right into the man’s eyes, with tears of tenderness.

“No, sir, I’m not perfect. But I’ve been forgiven. He loves me! I’ll never be alone again.”

The man could think of nothing else to say. His eyes also held tears, but of longing. However, he gestured his dismissal and walked away.

As I hugged her, I knew that we were not the missionaries that day. It was Madalena—a skinny, homeless, ragged orphan, who holds a position of treasured royalty in the Kingdom.

 

But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God,
that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.
Once you were not a people, but now you are the people of God;
once you had not received mercy,
but now you have received mercy (I Peter 2:9-10).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ARE YOU ONE OF THEM?
by Lygia Lovelace

 

Many times we had walked through the streets of Jerusalem, but never had I felt the Spirit as powerfully as I did on the night before we left the continent. Everyone’s hearts were heavy—Jews and Gentiles alike—as our group looked back on our time in Israel. Where had the months gone? How could our journey here be almost over?

Some from our group remarked how amazing it had been for them, living where Jesus had lived—seeing where He was born, where He grew up, where He had been crucified… Visiting the churches had been special to them, seeing the relics and remembrances of times past—of so many years ago, before we ever gathered the dust of Jerusalem in our shoes.

But for me, it was different. I would miss the experiences I had—walking through the streets of the Old City, smelling the food, watching the people. I would never forget losing my balance and sliding all the way down the hill from Jerusalem into the City of David, landing at the feet of a startled goatherd. I would hold forever in my memory the long walk through the tunnel of Hezekiah, walking through the blackness—groping the walls of the cave. My walk up the Mount of Olives at dawn would not soon be forgotten, listening to the church bells chiming as I reached the top of the Mount through the olive trees.

But it was the people I would miss the most—the Arab children who laughed at me when I tried to speak their language; the goatherds and shepherds as they walked their flocks to the fields; the Jewish men, so stern-faced and tight-lipped, refusing to look my way, yet with eyes so full of emptiness and sadness. I would miss the Jewish women, with their curly-headed children, who dared smile at me as I tried to catch their eyes. I would never forget the rocking back and forth—the praying and mourning of the Jewish people that I had observed at the Wailing Wall, as the Jewish people cried for a Savior.

“But He’s here! He loves you!” I wanted to shout at them. It was a land so barren of belief, yet so fertile with the love of God and the Spirit. He was there. I knew it, I could feel it. And I understood why.

But never had He been so obvious to me as this night before.

“Let’s just walk the streets together,” suggested our leader. “We’ll pray as we walk. Perhaps we can engage someone in conversation. It would be so good to see someone accept the Messiah before we have to leave.”

We walked, mostly in silence that night, leaving the gates of the Old City, and walking through the lighted nightlife of the modern Jerusalem. I tried to burn into my memory the images I was seeing. I lingered, trailing behind the group, as I gazed at the people walking by.

“Lord, help me to remember all that You’ve taught me here, and shown me. Never let me forget.” I prayed silently.

I was vaguely aware of our leader, at the front of the group, talking with a group of college-age young men. They appeared to be Jewish students, and I wasn’t surprised at the conversation, since our leader loved talking with his own people.

But, I was jerked into their conversation by a threatening question, posed by one of the young Jewish men. He was actually shouting at our leader in English—that was unusual, since most of the Jews in our group spoke Hebrew.

“So you are a Jew, and yet you believe that Jesus is the Messiah?”

Boldly, our group leader smiled. “Of course. He is my Lord and Savior. He is the Son of God—the Messiah of all.”

Then, my friend screamed as these young men began to beat him!

Frantically I looked around for my group. Where were they? A crowd had gathered quickly, and I could barely make out my friends quite a few yards away. Why had I lingered behind? Why hadn’t I stayed with them!? As the young men were shouting and kicking at our leader, huddled in the street, I saw another one of my precious Jewish friends running away to find the local police.

But what could I do? I didn’t want to just stand there! We had been taught early in our stay that we should never interfere during confrontation—especially those of us who were young women, and Gentile. I even now remembered the Message of the Dove (see previous article), but I didn’t want to stand by and just let them hurt this precious brother in Christ. I knew that he would not fight back, or even defend himself.

But God’s Word says that we can pray—we are in the battle when we pray!

And how I prayed! I interceded for my group, out loud yet unheard amidst the noise and shouting. My blonde hair and fearful expression must have shown like a light bulb to the Jewish and Arab crowd standing around. More and more curious people were gathering, some even cheering on the young men who were beating up this dirty traitor—this Jewish believer. I received angry looks and began to realize that I was being included in the hostility.

“So fine!” I thought. “Go ahead. Here I am! I am a believer too!”

I didn’t feel so brave, however, when a woman shoved me from behind and pushed herself right into my face. She was an older Jewish woman, bigger than I was, and as is their way, she roughly invaded my personal space.

“What about you!? Are you one of them? Are you a believer?”

Then she got up even closer to me and asked threateningly, “Do you believe that Jesus is the Son of God?”

Fully expecting her to slap me or attack me, I stiffened my back. It was strange, but I was actually relieved to be challenged! I wanted to identify with my persecuted brothers and sisters in this way! I felt strength surge through me.

