The Hillton Horhouse

Ten years ago, my parents, The Hortons, embarked on a grand adventure with my best friend's parents, The Hillhouses. They agreed to mentor or "coach" engaged couples through a Before You Say I Do curriculum, then direct and teach a Sunday School class for nearly/newlyweds at Prestonwood Baptist Church. The nearly/newlys soon became young marrieds, then parents of toddlers, and now, that first batch of babies are headed to Kindergarden. Last Friday night, I sat in a room filled with over a hundred people who had gathered from all over the metroplex to honor the Hortons and the Hillhouses for the impact their investment has made in their lives and marriages. There was much laughter and a few tears as person after person stood at the microphone and recounted the ways that their lives and homes and families have been touched for the glory of God by four humble servants determined to do what they knew to be right according to Scripture. Four servants who made it their ambition to lead godly lives, to speak truth to all who would listen, to get involved in the people God led their way. It is really, really difficult to tell you how inspiring this event was. I am convinced that Friday evening's banquet was only a glimpse of the eternal fruit to be produced by this 10 year adventure. The evening included several noteworthy moments. One of my dad and Jim's dreams has always been to see the men and women under their care grow to spiritual maturity and become leaders themselves. When asked how many of those gathered that evening were actively involved in leadership in their own classes and churches now, nearly 20 hands were raised. That's not to count those who were unable to attend because of their commitments elsewhere that evening! Another noteworthy image was to see the multitude of children running freely through the room after the event had concluded and they'd been rescued from the nursery. To think that the class began with engaged couples and now proudly sported more offspring than anyone could keep track of was humorous and glorious. My favorite moment of the evening was at the end when they gave Daddy and Jim their turns at the mic. These precious servants, two of the most humble and godly men I have ever known, stood with tears in their eyes and gave glory to God and used that last time before their flock to issue a final challege to be godly men and women, leaders in their homes and guardians of the next generation.
I assure you, no daughter has ever been more proud of her parents. It was a joy and an honor to participate in the celebration of lives well lived. And, as I told the crowd that evening, the most awesome thing I can think of to tell you about David and Stephanie Horton is that it's all true. They are exactly who they claim to be, who they seem to be. They practice the things that they preach. They are servants with godly integrity in their home and marriage. And, I am blessed beyond measure to be the life most impacted by their faithfulness. I teased with them a few weeks ago on their 30th wedding anniversary, calling and very off-handedly thanking them for staying together all these years. Their love for the Lord and commitment to one another has made all the difference in my life.

Lessons In Missions: I Can't Do It ... And That is Okay!

