Past Dynamite News

I was doing some work on my blog sites today and came across this post from November 4, 2007. Some of you may recall that during this time Jerry and I went to Lake Havasu City, AZ. to plant a church, and from the very beginning God honored us with powerful services and dynamic growth. I consider that out of all the decades of our ministry, the three and a half years we were there were some of the most blessed of all our ministry. Much of our work was done with alcohol and drug challenged people.

I weep at this moment as I think of those dear people and their little children. Hard? It was the hardest church work we ever did. Rewarding? Yes, absolutely the most rewarding of all.

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CHRIST ALIVE CHURCH Lake Havasu City, Arizona November 4, 2007

“We had rented 40 extra chairs, and on Saturday, Michael met with Jerry and me to set up for the Sunday morning service. When we started putting the chairs out, though, it looked like so many, that Michael’s faith and mine faltered a bit, and we decided to leave about a dozen of them stacked in the hall.

But we had invited lots of people. I had mailed letters to every person who has ever visited our church, we had made and distributed flyers, we had an article in the local paper, Jerry had made dozens of phone calls and personal contacts and Michael had invited everyone of the “Goatheads,” a yuppy, motorcycle group based here in Lake Havasu. Earlier in the week, one of them had called Mike to ask, “Is it okay if we ride our bikes to church?”

“Of course. Not a problem at all,” he had told them.

Jerry and I arrived at the church around 8:30 and there were already a few people there. But it was around 8:45 that we heard the roar of the bikes and soon the parking lot was inundated with motor cycles, so that finally there was hardly room to park.

They came pouring in, and quickly I told Brandon, “Set up the rest of the chairs.” When we had registered and counted, we found that 85 people were at Christ Alive today! Recall that we have only been here 8 months. We were ecstatic.

Brother Pence of Prescott, AZ. has a most remarkable testimony of a healing from cancer. The doctors had given him two weeks to live. He had 22 tumors in his lungs from a cancer that had metastasized from his kidneys.

He had lost 60 pounds, had made all his funeral arrangements even to picking out his casket…Here, he is showing the packet from the mortuary where he had made the arrangements. But God had different plans and has completely healed him! All the tumors have gone, his racking cough is cured, and recently, his doctors declared him completely cancer free. His testimony is incredible.

Ernie, who is pictured here is suffering from pancreatic cancer, and the doctors have not given him a good prognosis. He came to Christ Alive today believing God for a miracle in his own life.

I was touched by the generous response of the audience, and their involvement with worship that to many of them was unfamiliar. They were extremely receptive to the Word of God as it was preached, and to an invitation to join in our Pentecostal worship. All over the room, both men and women were openly crying.

At the conclusion of the very appropriate sermon, Brother Pence invited everyone to the front who needed special prayer. Ernie was the first to leave his seat and head to the pulpit. Here you see him being prayed over.

Please pray for our work here. These people are precious–some of them know God in a measure–others have a very limited knowledge of Him. Jerry and I are desperate to be able to point them to Jesus, the only Saviour.

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So, here we are many years later, retired now, someone else the pastor in Lake Havasu City. Both Jerry and I count it the greatest of joys that God called us to do a work for Him among those very dear people.

What Will We Do With This Moment?

Photo courtesy of AP/Andrew Harnick

“Together, we represent the most extraordinary nation in all of history. What will we do with this moment? How will we be remembered?”

President Donald Trump

Jerry and I had watched the clock and before 6:00 arrived had tuned into Fox News on our computers, as we were eager to hear the State of the Union address by President Trump. Although the purpose of this piece is not to critique the speech, it seems appropriate to note his thoughtful, patriotic, uplifting words to be of the highest caliber.

It was his words, “What will we do with this moment? How will we be remembered?” that resonated with me, and it is of that I speak.

I recalled a day at the beach as I watched a man with his children. What of their moment? Where will they go? What will they do?

She was afraid, I recall, for while you cannot discern it here, there was a chasm, a drop-off, a scary place. Seeing her fearful crouch, he took the hand of his young daughter, and led her across. He taught her in that moment he would protect her, that she could trust men, that her daddy loved her and her mommy loved her, that she could conquer fear; indeed that sometimes it was okay to be afraid.

