You Will Love Others as You Love Yourself

When Linda and I were first married and living at Southeastern Seminary, my brother, Barry, came for a visit.  Our little duplex was next to the tennis courts, so we had the idea to find a fourth and play doubles.  Our friend, Mike, was happy to join Barry to take on Linda and me in a little friendly competition. 

You need to know that, at this stage of my life, I had never used the words “friendly” and “competition” in the same sentence, especially when my brother was involved.  I put a great deal of pressure on myself to win, criticized myself mercilessly for every mistake and, generally, suffered through the match, which we lost. 

That was not the true tragedy of the match.  The worst thing about that day was that I was as tough on Linda as I was on myself.  The same high-pressure, “Why can’t you do it right?” “The value of my life depends on how well we hit this little fuzzy ball across the net” things I said to myself, I said out loud to her.  I hurt her feelings.  I ruined what could have been a fun time.  In fact, I had a nightmare in which I heard an emergency room doctor ask Linda, “Mrs. Vaughan, before I remove that tennis racket from your husband’s body, can you tell me how it got there?”

What I saw so clearly and painfully that day was that the cruel way I treated myself in competitive situations set the tone for how I treated others.  I began to realize a great truth. 

I will love others as I love myself; as much or as little, as graciously or as critically, as affirming or as condemning as the way I relate to myself.  So will you.  If you don’t love yourself, you won’t love others very well either.  

Love God With All You Are

Tomorrow will mark a year since my mom left this life to go home.  In the last few years of her life, my mom’s memory, especially her ability to recall new things, got very weak.  So, more and more, we found ourselves talking about old times and very good times. One of the subjects she enjoyed most was recalling her service as director of several dramas presented at our home church.  She talked the most about the church’s presentation of Earnest Emurian’s “The Last Supper.”  My Mom, with the persuasiveness of a salesman and the persistence of General Patton, enlisted sixteen men from our small church to play a part, to dress up in a costume, wear a beard, by growth or glue, wear knee-high hose so their white feet wouldn't shine, and, each in his turn, recite a page-long monologue as one of Jesus’ disciples.  Here is her finished product. 

          What Mom remembered and cherished most about that experience was the difference that brief time on stage made in the lives of those men.  Several of them had been part-time long-time pew fillers, present in worship but doing little else in the church.  But, she said, with great joy and satisfaction,

“When we got them to play a part in that drama, they never went back to the back pew.  They became leaders and servants.  They became the heart of our church.”

          If I dare paraphrase my Mom, the director, when these men experienced the joy of loving God with more of themselves, putting more of their hearts and souls and minds and strength to work in God’s service, they never again wanted to offer God the minimum payment.  They loved God with more and more of who they were and tasted the truly abundant Christian life.  So can we.  

My Christmas Copernican Revolution

My Christmas Copernican Revolution

“What did I get?”

That’s the question on every child’s mind as he or she awakens on Christmas morning and races to the Christmas tree.  That journey of Christmas morning discovery is joyful, exciting and memorable.  I was looking through some old family pictures and saw picture after picture of my sister, brother and me on Christmas morning in front of the tree, surrounded by Santa loot.  Judging from the looks on our faces, we had found a pretty satisfying answer to the “What did I get?” question. 

“What did I get?” was pretty much the meaning of Christmas for me during those early years of my life.  Yes, I knew the story of the birth of Jesus and could tell it in great detail and with deep personal meaning, but honestly I was more excited about what I would get for Jesus’ birthday. 

My attitude changed one Christmas morning.  I don’t know if I had grown up enough to see things differently or if a new thought just popped into my mind.  On that Christmas morning, my attention momentarily shifted away from taking inventory of my Christmas treasure and I noticed my father sitting across the room watching his three children enjoying the big event.  What I noticed for the first time that Christmas was that Santa, as I understood how Christmas happened, hadn’t left much of anything for my dad.  He opened a gift from my mom, a painfully practical gift by my standards, but not much else.  This realization so gripped me that I spoke up, “Dad, you didn’t get very much for Christmas!” He smiled a knowing smile and answered, “I got everything I wanted.”  I didn’t understand his answer that day.  I didn’t understand how he seemed to enjoy watching me wade through my Christmas goodies as much as if he’d been given such a bounty himself.  But, on that Christmas morning the seeds were planted that led to a revolution in my young mind. 

