Baby Dedication--Let the Little Ones Come to Me

Sunday in Missouri, my sister-in-law Anita sent photos of the service in which Elon's and Anita's son Jed and wife Rosalie were having their five little ones dedicated to the Lord.

This was one of the sweetest scenes I've seen in a long time. It included my mother sitting close to the front.

I had to zoom in on this photo.

Young Levi being dedicated and prayed for by my brother. I noted how the two oldest of the five children always had their eyes closed during the prayer, (something that is often lacking in people of every age nowadays) and being very respectful and involved.

When Tanner, the little boy who had been through a year of fighting a brain tumor, was dedicated and prayed for, his big brother and sister looked as if they were as earnest as the adults.

Once again, I was deeply touched by the sincere involvement of Kari and Levi as their little brother was prayed for and held up to the heavenly Father. 
"Let the little children come to Me," said the very Son of God, and Sunday morning, five children were "let" to come.

They had been trained to pray, to obey, to close their eyes when praying, to be respectful, but they had been loved and hugged and included and involved, and their sincere hearts came through the photos in a way I seldom see.

Father, as another little one is on its way to join our own Lucas clan the end of next month, I pray that we will always let the little ones come to You and not hinder them. May we train in love, teach with joy, and value their hearts, minds, and souls. 

 

As I go out to the kitchen right now to mix the next batch of bread and rolls, I hold up all those I love to the heavenly Father with this prayer,

"May each of us become as a little child--humble, trustful, and sincere--that we may enter the kingdom of God!"

Kitty on the Telephone Pole

 A stray dog in the neighborhood may or may not have had something to do with our neighbor's cat ending up perched at the tip top of a telephone pole in White River.

 

Much like the eagle Danny photographed this morning, only the kitty scenario happened after dark, when it was hard to get a picture and plus rescue operations were not worrying about photos. All we know is that suddenly a text was telling us about the situation and asking us to pray that the cat would somehow be gotten down. It had been up there at least 24 hours already because it was too scared to come back down.

I googled how to get a cat to come down from a tree (because I figured a tree was more ordinary than a telephone pole for a cat to climb) and learned that a cat will usually come down on its own. 

But if not--set a can of fish or warm some tuna and let its fragrance waft up past the kitty's whiskers.

Do not, said google, call the fire department. Fire departments really should not have to deal with cats up high. 

However, one can always call one's neighbor--especially if the neighbor happens to have an 18-year-old son named Danny who is strong and tall and knows where a special ladder is that is sort of like a tree-hugger.

Danny loaded the ladder, unbeknowns to me, and drove up to see what he could see.

Darkness had settled over the new lots at the edge of White River where our friend lived, but a bright light was shining toward the top of the telephone pole.
Danny set up the ladder and climbed to the very top, reaching as far as he could. 

But it wasn't quite far enough. He could not quite reach the cat's leg.

Now what?

He climbed back down and searched in the truck, finding a box. Back up he climbed, gingerly keeping from touching any wires. The cat could not be coaxed into the box. Danny climbed back down and found a crate in the truck and climbed up again.

The kitty seemed to want to be rescued, but was quite nervous about the crate. It took four tries, but finally it was coaxed into the crate, and down Danny came, much to everyone's relief.

A few days later, the neighbor came whose kitty had been rescued. His daughter came with him, bringing a Black Forest banana bread. 

"You do not need to share this!" our friend told Danny stoutly. It was a thank you for his wonderful act of heroism! This mighty rescue had been told about all over town, the neighbor said,

"at the bar, at Wigwam, all over!" 

Wow! Danny has become famous in White River!

When a volunteer fireman from White River last week asked Danny his name when they met at a fire, the man said, "Oh, I know who you are!" He had been told about the kitty rescue!

News travels like wildfire in a little town like this!

When the Devil Wants Your Attention--Look at Jesus

The devil has wanted a lot of my attention lately--vying for it in many ways. 

He wants lots and lots of attention--especially attention that should be devoted to the Lord.

 

But he can also want the attention that should be devoted to loving our spouse and children well, or attention that should be given to all manner of loving well and doing good--he's just miserable and nasty that way--sort of like our horned goats that get in our way any time we want to cross our bridge or go gather eggs and such useful things.