“Yes, I love Jesus! He is the Messiah! I believe that He is the Son of God,” I announced to her.

At that instant, I heard our group leader yell again, in pain, as he was being beaten. Agonizingly, I turned my face and my attention away from the woman and stood on my tiptoes, trying to see what was happening. It was at that moment when I heard her whisper in my ear. She had come so close behind me that I felt her breath against my face.

“That is good. I will pray for you.”

I couldn’t turn around fast enough! What?! A Jewish believer, living in Jerusalem, out among the people?! Finally, I had met one! I wanted to embrace her, to cry with her, to tell her that on the contrary, I would be praying for her!

But when I turned around again, she was gone. Vanished! I looked among the people, even ran back through them, looking for her face. She was gone, hidden from view.

By the time I returned to find the group, the Israeli police had arrived. Giving the young national students no more than a rebuke, they sent them on their way. They told our leader to go back to the hospice and “stay out of trouble.” He was fine, this brother of mine, but bruised and sore for the plane ride home.

 

With all the news regarding our upcoming election, I can’t help but wonder if we will someday be officially classified in our own country as “one of them.” We must remember that it is indeed our privilege to stand before our enemy and those who choose him, to proclaim that Jesus is our Lord and Savior, the Son of God, the only Way, the Messiah of all.

Perhaps you will be challenged some day soon.

…are you ready?

 

I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone
who believes: first for the Jew, then for the Gentile. Romans 1:16

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DO YOU SEE IT?
by Lygia Lovelace

 

Ashen gray.  That’s how I remember him.

It had taken his rescuers awhile to find him in the murky lake water. And now his face and his arms were ashen gray as his body lay in the sand.

The CPR was doing no good.  He was gone. 

I stood there, remembering how I had just seen him—tanned and full of life—only a few moments ago, running in the sand with his teen-age buddies, teasing, splashing.  Where was he now?  His lifeless body gave no clue as to his eternal destination. Had he already determined his journey, or was he saving those travel plans until later?

I was reminded of that same ashen gray color years later when I was in Bethlehem with a group of Jewish and Gentile believers.  I had anxiously waited many weeks for this trip.  I couldn’t wait to see the site believed to have been Jesus’ birthplace.  I was surprised at the smallness of the town—the sparsely placed buildings—the poverty stricken homes with barefoot children playing along the dirt-paved roads.

“It’s just like Him,” I thought as I lingered behind the group, “just like Him to come here, to be born here among the common people…people like me.”

I also was not surprised that the site believed to be the place of the nativity could now be found in the lower basement of a church—a literal shrine to the birthplace of our Lord.  I could hear singing from somewhere inside the church.  I was alone as I approached the entrance, typically having fallen far behind my companions.  I crouched down to enter in the low door, built small to keep larger animals from coming in the building.  As I inched my way through the doorway, a procession of men came from somewhere inside the church, forcing me backwards—back through the door.  The men were carrying a wooden box—large, red, filled with flowers.  It never crossed my mind that it was a coffin, until I bent down to look inside and saw the ashen gray face of a man through the colorful blooms.  

But the man himself was not really here.  Where was he now?  A man—whose funeral was in the very place where his Heavenly Father looked down years ago on His own newborn Son—this dead man’s Messiah.  Had the man made plans toward his eternity?  The somber, ashen gray expressions of the people as they followed the casket suggested not.

Several weeks later, while wandering through the Mount of Olives, I stumbled upon a Jewish graveyard on the hillside.  The sun was shining bright, and the white-washed tombs were almost blinding as I walked among them.  As I descended the hill, I caught sight of a procession of Jews filtering through the tombs.  Not knowing what their reaction would be at my presence, and not expecting it to be pleasant, I quickly dropped to the ground and took cover behind a tomb.  They stopped…a few tombs over from where I was!  Had I risen to my knees, I would have been spotted.  And by the looks of the rocks in their hands, I knew that I could easily become a target! 

I waited and listened until I heard the Hebrew language flowing steadily.  Some kind of
ceremony was taking place.  While they were distracted, I peered over the edge of the tomb and watched.  They were placing rocks upon a certain tomb, wailing, and rocking as they appeared to be mourning the death of a loved one.  Though I could not understand their words, I felt their emptiness.  I too wanted to mourn—not for their loved one, but for them—because of the hopelessness in their expressions, the sorrow in their movements.

Where was their loved one now?  Swallowed up in death?  Though I couldn’t see the ashen gray color of their loved one’s body, I saw it—in the very faces of those still living, as they pondered the eternal absence of this lost soul. 

Do you see the ashen gray?  All around us, it is there, in the hopelessness of the lost.  I see it—in the face of our dear neighbor, as he works obsessively in his yard, taking such particular care of each tree and flower, but yet taking no concern for the eternal destination of his soul.

I see it—in the faces of the Muslim family down the street, covered from head to toe in hopelessness…

I see it—in the common people, and in the popular…in the poor, and in the politicians.

I see the ashen gray.  I see hopelessness day to day. Oh how we must show them the world of color, the rich hues of the Father’s touch—the hope and joy of salvation through Jesus Christ, the Messiah of all!

Do you see it?

  We have this Hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.  Hebrews 6:19