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    Lessons Learned Early: The Wit & Wisdom of Jerry B. Jenkins
    Lessons Learned Early: The Wit & Wisdom of Jerry B. Jenkins
    Lessons Learned Early: The Wit & Wisdom of Jerry B. Jenkins
    Ebook137 pages1 hour

    Lessons Learned Early: The Wit & Wisdom of Jerry B. Jenkins

    By Jerry B. Jenkins

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    About this ebook

    Selections of Jerry Jenkins "For Starters" column in Moody Monthly make up this volume of stories from life that pack a punch of insight, humor, and emotion.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJerry B. Jenkins
    Release dateNov 22, 2013
    ISBN9781311277381
    Lessons Learned Early: The Wit & Wisdom of Jerry B. Jenkins
    Author

    Jerry B. Jenkins

    Jerry B. Jenkins hat bereits fast 200 Bücher geschrieben, einschließlich 21 "New York Times"-Bestseller. Mehr als 71 Millionen Exemplare seiner Werke wurden inzwischen weltweit verkauft. Er ist bekannt für seine Bibel-Romane, seine Endzeit-Romane ("Finale"-Reihe), und viele weitere Genres. Außerdem unterstützte er Billy Graham bei dessen Autobiografie, und hat zahlreiche Sport-Biografien geschrieben. Gemeinsam mit seiner Frau Dianna lebt er in Colorado Springs im US-Bundesstaat Colorado. Sie haben drei erwachsene Söhne. Einer von ihnen, Dallas, ist der Erfinder, Co-Autor und Regisseur der TV-Serie "The Chosen".

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      Book preview

      Lessons Learned Early - Jerry B. Jenkins

      © 2012 by Jerry B. Jenkins

      Originally Published in the US, 1993, by Victor Books

      Smashwords Edition

      DEDICATION

      In loving memory of Fred Quade

      CONTENTS

      Copyright

      Preface

      A Better Story … And True

      A Few More Days

      And to All a Good Night

      With Wings As Chickens

      Without a Clue

      To Tell the Truth

      Of Bullies and Brothers

      Weather or Not

      Grateful for Grace

      Just Do It

      Vance Havner Late

      Ye Olde Moderne Translationeth

      Mom’s Old Bible

      Don’t Keep the Faith

      Low-Key Angel

      Don’t Go Down There

      Life Traces

      Lessons Learned Early

      Summer in Dallas

      Kinder Than Kind

      Fatal Choice

      Of Stickers and Gates of Splendor

      Here It Is September

      On the Front Lines

      TV: An Epitaph for Values

      From the Mouths of Babes

      Angela Unaware

      The Magic That Doesn’t Deliver

      Hedges

      First Class Grace

      Stop on a Dime

      Love on a Winter’s Night

      A Dad by Any Other Name

      Parenting 101

      The Lesson in the Shells

      Dear Grandpa:

      For Baby Michael

      The Stirrer of the Soul

      Ages and Stages

      Waging the Weight War

      Dear Son:

      Tempus Certainly Does Fugit

      Addicted to Anticipation

      Memorial Memories

      The Arm in the Night

      art

      PREFACE

      No new messages?

      I have been collecting snatches of things I’ve heard — from my youngest, Michael, asking if Shut up is one of the Ten Commandments (you’ll be pleased to know I told him the truth) — to the Voice Mailbox greeting I get frequently.

      Voice Mailbox is the name of our office’s electronic system for sending and receiving messages, an answering machine with a fascinating array of features. I love the system, but here’s my problem. After I have listened to my messages, a pleasant female voice comes on and informs me, You have no more new messages.

      The first few times it happened, I thought, How interesting. How handy. I appreciate knowing that I have come to the end of my messages.

      Yet something niggled at my brain and depressed me. I wondered if it was that I was lonely or felt rejected because I had no more new messages.

      Then it hit me. What bothered me was that my brain translated the word messages as things to say, rather than things to hear.

      Therefore, several times a day, I’m bombarded with an unintentionally negative bit of news. It mocks me, taunts me, threatens me. Is it possible? I have no more new messages. I have nothing more to say.

      Pity the poor pastor who installs one of these machines. At least twice on Sunday and once in the middle of the week, he must have a new message.