After spending three months as a student missionary in Guadalajara, Mexico in the fall of 2001, I returned home to Texas unsure I ever wanted to leave American soil again. Guadalajara was the scene of many incredible lessons in God’s faithfulness, but on the whole, I felt like a failure as a missionary and did not relish the idea of repeating the experience. There are plenty of people who need to hear the Good News about Jesus right here in the good ol’ U.S.of A. after all, right? I came home. I moved to Fort Worth, and I started seminary. I was determined to be the best home missionary there was. I would show the Lord and anyone else watching that I could be useful, faithful, successful right here in my own little comfort zone. For three years, I did not leave the state of Texas. My heart beat wildly at the thought of being too far from home and all things familiar. It’s not like it was all that hard. I mean, I was a graduate student after all. I had important things to do. I was putting myself through school. I couldn’t be expected to spend money on frivolous things like mission trips. Then Caleb called. He was taking his youth group on a trip to Morelia, Mexico and needed another female sponsor, preferably one who spoke Spanish. I think I probably laughed at him. If I didn’t laugh out loud, I am certain I chortled inside. He must be crazy!, I thought. I knew I’d told him what a terrible missionary I was. Crazy or desperate, those were the only possibilities. Like any godly woman, I told him I’d pray about it. I was quite certain there was no way God was sending me back to Mexico. I’m not so sure I prayed about it as much as I fretted about it and spent my time before the Lord telling him all of the reasons we both knew this was such a bad idea. Certainly He had to agree with me. Right? Silence. I couldn’t believe it! Finally, I was running out of time to give Caleb a solid answer. I woke one morning telling the Lord I needed an answer, and I was willing to hear whatever the answer might be. I went to work that morning only to be passed a string of Spanish-speaking clients needing my help. I got to my desk and found the “time-off” request form I’d filled out just in case, laying there … approved. I got home and checked my e-mail, only to receive a word of encouragement from a friend I’d met three years earlier in Mexico. It felt like a conspiracy! I don’t remember what all happened that day, but I was certain at the end of it that I was going to spend 10 days in Mexico that summer. And, when Caleb called the next week to say he was purchasing airline tickets and needed an answer, I flatly told him, “Yes, I’ll go. Buy my ticket.” Not having shared any of this struggle with him, I’m not certain he caught the resignation in my tone. I was resigned, though. Not happy, not sad, just resigned. The next two months passed quickly, and soon, the trip was just two weeks away. I woke with a start one morning with just four words flashing like a neon sign inside my head, “I can’t do this!” What had I been thinking? This was nuts! I couldn’t go back to Mexico! I certainly couldn’t go back with a group of students in my charge! What in the world could I possibly show them? How to be a failure at missions? No, this idea had disaster written all over it. I emailed Caleb and told him of my new conclusion. I entreated him to understand what a big mistake we were making. He laughed patiently at me and told me I was going, the ticket was purchased, the plans were made, the kids needed me there. I shared my trembling with another friend, repeating the flashing words over and over again, “I can’t do this.” Finally, with more patience than I deserved, he said, “No, Kristen, you can’t. It’s good you realize it now.” Those were the first words to penetrate my heart in mind in days. And, in their place came a new set of words, a memory verse taught to me by a Spanish professor in college. “Todo lo puedo en Cristo que me fortalice.” I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. I was right and so was my friend. I couldn’t do this, but Christ in me could accomplish anything when I submit to Him. Through the next two weeks of preparation, another verse became dear to my heart and brought me much comfort as I sought to take each thought captive and make it obedient to the will of God. John 15:5, “I am the Vine, you are the branches. Apart from me, you can do nothing. If you remain in Me and My words remain in you, you will bear much fruit.” There is was in black and white, clear as day. I could do nothing apart from Christ, but when I chose to let His words abide in Me and I in Him, I could bear much fruit. I don’t know why I was even surprised to arrive at our final group meeting before the trip only to hear one of the leaders pray that very verse over those students. It’s amazing how many times those verses come to mind as I face life’s daily challenges. Every time I am tempted to cry out a defeated, “I can’t do it!” I am reminded that I indeed cannot do it, but Christ in me can do all things!

