by Connie Vandeman Jeffery—

“When all hope is gone, sad songs say so much,” sings Elton John in his classic “Sad Songs.” His song is way too sad for me. When I’m feeling hopeless I gravitate toward hopeful songs. “My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.” And, “We have this hope that burns within our hearts.” These are the songs that “say so much” to me. How very blessed we are to have this “Hope” with a capital “H”—the kind of Hope that can come from Christ alone.

Even though I was born with an abundance of hope and joy, I’ve been from hope to hopeless and back to hope a number of times, like a mini rollercoaster of hope. When prayers weren’t answered the way I thought they should be, I’d lose a bit of hope.

From the age of six, I prayed for my brother Ron to be healed of schizophrenia, the chronic paranoid variety of the disease. From a complete nervous breakdown at the age of 21 through to his death at 68, he remained a very sick man. His illness was unpredictable, often scary, and always a complete mystery to me. Our family “hoped and prayed” for decades for the miracle of healing that never happened. We “hoped against hope” because “hope springs eternal.” I learned all the “hope” quotations and acronyms (Having Only Positive Expectations or He Offers Peace Every day). And I especially learned the verses of Scripture about hope, like this one: “For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have?  But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently” (Romans 8: 24-25, NIV). We waited ever so patiently.

My parents never lost hope. But I did. There were breakthroughs, new therapies, setbacks, some improvements, and more setbacks along the way. It wasn’t until a few years before Ron died, and many years after our parents had passed away, that I came to the life-changing realization that Ron’s once-beautiful mind, which had become so tortured and twisted with mental illness, would be made beautiful again in the earth made new. Hope began to stir anew and took root once again in my heart.

We had a conversation a few years before he passed away that was completely lucid on his part and ultimately healing for me. We almost never spoke of spiritual things. And yet, Ron asked me that day if I’d read the Gospels. “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” he said eagerly. “Have you ever read them in one sitting, beginning to end?”

“Of course I’ve read them,” I said, “but not in one sitting. Why do you ask?”

“Because the ‘Story’ is in there and it’s so simple,” he said.

“And what’s the ‘Story,’” I asked hesitantly.

“Jesus took our pain!” he declared triumphantly.

“Jesus took our pain,” I repeated, completely dumbstruck that my mentally ill brother could grasp the essence of the gospel story in just four words. I told Ron that even our dad, great preacher that he was, could never have explained the gospel as eloquently as he just had. Ron liked that.

I know I’ll see my brother again, with his mind and body restored, because I’m holding onto “this hope that burns within my heart.”

My favorite HOPE acronym is Hold On—Pain Ends. I know Ron would like that one, too.

It was 57 years ago that my brother Ron had a nervous breakdown that launched our family into a four-decade journey into the unknown world of schizophrenia. It was also 57 years ago this month that “We Have This Hope” was introduced as the theme song for the 1962 General Conference Session in San Francisco. Wayne Hooper of the Voice of Prophecy wrote the song specifically for the session, the theme of which was also “We Have This Hope.” The song was used again as the theme song for the General Conference sessions of 1966, 1975, 1995, and 2000. It remains an Adventist classic that we sing at camp meetings, in churches, at memorial services, and anywhere Adventists gather to praise God. For me, it’s my personal anthem of hope that fills me with assurance and faith. We still have this hope. Let’s never stop singing it!

Connie Vandeman Jeffery is the host of All God’s People, a weekly short video series highlighting the people and ministries of the Pacific Union Conference, and has had a long career in media.

by Ray Tetz—

It was a big decision to get a cockatiel—one of those little grey parrots with the cheerful yellow and orange crest. We debated whether or not we had the patience to raise and train a young bird, especially when we’d heard that they could be reclusive and slow to respond to human interaction. We were young and newly married. What did we know?

One young bird was sitting off by herself in the cage, apart from the other cockatiels, and when I extended my finger as a perch, she jumped right on as if she had been waiting for me.

Thus began one of the great relationships of my life.

We called her Birdeaux. She was not reclusive; she was effusive. She was verbal, animated, engaging, funny, and endlessly curious. She didn’t like her cage much but loved to be with us—all the time. She took to sitting on my shoulder while I read or worked. She could hear my car coming home from a half mile away, and she would start squeaking and screeching until I went back to her cage and opened the little door. Then she would jump onto my finger, climb up my arm, and settle onto my shoulder—filled with all the news of the day that she just had to tell me.

Sometimes I would forget she was sitting on my shoulder—she was so much a regular part of my day—and she would remind me that she was being ignored by nibbling at my ear. And then one day I forgot she was there and walked outside—and she flew away.

We could see her climbing higher and higher in the sky, could hear her calling and we called to her, but she didn’t come back. She kept climbing until she was out of sight, and then she was gone.