I’ve heard folks say of self-centered people, “He needs a Copernican revolution!”  Copernicus discovered that our earth is not the center of the universe.  When that discovery is applied to people, it means that we all need to learn that we are not the center of the universe.  Not everything in life is about me. 

My Christmas Copernican revolution was the realization that my Dad measured his Christmas by a question that was the polar opposite of the one I innocently but childishly used.   He didn’t approach Christmas asking “What will I get?” but, instead, “What can I give?”  His Christmas joy came from giving joy to his family.  A few years ago, I wrote a song about my Dad, what I remember about him and learned from him.  Part of that song is based on the lesson I learned that Christmas.

Christmas morning magic;

That top of the wish list toy.

I didn’t notice there wasn’t much for you.

But you just wanted happiness for your daughter and your boys

And a chance to make our Christmas dreams come true. 

Dad came to Christmas asking, “What can I give?”  That attitude is much more harmonious with the meaning of the season.  Christmas happened because God looked upon this world, in need of hope and salvation and asked, “What can I give?”  He gave His best.  He gave His Son.  He gave to make our dreams come true. 

Many years later, writing this as a father and a grandfather, I fully understand how my father, without many gifts to open, got everything he wanted for Christmas.  He received the joy Jesus promised to those who know that the world is bigger than them and that giving, not getting, is the Christmas thing to do.  

Who Would Be Born in a Place Like This?

Christmas Day of 1981 found me as the chaplain on call at Spartanburg Regional Medical Center.  Actually, I had volunteered to work that day.  I was only single guy in the chaplain’s department and I wanted my coworkers to be with their wives and children.  I volunteered for another reason.  This was the first Christmas after dad died and I thought it was better to keep busy and to focus my energies on others.  Christmas Day in the hospital is tough, because all but the sickest patients have gone home.  Those who remain face very serious illness.  As I walked the halls that day, seeing very sick patients around me and feeling terrible pain inside me, I asked myself, Can Jesus be born in a place like this? When I got to the end of that very busy day and looked back at the people and problems I’d seen, I realized that Jesus, in fact, had come into the messy painful places of our hearts. 

He came—to the parents and grandparents of a tragically stillborn child, a family that knew that because of Jesus, they had hope of one day holding their child in heaven. 

He came—to a woman who wanted to go home, but knew that her circumstances were taking her, instead, to a nursing home, a woman who, amid all the unwanted changes in her life, clung to the truth that would not change, the Savior who is forever faithful, the love from which nothing could ever separate her. 

He came—to a man who invited me to share the Christmas that his family had brought to him at the hospital because he couldn’t go home, and we knew he never would. It was a happy day; it was a good day because he knew that every day is a gift from God, every day a gift to share with those you love. 

He came to my family as we faced our first Christmas without my father.

Who would be born in places like that?  The one who was born in a stable.  The Savior of the world.  The Son of God.  Jesus. 

He will be born in you today, if you will only believe that He is born in stables, in far less than perfect places, in sinful broken people like you and me. 

Do you believe that?

Then ask Him, welcome Him, invite Him, and Jesus will be born in you, just as you are. 

 This story is included in my book, The Stories of My Life, a collection of more than 200 life experiences that taught me about the art of living.  You can find the book at Amazon.com and at St. Andrews Baptist Church in Columbia, SC. 

Living in a Place Called Evergreen

Living in a Place Called Evergreen

I was preparing to drive to another part of the state to share a few days of church camp with our youth group.  As I was packing, I got a telephone call from my sister, Debbie.  Preacher Floyd is in the hospital, she told me.  Rev. Harry Floyd was pastor of my home church during some of my most formative years.  During his ministry, I became a Christian.  His hands placed me beneath the waters of baptism.  Years later, he gave me my first invitation to lead revival services.  He returned to my home church to preach my father’s funeral.  He sat on my ordination council and preached my ordination sermon.  On my shelf is a set of books he gave me from his own library.  In ministry, my first reflex is to do what Harry Floyd did.  When I heard that he was in the hospital in Florence, I knew what I needed to do. 