Others. Rather. Memory loam foul for the dig, deep the findings of scream and stagger. The hate. Hide and cut. Reach. A hand? ……..Any? Is there none? A slap, that’s a hand

Didn’t you know that?

And you new in my heart. A moment. To take. Of peace, Divinity, sobs, shame. Reach. A hand? ……Any? There is one and another ……and that is love. And forgiveness. And care.

Didn’t you know that?

And the good man I watched . . .as he watched . . .as he yet watches. And now is her birthday. She’s twelve. She’s safe.

New blog post on God Things. Link below.

Then, Grace

On The Cusp

Occasionally we finger the edge of it; our touch reckons it to be uncommon, even of the eternal. From our deep, issue thick tears, even as our breath catches. Rarified has brushed against us; encounter with glory laces our world.

Compelled to know the depth of this story, I recognize it now more than ever, to be our story, Jerry’s and mine, and in an unfathomable way, he is as our child. He who nearly killed Jerry. We weep . . .for him. . . for his people . . .for ourselves . . .for mankind. Journal words grip . . .his father discarded by drugged parents–orphanage drop-off, as casual as the mailing of a post office package. Rage. Violence. Carried to new generation . . .and to another, kicked as a bent can down the wretched road of drugs and alcohol and anger.

“My father, an Italian man was racist, called flies on the wall niggers. My mother mentioned that she did not like me at one point because I was David Jr.” A sense of aloneness in his family engulfed him, he told me yesterday, and still at this time in his life, he intimated, “I have a sense of aloneness.”

And so we met, and talked, and cried, and loved. We apologized. We forgave.

 

Dave and his wife, Dana.

At the Claim Jumper, we ordered food we could not eat.

And they had brought their copy of A Thousand Pieces, and I wrote in it, and then did Jerry, and maybe at that moment none of our eyes took in the dedication page: To Jerry, who lived it.

So here we are. On the brim, the edge. Delving, Searching. We read. We write. The last chapter? On the margin of enlightenment, self-understanding, reckoning with ourselves, finding our way ever deeper into the presence of God. The Buxtons and the Esteys . . .on the cusp. . .

A Rare, Noble Man

As soon as it beeped, I reached for the phone beside me and as I lifted it, I saw the number was an unfamiliar one. A text message read:

 

This is Dave Estey. The man that was driving the truck. I have read the book and want you to know how sorry I am. This is my contact number if anyone would ever need to speak to me further. With the deepest regret. God bless. Dave

 

I did not know anyone named Dave Estey, but as soon as I read his message, I knew that indeed, I did know him. He was the driver of the truck that twenty-five years ago had struck my husband as he stood beside a disabled car, leaving him so critically injured that he spent five months in St. John’s Regional Medical Center in Oxnard, CA.

Some of you will know that several years ago I wrote a book entitled A Thousand Pieces in which I told the story of Jerry’s death in the street, the lady who revived him, his almost unbelievably severe injuries, and his remarkable recovery. I also told that the driver of the truck who hit Jerry was driving with a suspended license, had no insurance, no assets, was drunk, and was high on methamphetamines.

 

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A Thousand Pieces has been an inspiration to scores of people, and is now in its fourth printing. Among other places, it is available at Amazon.

So, as I looked at my phone on January 17, 2019, I came to the reckoning that Dave Estey was that driver.

“Jerry,” I called across the room. “Listen to this text I just received.”

The details are too many to include here, but know this: Jerry and I during the past two days have come to know that Dave Estey is a rare man, one of meekness and goodness; of sweetness and of love. He has fought demons most of his life and is a deeply wounded man. But now, in his early fifties, he has come to himself,  is analyzing his life, and is making restitution. He is humble, remorseful, and truly repentant. Two days ago, he sat by Jerry in a restaurant, looked him square in the face, and, prefaced by several long sentences, said, “I am sorry.”

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And my husband . . .in his sweet, slow way, put his hand atop Dave’s, and said, “I forgave you twenty-five years ago.” The sweet presence of God hovered about us, and we all, I believe, wept.

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As I said earlier, the whole story is too long to tell here, but you should know this. Sometime back, Dave began searching for Jerry Buxton, and as he did, he came across this blog, learned through it of A Thousand Pieces, and ordered a copy from Amazon. He then made the contact to which I have referred, and made other contacts, which resulted in our meeting together. He lives 450 miles away from us. Last Tuesday he drove down to our area, and along with his wife, and two of our friends, Patrick and Holly Garrett, Jerry and I met him at the Claim Jumper in San Bernardino.