Lessons In Missions: God's Concern for My Holiness

As I sat on my unmade bed, journal and Bible open, I poured out my heart to the Lord. I was not respectful. I was not humble. I was not reverent as I entered His presence that morning. I more or less burst into the throne room, stood before Him in utter frustration and spewed forth the uttermost thought in my mind. “Why?! Why in the world am I here?! What are you doing?!” I cannot say for sure now, but I think I cried these words allowed as I sat on my bed. I may have even been yelling loud enough for the neighbors to hear. They weren’t far off, of course. There is little private space in Mexico.
I’d been in Guadalajara, Mexico for seven weeks by that time. I was more than half way through my thirteen week term. Thirteen weeks, 91 days … I counted every one of them. I knew the minute I landed in that place that I was not going to be a good missionary, but I truly was giving it my best. Unfortunately, my best wasn’t much at that time. I signed up for this trip with a lot of unmerited confidence. I’d just finished a four year degree in Spanish. I’d been leading college Bible studies for two years. Of course I knew what I was doing. Of course Mexico needed me. I landed in Guadalajara the evening of September 10, 2001. I didn’t count on leaving my heart back in Texas. I didn’t realize how much I would miss my friends, how I would long to be with the college students in weekly Bible study, how I would feel so cut off from my country in a time of great disaster. But, I’m not sure any of those things was the reason I wept so bitterly that particular morning. It’s much more likely that I wept that morning in sheer selfishness. I had a picture in my head of what this time was supposed to look like, all of the Mexican students I would be leading to the Lord and how popular I would be with the mission board back home. Now, a little over halfway through my term, and I had to send my partner on to the campus by herself because I couldn’t pull myself together and stop crying long enough to get dressed and be presentable. Then, as I sat in the quiet and pulled out my Bible and my journal, seeking solace, I read the verse. “The fields are white unto harvest. Pray to the Lord of the Harvest that He might send workers.” I am not sure there are words for the frustration I felt in that moment, the confusion that brought me bursting into the throne room of the Almighty in a near state of rage. “I’m here!” I yelled. “I’m ready to work the harvest!” I announced. “Why won’t you use me?” I collapsed at His feet in supplication. I needed an answer. And, as I wept bitterly, it came. Softly, in a whisper so loud it was unmistakable. The Almighty was more concerned with my holiness than with any statistic I could post back to the folks at home. He wanted me, my attention, my utter devotion, and if He had to remove me from anything familiar and plant me in a small, unairconditioned bedroom on the roof of a Mexican family’s home, then He would go that far. He had things to say to me, and He wanted to be sure I was listening. You see, back home, I was too busy to listen. I was too important, to confident, too arrogant to recognize how crucial it was that I prioritize His will above my own. I was busy with good things, but they were not the best things. I had charted the best course of my own understanding. But that was precisely what He’d told me not to do. Proverbs 3:5-6, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean NOT on your own understanding …” A light bulb came on for me that morning, sitting in the midst of my unmade bed, staring at an open Bible and journal. A weight was lifted from me as I realized that God was responsible for the success or failure of my journey. I was responsible to obey. I confessed. I spoke aloud what God already knew, my arrogance, my misguided attempts at doing His job for Him, my selfish pursuit of my own fame. Even as I sit her, five years removed from that place, I can hardly put words to all that I understood in that moment of clarity. Most profoundly, I understood a very simple truth, God loves me. Serving Him and obeying Him is for my best. He does not ask those things of me to punish me, to make me miserable, to break me so that He can boost His own ego. He takes me through valleys and into dark places only to show me more of Himself and remind me that He truly does care for me. His faithfulness is beyond measure. This week, our Sunday School class was discussing 1 Peter 5, “Cast your cares upon Him for He cares for you.” As we discussed our tendencies toward worry and fear, it occurred to me that I am most tempted to be anxious when I forget this simple truth. He cares for me. I laugh at myself, at how quickly I forget. He cares for me, and He wants to be known by me. He took me to a roof in Mexico just to show me how much.

Moveable?

Have you ever prayed a prayer, and then wondered later, as your prayer seemed to be answered, if that was something you really meant to have? I have several of those prayers in my life. They are prayers I prayed in my youth, prayers I prayed as a high school student who was determined to change the world. Prayers prayed in rebellion against what I perceived to be the status quo lifestyle of adults around me. I am not certain when I first prayed that God would keep me moveable, but IÃ?m guessing it was sometime during or directly following a short term mission trip during my senior high years. Short term trips changed my life, and after participating in several of them, it seemed inconceivable to me that there were people in my church who have never been on one! I prayed then that I would always been moveable. That if God needed me, I would never be so tied down to a job or a debt or any other thing that would keep me from being available and obedient to whatever He had for me. I prayed that my heart and mind would be moveable, too. I did not ever want to be so hardened that I could not learn new lessons, and I never wanted to be so stiff necked that I could not be humbled by a new revelation of God?s sweet grace. I am twenty-seven now. Not old. But not terribly young anymore, either. Most of my friends are married. They have full-time, paying jobs with sizeable incomes. Many of them have purchased homes. Some of them are having children. I am still moveable. The first few years out of college and into seminary, I was so thankful for that prayer. I wore it as a badge, I think. But, I confess, as so many people around me begin to put down roots and my life remains so flexible, I wonder if I really meant that prayer. I doubt there was any way I could have fully appreciated the ramifications of God's answer, what it would feel like that no one thing holds you to a place and that any day, God could say "move" and you would have no basis to argue. I laugh inside even as I try to articulate these thoughts. It's not an easy concept to explain. There is such a part of me that is still grateful that God didn't give me enough insight to truly fathom what I was asking of Him when I first prayed to be moveable. There is a part of me, especially on the lonely days, that would take it back if I thought I could. But, truthfully, I cannot, and I am reminded of so many promises of Scripture about God's trustworthiness. He does all things well, and if this is the life He has chosen for me, who in the world am I to think I could have chosen better?

