Have you ever experienced providence? Do you recall a time in your life when you did something on the spur of the moment and discovered that you were where you were supposed to be all along? The following story is true. Psalms 139:16 You saw me before I was born; every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed. NLV
Easter of 1977, I lived in an apartment complex in the small town of Troy, Ohio. My youngest daughter wanted to spend Easter with her father and her stepmother leaving me alone. I have four children; two chose to live with their father at the ages of thirteen and fifteen. He lives fifty miles away while my second daughter, who is married, lives in Maryland. Both of my parents live in Tennessee. It’s at least a twelve hour drive for me. Normal people can drive it in eight, but I am not a speed demon, besides, I like to stop every hundred miles or so, take a potty break, and fill up with gas. There was no way I could drive that far and be back in Troy on Tuesday for work.
Saturday morning I was sitting in front of my apartment relaxing and soaking up the sun. A couple, whom I didn’t know, lived about three apartments down from me. I had seen the female a few times in our coming and goings, but had never carried on a conversation with her.
They were doing the same thing I was doing, sitting on chairs in front of their apartment. The lady called to me, “Hi, my name is Becky and this is my friend Mike. What’s your name?” “I’m Janice.” “We didn’t see the young girl that lives with you. Is she your daughter?” “Yes. She’s visiting her father this weekend.” “Do you have plans for Easter?” “No. I’ll be spending Easter by myself.” “We are going to visit my parents in Cincinnati. Why don’t you come with us?” “Are you sure your parents won’t object?”
“They won’t care.” “You know, that sounds like fun. I’d like that.”
I worked for the police department in West Milton, and I, of all people, should have known better. These people could have been serial killers for all I knew. I had stepped out on faith when I agreed to go with them. I was so lonesome that I would have spent the weekend with Atli the Hunnish King or a grizzly bear. (Just kidding)
God had engineered this weekend, but I didn’t fully appreciate what He had done until Sunday afternoon. Some say that “God works in mysterious ways.” To us it’s mysterious, but to God it isn’t mysterious at all. I stand amazed at His love for me and how He is always manifesting that love. I could witness all day long about the ways He has shown me how He loves me over the years, and that He is ever present in my life, even when I think He isn’t. Its occasions like this that keeps me ever mindful of His love.
We were once a church-going-family. I had grown up in a Christian atmosphere. We never missed Sunday worship, Sunday night worship services and Wednesday night services. I had wanted to have a marriage like that, one that would last forever-always-seven days and ten-minutes; a family that worshiped together, a family that put God first in our lives, but it didn’t happen for me. My father admonished me to ‘marry-in- the-church’. What he should have done was stress the importance of marrying a truly converted Christian. I’m not saying it would have been easy, but at least we would have had something in common, a common goal. There’s a vast difference. I thought I had married a Christian when I married the children’s father. How wrong I was
The two children, that chose to live with their father, refused to have anything to do with me. One day, just as God watches over me, I am certain that He will open the eyes of my children to truths untold.
Easter was always a huge production in my family. I recall all of the work my mother put into those preparations. When my sister and I were young girls, mother took us shopping for patent leather shoes, frilly dresses, and hats with red cherries on top; which, by the way, did not taste very good if you bit into one of them. On Fridays she took us shopping for groceries, we visited the open market in town, and while she cleaned house our house from top to bottom, we stayed out of her hair by playing outside. Mother made sure our father’s new shirt was starched and pressed, and his new tie matched his shirt. On Saturday night she would wash our hair, and roll it with bobby-pins. She was up early on Sunday morning to prep the food for our banquet. I can still smell the chuck roast and onions. Mother seared the roast first before putting it into the oval club aluminum roasting pan. She saved the pan drippings for gravy. Sometimes she put would dice potatoes and carrots and put them into the roasting pan too. But, we preferred mashed potatoes with lots of butter. Mother always peeled the potatoes before church she would put them into water to keep them from turning color. This way she could boil them when she got home. They were mashed with a potato masher because there weren’t any electric mixers in the forties.
Her gravy was as smooth as silk and her gravy wasn’t lumpy. It took me years to learn to master the art of making gravy without lumps. Sometimes I would put it into a blender so people would think I made smooth-as-silk gravy. I guess I must have been in my thirties before I dominated it. The feast mother sat before us was fit for a king’s court. We felt like royalty. Our new hats were our tiaras, and our new coats were our royal robes.
My father wore hats like gangsters wore. I’m not sure what they were called, but he was extremely handsome in them. Mother was the last to get ready because she constantly put us first. They always dressed in matching colors, if dad wore a pink shirt and matching tie, she wore a pink dress and a hat with corresponding colors.