Like Bell here, (who Danny has nicknamed Dumbbell) the devil likes us to stand around scratching his head and pampering him when we should be giving him the boot and worshiping God, listening to bird songs, praying always, doing our job, minding our own business, keeping silent when we should and speaking up bravely when we should, rejoicing in the day He has made, or loving our neighbor.

Sorry for comparing our poor goat to the dirty devil, (though Danny wouldn't mind a bit) but I just thought I'd put a thought out there about keeping our focus where it needs to be--on the Lord. And I am absolutely preaching to myself, grateful for the moments I practice my own preaching, and regretting where I haven't.

At Caring for the Heart about 8 years ago, one of the counselors had a point of instruction to anyone working with people who were seeking healing and freedom from the bonds of sin, emotional pain, or anything else.

"Never address the devil," he told the counselees in no uncertain terms. "He will attack you."

We are no match for the devil. 

"Instead," he said, "ask Jesus to send the devil out of the room. Talk only to Jesus and let Jesus deal with the devil."

Some people think they can just tell the devil off.

Don't.

I watched this happen recently--and wow! Did telling the devil off backfire! At least that is sure what it looked like.  

Instead, we should humbly look to Jesus, talk only to Him, and as we draw close to Jesus, the devil will have to flee. 

I was going through a struggle earlier this week, and I found this picture up in the attic as I searched for other things. I put it in my room to look at often. 

It's just a small way of looking to Jesus.

Who can pay attention to the devil when we are looking into the kind eyes of our Lord, noticing His hands that were wounded for us, and feeling His strong and kind arms around our shoulders?

Meadowlark Encouragement

Friday I decided to try to walk out the driveway to our mailbox. I hadn't tried to do that for months because of weather and exhaustion from chemo.

I almost turned around just down from the house when the cold wind hit me, but I pulled up my winter hood and pressed forward, turning another direction at the curve of the driveway that goes over the little dam. After that, the wind didn't hit me straight on, and I managed to get to the bottom of the steep part of our drive. 

That's when a bird landed on the gatepost at the top of the hill and started singing--a meadowlark!

It was as if God had sent that meadowlark to sing a song of encouragement to me as I tried to start walking again after months of winter and chemo exhaustion. 

Then away it flew, and I walked on--on up the steep place through the dry brown of the winter grass, but with eyes toward the blue sky toward which the lark had taken wing. 

Sometimes it just takes a little bird song to keep walking up our steep places--to help us look up toward the sky instead of down at the dirt at our calloused feet. 

May your steep place today--and your determination to start walking again where you have been downcast or weak--be accompanied by a singing meadowlark.

Love Bade Me Welcome

 In a book today, there was this tender poem. I knew I had to share it.

Love

by George Herbert

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
            Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
    From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
            If I lack’d anything. 

 

‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’
            Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
            I cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
            ‘Who made the eyes but I?’

‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame
            Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’
            ‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
            So I did sit and eat.

Pussy Willows in My Heart

 Photos of daffodils and fruit trees starting to bloom are coming to my phone from family in Missouri while I gulp back impatience to see our own up here in South Dakota, maybe a couple months later.

 Mom says lilac bushes are budding already--but then they were just missed by one of the many tornadoes in Missouri, the one only about 20 miles away in Rolla. A nephew sent personal photos of the damage from that one (and I saw later wonderful photos of the many people in the community who arrived on scene to saw tree limbs, clear debris, and just help neighbors get things back to rights).

I am indoors so much that I love to see photos like these from my sister. The last few days have been tough for me with side effects from the immunotherapy infusion I got Wednesday. Too late I read about one side effect being mood changes and emotional upheaval. My messed up emotions have run the gamut from feeling super mad to feeling wildly silly. Today I took goat milk up to our pastor and his wife, and the birds were twittering so cheerfully that when I left there, I decided to go across the road and sit in the cemetery and listen to the birds. 

That didn't go so well. The birds stayed behind at the pastor's house, and where I parked the van was directly across from a tombstone that read, "Mother, Anna."

No. That was not the place for me! I closed the van door and backed out of there in no uncertain terms.

As my daughter Rose would say (as she did last year), "I'm not near dead yet!"

So away I went back home where there was a meadowlark this morning, if you could hear it on top of the grey guinea hens jabbering and squawking as they do all day. And I carried in the groceries I had gotten after stopping to see where my husband and son were working with their crew in our own little town up the hill--replacing a sewer pipe for a town home rental.