Flannel Board Lessons

It’s common in Christian circles today to make fun of “flannel board Jesus” and all the flannel board characters and stories of our childhood. I grew up in a small First Baptist Church in a rural community in South Texas. Some of my earliest memories are of lessons taught with the aid of a flannel board. For the uninitiated, a flannel board was set up on an easel, must like a blackboard, and the various characters and necessary props for storytelling were cut from other flannel pieces and affixed to the board as the stories progressed. I must have heard most Bible stories for the first time in that room with the flannel board. We would sit on miniature chairs, at a large round table decorated with a patchwork of colorful shag carpet pieces covered by Plexiglas. It’s in that setting that I first remember hearing about Solomon. King Solomon. Wise Solomon. Solomon who knew better than to cut babies in half, but told two fighting women that he would do just that if they didn’t tell the truth. Mrs. McElroy, “Mrs. Mac” for short, told us that God gave Solomon permission to ask Him for anything the young king desired. Solomon could have asked for great wealth and prosperity, for health and length of days, or for victories in battle and great fame. But, Solomon asked God for wisdom, and it pleased God very much. I didn’t know it when I first heard the story, but James 1:5 says that “If any man lacks wisdom, he should ask God who gives generously to all without finding fault.” Wisdom is a greatly esteemed virtue throughout scripture. I can picture my preschool age Sunday School self sitting in a miniature plastic chair around the shag carpet table studying a flannel King Solomon kneeling before the Lord, asking for wisdom. I am not at all certain how in the world I comprehended such things from such youth, but I remember being so impressed that Solomon’s request for wisdom pleased God in such a way that God granted Solomon wisdom … as well as fortune, health, and fame. That’s the first time I remember praying for wisdom. God, make me wise. God, give me the wisdom to choose the things that please you. God, help me to be someone you can bless. I’d be lying if I told you I “feel” wise. I don’t. But, sometimes, when I’m visiting with a friend in crisis, my heart repeats those early petitions for God to grant me wisdom from above, and I hear myself offering counsel that could only come from His very Spirit. Friends say to me, “You are wise beyond your years,” or come to my home specifically in search of wisdom. It might seem tempting to grow arrogant about such things, but God has been gracious to me. Each time I hear someone comment about the wisdom they have gained from me, I am humbled. I see a child in a frilly dress with matching hairbows, head bowed over folded hands asking God to grant her wisdom just like He did for the flannel board King Solomon.