We were brokenhearted. We drove through the neighborhoods with the car whose sound she knew, posted signs, took out ads in the paper—nothing. Four days went by; it seemed like forever. Her cage was empty. We would have given anything, done anything, to have her home.

Then the phone rang. “I think we’ve got your bird,” the voice said. “She landed on the balcony and she won’t leave us alone. And she won’t stop talking either.”

We had her back. I’m not sure who was the happiest at being reunited, for there was a lot of cooing and talking and scratching of her little head. She wouldn’t leave my shoulder for anything.

Cockatiels weigh about three and a half ounces. They are all feathers and voice box. Their brains are not very big—and if Birdeaux was any indication, they are dedicated entirely to describing the world around them and showing affection and appreciation for the things they recognize, understand, and love. Being loved by a bird—and loving a bird—was one of the purest and most rewarding experiences of my life. Decades after her death (they don’t live forever), I still miss her.

The day she flew away was one of the worst in my life. The day we got her back still shines in my memory.

If losing a bird can break your heart—what can it be like to lose a whole world? No wonder the redemption story is so sweet with emotion and love. No wonder there is great rejoicing over even one who returns to Father’s care. No wonder the reunion is heralded by the greatest song (and winged creatures, I must add!).

Amazing redemption, how sweet the sound!

Ray Tetz is the director of communication and community engagement for the Pacific Union Conference.

by Ray Tetz—

Peter was not very good at telling jokes. In Acts 2:15, when he says, “These people are not drunk—it’s only nine o’clock in the morning,” this is an example of a joke that didn’t quite work. The people don’t want Peter telling jokes; they want him to explain what had just happened at Pentecost.

Fortunately, Luke is the one telling the story—and he knows how to spin a tale. He rushes right past Peter’s failed joke and quotes Peter quoting Joel 2, a familiar text for everyone listening. They have been reciting this portion of scripture—about a people in trouble—for a thousand years. Peter stands up and says, “In the last days, God says, “I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy,your young men will see visions,your old men will dream dreams. Even on my servants, both men and women, I will pour out my Spirit in those days, and they will prophesy” (Acts 2:17-18, NIV). (Did you notice? Both men and women.)

When he quoted these words, people were reciting with him, because they knew them by heart. But then he added something unexpected: “These words are fulfilled.” Peter was placing the fledgling church smack dab in the middle of God’s providence. The people listening thought the Messiahwould come and change everything. They didn’t know that the Messiah would come and create a churchthat would change everything.

The phrase “the spirit came upon” is used in the Old Testament to describe when God interjects Himself into a situation. In Numbers 11, the Spirit of the Lord came down on Moses and he shared the Spirit with the 70 elders and they prophesied. When Saul was hunting David, the Spirit of the Lord came on him and all of a sudden he was prophesying. The Spirit of the Lord came on Balaam and he couldn’t curse Israel like he wanted to. The Spirit of the Lord came on Gideon and the Lord gave him an amazing victory. Three times, the Spirit of Lord is recorded as coming on Samson. These are all great stories—but none of them are Acts 2. These were all individuals receiving the Spirit, but in Acts 2 the Spirit of the Lord was given to the whole church.

Amazing! The rest of that phrase—“pour out”—is also important. The term was often used to describe what happens when blood pours out from a sacrifice. It also means to pour out your lifeblood. I poured out my life for that kid. I poured out my life for this church. I poured out my life for that cause. That’s the association. It’s amazing that God pouring out His Spirit means the same thing as a person pouring out their lifeblood.

And so when Peter says, “The Spirit will be poured out,” he’s claiming something for the church that’s never been claimed before. When the people ask, “What just happened?” Peter says, “Pentecost just happened. It’s a deluge. It’s God, pouring Himself out on the entire church. This has never happened in the history of the world and it will probably never happen again.”

It’s a torrent, you’re drowning in it, flooded by it, soaked to the skin. It changes everything. Acts 2 is the Niagara of the Spirit. It’s the Mariana Trench of transformative grace. It’s the tsunami of righteousness. This is beyond anything that anyone’s ever seen. That’s what God calls us to be. Even Peter is astounded by what’s happened, and he tells us: we are called from the dream to being the dreamers.

We’re called from the prophecy to being the prophesiers. We’re called from the future into the present. We’re called from the imagined to the enacted. On the most ordinary day, in the plainest of circumstances, on the train you always take to work, while you’re reading in your favorite chair, when you got up to get a drink during half time, at the table where you always sit for lunch, in the middle of another call, halfway through shaving, on the way out to get the mail, while you’re just reaching for the phone, just outside your kitchen window, as you turn to tell your companion something or ask a question, by the time you reach the end of the chapter, before anyone knew what was happening, before church was over, out of the blue with no warning—not a cloud in the sky—life barges in. Pentecost: a deluge. You’re drenched by God. You get filled up, swamped, transformed, sent straight over the cliff. That’s what Pentecost is.