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  Dave’s sweet wife and me.

I have essentially finished writing a book called Dream Shards and was working on some drafting of it when the first text from Dave came. The gist of the new book is that each of us has dreams and at one time or another they all shatter. The issue then is what we do about it? Do we wallow around in the ashes, the shards, or do we pick up the pieces and fashion a new piece? A new dream? The coexistence and interaction of Jerry’s story and Dave’s story must be a part of that book. So even though I was through writing it, I am adding another chapter. Dave and I will be communicating by phone and email and the rest of his story will be told in that book.

In the meantime, I submit to you that Dave Estey is a rare and courageous man, and despite his sordid history, he is a good man. We are still shaken about this meeting, and believe it involves more than can be seen or understood. No doubt it is of the spiritual realm, and is directed by God. Both Jerry and I believe Dave has caught a vision of righteousness and godliness, and we will continue to do all we can to lead him to a full biblical experience with God. Please pray for all of us.

One Changed Life

When I wasn’t there, she had come by the church to leave the money. When it was handed to me, I placed it in a bank bag to go into the top drawer of the filing cabinet. It would be deposited on Monday. Later in the day I spoke with her.

“Sharon, thank you for dropping off the money at the church.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” she responded. “Thank you for helping me out.”

“Sharon, over the years we’ve lent lots of money to people, and we’ve learned to take the attitude that it is likely it will never be repaid. Just a fact.” She looked intently at me as I continued. “But you’re different and we’re very proud of you. You’re making such progress with your life.”

Bright tears welled up, though none were shed. She smiled.

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Although this is an exact account of a young lady who has come through our drug and alcohol program, who has received the Holy Ghost, and who has completely turned around her life, the name has been changed. Please pray for her, for she has a long ways to go; among other things, she is fighting against a cigarette addiction. She is a single mom with four small children who every day struggles financially. We are extremely proud of her and the progress she is making.

A Godly Response to a Suicide

One of our students committed suicide. One of our Christian Intervention students. A student who had graduated from our classes.

On Tuesday, a couple of weeks ago, he came by the office to pick up his completion certificate as, although he had finished all his lessons, he had not attended the ceremony we have once a month in which we acknowledge those who have accomplished such a thing. “How are you doing?” Michael asked him after I had taken the certificate from the files and it had been given to him.

“Terrible. I can’t find a job. I’m doing terrible.”

He was an exceptionally attractive man, tall, polite, and pleasant. A former employer of his had told us that once–in better economic times– when he was hired on for a job, he sent a floral arrangement to the hiring office, thanking them for the opportunity of a job.

He was a nice man, yet now he stood in our office area saying, “I’m doing badly.”

Mike paused, and as the man turned toward the exit door, said, “You need to come to church, Sunday.”

“I’ve tried church and it did not help me. I’ve stopped drinking and smoking and things have become worse.” He pushed through the door…and that was the last time I saw him.

Mike followed him to his car, trying to speak encouragement to him. But the man persisted in his feeling of hopelessness. “No good, Mike. This is probably costing me a divorce. I’ll likely go back to my old ways…probably wind up in jail once more…you may not see me again.”

On Wednesday the man told his wife he was planning suicide. She removed all guns from the house. On Wednesday evening he attended a sports function with his two children. On Thursday morning, he called his wife and warned her he planned to hang himself. She called her brother who rushed to the home…too late…finding that the man had accomplished the dreadful deed.

Mike was devastated, as indeed were all of us…and of course the ghastly question was: Did we do our best? Did we do all we could have for this dear man?

A couple of days ago, Mike had a long conversation with the deceased man’s wife. I’ve been reading extensively through his Christian Intervention workbook, and from that I’ve learned how lonely he was. How isolated and alienated he felt. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize that, she told Mike.

Because of this shattering incident, and because of exceptional growth and interest in salvation at Christ Alive, Mike, my husband, and Andrew decided on a very different Wednesday session for last night. Our 7:00 o’clock Bible study was moved to 6:00, and instead of CIP lesson 15, Andrew taught from the Bible, utilizing Search For Truth slides, on repentance, baptism in Jesus Name, and the receiving of the Holy Ghost with the evidence of speaking in tongues.