I don't know how the guys keep their sanity working in houses like some of these where they were remodeling. Sometimes they are without electricity--or propane--or lights--or workers who just don't show up.

But they keep working. 

Saturday they worked at home--Jonathan on hours of paperwork and Danny on door knobs and other projects. I watched the livestream of the funeral service for Lorilee Kaufman Howe, daughter of Paul Kaufman (a favorite professor of mine back in college days) and sister of Louisa. I almost didn't watch it, because I was afraid I would feel too sad, but (toning down the funeral organ music that was beautiful but not the right kind of music for my family to be hearing just then) I watched it anyway, packaging a box of books someone had ordered and embroidering while watching. 

As I looked at the flowers on top of the casket, I noticed pussy willows. Yes, I was sure of it--one of my favorite spring buds. That was the best part of the bouquet. Right in the middle of the sadness, the funeral, my own homesickness for back east--were pussy willows. True, they were just on the screen, but I was grateful for them--a symbol of hope and new life budding right in the middle of sorrow.

Right in the middle of cancer treatment side effects,

right in the middle of a funeral,

right in the middle of all manner of heartaches and uncertainty in the world--

three or four stems of lowly and gentle willow buds--

symbols of hope--

pussy willows in my heart.

"God, You Can Just Keep that Flower Pot!"

There have been a few times in my life that I was mad at God--unlike more pious persons.

But one of the times I was maddest at God was years ago (hopefully many, many years ago) after hearing or reading a story about a Christian lady who loved to work in her flower garden. She would get up early and work for maybe a couple hours each day, and her flower gardens were lovely.

 

Until God asked her to give up her time working in the flower garden. She was supposed to spend that time praying or in ministry,  I can't remember exactly, and may no longer work her flower beds.

This lady--I don't remember her name--was praying at an altar and wrestling with God, not wanting to have to give up her treasured flowers. But finally she yielded to give them up, and before she even rose from the altar, what should her eyes behold, but a flower pot with the most beautiful lily in it, that someone was wanting to give her!

Testimony later was that she was never without flowers after that, whether in pots or vases, that people gave her or that came to her in one way or another. She gave up working in her flower beds, but God saw to it that she was never without flowers.

As for me, however, I seethed at God's cruelty. This dear lady loved working with her own hands in her own flower beds, but no, she may not do that anymore. She must do God's work of ministry of whatever kind it was. She may not again enjoy her own flowers but must accept flowers in pots or vases.

I used to feel guilty for not liking to get my hands in the chalky dirt and planting flowers. I felt guilty for NOT doing it, because to me it seemed lazy to just rather stay indoors and not get my hands dirty. This poor lady, however, must feel guilty for doing it. God was just cruel. He just wants us to have to do things we don't like to do, and not do things we do like to do. He is just plain mean like that.

And I was mad at Him. As far as I was concerned, He could just keep the lily in the flower pot.

I had to work hard to stop being mad at Him about that. I think I had to just stop thinking about that story.  I had to put that lady into God's hands. If she was overdoing her flowers time, that was up to her and God. 

Maybe it wasn't any of my business.

As for me, it was my business to ask God what He wanted from me. If God wanted another lady to give up her flower beds, that was His business, and hers. If He wanted me to get my hands dirty and try to plant some bulbs and seeds and weed them later and hope for blooms to beautify my poor little home's outdoors, then that is my business. 

Mostly, it is my business to let God be God, and let me just be His servant. To put in a mystery bag (as my mom would say) the things I don't understand, and to simply hold God's hand. 

We know some things from God's Word--that He is not mean or cruel. He is good, holy, kind, merciful, gentle, forgiving, giving, and caring. Sometimes we may misunderstand His plan for us and think He is requiring more than He is--or less. But He keeps guiding and helping and giving grace--and providing pots of lilies if a woman feels she needs to give up flower gardening. 

Or providing a daughter to do the gardening--as is the case with me. I don't have the energy to garden much, but Hannah does. She loves it. And God is not telling her to stop. (So neither am I!)

Whether He wants me to work in a flower garden or spend my time in prayer and ministry, that is up to Him. I can lay aside my foolish anger and trust that He wants what is best for me. And together, that lady with the lily and I--we will pray, minister, worship, trust a good God, and enjoy the flowers--whether in pots or flower beds--together!

