“He swears to his own hurt and does not change” Psalm 15:4(b)

Just exactly what does it mean to be honest, to be “true to your word?” Frankly, for much of my adult life I did not have a clear understanding of this Biblical directive. The following fictional story changed my thinking—and my life—regarding exactly what it means to be “true to your word”. I share the story with you now. Prepare to be challenged.

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As I attempted to mow my grass last week, I came to the sad, unfortunate conclusion that my mower was on its last leg and that purchasing a new one was unavoidable. With dread, I drove to my local hardware store, reluctantly picked out a suitable (and affordable) mower, and rolled it to the check-out counter.

As the clerk rang up my purchase, the clerk and I were both taken aback as lights flashed, bells rang, and the clerk, after looking carefully at her screen, exclaimed “Congratulations! You are our one-millionth customer! As a result, you are entitled to a second lawn mower—free!”

Okay, wonderful! (Uh, who needs two lawnmowers?)

I immediately thought of my neighbor and long-time friend, Mr. Amos, who I was sure could also use a new mower. On my way home I stopped at Mr. Amos’ home and congratulated him: “Mr. Amos, you are the owner of a brand new lawn mower. I just won it at the hardware store, and I would like to give it to you. I’ll bring it over first thing tomorrow morning!”

Leaving Mr. Amos’ house with a satisfied grin, I drove home and unloaded both mowers. I rolled my own mower behind my house and placed it in its shed; I parked Mr. Amos’ mower on my porch, where I could easily deliver it the next morning.

That was a mistake.

The next day, I woke up, and walked onto the porch. To my dismay, I saw that Mr. Amos’ mower was gone—stolen during the night.

I promised Mr. Amos that mower. What was I to do?

I offer two possible responses, one before I fully understood the meaning of the verse cited below and a second response after this verse struck my heart:

“He swears to his own hurt, and does not change.” Psalm 15:4(b)

Response #1, pre-Psalm 15:4 impact:

A stolen mower? Surely Mr. Amos will understand. Devastated, I walk across the street, hat in hand. I explain to him about the previous night’s unexpected theft, and apologize profusely that the mower I had promised was now gone, and no longer available. Mr. Amos, being a most gracious friend, smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and assured me that no harm was done. I return home, satisfied that I had fully explained the situation to Mr. Amos, and done everything I could to keep my promise to him.

Response #2, post-Psalm 15:4 impact:

A stolen mower? Wow, last night I promised Mr. Amos a new mower, now that mower is gone. Taking a deep breath I jump into my truck, and quickly return to the hardware store. I walk purposefully back to the now-familiar lawnmower section, locate the appropriate mower, roll it to the checkout counter, and then out the door. Leaving the store, I drive straight to Mr. Amos’ house. Mower unloaded, I roll it up to his porch, and with a broad smile enthusiastically say “Mr. Amos, here’s the new mower I mentioned last night. I am delighted to be able to help you in this way. I hope you enjoy it. Have a wonderful day!”

I return home, satisfied, and with my heart fully content. Even though the purchase of the mower cost me, I faithfully fulfilled my promise, however casual, to my friend and neighbor. It was well worth the relatively small sum invested.

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To be clear, I’m sure that I do not fulfill 100 percent of every promise I make. Like you, I am a fundamentally-flawed sinner, saved solely by the grace of God; I make mistakes, I make errors, and make them often.

Also, as a Christian, I am absolutely under no obligation to adhere to Old Testament teachings; however, in 1 Corinthians 10, the Apostle Paul tells us that the Old Testament is given to us for our instruction. Living purposefully to fulfill this simple directive has changed my life, and changed how I think regarding my responsibility to be “true to my word.”

“O LORD, who may abide in Your tent? Who may dwell on Your holy hill? He who walks with integrity, and works righteousness, And speaks truth in his heart. He does not slander with his tongue, Nor does evil to his neighbor, Nor takes up a reproach against his friend; In whose eyes a reprobate is despised, But who honors those who fear the LORD; He swears to his own hurt and does not change;”. Psalm 15:1-4

I challenge you to consider this simple passage, and how you might likely respond if faced with a similar uncomfortable, challenging situation.