Mike opened the session. He reminded those gathered of the recent tragic death of that person who was a friend and fellow-student to many of those there. I’ve thought much about this…wondered if I did enough for him…wonder if I do enough for you in these CIP sessions…and have decided to take this extraordinary step in class tonight. My brother will be teaching you exactly how to be saved–according to the Bible.

“Any who are not comfortable with this are welcome to leave now.”

It was stone-quiet. No one moved.

Brother Hyde Has Gone To Heaven

Hugo, OK – December 28, 2009. Hyde Frederick Kimmons Hyde, also known as “Brother Hyde”, 87, has gone to a new life with his Lord Jesus on Dec. 25, 2009 in Edmond, OK. He was born August 16, 1922 in Tulsa, OK to Jasper and Vessie (Bowdoin) Hyde. After his dad passed away he entered John Brown University in Siloam Springs, AR for a short time. He served his country joining the U.S. Army from Feb. 14, 1943 to Feb. 13, 1946. He was a Line Corporal in the military police at Camp Wallace, TX. During WWll, he guarded German Prisoners of War.

Reverend Fred married his Sweetheart, Betty Jo Billingsley on August 8, 1951. He was an ordained minister with the United Pentecostal Church International living in the New Orleans, LA area for over 60 years. He retired from The Spirit of Freedom Ministries in 2006 and moved to Edmond, OK in Dec. of 2007. His life was changed when he received the infilling of the “Holy Ghost” and was baptized in Jesus Name on Sept. 19, 1958 just a half block off of Canal Street @ 122 North Dorgenois St. in New Orleans, LA. There he taught the Junior Boys Sunday School Class. In 1960, he and his wife moved to Slidell, LA where he started a church and pastored until 1970. From 1970-1978, he served as a missionary in Indonesia, Thailand, the Philippines, Hong Kong and other areas of Asia where he was known as the “Singing Missionary”. He also served as a Missionary Evangelist all over Asia, Australia and the South Pacific. He returned to the United States and on August 28, 1978, at the age of 56 he founded the Spirit of Freedom Ministries with a tape of his testimony, his guitar and the Lord Jesus Christ.

He is preceded in death by his parents; brothers, Jack, William Earl “One Punch Billy Hyde”, Jimmy, Lewis “Tuffy”, Truman, and Harry Hyde. Sisters Kitty Bell Yates, Viola Flemming, and Mildred Harper. He is survived by his wife, Betty Jo Hyde; son, Michael Lynn Hyde; daughter-in-law, Tina Marie Hyde; sister, Miona Sullivan; brother, Skipper Goins. Viewing will be on Wednesday, Dec 30th from 2-4pm at Southern Oaks United Pentecostal Church 6501 S. Walker Ave.; OKC, Ok 405/634-2991. Services for Reverend Fred will be at 4:00 pm, Wednesday, Dec. 30th at Southern Oaks United Pentecostal Church. Burial will be 10:00 am, Thursday, December 31, 2009 at Mt. Olivet cemetery in Hugo, Oklahoma.

Source: Apostolic News

Arrangements for Brother Hyde:
Visitation:  Wednesday December 30, 2009     2:00 PM – 4:00 PM
Memorial Service:   Wednesday December 30, 2009     4:00 PM
Southern Oaks United Pentecostal Church
6501 S. Walker Avenue
Oklahoma City, OK 73139
Interment:  Thursday December 31, 2009    10:00 AM
Mt. Olive Cemetery
Hugo, OKBroth

Arrangements for Sister Freeman:
Viewing/Visitation: Monday January 4, 2010   5:00 PM – 8:00 PM
Memorial Service: Tuesday January 5, 2010  4:00 PM
Emmanuel Pentecostal Church
1200 Poplar Drive
Mesquite, TX 75149
Interment: Wesnesday January 6, 2010
Roseneath Funeral Home
211 Murrell Street
Minden, LA 71055
318-377-3412
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The Ugly of Sin

“Mom, you need to call Marcine. She’s in some kind of trouble.” I recognized it to be Michael who had left the message on my phone. I promptly called the woman. (Marcine is a pseudonym.)

She was crying so that I could hardly understand her. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Marcine?”

