The Parable of the Little Red Hen

You remember the story...

The Little Red Hen asks her friends for help in baking a cake only to be met with a chorus of...

Not I
Not I
Not I
Not I

UNTIL it's time to EAT the cake.

Then EVERYONE wants to help...

Depending on which version you read, The Little Red Hen then eats it alone while the others watch or goes ahead and shares it with them anyway.

I know which version is the best to teach kids kindness.

I also know which I would probably do. (Hint: the two aren't the same)

But now I have to take this fairy tale and use a real-life application to its events, determining which ending I will use.

The Parable of the Little Red Hen...

We moved Mr. Raleigh to Biloxi last week. He was accepted into a program that will closely monitor him and help financially with his rent.

It is a perfect deal for him, as he needs assistance following his stroke last year.

But when it came time to move him, there was no-one around.

When we moved him INTO the original house, there was no shortage of people wanting to "help." At any given day there were 4-6 people sleeping in various parts of this one-bedroom house. Three times he was almost evicted because of this traffic, which included quite a bit of alcohol and drug use as well. We tried to help remove the people but many were those we were also helping so it was a delicate situation. Eventually, this opportunity opened up for him to move away into an expenses-paid apartment with one catch: he had to go alone.

I know he was worried. Not only did he have to give up drinking, he had to give up his friends as well.

The day before he moved, I called to make sure he had everything boxed up. There were 8 people over there and I told him to make sure they'd be there the next morning to help load.

Of course, NO-ONE was around.

When he'd almost been kicked out, they still didn't leave.

But now, he was of no use to them and they disappeared.

His stroke left him partially paralyzed so he was unable to lift anything.

As my husband, another lady in our ministry, and I loaded everything up, I could see those who'd been staying there for the last few months watching us from behind the liquor store nearby.

I was furious.

I was still on the ropes (See "Me and Muhammed Ali" April 28, 2016) and I admittedly didn't handle things well.

"Not ONE of those people over there better EVER EVER call me again for ANYTHING!" I seethed.

My husband gently pulled me aside, "Baby, you can't react like that when you're ministering."

Fortunately, I had enough of the Spirit operating in me to receive his admonishment gracefully and I changed my tune.

At least outwardly.

Inside I was still furious!

And I couldn't help but point out their absence to Raleigh so when he began to think life on the streets with his friends might be preferable to a free apartment all alone, he'd remember that these so-called friends vanished when he was no longer of use to them.

All I could think about was the Little Red Hen!

How upset she must have been!

But now he's moved and those people are still out there and they still have needs.

So I will share my cake.

They just probably won't get any sprinkles.

Me and Muhammed Ali

The year was 1974.

For me, it was the year of Raggedy Ann, mommy & me matching sundresses, and the arrival of a new baby sister.

For Ali, it was the infamous Rumble in the Jungle match against George Foreman.

And the move that would forever live in infamy: the rope-a-dope.

Much controversy has arisen over the years as to whether it was a calculated plan or a force of necessity, but the end result was the same. After battling repeated blows while languishing on the ropes, Ali came out swinging and beat a tired, and likely confident, Foreman.

Forty-two years later, I feel like I've replicated that move.

It wasn't calculated; in fact, I thought I was still in control. At least at first.

But looking back, the devil has had me on the ropes for months. My halfhearted jabs and fancy footwork were no match for him; he could see me steadily withering. As the attacks grew stronger, I retreated even more.

I was still doing the work, but at a safe level. Trips on the street became routine, almost formulaic, as I rushed to accomplish my tasks and return to the safety of my home.

A lingering cold provided a valid reason to stay home with a barrage of books and blankets.

How could I write? It would be dry, textbook accounts of my day. There'd be no message, no resonation throughout my audience. In short, there'd be no Spirit.

It was ironic almost, because in times past when I'd found myself feeling so far from the Lord, there was usually an identifiable stronghold involved. Mostly addiction.

Yet here I was, still DOING all the right things. SAYING all the right things. Really NOT doing anything wrong. Yet within me I knew the difference. I'd quenched the Spirit; I'd affected the anointing.

First I had to figure out why. It took a couple of days but I got it.

I'd been discouraged.

I felt defeated.

And I believed the devil's lies when he told me I wasn't making a bit of difference in the world.

I had gotten so discouraged at the people who'd returned to their own vomit (Proverbs 26:11) that I stopped seeing those who became new creatures in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:17).

The realization created my own spiritual "rumble in the jungle" because I came out swinging.

How dare the devil tell me my ministry is pointless?

And how stupid was I for believing him! Especially when I KNOW that he only messes with people who are a threat to him anyway.

I guess that's where the problem began. I didn't see it as an attack of the devil. I thought my own intellect was showing me that I was wasting my time.

In the flesh is no good thing, right? (Romans 7:18)

While a cut man treats physical damage to a fighter during a fight; the Holy Spirit can repair spiritual wounds. All He's waiting on is the green light from you. You don't even have to wait til the bell rings and you retreat to your corner. Call on Him mid-fight, or better yet, before the bout begins.

Maybe, just maybe, the reason addiction is so powerful with the homeless in my area is because no-one has stood up to the devil and refused to back down until this particular battle is won.

Bring it on.

Facing Your Demons

First, just let me say this: I love Hallmark movies.

Even though they follow a format that allows you to predict the ending (as well as every major plot point along the way) within the first five minutes, this formula contains a lot of heart.

And no foul language or questionable material.

So even though my husband claims to have already seen every Hallmark movie I put on (let's face it, just because it's airing for the first time doesn't mean it is "original") he will indulge me because, quite frankly, it beats the alternatives out there for what we call entertainment.

But something just really struck me as wrong last night and I can't stop thinking about it.

Our protagonist was going through the usual reckless playboy to caring philanthropist steps when an older family friend offered some guidance.

"You just have to face your demons."

We've heard that phrase a million times. I've said it myself. But I've never given the phrase much thought.

I know the writer's view mirrors the standard worldview: stand up to your demons...your fear, your hurts, your past...and then let go of them and get on with your life.

But why are we even facing our demons?

We should be facing God. When your eyes are focused on God, those demons will be fleeing YOU.

Somehow we give the devil so much power and precedence in our lives that we elevate him into a position he doesn't have.


Yes, you are going to have to acknowledge things sometimes. Addiction, past abuse, anger...but you don't have to face those demons alone.

Submit yourselves therefore TO GOD; resist the devil and he will flee from you...James 4:7