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Note: I attribute this story to my friend, Randy Philips, who shared it with me several years ago. I have never forgotten, and will never forget, Randy, and the impact he had on my life; Randy died in 2013 – his influence lives on.

“Many waters cannot quench love, nor will rivers overflow it”.
Song of Solomon 8:7

My uncle, David M. Dowdell Jr, grew up on his father’s farm just north of Port Gibson, MS. He was blessed with high intelligence and a warm, engaging personality. Growing up, I heard countless times that, given his advanced intellect and extra-ordinary inter-personal skills, he was destined to become a highly successful politician, perhaps the governor of the State of Mississippi, or the holder of some equally significant political office. His unopposed 1943 election as Student Body President at Mississippi State College confirms this thinking.

David’s fiancé, Frances Grossnickle, grew up on the nearby Mississippi State College for Women campus in Columbus, Mississippi. For decades, Frances’ father, R. L. Grossnickle, taught mathematics and coached tennis at the “W”. Like David, Frances was intelligent and quite capable; she was also an accomplished tennis player.

They met, and their relationship grew, during the months leading to David’s graduation from State College in January 1944. Their wedding was set for Saturday, January 22, immediately following his graduation from State College, at the Grossnickle home in Columbus; the following Monday he was scheduled to report to Fort Benning, Georgia for military service.

On Friday, January 21, the day before the wedding, tragedy struck when the Grossnickles learned that their only son (the bride’s brother) had died in a military training exercise in the Caribbean; somehow their son’s body was delivered to Columbus that same day. So, in a moment, the entire Grossnickle family was forced to make the very sad transition from celebrating the upcoming marriage of their daughter, to mourning the tragic loss of their only son; instead of wedding day, Saturday became funeral day.

Following the funeral, David had no option but to report to his post in Fort Benning; he returned with no bride, and no remaining leave.

David’s family sprung into action. Granddaddy Dowdell called his sister, Katherine Wright, who lived in Auburn, which happens to be close to Fort Benning. “May we have David and Frances’ wedding at your house?” he asked, “Of course”, she replied. A new wedding date and venue were set for two weeks later, on Saturday, February 5, in Auburn. Katherine began to prepare her home for the upcoming big event, new invitations were printed and mailed, my grandmother’s friends offered to make a wedding cake for the couple; on and on the preparations went.

On the Friday before the big day, Granddaddy Dowdell and wife, Cornelia, together with their two daughters, Martha and Jane (my mother), wedding cake in hand, loaded into their 1936 Chevrolet coupe near Port Gibson, and set out for Auburn. The Grossnickles did not own a car so the four of them (Mr. & Mrs. Grossnickle, Frances (the bride), and Frances’ younger sister, Bonnie Jean) traveled by bus to Meridian from their home in Columbus to meet the Dowdells; in Meridian, the four Grossnickles loaded into the Dowdell’s car.

Picture this: eight people packed into the 1936 Chevy, together with the wedding dress and related wedding paraphernalia—the wedding cake sitting in their laps— traveling fully across the State of Alabama, to Auburn. Each bump in the road evoked a cringe from my grandmother, but the cake, as well as the wedding party, made it to Auburn intact.

The wedding went off without a hitch.

David and Frances were happily married for six months, he was then assigned and transported to the European war theatre, where he died in France in November 1944; the war in Europe ended less than a year later. Following a period of mourning Frances re-married several years later.

A deep spiritual truth buried in this story is not to be missed.

Marriage is an earthly picture of the loving relationship between the Lamb, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and His bride, the church.