I left a little early for camp and drove to the hospital in Florence, SC where he had been a patient.  When I asked for his room number, the woman at the information desk said that he had been discharged the day before.  But amazingly, she knew Harry Floyd.  They attended the same church.  She found his home telephone number and got me in touch with Harry.  He said he would love to see me and gave me directions to his home.  He lived, not in Florence, but in a little town called Evergreen. Armed with these directions to a place I’d never been or heard of, I headed out to find him.  Remembering all that he had given to me and to my family, I wanted to give something back to him. 

I wasn’t sure what I would find.  His life had been anything but easy in recent years.  Not long after his retirement, his wife, Lois, underwent bypass surgery.  In those days, blood was not screened or tested as closely as today.  Mrs. Floyd was infected with the AIDS virus from a blood transfusion, and, for the next several years, died a very slow and painful death.  The oldest of his three daughters suffers from an illness which now has her in a nursing home, her life slipping away.  His own eyes that so loved to read the scriptures and study commentaries and write messages, were growing dim.  He is legally blind.  Some form of asthma makes his breathing difficult.  And now, I learned, his back keeps him in constant agonizing pain.  “How,” I wondered, “could one who served so well and so long end up like this?  And what can I say or do to help him?” 

The directions were clear enough, even for me.  I found Evergreen and soon found his house.  When I knocked on the door I was greeted by Rev. Floyd’s new wife, a lifelong friend God brought back into his life some time after Lois had died.  Merlee met me at the door and took me to the den where Harry was stretched out in his recliner, the only place where he could get some relief from the back pain. 

As I entered the room, he heard my voice from across the room and greeted me.  I came to him, gave him a very careful hug, and sat down beside him.  When we’d been talking a few minutes, I realized that he wasn’t telling me much about himself.  He wanted to know about me and what I was doing.  He asked about the church I was serving.  He wanted to know about my family.  I bragged a little or maybe a lot.  Somehow, with all that he was facing, he had the capacity to step outside himself.  I was amazed.  I know how pain can move the focus of your life inside yourself.  I wanted to give him a chance to talk about his own life, so I turned the conversation to him and how he was doing.

That’s when it happened.  That’s when I saw something more impressive than any worship service he’d ever led, more touching than any story he’d ever told, more profound than any sermon he’d ever preached.  I saw the glory of a grateful heart.  He was honest about his physical problems.  I wouldn’t settle for less than that.  He told me about the surgery he needed but might not be able to endure.  That physical assessment and those medical facts came from his head.  Then he opened his heart. 

He thanked God for his years with Lois, and now for bringing Merlee into his life to share his journey.  He glowed as he spoke of how he and Merlee had accepted and cherished each other’s children and grandchildren.  He spoke with pride and joy about the churches he had served, the friends he had made along the way, and how God had allowed him to make his living doing what he loved most. He celebrated the technology that allowed him to listen to some books on tape, since he could no longer read them very well.  And then he looked at me with both the tears of back pain and the tears of spiritual joy in his eyes and said,

Ronald, I’m like the ‘old boy’ who said that God had been so good to him, he couldn’t think of anything to ask for when he prayed.  God has been so good to me that I don’t know what to ask Him for.  That’s how I am.   

I didn’t know what to say.  I wondered to myself,

Why aren’t you angry about the Aids-tainted blood that took your wife away from you so painfully and so young? Why aren’t you bitter about the illness that has reduced your daughter to an invalid? How can you be so thankful when you’re spending most of your time in a recliner, hardly able to see, struggling to get a deep breath, and hurting almost every moment of every day? 

Simply because, in the midst of all of the shadows, the struggles, the losses, the pain of his life, with failing eyes, he saw what many of us can’t or won’t see.  He saw good and he saw God.  And because he did, he was more alive than I am on many days. 

As I left him and drove out of town toward camp, I once again saw the little sign which read Evergreen.  And I thought, “Yeah, that’s where he lives.  More importantly, that’s how he lives.”  His joy doesn’t ebb and flow with the seasons of life.  A grateful heart is ever-green. 

This story is included in my first book, The Stories of My Life, available at Amazon.com (link on this blog page) or the offices of St. Andrews Baptist Church, Columbia, SC.  

The Last Tear

The Last Tear

Psalm 30:5 is such a gift of hope for the Christian, and especially for the Christian who hurts.  That verse says,

(Psalm 30:5) Weeping may go on all night, but joy comes with the morning.

That’s a message for here and now; after a night of pain, of hurt, of grief, of weeping, a new day of joy will come to those who belong to God.  God gives many beautiful sunrises in this life and we praise Him for them. 