Some traditions that were passed down to me took detours; it became a lost treasure. There was no one to prepare anything for anymore. What was once a tight-knit family had, over time, dissipated; everyone went their separate ways. My marriage ended after twelve and a half years of misery. In the sixties divorce was a stigma on the family. It was something that wasn’t practiced. I stayed as long as I could. God frowns on divorce but allows for fornication and adultery. I remained faithful; he didn’t.
Church and God have always been important to me. Divorce could not rob me of our beautiful relationship. There were times that I didn’t behave as a Christian and I knew when I came to my senses, that I had let God down. Anger and bitterness plays havoc with ones life after a divorce. I was no exception.
Cincinnati was approximately three hours from Troy, and I needed a diversion. Life had been emotional lately. Sometimes it felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach. Tears flowed freely. Would the pain ever end? I was left with so many unanswered questions. “Leave it in the past.” “Get on with your life.” Those remarks came from those who have never experienced divorce, or from people who had found a way to concur their obstacles. How does one get over a divorce when there are children, or even grandchildren involved?
Becky’s family welcomed me with open arms; you would have thought they had known me for years. I told them I wanted to go to church on Sunday, and asked if they knew of any Churches of Christ in their area. “No; none that we’re aware of.” “Where’s your telephone directory? I’ll look for one there.” We were on the outskirts of Cincinnati, not in Cincinnati proper, and I had no idea where to begin looking; so I closed my eyes, and pointed to one of the listings. Becky laughed, “That’s too funny. My brother drives the Baptist Church van and he goes right by that church building. I’ll call him and ask him if he would mind dropping you off there.”
The following morning, when I got out of the Baptist van, in front of the Church of Christ building, people were taking notice. I’m certain they were confused. The looks on their faces was priceless.
Worship services began with prayer, singing and announcements then the congregation was dismissed to go to their appropriate classes. One couple, sitting next to me, invited me to visit their class. It was a small class. Everyone introduced themselves. The couple sitting in front of me, (I will call them the Bradshaw’s), asked me what my maiden name was. (It is a small world). We knew the same people. Another couple knew my parents well. Mrs. Bradshaw asked me if I knew the Simpson’s. I laughed and told them that they had been my parent’s best friends and ran around together for years. These people made me feel right at home.
My parents had moved to Tennessee in the late sixties. Time and distance had separated them and the Simpson’s. As far as I knew they never saw the Simpson’s again, nor did my father or mother ever speak of them that I’m aware of.
Mrs. Bradshaw told me that Mrs. Simpson was her cousin and they would be visiting for Easter. She asked me if I would like to go home with them to surprise the Simpson’s. “I would, but how will I get back to Becky’s parents house
“Don’t worry about that. We will speak with her brother when he comes to get you. We’ll get their telephone number and directions to their house, and see that you get back home.” How nice that sounded, ‘home’; I think that is one of the things that I appreciate about being in a Christian family, no matter where you attend worship service’s, you are welcomed as a brother or sister. It must be like this when we get to heaven.
What a surprise Delbert and Mary-Elizabeth were in for. Who would have expected to find a close Christian family member so far away from home? This was going to be fun. I know God was laughing too. Who says He doesn’t have a sense of humor?
The Simpson’s and my parents began associating with each other when my parents decided it was time to start going back to church. I was around six or seven years old. The Simpson’s had one son, Kenny, and we loved visiting them because Mrs. Simpson’s father was a hoot. He took up time with us and kept us laughing.
What joy it is be in the company of Christians. As I walked through the back door of this large, wondrous, farm house, I saw Mr. Simpson first. He was so excited he barely got my name out of his mouth. “It’s, it’s, its Janice!” He kept pointing to me. Mary-Elizabeth was a short, stocky woman, whose feet didn’t reach the ground while sitting. She was on the opposite side of the room and couldn’t see the doorway. You would have thought they’d seen a ghost.
I had so many questions for Mr. Simpson. After dinner we spoke at great length. He began elaborating on the relationship between my father and him. You know how you have gut instincts, but are not always able to put your finger on it? Well this time my gut instincts were correct. Mr. Simpson validated all of my pent up feelings. He was able to answer the questions I had harbored all those years.
No. My father never abused us, but there was favoritism and Mr. Simpson told my father he was not God. I had told my father the same thing approximately three weeks earlier. I know my father meant well, but judging is left up to our heavenly Father.
Now I knew why God had orchestrated this meeting. His hand had been on my shoulder all the time assuring me of His unquenchable love. Now I understood, more completely, that this visit was not by chance, but by providence.
This validated my faith in God. “Every moment of my life had been laid out before this day had passed.” Psalms 139:16 this proves that God’s holy words are true and faithful.
Often I doubt that He is present in my life, but when I look back on the happenings of this Easter, I put those doubts to rest.