And The Beat Goes on

My first drum restoration is underway. The bass drum shell is in good shape, considering its age. It is Made In Japan vintage from the sixties or early seventies. The wrap, though faded, was staying on. On the inside, one rib needed a bit of regluing. The lugs and tension rods were not pitted, and so cleaned up nicely with rubbing compound.










The inside mounting plate had rusted, but in Tim's shop I cleaned it up with his grinder/brush. It was nice to get back into the shop for a change.
Bought some claws on Ebay for $11. Andrew brought them. The one remaining drum hoop was pretty beat and after watching Ebay sales for awhile, I opted for a pair made in Ecuador. They used three coats of preservative, followed by four coats of car paint. $12 each hoop.
The new hoops are more of a royal blue, not blue sparkle. But they dress up the drum nicely. (Will put on the other one when I get a drum head.)

Make Me Thy Fuel

In a country church down a gravel road off Highway 75, it was time for a music special. I didn’t have a song; I had a poem. I stood at the front and recited “Flame of God” by Amy Carmichael of Dohnavur Fellowship.

From prayer that asks that I may be

Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,

From fearing when I should aspire,

From faltering when I should climb higher

From silken self, O Captain, free

Thy soldier who would follow Thee.

From subtle love of softening things,

From easy choices, weakenings,

(Not thus are spirits fortified,

Not this way went the Crucified)

From all that dims Thy Calvary

O Lamb of God, deliver me.

Give me the love that leads the way,

The faith that nothing can dismay

The hope no disappointments tire,

The passion that will burn like fire;

Let me not sink to be a clod;

Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.

A couple of decades and a few thousand miles away, I am carried back to that time and those influences upon me. On Monday, I arrived for work only to learn that old-timer, John Munday, had died. Soon I had in my hands, Kay Landers’ biography of John, God’s Fuel.

The obituary written, the final story told. John’s threescore plus 10 (in this case plus 20) are gone. Who could ever count his legacy among orphans for whom he became a surrogate dad?

John’s death. A second event this month that helped me recall mission nudgings from my younger years.

You don’t need to do much to leave a legacy.

Just die.

Every day.

Just be God’s fuel.

Penned in Pain and in His Power

Though the woman in the bed had no choice but to be served, “servant of all” was still her watchword. One kind of service still open to Amy, when pain did not make it impossible, was writing.

The Servant as Writer, in "A Chance to Die, The Life and Legacy of Amy Carmichael"

Punch is needed in newsletters, for they seek to update donors, solicit specific prayer, and, we hope, help givers keep on giving because they know they have invested in work that is bearing spiritual fruit.

How is this done when a delicate health condition forces on you, confinement to a limited schedule of activities? How to write with spark and pzazz of human limits, solitary suffering, and seemingly unanswered prayers.

You begin, if you happen to be married, by telling of the work your spouse does. That's how Becky handled it in a letter I reviewed recently for her and her husband, Germán.

German does this; German directs that project; German has plenty on his plate of responsibilities.

Becky mentions her involvement with the ladies of the church German pastors, saying she will coordinate a women's retreat. Otherwise, the work and social hubbub that is reality for many of us who work together is to her, a foreign land. She is not seen stopping by for a few minutes to see German. Or working in the same complex. Her health does not allow her to be here.

Her presence however, was powerful in my office the morning I reviewed her letter. I sign off with the words that Becky wrote:

Still Waters Artist

Jesus,

When pain is a storm that my boat unmoors,

You turn my eye to still waters’ shores.

With artistic wisdom uniquely yours

You reweave the peace that my soul restores,

touching and teaching me through my tears,

lovingly lifting me from my fears

up toward the clearness of Son-lit spheres

where yours is the Music that my heart hears;

painting me portraits of divine Grace,

setting each detail into its place,

sculpting eternity’s Time and Space,

which some day I’ll share with You face to face.

The rage of the storm seems more faint and blurred

When all through your artwork your voice is heard.

I watch and I listen, my senses stirred

By a poem composed of the Perfect Word.

As power dances deftly at your command

And kindles the strength that I need to stand,

You draw me a map of your Father’s Land,

Where some day I’ll walk with You, hand in hand.

No, storms that unmoor can’t compete with You.

You hold me through all that the storms might do;

You steady my hope, once more prove it’s true

That You love me far more than I ever knew!

-Becky Rhon ©

(used with permission of the author)

photos: Ben