Middle of the Night Pipe Burst

Last week I wrote a letter to my family.

Dear family,

About 2:00 last night Jonathan and I were roused awake by Crystal rushing to our bedroom door gasping that a pipe had burst or something and water was pouring into the storm cellar and storage room. Jonathan (who had already gotten to bed late after attending a wake 80 minutes away) swayed groggily out of bed, grabbed his glorious striped bathrobe, and rushed downstairs to see what was the matter. There he discovered that a plumbing joint had suddenly come apart. 

Jonathan turned off the appropriate valve and got the water stopped, but many gallons had already gushed into the back room, all over the floor where two extra mattresses were on their sides, and into the closet and even out into the basement kitchen area. Crystal threw down a big towel to stop the water flooding past the refrigerator and Jonathan found a shop vac and spent the next 45 minutes vacuuming up water. Now we have to find and set up fans, fix the pipe, meanwhile toting 5-gallon buckets of water to the barn for the thirsty chickens and goats. 

This morning everyone was tired and grouchy. But we reminded ourselves of how much worse it would have been had the pipe burst the night before when Crystal and Hannah were gone. They got caught in the snowstorm while delivering a puppy all the way to Spearfish to the northwest of Rapid City to a Montana customer. The girls ended up staying overnight with our friends the Woodards in Rapid City. coming home yesterday morning. 

 

But just imagine if the pipe had burst while Crystal was gone and wouldn't have heard the gusher and come running up to tell Jonathan. Our whole basement would probably be flooded all night while we slept blissfully on.

So our grumps were replaced with gratitude.

To overcome the grumps, it is always good to look for and find special mercies, and to thank God for them--even in the middle of a flooded basement.

Stooping Through Low Doorways Does Not Keep You Humble

I loved the emphasis today of the sermon at Beavertown church, taken from John the Baptist's words about Christ, "He must increase, but I must decrease."

"The grace of decrease," Pastor Plank called it.

He shared a fascinating story about Ephrata Cloister which a person can still visit near Lancaster, PA. Pastor Plank had once visited this place that served as home to a communal group of German Baptist Brethren led by Georg Conrad Beissel from Germany. Men and women lived celibate lives in separate dormitories, grew their own food, ate no meat (except lamb during communion), and celebrated the Sabbath on Saturday rather than on Sunday. 

I was rather disgusted to discover that in the "Sisters' House," beds were narrow board beds with a small wooden block for a pillow. So what about the brothers' beds, I wondered. But then, that was a paltry thought, right?

AND the doorways, Mr. Plank mentioned, were built low so that one had to stoop to enter another room. This was to keep the members of the commune humble. The only problem was, did it work?

I was intrigued by this story and searched online for more information, finding some in the following article at https://www.cob-net.org/cloister.htm 

Low doorways did not seem to keep the leader humble, as he could not get along even with his own brother who was an astute businessman and whose efforts caused the community to thrive with their own orchards, mills, and print shop which printed their own hymnals with hymns their own people wrote. The brother had to leave, and during his absence, Georg burned the hymnals the brother had printed and the sawmill he had built himself.  That brother was not happy when he returned, which led to more bitterness between the brothers and relationship schisms among followers.

Neither low doorways nor board beds nor celibate lifestyle had kept Georg humble.

 A good question the writer of this article asked was this: "If this ascetic faith journey was so historically momentous and spiritually impactful, then why are these buildings now empty museums?"

Pastor Plank had one rather obvous answer. Since most of those involved in the commune lived celibate lives, Mr. Plank told us listeners, the group died off one by one until there was no one left. The men and women never got together, and so when the last one died, the commmunity died, Mr. Plank observed sadly. No one to carry on the supposedly wonderful, religious, mystical beliefs of the leader and all those who followed his magnetic personality.  

I thought of another answer. The mystical, ascetic, celibate, hermit lifestyle didn't work.  It didn't keep leaders or people either one humble or teachable. It didn't cleanse their hearts from sin. It didn't make them holy. 

It just looked good. Maybe it felt good (beds of planks and board pillows aside). It sounded good while listening to a dynamic leader with a lot of charisma and beautiful five-part harmony singing their own hymns.

"The grace of decrease," Pastor Plank said, "is not about self-deprecation, but about joyfully making room for Christ to be everything and all."

