THANKS for all of the great feedback, and SORRY to those who have experienced difficulty downloading the graphics version. I'm going to back burner the graphics thing until I can fine tune it.

I'm adding a new feature this time. At the very end there will be a repeat section of one of the more popular features from a previous issue. There have been so many folks jump on board recently that I thought those of you who are new might enjoy some of the old stuff.

SO HERE WE GO

I just got back from a PK conference. The speakers spent quite a bit of time talking about the Sacred Assembly that PK is holding in Washington DC this fall. Over one million men are going to be there to pray for our nation.

Some time back a man from Jamaica taught our church a little chorus that started like this; "Prayer is the key, Prayer is the key……." This is so true, yet we often stumble over it like we've never heard it before. Someone e-mailed me this story about prayer and I thought you would enjoy it.

THIS IS A TRUE STORY REPORTED BY AN OVERSEAS MISSIONARY FELLOWSHIP MISSIONARY AT HIS HOME CHURCH.

While serving at a small field hospital in Africa, I traveled every two weeks through the jungle to a nearby city for supplies. This requires camping overnight halfway. On one of these trips, I saw two men fighting in the city. One was seriously hurt, so I treated him and witnessed to him about the Lord Jesus Christ. I then returned home without incident. Upon arriving in the city several weeks later, I was approached by the man I had treated earlier. He told me he had known that I carried money and medicine. He said, "Some friends and I followed you into the jungle knowing you would camp over night. We waited for you to go asleep and planned to kill you and take your money and drugs. Just as we were about to move into your campsite, we saw that you were surrounded by 26 armed guards." I laughed at this and said, "I was certainly all alone out in the jungle campsite." The young man pressed the point, "No sir, I was not the only one to see the guards. My five friends also saw them, and we all counted them. It was because of those guards that we were afraid and left you alone." At this point of the church presentation in Michigan, one of the men in the church stood up and interrupted the missionary. He asked, "Can you tell me the exact date when this happened?". The missionary thought for awhile and recalled the date. The man in the congregation then gave his side of the story. He stated, "On that night in Africa it was day here. I was preparing to play golf. As I put my bags in the car, I felt the Lord leading me to pray for you. In fact, the urging was so great that I called men of this church together to pray for you. Will all of those men who met to pray please stand?" The men who had met that day to pray together stood - There were 26 of

them!

If you're going to Washington DC or not I encourage you to pray for this Sacred Assembly. It could very well be a defining day in the life of our nation.

From The Sublime too the Silly

AND NOW, FOR SOME DEEP THOUGHTS: (sent in by Joyce Hawley)

* Why doesn't glue stick to the inside of the bottle?

* Can you be a closet claustrophobic?

* Why is the word abbreviation so long?

* Where do forest rangers go to "get away from it all?"

* What's another word for thesaurus?

* If a book about failures doesn't sell, is it a success?

* When sign makers go on strike, is anything written on their picket signs?

* Why isn't there a mouse-flavored cat food?

* If a stealth bomber crashes in a forest, will it make a sound?

* If the cops arrest a mime, do they tell him he has the right to remain silent?

* If a parsley farmer is sued, can they garnish his wages?

* When it rains, why don't sheep shrink?

* Should vegetarians eat animal crackers?

* Do cemetery workers prefer the graveyard shift?

* Do hungry crows have ravenous appetites?

* Instead of talking to your plants, if you yelled at them would they still grow? Only to be troubled and insecure?

* Isn't it a bit unnerving that doctors call what they do "practice"?

WHAT ABOUT ENGLISH?? (sent in by Eric Kriby)

Let's face it -- English is a crazy language. There is no egg in

eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in

pineapple. English muffins weren't invented in England or

French fries in France. Sweetmeats are candies while

sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers

don't groce and hammers don't ham? If the plural of tooth is

teeth, why isn't the plural of booth beeth? One goose, 2

geese. So one moose, 2 meese? One index, 2 indices?

Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not

one amend, that you comb through annals of history but not

a single annal? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get

rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught? If a

vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? If

you wrote a letter, perhaps you bote your tongue?

Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be

committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what

language do people recite at a play and play at a recital?

Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run

and feet that smell? Park on driveways and drive on

parkways?

How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while

a wise man and wise guy are opposites? How can overlook

and oversee be opposites, while quite a lot and quite a few

are alike?

Have you noticed that we talk about certain things only when they are absent? Have you ever seen a horseful carriage or a strapful gown? Met a sung hero or experienced requited love? Have you ever run into someone who was combobulated, gruntled, ruly or peccable? And where are all those people who ARE spring chickens or who would ACTUALLY hurt a fly?

You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in

which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you

fill in a form by filling it out and in which an alarm clock goes off by going on.

English was invented by people, not computers, and it

reflects the creativity of the human race (which, of course,

isn't a race at all). That is why, when the stars are out, they

are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible. And why, when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I wind up this essay, I end it.

THAT'S ALL FOR NOW

I hope you have a great week, and may the Lord Bless - remember to pray for PK Washington DC. For those of you who are new, below you will find a rerun from a previous HF. See Ya. Ken

THE ROOM

In the place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall cover with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was the one that read "People I Have Liked". I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it and realized that I recognized the names on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed".

Titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read", "Lies I Have Told", Comfort I Have Given", "Jokes I Have Laughed At". Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I Have Yelled At My Brothers". Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents". I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my life to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed the truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To", I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of the music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.

When I came to the file marked "Lustful Thoughts", I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, an drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy, I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With". The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, and almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No! Please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did he have to read every one?

Finally, He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this pity didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file, and one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.

"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus over mine. It was written in His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the card. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said "It is finished".

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.