I could not understand her words, and pressed her to speak more plainly. “Tell me. Tell me what is wrong.”

At last I could understand her and knew what needed to be done. We worked through the necessary details so that finally we were all at the church–Jerry, Marcine and I. She sobbed and trembled as she told us the story, a story whose details I cannot divulge, but whose details really do not matter, and whose knowing or not knowing changes not at all the impact of the tale. For the story is identical. The story is unchanged. The story is of sin and fallen man and wretched ugliness; the ugliness of sin; the hopelessness of life without Jesus Christ.

We sat in the lobby of the church as she sobbed and eked out the words–words which later we found to be lacking in veracity and completeness. “I need a cigarette,” at one point she said.

“Well you know we can’t help you with that, Marcine,” I said.

“I know. I know…I have one cigarette; the rest are at the house. I”ll smoke half of it.” We watched as from her purse she drew a leather holder, clicked it open and removed the single cigarette.  Through the glass that stretches across the front of the church we saw her walk across the blacktop area, and respecting our plea with our CIP students not to smoke on our property, she trudged into the rocky lot next to ours. She slumped, then sat flat among the scattered stone and sand. She lighted half a cigarette. My aching heart bled.

We took her into the sanctuary after she had smoked, seating her on the edge of the platform; she wept and sobbed. Gently we talked with her; inquired and soothed, then I knelt beside her and grasped her hand as she bent forward into a position of black despair.

“Do you know how to pray, Marcine?” Jerry asked.

“Yes.” And so…we prayed and wept and mourned.

Later she called her probation officer, who advised her to call the police and surrender herself. Marcine wanted to do it at home, but just as she positioned herself in her friend’s car for the ride home, two police cars pulled onto our parking lot…and then after more weeping and hugging and whispering words of courage into her ears, the officers handcuffed her and led her away.

I’ve written before, and no doubt will do so again, concerning the ghastly and mistaken thought that serving God and abiding by His law is a form of bondage. Bondage, you say? Bondage it is to live in a holy and godly way? Bondage to refrain from stealing and promiscuity and drunken brawls and hideous addiction? Bondage, you claim? Bondage to dress in a modest way, to erect a family altar, to read often the Word of God? Bondage to attend church, to give generously, to minister to the less fortunate, to be kind and caring? This is bondage? No friend, let me tell you of bondage.

“I wonder if they might have a cigarette,” Marcine said at one point yesterday, as she stood looking across the street where two men stood on a parking lot.

“They tried to force me to join a gang,” Eric told my husband a few minutes ago. Eric received the Holy Ghost four weeks ago, and the next day had to go to jail. He was released only yesterday.

“There was every kind of drug you can imagine in the jail,” Eric continued.

“How do they get it in there?” Jerry asked.

“Pastor…by hiding it in body orifices.”

“The gang leaders tried to force me to shave my head,” Eric said.

“We were introduced to hard drugs by our parents,” the trio told Michael. One at 12, one at 13, one at 14.

“My mother left us when I was a child to go live with a lesbian,” said one of our CIP students who looks about 13, but who is actually 19. “I’ve been to about 30 psychologists and psychiatrists,” he added. He pled with me as I enrolled him some months ago. “I have to smoke marijuana. It’s the only thing that calms me down.”

“Have you been drinking?” Michael asked the student as he attempted to enter the class. “No, but she has,” he said, pointing to his female companion.

“I’m sorry, but she can’t be here,” Michael explained.

“Okay, I understand,” said the student, and he led his staggering friend away and seated her in his truck on the parking lot.

Relapse, jail time again. Prison. Visiting hours, books, magazines.

I sat in a court room and watched one of our students–shackled hand and foot–as she shuffled to her spot.

Excuses, embarrassment, cries, troubled children, community service. High on drugs, dropped from class, re-enrolled. Teeth rotted from methamphetamine. Emergency dental calls. Pain. Disappearance. Broken promises. Fines. Failure to pay. Failure to appear. License revoked. Eight siblings–all different fathers. Violations. Probation officer. Judges. Chains. Bars. Cigarettes, beer, cheap wine, hard liquor. Stagger. Divorce, mistrust, broken windows, unmarried mother unmarried daughter–both pregnant–due two months apart. Emergency room visits, stomach pumps, prescription pills. Little boy killed by drunk driver, his father and friend nearly killed, still having surgeries, not able to work. Sleep into the afternoon. Violated. Nightmares. Sleeping pills.