Lessons from Childlike Faith

When I was a little girl, we took prayer requests each week in Sunday School. If I close my eyes, and inhale deeply, I can be there in just a few seconds. The walls are made of cinderblocks, painted white, layers of paint, usually peeling in places. The pictures are cut outs from various Sunday School publications, some of them have probably been there since my own parents were children. On the back of the door, when it’s closed, there is a mimeographed sheet with Psalm 1 written on it, complete with stick figures to help you memorize the progression of the passage … “Blessed is the man who WALKETH not … STANDETH not … SITTETH not …” I picture that page in my head each time I think on that passage. It’s interesting the things one remembers from childhood. We must have been in second or third grade by that time. We sat in metal folding chairs at a long banquet table that took up most of the room. There was a single window and some thin, faded curtains that must have been cheery in their prime. It was in this room we learned about Jesus. We learned about spending time with Him, trusting Him, memorizing His Word, and talking to Him. Prayer must have been the most important thing I learned in that room. I remember taking time each week to ask for the things we wanted most for God to do. Every week I asked for the same thing. I asked God to help my Pappy to quit smoking and to go to church. Pappy had worked shift work for many years, staying up nights and sleeping through the days. Each time I went to visit him and Mimi in Corpus Christi, it bothered my little heart so very much that he never got up to go to church with us on Sundays. I knew he needed to be there to keep learning about Jesus just like I did. I also knew that when he was awake, he smoked. His house, his clothes, his truck, everything about him reeked of it. I knew it had been a source of contention between him and my mother when she was growing up there. She had told me stories about how she would hide in her room until just before her dates came to pick her up, then dash through the house, hoping to avoid the scent that seemed to hang on everything it touched. I don’t honestly recall if I was aware of the health risks for smokers at that time, or if I was just worried about his soul, since non of the church going men that I knew at the time were smokers. Well, if they were, they were most certainly backslidden. You know, my other grandmother used to always tell us that we didn’t “smoke, drink or chew or go with those who do!” I knew I was going to heaven, and I wanted Pappy to go with me.
I eventually promoted out of that Sunday School room to a different one down the hall where I remember spending time learning about missionaries, and I eventually quit asking God to get Pappy to church or to quit smoking. I figured He’d already said “No” since nothing seemed different when I went for visits to Mimi and Pappy’s. When I got to Junior High, we moved from South Texas to Plano, and somewhere along the way Pappy retired from shift work. He began sleeping nights like the rest of us and I actually got to see him during the day when I was there. Then, when I was in high school, the diagnosis came. Cancer … of the lung, of course. None of us could say we were surprised, but we were saddened just the same. But, there were treatments, and Pappy pursued them. He ceased smoking immediately. Mimi told me many years later that he smoked one last one, then never said another word about it. He was just done. I’m not sure along what timeline all these things occurred, but I remember going to Corpus Christi for a visit one weekend late in my high school years. I had heard about the changes in Pappy, but it still surprised me to see him up and dressed in a suit and tie that Sunday morning. But, when it came time to go, he wasn’t there. I asked Mimi about it. She smiled, “He’s gone on early to greet the old ladies and help them from their cars.” And, as we pulled into the parking lot, sure enough, there he was to help us from our cars and usher us into the sanctuary. For the next twelve years, I am not certain he missed many Sundays serving in that way unless he was out of town or very ill.
I’m a slow learner, and it was many years later that I was thinking about prayer and the unique ways that God answers prayer when it dawned on me. I closed my eyes, pictured that cinderblock Sunday School room and remembered the earnest prayers of a child. God did hear me, and He had answered.
Pappy’s cancer came back last year. By the time he was diagnosed, it was beyond treatment. He died peacefully just three weeks later. I saw him a week before he died. When my suitcase was packed and loaded in the car, I headed back to his room to tell him goodbye. Pappy was always a hugger, but never terribly articulate about his feelings for his family. As I knelt by his bed, he pulled me into a bear hug with strength I didn’t know he still possessed, and whispered in my ear, “You know I love you.” He pushed me back and looked into my eyes, chocolate brown eyes that always reminded him of his mother who died when he was twelve, and he said it again, “I love you.” That was it. There was nothing more to say. I hugged him again. Told him I loved him, too, and headed for the car. The following week at his funeral, I had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Wright, the man who was responsible for inviting Pappy back to church and involving him in the greeter’s ministry. I told him about that Sunday School room and my childlike faith. I told him that God answered my prayers, and that I knew that the first answer was lung cancer. That first round of cancer and treatment that made Pappy quit smoking gave us 12 more years with him. The second answer was Mr. Right. His friendship and persistent encouragement helped Pappy find his place in the Body of Christ.