But this verse also points us to the end of the story, to the day when our journey through every dark valley is over and we reach home.  God allowed John to see that eternal morning and the healing it will bring to us. 

(Revelation 21:4) He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.

I was the chaplain on call at Spartanburg Regional Medical Center when the telephone rang.  I knew that call would come some day, but I wasn’t ready to hear it.  My dad was in an ambulance on his way to the hospital.  He had been at home for weeks, suffering from a brain tumor that medical science didn’t know how to fight.  The growing tumor pressed too hard upon dad’s brain, causing a cerebral hemorrhage that would, in a matter of moments or hours, end his life.  I rushed from one hospital to another, from Spartanburg where I worked to the emergency room of the Greenville General Hospital. 

Two deacons from my home church met me at the door and took me to my family in one of the private waiting rooms the hospital provides for families of critically ill patients.  The other members of my family had seen Dad and, for the moment, had seen enough.  My brother, Barry, offered to go with me so that I, too, could have a few moments with dad.  The second I saw him, I knew that the tumor had struck a mortal blow to the strongest man I’ve ever known.  A breathing tube kept his airway opened, but he struggled for air like a fish out of water.  His eyes seemed to look beyond the ceiling, no longer seeing this world.  He couldn’t respond to us by speaking or even squeezing my hand, but I thought that, just maybe, he could still hear us.  So Orin’s two boys tried to express our gratitude for a father’s lifetime of love in a few words.  We told him that we loved him.  We thanked him for being such a great dad.  We told him that we would always be proud to be his sons.  Then we just stood there, watching and waiting.  Then it happened.  With life slipping away from him, a single tear flowed out of the corner of dad’s right eye and rolled down the side of his face.  And then, in a few short moments, he was gone. 

Only later, as I relived that moment as grieving people do, did I realize what I had seen.  I saw my father’s last tear.  He’s not shed one since and he never will again.  His last night of weeping is over and the dawn of eternal joy has come. 

Many wise and loving people prepared me for life, but none of them prepared me for how many tears life brings: the agony of a tough decision, doing your best and realizing that it’s not enough, investing your life in people who, one day, just walk away, the weariness of fighting battles that won’t end, the sting of death.  Sometimes there are just too many tears. 

But those tears don’t wash away my hope or my joy, because I know the end of the story.  I know that I will shed a last tear.  At the end of my story, after I’ve trusted Him through every night of weeping, the morning will come, God’s great morning will come and He will wipe them all away.  And we will know that it was worth it all. 

Our First Lady

I shared this message at the funeral service of Evelyn Miller, wife of our Pastor Emeritus, Dr. Fred S. Miller, Jr.  As you will read, she was strong and sweet, raised a remarkable family and shaped the lives of a generation of believers at St. Andrews.  I hope this message helps you remember and give thanks for one of God's memorable inimitable creations.  

Our First Lady

I am deeply saddened to be here so soon again with the Miller family, having said goodbye to Dr. Fred Miller just over a month ago.  I am saddened, but not surprised.  Neither are many of you.  Some said it to me in a whisper, as though you’d be wrong to say it out loud.  Some of you apologized as you said it, but many of you had the same feeling—that Evelyn would not be with us very long after Fred went home. 

Evelyn’s doctors could tell you how her body wore out, how the breathing problems she’s faced for so long overcame her, but I don’t think that’s the heart of why she’s gone from us and why we’re here today.  I think Evelyn’s life mission was completed.  She knew her job was over.  I think Evelyn said, in her own words, many times in the past four weeks, what the Apostle Paul said as he realized he was coming to the end of his life.  He wrote to Timothy,

(2 Timothy 4:6b-8) …the time has come for my departure. 7 I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 8 Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day…

I’ve thought a great deal about how to describe Evelyn’s life mission.  If you knew her, you knew she lived with a clear sense of purpose and a deep passion for serving Christ.  She wasn’t just Fred’s wife.  I don’t think the description, “our pastor’s wife,” captures her spirit and her impact.  I finally decided that Evelyn Miller was, in this church and others she served with Fred, “the First Lady.” 

