The Thoughts and Poetry of Glenn Ervin

Saturday, August 27, 2011

The Navigator's Prayer

I'd like to dedicate this post to my friend and son-in-law, Pastor Delbert Tritsch.
The following prayer is in the form of a poem I wrote not long after the church I was pastoring at the time, Christ the Rock Apostolic of Oxford, MS, moved into our then newly aquired building.
To be a pastor is one of the most challenging and rewarding things I have ever done in my life. Bro. Delbert will no doubt find it the same.
I have every confidence in his ability, because I know his burden. I believe in his calling, because I know his faith. The Greater Faith Tabernacle has placed their trust in the right man as a pastor.
Godspeed Bro. Delbert.

The Navigator's Prayer

The ship on which I'm called to sail does not belong to me, but she depends on what I do to sail her o'er the sea.
I serve her mighty builder, King Jesus, Lord of Hosts. I am her navigator, and I chart where she goes.
'Tis an awesome task, with the choices I must make, for I could bring catastrophe with the smallest of mistakes.
Should I decide to leave the course and sail another way, the travelers who are in my care will be the ones who pay.
And so I look to you Lord, and I pray to ever feel, your Holy Spirit guide my trembling hands upon the wheel.
For I'm the one they look to, as I steer them 'round disaster. I am the navigator, but the travelers call me "pastor."



The Still Small Voice

11And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the LORD. And, behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the LORD; but the LORD was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake:
 12And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.
 13And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said, What doest thou here, Elijah?

- I Kings 19:11-13

You know the story. Elijah had just seen the prophets of Baal defeated with a demonstration of God's "fire power." But, as is often the case, the revival fell short of his expectations. Instead of Queen Jezebel and her hen-pecked husband King Ahab repenting of their idolatry and turning to JEHOVAH God, the queen put a hit out on Elijah.
This was just too much. The prophet had done everything that God had instructed him to do and had been instrumental in God's display of fire falling from heaven (so powerfully that even the stones of the altar had been consumed in its fury) and he was still running and hiding from a backslid king and a wicked queen. Now depression smothered Elijah like a palpable thing; he even prayed to die.
But God wasn't finished with Elijah just yet (in fact, this was one prayer prayed by Elijah that God never regarded. The prophet never died. Instead, he was taken up to heaven in a chariot of fire). And God wasn't finished with Ahab and Jezebel yet either; they both had their "dog days" coming. God had another demonstration in mind, and this one was just for Elijah.
This time the answer didn't come in the in wind, or the earthquake, or the fire. This time God wanted his prophet to understand that not only did He speak out of power and revival, but that He also speaks to His children in the quiet, lonely, and yes even the depressed times in our lives... if we will but listen.
I wrote the following poem several years ago during my own version of Elijah's "cave man" mentality. I trust that it speaks to your heart as it did to mine.

The Still Small Voice

The thunder rolls and tears the sky, but you won't hear Him then
The wind may scream and terrify, but you'll not see His hand
Infernos rage with fervent heat, smoke fills the blackened air
The earth may quake beneath your feet, but you won't find Him there
Where is this awesome, mighty God? When do you hear His voice?
The answer, though it may seem odd, is actually your choice
For He is found when you decide to enter pastures green
To rest your soul and sleep beside His peaceful flowing stream
For when God speaks He whispers, to your heart not to your ear
The souls who search the Scriptures are the ones who long to hear
When you take the time to listen and close your ears to worldly noise
Its then you'll hear the lesson, taught by the still small voice

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Legacy

"I’ve got the Holy Ghost, down in my soul, just like the Bible said
I’ve got the Holy Ghost, down in my soul, just like the Bible said
Well I’ve been to the water and I’ve been baptized
My soul got happy and I’m satisfied
I wouldn’t take nothin’ for my journey now
Just like the Bible, just like the Bible, just like the Bible said"

     The old Pentecostal chorus rang through the Marshall county woods. It was a hot, sweltering Mississippi July 14th, 1978.
     A 17 year old boy made his way to the altar. It was camp meeting time for the MS District of the Assemblies of the Lord Jesus Christ. It was life changing time for the young man.
     The services were being held in an open air tabernacle just down the hill from the Bethlehem Church of the Lord Jesus Christ in Potts Camp, MS (there is nothing in the world like an open air Apostolic church service.)
     At 17, I had not been raised in church and had never seen anyone receive the Holy Ghost. I just knew that I wanted, needed, the Lord Jesus to be my Lord Jesus. I lifted my hands in surrender to His Spirit and the next thing I knew I was speaking in tongues.
     I turned around to see that Vicky McDonald was standing off behind me with tears of joy running down her face. I made my way back to her and hugged her. Right there in front of God and everybody, I hugged Vicky McDonald.
     Exactly 33 years and one month later, Glenn and Vicky McDonald- Ervin’s oldest granddaughter, Rachel, received the same Holy Ghost.
     Rachel’s mother, My daughter Jennifer, received this Holy Ghost just before her 5th birthday. Jennifer grew up and married a fine young minister named Delbert Tritsch. Rachel was with Delbert’s mother at church when she experienced this Holy Ghost.
     Looking back over my 50 years, I haven’t always done things right. But one thing I know I got right was embracing the Bible plan of salvation found in Acts, 2:38. Another thing I did right was to embrace Vicky McDonald that night at camp meeting.
    