“Let us rejoice and be glad and give the glory to Him, for the marriage of the Lamb has come and His bride has made herself ready. It was given to her to clothe herself in fine linen, bright and clean; for the fine linen is the righteous acts of the saints.” Revelation 19:7-8

I came to understand this truth fully several years ago at my son, David’s, wedding. During the rehearsal dinner he compared his own love and desire to marry his future bride, Taylor, to Christ’s love for the church, and His desire to be united with the church. “Nothing can keep me from marrying that girl tomorrow. Nothing!”

I’m very glad his assertion was not tested.

Even the tragic death of Frances’ brother, one day prior to the wedding, did nothing to quell their desire to be married. In spite of these very difficult circumstances, both families joined together to make sure the couple were married a mere two weeks later, at a different venue. Nothing was going to stop David from marrying Frances, nothing!

And so it is with Christ’s love for us. With a love that is steadfast, inextinguishable, inexhaustible, Christ will indeed one day return to earth to receive His beloved bride, the church. Nothing can stop this from happening. Nothing.

The earthly picture of marriage is a very real reminder of this important spiritual truth.

“Many waters cannot quench love, nor will rivers overflow it”.
Song of Solomon 8:7

I grew up just south of Vicksburg, arguably the very heart of the South.

On this farm, this very southern farm, I grew up running the green hills and valleys, I explored the woods, thickets, and creeks, discovered and explored ‘caves’, built all manner of forts, and, as I grew a bit older, rode my horse over every inch of the property. A true Southern farm boy I was.

My mother grew up on the same farm. Beautiful, humble, gracious, well-mannered, and proud, she was a true Southern Belle in every sense of the word. Once, when she was a young single lady, a photographer from Progressive Farmer Magazine took a picture of her out in the field, driving one of her daddy’s tractors; shortly after the picture appeared in print she received several marriage proposals via U.S. Mail. I mean, a pretty southern girl who can also drive a tractor, what more could any man ask for??

When I was about 5 years old I turned to my mother with a deep question that had been burning in my young head:

“Mom, where’s Dixie?”

I had heard song after song referring to this unknown, mysterious place; I had overheard almost daily conversations of family, friends, and neighbors who spoke of this obscure place. Where exactly was it? My mom looked down at me, and with a big smile said “Boy, you live slap-dab in the middle of Dixie!” And waving her hand in a broad sweeping motion, said “This is it, it’s all around you!”

I will never forget this loving interaction with my mother. So, this mysterious place I had wondered so much about, was quite literally all around me—and I didn’t even know it.

As I have gotten older I have come to realize that our Heavenly Father’s love for us is much the same. We have a Heavenly Father that quite literally surrounds us with His steadfast, all-encompassing love, His watch-care, and protection; yet often we feel alone, abandoned, anxious, discouraged, down, or defeated.

Consider the following scripture passages:

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9

“As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the the Lord surrounds His people from this time forth and forever.” Psalm 125:2

“The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him, and rescues them.” Psalm 34:7

“You are my hiding place; You preserve me from trouble; You surround me with songs of deliverance.” Psalm 32:7

“…and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Matthew 28:20

So, the next time you feel alone, the next time you find yourself deep in anxiety, depression, discouragement, or grief; the next time you question God’s presence, His engagement, His love…

His response, His promises, can be found in the Biblical passages above. Read them…read them again—commit them to memory.

And even when it doesn’t feel like it, rest comfortably, fully on the fact that you are “slap-dab in the middle” of the love and protection of your Heavenly Father!

Indeed, His love is all around you!

Never forget it.

My parents, Oby and Jane Easley, were married on August 8, 1946. Married on the heels of World War II my parents soon relocated to Starkville, Mississippi where my dad, a World War II [WWII] veteran, enrolled at Mississippi State College under the newly-instituted GI Bill.

State College, after having nearly closed during WWII due to declining student enrollment, was now booming with the return of hundreds upon hundreds of WWII veterans. Many of the newly-enrolled students were also newly-married who introduced into the world many newly-borns, now collectively and famously known as the “baby- boomer” generation. The university was forced to purchase mobile homes to house this massive influx of the married students — my parents lived on the campus in one of those mobile homes.