I noted in the article at the above link, that not all "religious communities have gone out of existence but some are thriving. The Amana Colony is one such community and their history points back to Europe during the exact same period of time as Conrad Beissel. In the early 1700s in northern Europe, people were becoming dissatisfied with the intellectualism of the liturgical churches. Pietism and Mysticism flourished because people wanted a personal experience with God. Many groups started breaking away from the established state-churches. One such group was the Community of True Inspiration which held that God still communicated through devout followers in the same manner as with the prophets of the Old Testament. In the 1840s they left an economically depressed and war ravaged Europe for America. Ebenezer was the name of their first settlement near Buffalo, New York, and it was an immediate success. Farms and industry were very successful, perhaps too successful because it soon outgrew the available land. They then moved to eastern Iowa and became the Amana Church Society, a word taken from Song of Solomon 4:8 which signifies fidelity. 

This one colony eventually grew into seven separate colonies. Their farms were fruitful and their industry was productive. In fact, their products were so dependable that they were able to secure government contracts to build refrigeration units during the Second World War. You can still buy an Amana refrigerator in most parts of the nation. These people originated from the very same time period and cultural background as Beissel. Now here is the salient question which tips the scales. Do you know the name of any one of their present leaders? Do you know the name of any person involved in their founding? Most people cannot name even one person, and understandably so, because the success of the Amana group continues even to this day on principles - not personalities. Their religious experience overshadows their leadership.

 The answer to our question of empty buildings may simply rest in the counsel of the wise educator Gamaliel who advised the members of his own community that the works of men are doomed to failure without God’s interaction and providential guidance. For if this counsel or this work be of men, it will come to nought, but if it be of God, ye cannot overthrow it, Acts 5:38-39.

Even today we make decisions about asceticism versus comfort, mysticism versus practicality. Decisions have to be made about whether to keep having camp meetings in worn out, un-airconditioned tabernacles versus more modern facilities. Some feel there is something somehow more spiritual about gathering for special meetings in hot, buggy, miserable conditions despite that we make our own homes as comfortable as possible. 

There must be decisions about getting rid of hard wooden church pews and bringing in padded pews, or worse, padded folding chairs. Padded folding chairs have to be the ultimate desecration of a sanctuary, right? Even though in our homes we have the nicest sofas, recliners, padded rocking chairs, and even massaging recliners imaginable.

We also make decisions daily about how to worship and pray to our God. Do we have a hard bench in our home just for praying at (on our knees hopefully) or is it okay to sit in a comfortable kitchen chair or recliner sipping coffee while we read our Bible?   

I've found it comforting to go to a sunny window and stand in the warmth of the sunshine and soak it in as I pray and worship. My husband sips coffee while we listen together to an audio reading of the Bible that is making God's Word more alive to us than it has been in years.

Neither sunny window nor coffee sipping makes us holy or humble, but low doorways and board pillows don't either.
Choosing simple comforts in our everyday walk with God does remind us that a relationship with God can be warm, close, comfortable, comforting, and wonderful. And should we someday languish in a prison cell for our faith, God's grace will be sufficient to keep us faithful and joyful in tribulation--even as we remember what it means to be warm, full, and comforted. 

God will be there for us, even as He is now--at our window sill, in our warm bed, sipping coffee in the kitchen, and resting after chemo in a soft recliner.

Sunday Garbage--Our Best Efforts Without God

Today my family went to church without me. I stayed home with the garbage. 

But let me explain.

I overdid myself earlier this week and have been trying to recuperate. Influenza and other illnesses have been sweeping the countryside, and I am trying to stay well after chemo and before other cancer treatments--despite one daughter's having a terrible cough right in my own home (hence being somewhat banished to her room for the worst days of it. I hold my breath when we have to cross paths, and then breathe out any germs before inhaling, if I can manage it without passing out! :) :) I have also been choking down slices of cloves of raw garlic with nearly every meal to try to help myself stay well, and so far, by the grace of God, I have stayed well.

But back to the garbage.

The last two Sundays while the family has been at church, I have tried to spend the hour praying while they are in worship service.