The unexpected happened because God poured out in His lifeblood, His Spirit, on the people of God to make them His church. Every moment of our lives, every moment of worship, every time we gather, every time we open the Scripture, every time we bow our heads in prayer, every time we turn our hearts toward God—even when we don’t, even when we’re ignoring God, even when we think that God is nowhere around, even when we’re doing things that God has nothing to do with and that we hope He doesn’t see, even those times where we’re completely absorbed with something else—in every one of those moments, the potential exists for Pentecost.

This is an amazing thing. This is what is remarkable. This is what makes the church the body of Christ—so different from what was expected. It’s not external anymore. It’s first person personal. Suddenly, when we realize that the same thing can happen for us and for the entire community of faith, we see that this is what God’s been doing all along. Pouring out, pouring in, pouring through people’s lives.

Ray Tetz is the director of communication and community engagement for the Pacific Union Conference.

by Becky De Oliveira—

For several months now, I have operated in flagrant disregard of the signs on the pedestrian path near my house that I use for running. There is a large-scale construction operation underway on the intersection of Highway 52 and Colorado Boulevard—I’ve heard rumors it may continue for more than a year.

The signs declare the path “Closed at Hwy 52.” But I run at 5:30 in the morning and there is generally no one around to observe as I slip between the bulldozers and over the choppy dirt—only about 50 feet—to where the path resumes, paved as normal, still “closed” but exactly the same as it is when “open.” Occasionally, when I return to cross the same 50 feet the workmen have started to arrive, but no one has ever questioned me. No one, that is, until this past Friday when the tall workman, who often harasses my teenage son for crossing that same section on his way home from school, hollered at me from his truck. “You aren’t supposed to be here,” he said. “The path is closed.”

“How else am I to get back to my house?” I retorted. “I live over there,” I added, gesturing at the housing development on the other side of the highway.

“There’s a detour through Frederick,” he said, referring to a town that is on the wrong side of the highway—a town that is not where I live and that is significantly out of my way.

“That makes no sense,” I said arrogantly. “It’s the wrong direction. I don’t live there. It’s miles out of my way.”

“Well, if you’re out here trying to get exercise, maybe it would be good for you,” he snapped, and I almost lost it. I really don’t like it when people tell me what to do and, worse, when they get sarcastic.

“Thanks,” I said, waving my arm dismissively. “You’ve been sohelpful.” The light changed and I continued my run—right between the bulldozers. My anger fueled the last third of a mile, and by the time I got home I was so ramped up that I immediately got into an argument with my husband about the lawn mower. I fumed all morning and determined that I would simply have to make sure I got out for my run early enough that the workman would never see me trespassing through his site. Problem solved.

Later that same day, I spotted a car in my neighborhood with a bumper sticker that read, “My rights don’t end where your feelings begin.” This is the kind of aggressive statement typical of my neighborhood, a place where people fly Don’t Tread on Me flags and seem to be in a constant state of reactionary rage against someone or something they believe is trying to infringe on their rights. My next door neighbor refers to me as “that woman with all the liberal stickers on her car” when my car (a Prius) has three marathon stickers and a Free Cascadia sticker—a sentiment that in and of itself I’m not sure I could place with confidence on the political spectrum.

But the rights/feelings sticker made me stop and think—not just about the ignorant aggression of the sentiment but the equal stupidity of the opposite statement that may have inspired it: “Your rights end where my feelings begin.” (This is a good example of why it is important to avoid a life philosophy that can be placed on a bumper sticker.) I thought about the construction man, a guy I’d taken to referring to in my head as “meth head” when in fact I don’t know the first thing about him or his daily habits and have no reason to suspect methamphetamine use. What are my rights? What are his rights? What are our respective feelings? Maybe I have the right to run where I choose—but in fact I have no idea whether I have this right or not. I probably don’t. Perhaps he has the right to set rules about his construction site and expect them to be followed courteously by the local people who will perhaps benefit from it. We both have feelings: anger, irritation, and the feeling of being disrespected by the other person being the ones that are most obvious.

I made a decision in that moment, and the next afternoon, a Sabbath, I took a walk and found the pedestrian detour he’d referred to and followed it. The next morning I used it as the first portion of my running route and simply readjusted the rest of my route. It wasn’t hard at all; it was no big deal. “A soft answer,” the Bible says, “turns away wrath” (Proverbs 15:1, NKJV). So does an evaluation of rights and feelings that considers people other than oneself and that tries to avoid reaction and indignant insistence on being right. So yeah, I caved. I demonstrated weakness. I let him win. I did all those things. I don’t regret it, not any of it.

Becky De Oliveira is a teacher, writer, and graphic designer working on special projects for the Pacific Union Conference from her home in Colorado.