      I wonder if these machines can be reprogrammed to have the pleasant voice say, You have no more new telephone messages, but, boy, do you have a lot to say! Get to work and say it!

      I don’t sing or dance or preach. But at the risk of writing a lot without saying much, I leave what I have to say to your judgment. Thanks for taking the time.

      Jerry B. Jenkins

      A BETTER STORY …AND TRUE

      art

      Don’t let your children see this—not if you are letting them enjoy the Santa Claus myth.

      I was one who bought the Santa story hook, line, and sack full of goodies. That wasn’t my parents’ fault. They couldn’t know how serious it was to me. My older brothers grew out of believing in Santa, no one realizing that I still carried the torch for the story.

      And what a story! Be good and you get stuff from a guy who seemed somewhat like God. Blasphemous? Not if the story was true. This guy could deliver toys to the house of every good kid in the world in twenty-four hours!

      I not only believed Santa would visit my house, but I was also convinced that he would not come until I was sound asleep. And there was no fooling Santa. Once I lay perfectly still with my eyes shut for several minutes, only to peek when I thought I heard footsteps on the roof. Of course, Santa immediately left, busy in some other neighborhood until the Jenkins kid was really out.

      In kindergarten, other Santa believers looked up to me because when consulted, I took their side. The fact that more and more peers wavered in their faith might have rattled me, had it not been for a chat I had with the jolly elf himself.

      I sat on his lap in a department store, awed and scared, knowing he was the true Santa. All the others I had seen on street corners and in other stores were his helpers. He asked what I wanted, and I told him. He asked if I had been good, and I nodded.

      Then he said his elves had told him that I didn’t always finish my green beans. I nearly died. It was true — I was guilty. (But I have loved green beans ever since. Honest.)

      How could I know that my dad had whispered this news to Santa when I was distracted? And how could Dad have known that this conversation locked into my soul the belief that it was all true?

      The day finally came, much later in my life than it should have (around age seven), when the evidence was too great to ignore. When I put the question to my dad, he said, You don’t honestly still believe in Santa Claus, do you?

      Yes, I said, and argued the point for a while, profoundly disappointed. I was too young at the time to articulate my greater fear — that I would soon hear that the Jesus story wasn’t true either.

      Eventually, of course, I learned. Santa was like Mother Goose or the Easter Bunny. I never believed in them.

      Jesus is unique. He is God, Son of God, the Savior of mankind, and one day became my Savior.

      In my early teens, my pastor chatted with the youth group and told us it was time we understood more about the mystery. He explained what it meant that Mary had been a virgin. He explained that though Jesus was just one Man, His divinity allowed His death to pay the sin penalty for all who would believe and receive.

      The best part of the Jesus story, the Gospel, was that it was available to all — the naughty as well as the nice. Even if the Santa story had been true, it didn’t compare to God’s idea.

      Angels, a miraculous birth, a star, dreams, warnings, sinlessness. Death, burial, resurrection, life eternal. Ah, that would be a great story even if it were made up. Even better than Santa.

      How much better that it’s true.

      With our own children, Dianna and I weren’t killjoys. Our kids were free to enjoy all the magic and fun and excitement of Christmas, including the legends and myths. But we made it clear from day one that Santa was make-believe. Santa was like the Easter Bunny or Mother Goose.

      And while we coached them not to spoil the fun of believing in Santa for other kids (which in truth protected us from their parents), we took every opportunity to remind them: Jesus is real. His is the best story of all.

      A FEW MORE DAYS

      art

      At times I wish I looked forward to the return of Christ with as much excitement as I looked forward to a delivery when I was seven years old.

      What is it about that most wondrous of all promises that makes some hope it doesn’t happen until after next week’s ball game or until they are married, have children, get promoted, accomplish something?

      Scripture is clear that to be with Christ is far better, but that remains a mystery. Even with all the scholars in Christendom, we know little about heaven. We know what will be there (light and splendor) and what will not (darkness), and we know we will have glorified minds and bodies (I can get excited about that). I’m confident we won’t be bored, but try explaining that to a six-year-old who doesn’t want to go to heaven because I like my bed.

      I admire those who genuinely look forward to the return of Christ or their own home goings because they long to be with their Savior. They look forward with eager anticipation, waiting, watching for that great day.

      I have waited for good things in my life, sometimes

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