Friday, August 12, 2011

Lip Prints

     A significant part of my job in security is is to fingerprint people during the pre-screening phase of their employment. By the time they get to me, they have already submitted character references along with their application, those references have been contacted, the applicant has submitted to a drug test, and then they come see me to be fingerprinted.
     Instead of the outdated blotter and ink, we use a computer program that allows the individual to press his or her fingerprints onto a glass surface (similar to the scanners seen at grocery stores), and their prints show up on the monitor and are stored in the computer. At the end of the process, I electronically send their prints to the FBI in Jackson, MS for a background check. At that point, my job is finished. I personally do not have access to the results of anyone’s background check. That confidential information stays with the personnel department.
     However, there are certain things I can tell about a person while I am conducting the fingerprinting process. For example, I can usually spot a mechanic by the scars on his knuckles and fingers. It is also pretty easy to spot a guitar player by the callouses on the fingers of the left hand. Then there are the students and office workers who have the tell-tell paper cuts, and those who have a history in working with harsh chemicals because of the difficulty of being able to get an acceptable print (the prints have often been damaged). A person’s prints can tell you an awful lot about them.
     But of all the prints I’ve seen, the ones I saw at home last night will no doubt stay with me from now on. Vicky pointed out an unusual set of prints on the windowpane while we were on the sofa relaxing after supper. Now, with three granddaughters we have become quite accustomed to seeing their little fingerprints smeared all over this particular windowpane. The window is low enough to the floor that even little Ellie has started pulling up and pressing her little hands against the panes.
     But what Vicky pointed out were not fingerprints, they were lip prints. Three little kisses in a vertical row. Too low on the glass for Rachel, too high for Ellie, we looked at each other and said, "Jordan." These, like all prints, tell a very accurate story about the person who made them. It was just like her; creative, bold, independent, and a bit mischievous (ok, maybe more than a bit).
     The random fingerprints left all over the window are the result of the girls pressing their fingers against the glass while they look outside. But the lip prints were placed there on purpose and in a specific order. They say, "Jordan was here."
     I look for this one to leave her unique mark on the world wherever she goes in life. She has already established herself as an individual who cares little for following the herd. She’d much rather stampede it.
     I have nearly five years worth of Jordan stories, and I won’t try to give them all to you at once. Just let me say that in a world filled with middle children who tend to go unnoticed and remain rather invisible, this one ain’t.
     A little Windex will remove her lip prints from the windowpane, but Papa’s heart is covered with indelible Jordan prints that have changed him forever.

Friday, August 5, 2011

A Bouqet of Weeds

As a child, did you ever pick your mother a big bouquet of flowers only to discover later in life that those "flowers" were actually weeds? Probably. So did I.
I was reminded of this not long ago while spending a little time outside with my two oldest granddaughters, Rachel and Jordan. I was showing them how to get a drop of "honey" from a honeysuckle (a rite of passage for all Southern children), much to their delight.
Jordan wanted to know, "What other kinds of flowers can we eat Papa?" At this point I began to question the wisdom of teaching this little honeysuckle trick to the girls...well, to Jordan anyway. I could just see her sampling every blossom, bloom, weed and leaf she came across. I did my best to let them know that only honeysuckles were permissible, and even then only under adult supervision (yeah, I know, good luck with that, Papa). The afternoon ended with Rachel picking a big bouquet of honeysuckles to take to her mother. I wonder, of all the ladies in the world who received flowers that day, how many got honeysuckles?
I remember picking my own mother a bouquet of bitter weeds when I was a kid. To have seen the look on her face and the fuss she made over them, you'd have thought that I'd brought her a dozen long stemmed roses. Once I found out that the "flowers" I'd been picking for mom were actually called "bitter weeds," I stopped picking them.
That's kind of sad, isn't it? Not that my mother didn't get any more bitter weeds, but that children reach a point to where they see a difference between flowers and weeds. From that point on, the world isn't quite as pretty anymore. Something of innocence is lost that we never quite get back. We begin to see people in the same way as we do flowers and weeds. That's when bullies and cliques are created.
I know that thorns and thistles were created as a curse upon the earth for the sake of sinful mankind, but I also know that Jesus wore a crown of thorns, not roses, when He died to redeem us from sin; my curse upon His head.
All I'm saying is that it will not surprise me a bit to get to heaven and find bitter weeds growing right along with the flowers. Not because they're weeds, but because they have pretty yellow petals. If they are indeed growing there, I'm going to pick a big bouquet of them for my mother.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Tears

A couple of months ago, a co-worker of mine was having a pretty bad day. So bad, in fact, that the hurt she was feeling couldn`t stay inside and came running down her face in the form of tears. I wanted to do something to help, and in an effort to do so, I wrote the following poem:

Tears

Healing never comes without some hurting
Feelings let us know we have a soul
At midnight it’s the dawn for which we're yearning
But without tears we'd never be made whole
In a perfect world there'd be no sorrow
Our emotions wouldn't hurt us 'til we're numb
But the world in which we live is far from perfect
So we cry and wait for better days to come
Whatever pain, we're all in this together
We've all had hurts that cut us to the bone
My soul has scars that from yours may be different
But we were never meant to cry alone
God lets us all experience the storm clouds
That we may tell each other of the sun
We long to see the beauty of the rainbow
But without a storm no rainbow has begun
Embrace your tears and never try to hide them
For each one's a drop of mercy on your face
In crying we release the pain that blinds us
Tears wash our eyes that we may see God's grace