Speak not to me of bondage associated with serving Jesus Christ my Lord. Say no such thing to me. For it is only through Jesus that Freedom and Peace can envelop the human soul, can straighten the twisted life, can right dreadful wrongs, and can apply the sweet balm of Gilead.

I’ve told of yesterday’s grisly afternoon at Christ Alive. Compare it please with yesterday’s evening Bible study where we worshipped, prayed for friends and relatives, rejoiced that in the past few hours Eric had been released from jail and that he was eager to be in church Sunday, studied God’s word, sang a great hymn of the Church and laughed; where new converts testified, finally having to declare they just couldn’t explain how wonderful they felt, and where after church we just hung out for awhile, admiring the moon and the beautiful sky…and loving each other.

No. Do not speak of bondage in the same breath with which you speak of God’s church. You have come too late, you have come to the wrong person. Positively I affirm that it is the grip of satan that chains the human soul and that  drags him into everlasting, hideous bondage and torment. But in Jesus, my Saviour, my Lord,  is absolute and glorious Freedom, whose glittering highway leads into Life everlasting, where we will forever to be in the presence of God.

How Tough the Love?

“Why?”

“Because they’re your kids.”

After the guest speaker had finished, Michael went around the circle asking each of the students; “What did you hear from him?” and it was at this point that a lively, profitable discussion had ensued. The guest was Darin Craig, a local businessman whose only son has gone through a serious bout of drug addiction, and who had agreed to address our Christian Intervention groups as he spoke of a child’s addiction as seen through the parent’s eyes. The sessions were riveting.

It was the “tough love” issue that aroused lengthy and conflicting views. “Tough love” was not universally endorsed by this group and when it became so obvious, Mike asked for a show of hands. Interesting. About half of the group thought that a child could do nothing that should cause a parent to refuse to support that child. No matter what he does, he should always be accepted back in the parents’ home.

“Why?” Mike asked.

“Because they’re your children,” was the pointed, adamant answer of one young man.

I disagree, as do all the leaders of our group, our thought being there comes a time when parents must be tough, and say, “This behavior is not going on in this house.”After repeated tries, broken promises, defiance, law-breaking, jail time, drugs in the house, drunkenness in the living room–finally, a parent has the right (even obligation) to say, “No more.” Does that mean that parents no longer love the child? Of course not. A normal parent will love his child to the grave–no matter the behavior.

What say you? Are you a “tough love” proponent, or do you agree with many in our Christian Intervention program who say no matter what a child does, the parent should always take him in again, and again?

“Unconscionable,” Says Octuplet’s Grandmother

“To have them all is unconscionable to me. She really has no idea what she’s doing to her children and to me.”

So says the mother of Nadya Suleman, the woman who last week gave birth to octuplets, and whom, it has been learned, already had six children. According to her mother, Suleman contributes no money to the support of her six children. They live in a disheveled three-bedroom home. All the children were conceived through invitro fertilization with the aid of a sperm donor; there is no father present.

“I’m really angry about that,” Angela Suleman said of the doctor’s decision to perform the procedure.

“She already has six beautiful children, why would she do this?” Angela Suleman said in videotaped interview. “I’m struggling to look after her six. We had to put in bunk beds, feed them in shifts and there’s children’s clothing piled all over the house.”

This is an outrageous situation. Although I am cautious concerning government intrusion into private lives, I’m convinced these children are at risk, and, likely, a case can be made that they are being mistreated. Babies are charming and appealing: They are not dolls, though, to be bought and fondled, then when their newness wears off, shuttled aside while a new one (or eight) is grown. These are little people with feelings and emotions and cavernous needs. Think of those eight tiny ones lying in the hospital at this moment, their infinitesimal purple bodies poked with needles and insulted by tubes. And…according to her mother…Suleman cannot even care for the six she already had, when, seemingly because of her obsession with having babies, she had live embryos implanted into her body.

What doctor would have engaged in such an action as this? How did she afford these services? Is this medical malpractice? Is it any of my business?

I say it is my business…because of the children; the six she had already, and the eight she has added to her life. It should not happen again. God help these children, the mother and the grandparents.

Video of Nadya Suleman and the octuplets here.