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CUPS OF COFFEE by GENE SHROUT Introduction: 'Cups of Coffee' originally was an effort to reach out to my children. I had a desire to share with them some of the things I held to be important from my past. Additionally, I thought to broach some aspects of the present in hopes of stirring up a little dialog, albeit via mail…if not the intimacy of a shared pot of coffee in midst of a quiet hour. Reflecting on "the intimacy of sharing a pot of coffee" stems from the fond experience of hours of confabs with my father. Our philosophical differences were vast but the time spent, face to face, was precious. Those hours were of significant value in our relationship as father and son. Likewise, I experienced a similar routine with my mother. The subject matter was much different…but we shared many precious hours over cups of coffee. Now we have at hand the vastness and the intimacy of the great Internet at our finger tips. I am told that people discover soul mates over the net. I am even told that some have found their life mate by sharing their minds and hearts via this extraordinary medium. One of my sons experienced this phenomenon. A daughter and friend are wondering. The Internet is changing our world…so as requested I shall endeavor to bring 'Cups of Coffee' to this new world of sharing. The format will be much as described above, reaching into my store of recollections and interests…perhaps posing a question, or a concern, or a thought about what I see today. My prime thrust was to reach out to my children, however, all who read in passing are invited to join the dialog. I have been told that memory and imagination are wonderful tools of thought. That one should purpose to take great care with the treatment of each. As for memory, aside from facts, most of the time I find it good to remember only the best that life has brought me. There seems to me to be very little value in remembering the worst. Therefore, I have endeavored to develop a third facility wherein I routinely try to pitch all the bad stuff into a wastebasket I call my 'forgettery'. Some unhappy moments are monumental mileposts marking the path I've walked, but on these pages I will try to mainly call upon those happy, contented moments that still linger within my memory. My children have all grown into adulthood now. The time that we have been able to spend 'one on one' with each other has been precious little. It was such a rich experience to be able to spend that kind of time with my son Steve last October. He took a week off and we visited all the old Hoosier haunts and attended the 50th reunion of my college class. Thank you, Steve, you massaged my soul. Perhaps one day in the future, when the use of video with computers and internet is commonplace, we can each sit in our remote locations and share our thoughts in some more meaningful way. The advent of video may allow us to note those subtle changes of countenance that come with a slight bit of humor or dismay…that make face to face communication such an intimate process. Perhaps we might even be able to see the other guy pick up a mug and enjoy a sip of coffee. Cups of Coffee by Gene Shrout My Birth in Christ Jesus Everyone's 'hour of salvation' is their special milepost, their 'Ebenezer', their moment of memory to draw on when the horizon is bleak and the tempter taunts, "God don't care." Well, if I were to write the narration of my life's story…it would begin with this page. Throughout my boyhood I was often aware that I was deviating from behavior I had been taught. My mother was a very dedicated follower of Christ, and though my father seemed to think that weekends were for fishing, my mother saw to it that my sister and I attended Sunday school and church every week. I suppose it was around the age of seven that I first became conscious of frequently doing those things that were surely not pleasing to the Lord Jesus. Then around the age of nine I began to experience real guilt before God. I had a close friend who was just a little older than I. Vernon, though less than ten-years of age, already felt the call to preach. He was one of those people blessed by God with good looks, personality and talent. He had long wavy hair, a 'wrap you up' smile and a raft of friends. Vernon had a penchant for serving the Lord and even held a neighborhood kids church in a shed on the alley behind his house. By the time I had reached the age of nine Vernon was frequently expressing concern for the salvation of my eternal soul. His expressed concerns incited a more acute feeling of guilt in my heart and a feeling of need when 'altar calls' were given in that little white church in Gas City, Indiana. Altar calls in that church were oft' times quite lengthy. The old hymns that they sang were of a beckoning type. And in their voices you could hear the passion for lost souls. There were times when this imaginative boy could no longer find a place to hide from God's great searchlight of truth and conviction. Then one winter night this ten-year old boy could stand no more. He burst from his seat in the pews and hurried down the aisle to an altar of prayer. I knelt there, weeping and pleading for God's forgiveness for all the incidents of sin and wrongdoing that I could pry from my memory. My heart was broken. My weeping seemed unending. The small altar was crowded with seekers and praying saints. Occasionally someone would start a hymn and the singing seemed to reach toward heaven. While still at the alter the tears from my heart ceased to flow. At first I was confused. I became aware that I was no longer feeling guilt. I first thought that God had turned away from me. But suddenly I began to feel a freedom…a wonderful feeling and presence that I had never, never felt before. Such joy, I had never experienced! And more than that…more than the freedom…more than the joy…I had never felt so clean! I had truly been washed by the blood of the Lamb. It was a two-mile walk home from that little church. There was snow on the ground and the moon light was bright. The light in my soul was even brighter. My spirit seemed to lift me from the ground with a strange sense of buoyancy as I skipped circles around my mother and sister, and chattered about the wonder I was experiencing. Well, that is the story of my wondrous experience with the Lord. However, that ten year old boy's walk through his adolescent years was a quite a bit less wondrous, and I will share that with you in the next issue of 'Cups of Coffee'. |
Copyright ©2001 Dale Freeman. All rights reserved.