Now I am as dull, sleepy, and off-focus as anybody, I suppose, and praying for a whole hour is a little bit beyond me, especially when I am already worn out from cancer and chemo. (Kudos to the greats who have gone before us who have spent whole days praying inside hollow logs, feats followed by God's amazing outpouring of conviction, conversions, and revivals. God bless their souls, truly, and the souls of those who benefited from those long prayers.)

I am just saying, or confessing, whatever the case may be, that I am not, nor claim to be, ultra spiritual right now, anymore than at any time in my life. But I just try to bring my weak and off-focus self to the Lord in prayer, grasping any straw of help in staying focused in prayer and bringing our church and congregation and community to God for His help and moving and convicting and transforming.

But when I stop moving long enough to be still and try to pray at the same time, I nod off.

I start to go to sleep! 

Grr. 

Grr. 

Grr. 

So much for being spiritual and praying for one hour. 

So I have to stay moving. I wipe the counter and pray for God to clean our hearts.

I sweep the floor and ask God to sweep the dirt out of our lives.

I pace the floor and hold my hands up to God and lift the congregations to God and all our problems.

And then I look at the garbage. Do I pray or take the garbage out?

Well, I decided to do both.

I prayed for God to take the garbage out of our lives and our church--but then I thought of something else.

I was taking this garbage out to the chickens--the half a dry tortilla, apple core, cabbage leaves, potato peelings--but to the chickens, that stuff we threw away was a treat.

One hen came running as she saw me with the garbage bucket. She loves apple cores and potato peels. To me, those are garbage, but to the chicken, it is food.

I thought of the message we listened to online this morning that Pastor Jim Plank preached at Beavertown--"He must increase, but I must decrease."

I thought how in ourselves we are nothing. "Without Me, you can do nothing," Jesus said. We can play a gorgeous prelude, lead singing magnificently, sing a super amazing special, preach the most eloquent sermon people ever heard.

But our best efforts, apart from the Holy Spirit's anointing and power, are worthless.

Even "all our righteousness is as filthy rags." 

Today my bucket of garbage inspired a prayer that broke my heart.

"God, our best efforts are garbage.

Without You, we can do nothing, be nothing worthwhile.

Please, God, turn the garbage of our best efforts into food for the people of Your pasture." 

Just as my bucket of garbage will be transformed, by the miracle of the way God made our backyard hens, into food for them and then, in turn, beautiful eggs and food for ourselves, so God, by His grace can turn our feeble efforts to pray, sing, play an instrument, share a testimony or preach the Word into food for hungry hearts--including our own.

As we surrender the garbage of our best efforts to God, He will transform them into something that will nourish both others and ourselves.

 "Come Holy Spirit, we need You.

Come, sweet Spirit I pray. 

Come in Your strength and Your power,

Come in Your own gentle way."

Jeremiah Smith's Memorial Service--and Poem

Today the rest of my family traveled the hour to Valentine, Nebraska, to attend the memorial service for Jeremiah Smith, son of former SIM missionaries. His body has never been found after the kayak accident in the Allegheny River where he had jumped into a kayak to cross the river in PA. 

I felt bad to miss the service, but after this last chemo, I just haven't been able to do much. I was terribly exhausted by the time the rest of the family left about 11 in the morning.

A friend sent me pictures from Jeremiah's memorial service back east. And I wrote a little poem to put in a card for the family.

Jeremiah Smith, just one  of eight
Of a family grown up in a prairie state,
Out in all seasons on the prairie sod,
Tending his work and reaching for God.

He had a face that was often a-smile
With a grin that reached at least a mile,
"The life of the party"--he was full of fun
Until his earthly life was done.

Whatever he did, he did with his might--
Whether work or play, whatever was in sight.
In his service to God as a bright young man,
He'd say, "I'll give the Master the best that I can."

A missionary pilot he felt called to be,
And his family supported this faithfully.
Flying lessons and studies went under his belt
As he aimed for the north where the arctic is felt. 

Jeremiah was baptized one day at Spring Creek,
With a testimony, determined God's will to seek.
He was buried under water with Christ crucified,
And he rose--wet but happy--Christ living inside.

Buried in Christ's death, whether river or creek,
Jeremiah left us a treasure to seek--
A heart that is set to follow the Lord,
To believe all His promises, trust in His Word.

The boy with the mile-wide smile on his face
Was buried in a river of God's love and grace.
God reached and took him to the Sweetest of Springs--
Not in an airplane, but on angel wings.