Reflections

A collection of articles written by Betty Jo Mings.

I stood at my front window and watched as a funeral limousine pulled up across the street. The widow and some of her relatives got in and were driven away to a private funeral service. I wiped away a tear -- not because I would miss the man (I had never even talked to him) -- but because of the regrets I felt. I didn't even know if he knew the Lord or not. Come to think about it, I'm not sure if he knew I was a Christian.

In my mind's eye I thought back to the time when the family had first moved in across the street. I remember I had just gone through some minor surgery, and was not feeling too well. I guess I must have thought about getting acquainted and welcoming them to the neighborhood, but somehow I just didn't feel up to it. After I got to feeling better, it seemed too late.

I recall one time going across the street to vote when the polling place was in their garage, but they must have been inside the house because I didn't see them when I voted.

I was always so busy -- going to church, serving on various committees, and working part time.

One day I watched a lot of decorated cars and guests as these neighbors celebrated their son's marriage. I didn't even know his name until I read it in the paper.

Every Sunday my family and I went to church, and sometimes as we left for church I'd see my neighbors mowing their lawn, or heading for the ocean with all their beach gear.

One week we had an evangelistic outreach at church and were encouraged to invite our neighbors, but mine across the street were on vacation at the time, and no one answered when I finally found the time and got up the courage to ring their doorbell.

On another occasion Billy Graham held meetings nearby, but we had planned our vacation for that time. There was always some reason why I never got acquainted.

Finally, one day I read in the paper about the tragic circumstances surrounding a man's death, and discovered it was my neighbor who lived across the street. I went over and rang the doorbell and asked to speak to the widow, but was told she didn't want to see anyone. After all, she didn't even know me. Even though I lived just across the street, I was still a stranger to her.

Finally, one day I read in the paper about the tragic circumstances surrounding a man's death, and discovered it was my neighbor who lived across the street. I went over and rang the doorbell and asked to speak to the widow, but was told she didn't want to see anyone. After all, she didn't even know me. Even though I lived just across the street, I was still a stranger to her.

I've had time to do a lot of thinking and to re-evaluate my priorities. Today I am still very busy with all sorts of commitments. But this morning I saw another moving van pull up in front of the house across the street and unload a lot of furniture, and I notice a new family is moving in. I have just put a casserole and a pie in the oven, and as soon as they are ready I'm going across the street to get acquainted. I figure it's never too late for a new beginning.

When I first saw you, you were a small, eager, bright-eyed four-year-old boy with a perpetually dirty face. I had just moved into your neighborhood, and you seemed to roam the street at will. Many times you would be followed by your tiny Grandmother, a forgetful bewildered-looking lady who was always asking if any one had seen David. I learned that your Mother had died when you were too small to remember her, and your Father was seldom home.

You couldn't talk too plainly, but several times a day I would hear a soft knock on my door, and when I opened it you would invariably say, "Midda Mings?" "Yes, David?" "I wuv you." "Oh, I love you too, David!" I would say as I put my arms around you and hugged you, "And Jesus loves you, too."

In the next three years I told you a lot about Jesus and His angels who would watch over you, and you told me you loved Jesus too.

I was very sad the day I moved away from you to a new city, but I assured you that Jesus would always love you and protect you. When I went for a visit some time after that, I learned that you and your Dad had moved away also, and I wasn't able to find our your new address.

Oh, my precious David, how I would like to know what has happened to you. You put an indelible stamp upon my heart. Many times through the years I have prayed for you -- that Jesus would protect you and make you feel His love, and that you would live for Him. For you see, David, I still love you, and Jesus loves you too.

A lot of people think about things in the past, and look at them as "the good old days" and somehow they feel this modern world just doesn't measure up. They forget about the bad things, and subconsciously add a rosy glow to everything that transpired, whether good or bad.

Lately I have been thinking a lot about the days of World War II -- the very sad things that happened, and even some good ones.

I remember so clearly the Sunday morning on December 7th, 1941, when I first heard about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I was fourteen years old, and I remember the hasty and necessary preparations our country had to make because it was thrust into a war.

There was hardly a family that was not touched by a loved one who was called to serve in some branch of the military service. I remember all the heartache and sadness as gold stars were hung in windows in remembrance of those who bravely and willingly gave their lives for our country. Mothers were proud of their sons and their sacrifice.

I remember ration coupons -- for sugar and meat. I remember also gas rationing, and automobile tires that couldn't be replaced because the rubber was needed for the war effort. There was such a patriotic feeling in America -- we loved our country, and felt no sacrifice was too great for our freedom from tyranny and aggression.