To assist in your understanding the heart of this story, I offer the following anecdotal profile of my father, told to me several years ago by his friend and classmate, Coach Leonard McCullough:

One sunny fall afternoon Leonard paused as he walked past my dad’s mobile home. He smiled as he observed his friend, Oby, intently focused on his repeated efforts to cast a fishing lure into the black hula-hoop laying in the grass some distance in front of him. “Oby, have you sat for your yearbook picture yet?” Leonard asked. “No…too busy.” Oby calmly replied, his focus rigidly fixed as he cast the lure once again toward the elusive hula-hoop.

Hey, priorities are priorities!

Like every other freshman on the State College campus, my dad was enrolled in freshman English. Writing assignments were frequent, and for my “busy” father, highly annoying. So he did what many of the newly-married veterans very likely did — he asked my mom to write his English papers for him. She, being the dutiful bride, obliged by writing his assigned papers that entire semester — until…

Until it came time for the semester-ending term paper. My dad chose “Air Conditioning” as his topic, which was then a relatively new technology. He came home and announced the selected topic to his wife. Her reply: “Oby, I know absolutely nothing about air conditioning; I’m sorry but you are on your own for this paper.”

My dad rose to the challenge and poured his heart into the paper. Upon completion he proudly submitted the paper to his teacher and, with heightened anticipation, awaited his grade.

Soon came the fateful call. The English professor asked him to report to his office. My dad nervously tiptoed into the teacher’s office, with nary a clue as to why he had been summoned. “Oby, the term paper you submitted is excellent. In fact, it is so superior to the work you have previously submitted this semester that I don’t believe you wrote it. I’m giving you an ‘F’ on this paper.”

Busted.busted.busted.

For perhaps the first time in his life, my dad stood absolutely speechless before the professor. The truth only gets him into even deeper trouble, since the truth cruelly earns him an ‘F’ on every other paper he submitted during the semester. His lips sealed, silence ruled. He passed freshman English that semester by the skin of his teeth — and learned a very valuable life lesson in the process.

The most valuable outcome of this academic and moral disaster is this entertaining, humorous story which has blessed our family with some 70 years of joy, and laughter.

Arriving early for our annual Camp Dixon weekend has certain advantages. Among those advantages is the joy and privilege of seeing old friends drive up, greeting them, helping them unload their camping supplies, and catching up on the latest family news..

At this point, I am obligated to insert, that, along with old friends, you may occasionally see someone for whom you don’t have particularly warm feelings. Such was the case when my friend, Frank, pulled up with his family. As they unloaded I happened to see his son, Frankie, lift his guitar from the trunk of their car. Frankie was a teenager with a rebellious, downright unpleasant attitude that really rubbed me the wrong way. ‘Oh, I see Frankie brought his guitar.” I thought; this was the limit of my thinking at that point.

Attendees regularly bring musical instruments to Camp Dixon, where families, and/ or groups of families, often gather around campsite fires, play music, and sing warm, uplifting hymns and choruses.

For decades I have lead worship at Camp Dixon. The typical annual Camp Dixon weekend has two primary “formal” worship events. The first occurs on Saturday evening when nearly every family gathers around a huge bonfire in “The Valley”. During the hour-long session, I lead the group as we sing familiar worship choruses and hymns; interspersed with the musical selections, a number of pre-selected men share scriptures that have been meaningful in their own lives, and have the potential of challenging or bringing encouragement to the many like-minded families gathered around the bonfire.

That night, about ten minutes into our worship time, I became aware of a guitar playing along behind me as I lead the worship songs. Anger swelled inside me. Obviously, young Frankie had brought his guitar to the bonfire, and, without asking, elected to play along. I was distracted by my anger, but managed to make my way through the remainder of the worship ceremony; by the end of the program my anger had subsided – somewhat.

