Be prepared to pray when called upon in church

 At the country Southern Baptist church I attend, a member of the congregation is called on every Sunday to pray just before the offering plate is passed. That has been a Southern Baptist practice for as long as I remember, and I grew up in a Southern Baptist church and raised my children in Southern Baptist churches.

Now I don't mind being called on to pray aloud, but I don't care to be called on, if you know what I mean. Here's what I mean, if you don't understand: I am not articulate, so I cringe a little every time I am called on to offer the prayer in our small congregation. Although I love the Lord and am grateful for his blessings and want to express that gratitude, I stumble and stutter and stammer through the words. Eventually I get to the end and when I say AMEN, everyone knows that I'm done.

Other men in the church pray coherently. And when a visiting pastor comes by--and no matter who he is, he gets called on to pray either the offering plate prayer or the closing prayer--the words just flow off the tongue of that preacher--whoever he might be.

So, before Easter I told my wife that I was going to write a prayer and have it in case I got called on. Well, I didn't for some reason, and I missed a couple of Sundays because of work. Then, on Easter Sunday morning I arrived at the church parking lot late for Sunday School. I don't like going in and disturbing the teacher when I'm late, so I sat in the car to wait until the worship service. I got out paper and pencil and quickly wrote a prayer, but it was more of a poem. It was kind of a cowboy poem--or in my case, an Old Ozarks Boy's poem. I was ready in case I got called on to offer an Easter prayer.

Well, I didn't, thank the Lord, for later when I got home I read the poem to my wife (who is disabled and doesn't go to church with me any more, so she stays home and watches sermons on TV). As I read my poem, I stumbled over the words because my handwriting is so bad, I couldn't make out some of what I'd written.

Well, I kept the poem and revised it a time or two. Or more. I got it to where it sounded pretty good. At least in my mind. I told my wife as I was leaving that I had the prayer in my composition book, along with my Bible, and I would read it if called on. She said something like, "Well, you won't have to worry about being called on again after that." She is not a fan of cowboy poetry, and certainly not hillbilly poetry.

Well, sure enough, after we sang the song and it was time to pass the plate, the song leader called on me to offer the blessing. Here is what I read, loudly and with much Ozarks Boy expression, so all the old people in the congregation (many of whom are younger than I) could hear, and without any stammering or the like.

THE WORKINGMAN’S PSALM 150 

Our Father, we are here to worship You 

on this, the week’s first day. 

And to thank You, Lord, for sending us 

The Truth, The Life and The Way, 

Who took Your wrath while on the cross 

for all the sins we’ve done—and do. 

Now our hope for life is in our Risen Savior, 

in the Holy Spirit and in You. 

 

And thank you, Lord, for your daily provision, 

steak and baked potato when we have the means. 

But also for a plate of fried taters and cornbread 

and a big ole heaping helping of beans. 

So, Lord, as Psalm One Fifty tell us to do, 

we're here to offer You much praise. 

And we do that through song and prayer 

sermon, fellowship and love, always. 

 

We’d praise you with harp and trumpet if we had’em, 

with a timbrel if we knew how to make it sound 

Why, Lord, I’d even praise you with dance 

if there wasn’t so many Baptists around. 

Now, Lord, please bless these tithes and offerings 

we return with gratitude to thee today 

For use in your church’s ministry to spread the Word 

And, in Jesus’ name, we pray. 

--AMEN 

There was some laughter and some positive comments made aloud--no catcalls, though. And after the service as I headed out the door, a deacon stopped me--a retired general--and told me how he liked it. Other people--including the preacher!--agreed with him.

Well, I'm glad they liked it. Now, the next time the song leader calls on me, I guess I'll have to go back to stuttering and stammering.

It takes a lot of scrubbing to get shed of poison ivy

Here is a hillbilly poem based on my real life as an Ozarker.
Despite our poor soil, we grow a lot of brush and that includes a lot of poison ivy. The only thing good I can say about it is that it is colorful when the leaves change in the fall.
In summer, though, it makes me miserable. Usually, when I get a case of it, I go to the doctor and get a shot or a series of pills to take. My wife says those medicines are hard on my insides, so she took over when I got a case of the ivy this summer.
The misery inspired me to versify up this gem, that I hope you enjoy.

IT TAKES A LOT OF SCRUBBING
TO GET SHED OF POISON IVY
Been clearing brush from fence rows over at my place
and now I’ve got poison ivy on my arms, legs and face.
And that stuff makes my skin crawl and itch,
and when I say itch, I mean like a son of, uh--which
brings up the treatment figured out by my wife,
an earth mother-type, who’s loved herbs all her life,
so much that she went to college, you see,
and worked hard enough to earn a master’s degree
in agriculture, with a horticulture focus.
Now she’s working some folk medicine hocus-pocus
on me. She prescribed scrubbing with soap,
yes, Dawn dish soap, and that will work, I hope,
to cut the acid of the ivy oil. Plus, she says, pine tar
soap will also work, so she gave me a bar
of that stuff and another one made from jewel weed,
and, in a bow to modern medicine, Benedryl, with my nightly feed.
She also found in her medicine bag jewel weed spray
that she claimed would soothe my skin night and day.
Well, it all seemed to work, it sure cut down the itching
so maybe there’s something to her herbal treatment witching.
Now the truth has dawned on me like turning on a lamp. It
is clear as day to me now: I married Granny Clampett!