We all joined in to help in any way we could -- volunteering in the U.S.O., rolling bandages, knitting, working in defense factories, trying to encourage and cheer our young men who were serving our country. The whole mood of the country was that our country was WORTH FIGHTING FOR, and that together we could defeat those who would take away our precious freedoms.

I remember the songs that we heard on radios and juke boxes, sad songs and songs of hope. I especially remember:

"Comin' In On A Wing And A Prayer -- (With our full crew aboard, and our trust in the Lord --)"

"When The Lights Go On Again (all over the world -- then there'll be time for things like wedding rings--)"

"I'll Be Home For Christmas -- (if only in my dreams--)"

"Goodnight, Wherever You Are"

"I'll Walk Alone -- (because to tell you the truth, I'll be lonely. I don't mind being lonely, when my heart tells me you are lonely too)"

"Don't Get Around Much Anymore -- (awfully different without you)"

"Don't Sit Under The Apple Tree -- (with anyone else but me -- till I come marching home)"

"I'll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time -- (I'll be with you to change your name to mine)"

"I Left My Heart At The Stage Door Canteen --(I must go back to the Army routine, and every Doughboy knows what that will mean -- a Soldier boy without a heart, has two strikes on him from the start, and my heart's at the Stage Door Canteen)"

"You'll Never Know -- (just how much I miss you --- you went away and my heart went with you -- I speak your name in my every prayer)"

"I'll Be Seeing You" (in all the old familiar places --)"

"Love And Marriage -- (you can't have one without the other)"

"There'll Be Bluebirds Over The White Cliffs Of Dover -- (tomorrow, just you wait and see)"

In those days we saluted the flag and displayed it proudly. We sang patriotic songs, and were thankful to be Americans.

It saddens me to see the changes that have transpired -- young men burning the flag and demonstrating against our country. The prevailing mood seems to be that our country is not worth fighting for -- we should forget it or let somebody else do it. The economy is fine, so why worry about the national debt, or saving the country for our children?

If rationing were tried today, how many people would rebel and claim their "rights" had been violated? How many would fight against a national draft, and how many young men would refuse to go if called upon to defend their country?

It's true that World War II days were sad, and we hope to never repeat them, but it is time to stand up for our country, hold our heads high, and say "I'M PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN, AND I WILL DO EVERYTHING IN MY POWER TO KEEP THE FREEDOMS WE ALL ENJOY!"

In the 1930's almost everybody seemed poor, some just more so than others. I was the youngest of six children, and my Father had walked out and left my Mother to face the awesome responsibility of feeding and taking care of all six of us.

We moved from my Grandfather's farm in the country to a bug-infested apartment house in a run-down section of the city, and I was enrolled in second grade at the local elementary school.

In those days birthday parties were rare, and the few that occurred were almost considered the social events of the year. One of the girls in my class named Olivina started talking about her birthday that was coming up, and excitedly announced that her Mother was going to give her a party. It was the talk of the class, and everyone wanted to attend. I didn't know much about parties since I had never had one, but I could just imagine the cake and ice cream, games and fun, and I wanted more than anything to be invited.

I thought there must be some mistake when the invitations were handed out to all my friends and I didn't receive one. Surely somebody goofed, and Olivina would bring me my invitation the next day. There were only four people in the room who were left out, and the other three were big boys who caused lots of trouble.

I finally had to face the fact that I WAS NOT INVITED. Olivina told me it was because I was too poor to buy her a present. As a seven-year-old it was a traumatic experience, because I felt I was not good enough or important enough to be included.

The day of the party finally arrived, and all the invited guests wore their best clothes to school, taking extra care to keep them clean because the party was to be right after the closing bell. They had all brought wrapped presents, and the teacher put them on a special table to be picked up after school.

The party was the only topic of conversation among the students. Each recess period there were pretend party games as the anticipation mounted.

I didn't want anyone to know the pain and rejection I felt that seemingly endless day, so I held back my tears until class was finally dismissed before I blindly stumbled home as sobs wracked my body.

Over sixty years have passed, yet I can still vividly remember the agony and humiliation of that experience. I didn't know anything about the way God uses events in our lives to shape and mold our character, or how He works all things together for our good, but that event had a profound effect on my life, and I determined I would never hurt anyone the way I had been hurt.

I became more sensitive to the feelings of others, and more conscious of things that cause pain. Years later when my daughter had a birthday party, we invited the whole class so no one would feel left out. I was able to instill in my children a concern for the needs of others.

But it didn't stop there. Today I have two precious little granddaughters, and it thrills my heart to see their sensitivity and how they care for others.

I wonder if the Lord could have used me in quite the same way, or if I would have had quite the empathy I feel for those whose dreams have been shattered if I had been one of the chosen ones who was invited to the party.