After closing the program, without thinking I turned around; there stood my old friend, James, his guitar hung around his neck, his twinkling eyes looking directly at me, and a huge smile on his face. ‘James was able to play along tonight. That’s cool!’ I said to myself.

At that moment the Holy Spirit ‘tapped me on the shoulder’ and whispered ‘You don’t love Frankie, do you?’.

The exact same guitar music, producing two very different attitudes on my part; I was convicted, I was ashamed.

There is much about love in the New Testament. One of my favorite ‘love passages’ is 1 Peter 4:8 “Above all, keep fervent in your love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins.” I call this my ‘cut-‘em-some-slack’ verse.

Consider this: Someone wrongs you, does something offensive toward you; or perhaps you hear of a wrong, a blatant sin even, committed by this individual. I contend you can often measure your love for the offending individual. If you love them, your initial reaction is likely “I’m sure he didn’t really mean that”, or “I wonder what’s bothering Joe?”. On the other hand, if you dislike someone or feel distain for that person, your reaction is more likely to be something like “I knew it! That’s just like him! What else do you expect?”

The difference? Love – Agape’ love, God’s love, real love. We are commanded to love — even those difficult to love — even our enemies!

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:43-44)

Thankfully young Frankie never knew of the anger I felt toward him that night, but I learned a valuable lesson — a lesson about my wicked heart, about how my heart can react very differently towards someone based upon my feelings about that individual, a lesson about how my feelings towards someone invariably make their way to the surface — and what surfaces is often not very pretty.

Love one another; it’s not a suggestion – it’s a command.

With the promise of the approaching spring, Frigid February summons the blooms of thousands upon thousands of white and yellow jonquils, quite literally covering the American South, as well as the hill above my parent’s home; just how long the flowers have graced this lovely hill, no one can say.

Each February the flower-adorned hill beckons the current generation of young children to “pick flowers” for mother. The results are quite predictable: younger children break each stem just below the flower, resulting in fistfuls of flowers whose stems could not reach the water in a vase, no matter how short the vase. With minimal instruction the maturing child quickly and easily learns to run their tiny fingers to the base of each stem, then make the break; the result is a bouquet of flowers quite beautiful enough for royalty.

I have always loved jonquils, to the point where I can now declare with confidence that jonquils are my favorite flower. Why? You ask.

Jonquils are beautiful; their multiple varieties complement one another in both form and color.

Jonquils are robust. Once established they are nearly impossible to destroy. The result is a plant, a beautiful flowering plant, that quite literally transcends human generations.

Jonquils mark house sites, homesteads. The farm upon which I was raised once hosted 27 house sites. Almost without fail, each of these sites can be identified each February solely by a beautiful display of jonquils; some sites boast hundreds or thousands of jonquils, while other sites proudly display a scant few. These flowers can be found in seemingly random locations: in the middle of the woods, gracing a wooded ridge top, complementing the space around a small pond, or scattered across the middle of a field. But when I see these flower beds, I know in my heart the locations are not random at all, but each bed, whether large or small, represents a place where a beloved family once lived, labored, laughed, and loved.

Perhaps they were wealthy, but more likely they were poor. A family of a bygone era, who eeked a living from the surrounding soil, experienced the joys of marriage, the blessings of family, along with the pain, sorrows, and heartaches that manage to find every family. Questions abound:

Were they a God-fearing couple?

Were they a happy family?

Were their children healthy?

What kind of adults did their children, their grandchildren, or even their great-grandchildren, become?

These questions are quite impossible to answer.

There is one thing we know: regardless of their social status, rich and poor alike, the young children bounded out of their parents’ homes each February and picked handfuls upon handfuls of these irresistible flowers. The first fistfuls of jonquils arrived home with insanely short stems, unfit for nearly any kind of display or use; then, following a wee bit of parental instruction, subsequent bouquets returned to the house with graceful, beautiful, long stems; bouquets befit for a king, for a queen — or perhaps even momma.