That title fits, I think, because, in the first place, it tells you that so much of what she did for Christ, she did through the relationship and partnership she shared with Fred.  A ministry couple must share many things, some of them wonderful and some of them heartbreaking.  But Evelyn and Fred shared ministry in a deeper daily sense.  So much of what they did for Christ and for the churches they served, they did together.  So often, when Fred came to visit you in the hospital, Evelyn was with him.  Together, they visited many of you when you first visited this church and explored making this your church home.  She was with him at the funeral homes and at the gravesides, offering her own gifts of loving support. 

The writer of Proverbs says of the woman worthy of praise that her husband joins his children in giving thanks for her life.  Fred Miller was the first one to praise Evelyn for her contribution to his life and his ministry and the first one to give her credit for the good things they saw happen in the churches they served. 

The boys say their Mom was every bit as called to Christian service as was their father.  They are certainly right.  The call to ministry did not come until after Fred and Evelyn had married, so they answered Christ’s call together, at the beginning and all along the journey. 

Evelyn brought many gifts to her life of ministry.  She grew up in the strong circle of the Meador family.  She was blessed by the great love she received, but was also tested by some great challenges.  She was only nine years old when her father, skilled and successful in construction, suddenly passed away.  As his death brought tough financial changes to the family, Evelyn, her Mom and her siblings had to leave the homeplace she so loved, and moved into more modest accommodations in town.  She learned how family can work together, lean upon each other, and get through the toughest of times.  She learned the value of work and the success that comes only through doing your best and giving your all.  And she learned how faith in Christ is an anchor for the soul when storms rage through your life. 

Several pictures of the Meador homeplace hung in Evelyn’s home.  She cherished her heritage, her roots, her memories of love and support.  She cherished how her early years blessed her life.  I've never been to that homeplace, but I, like so many of you can say it has blessed my life.  For the lessons Evelyn learned there, the strength she found there, the empathy that grew within her for people facing tough times prepared her to be that wonderful special person she has been in our lives.  God used the joys and sorrows of her life to prepare her to be our First Lady. 

Evelyn loved music and was gifted as a pianist and organist.  In some of the first churches the Millers served, Evelyn provided much of the music and Fred the preaching.  What a beautiful expression of the ministry they shared. 

“First Lady” tells you that Evelyn was a leader in her own right.  She cared about God’s work.  She cared about the churches Fred pastored.  And, if you knew Evelyn, you know she had some very specific ideas about how the life of the church should be.  She could be very generous in sharing those ideas with you. 

One of my first one-to-one conversations with Evelyn happened after she had attended the funeral service of a friend.  She brought me the program and told me about the service and her connection to the deceased.  But what she really wanted to tell me was how good the program looked and that we could improve the programs we print for funerals if we’d borrow a few ideas from this one.  I listened respectfully.  I took the program she handed me and, a few days later, looked through it.  When I studied it, remembering what she had told me, I had to admit she was right.  When I passed her ideas on the rest of the staff, they agreed. 

Evelyn not only wanted things done right, she also wanted people to do and be their best.  Some former staff members of this church have told me of times Evelyn would find them, get them over to the side and tell them plainly about some ways they could improve their work.  She was sometimes like a coach who sees that a player is but a few small changes away from great success.  She cared enough to give some of the players on this church’s team such a clear challenge.  Those who shared their stories of those “Coach Evelyn” conversations shared them with gratitude and the testimony that she helped them be better. 

She expected results.  She was a can-do, find-a-way, get-it-done kind of person and she wanted others to get things done too.  A couple of years ago, Evelyn entrusted to the staff a painting by Lena Andrews, an educator in our church who had a gift for painting and funded a scholarship the church awards each year.  Evelyn thought the painting could be displayed in a place where more people could enjoy it, perhaps in the office area.  I will confess, we didn't hurry to hang the painting.  More weeks went by than was necessary to find a home for this cherished reminder of a great lady.  Evelyn, in her own inimitable style, reminded us that the job was not yet done.  She said, as only she could, “I guess I’m just going to have to take that painting back, because it’s not going to be hung in the office.”  Within a week, it was on the wall on display.  It’s still there, thanks to our First Lady. 

Yes, Evelyn could be strong as effective leaders must be strong.  But she was also as tender and loving a friend as many of us will ever know.  When, a couple of years ago, Fred and Evelyn realized they needed to change their housing situation, they looked at retirement communities all over the state.  When one of the boys asked for an update on their search and especially where they thought they might want to live, Fred answered, “We won’t be leaving Columbia.  Your mother needs to know if one of her friends sneezes.”  Fred was joking about something very precious to many of us.  Evelyn kept up with her friends.  She knew what was going on in their lives.  She knew how to pray for the.  She knew what they needed and how she could help. 

The boys told me that they would sometimes find their home sitting alone in their home in tears.  When they asked what was wrong, Evelyn would tell them that she was thinking and praying about someone and their needs.  If you were Evelyn’s friend, you were on her mind.  You were in her heart.  She shed tears for you.  She lifted you up to God. 

She made dear friends everywhere she went.  She kept in touch with people from practically every community where she had lived and served.  When the news of her death began to spread, the telephone rang constantly with calls from many places from friends, precious friends, who wanted to know about Evelyn, what had happened, and when we would gather to give thanks for her life. 

Just a few days after Dr. Miller’s death, Evelyn became a patient at Wildwood Downs where she hoped to regain her strength and a fuller measure of her health.  That did not happen, but while she was there, something wonderful did happen.  Evelyn’s roommate, a lady named Ann, lost her balance and fell.  The fall was a tough one and Ann’s injuries were significant.  That fall put her back a long way in her healing process.  Evelyn had already adopted Ann and bonded with her as a Christian friend.  Evelyn seized the moment to take Ann’s hand and pray for her and with her, that God would help her overcome these new challenges and move forward toward healing and health.  Evelyn was very sick at that time.  We didn’t know it, but she was only a few weeks from death.  But her ministry, that calling she carried in the marrow of her bones shone through and touched a life in a way Ann says she will never forget.  Through Evelyn’s ministry, our church was there, God’s family was there, responding to a crisis.  She was, even in her own time of weakness and struggle, our First Lady. 

The darker the sky, the brighter the stars shine.  During the past couple of years, as Dr. Miller’s health declined, then he learned that he had cancer and faced the trials of both the illness and its treatment, Evelyn’s love for him shone through so beautifully. 

Last October, our church shared a communion service in a unique way.  Each of the ministers enlisted a helper, took up a position in the sanctuary and allowed each worshiper to tear a piece of bread off of a common loaf and dip it in the cup.  I asked Dr. Miller to serve with me and, enjoying some good days at that time, he graciously agreed.  Serving with him that day was a holy ground experience as I saw the love in his eyes for the people of this church and saw their gratitude in having him serve them once again and their grief as some realized this might be the last such opportunity they would have. 

But the sweetest moment came when Evelyn, having stood in line to receive the bread and cup, stepped forward.  Fred began to say the words that attached great meaning to the bread.  He addressed them personally to her, as he had done for so many worshipers that day. 

Evelyn, the body of Christ broken for…

He didn't get to finish.  Evelyn interrupted him with what she believed was a more urgent question,

Fred, are you OK?

He smiled, nodded his head yes, and tried again.  The body of Christ…

She stopped him again. 

Do you need to sit down?  You've been pretty weak lately and we can get you a chair if you need one.

He said, “I’m fine, really.”  And this time Gabriel’s trumpet would not have stopped him as he said, “The body of Christ broken for you.” 

I stood there, watching and listening, feeling so blessed to witness something so beautiful.  Our First Lady doing what she had done so well for so long, taking care of her partner in ministry so he could take care of God’s people. 

When Dr. Miller’s funeral service was over and his casket rolled by where Evelyn was seated in her wheelchair, she reached out and touched it, gently, tenderly, as though to offer one more tenderness, one more blessing, one more gift of love to him.  Then, in perfect Evelyn style, as the funeral director turned her chair to come up the aisle, she pointed out to him that a reserved sign had fallen off of the pew and needed to be picked up.  Tender and strong, she was, once again, our First Lady. 

Sammi, David, Stephen, to you and your families, I affirm you for the way you loved your Mom through this last month.  You lost a lot of sleep and missed a lot of work, but you received in return another volume of holy and tender moments with your Mom.  For many years, your parents have connected you to this church and to all of us.  They've gone home, but I want you to know you still belong to us.  You always will.  You are family.  You are loved.  You always have a place at this table. 

Evelyn Miller lived with purpose and died in peace because she knew she belonged to Jesus.  Your journey and your journey’s end will be decided by your relationship to Him.