Autoimmune Disease PART TWO

This is the story of my incurable autoimmune disease, and then (PART TWO) the miraculous ending to the story.

PART TWO

The first week of August, 2005, I was having an exceptionally difficult time of muscular weakness. I tried to force myself to go for walks, but struggled along for fifty yards, only to return home in absolute exhaustion. The NATURE of my autoimmune disease was that my condition would go up and down like a roller coaster. Well — that week was DEFINITELY A “DOWN”.

I had gone to District Royal Ranger Camp in July. It was a moral victory, because I was really too weak to be there. I had my sleeping bag on a mattress under the canopy of my pickup truck. All I had to do was crawl in and out of the truck. The leaders brought a golf cart to camp, and assigned a young man to drive me wherever I needed to go. I watched strong men cry when they watched me. It was HUMILIATING to be so weak for so long. I was dying.

As weeks went by, I yearned to go camping alone one last time. I still had my sleeping bag in the back of the truck from Ranger Camp. And the first week of August we decided that I should give it a try.

I was going to actually go camping by myself, in the back of my truck, for the first time IN OVER A YEAR. But by the time I got MY GEAR LOADED, I told Marty that I just didn’t have enough STRENGTH to go. But Marty talked me into it. She said, “If you STAY HERE you’re going to be weak, so you might as well be weak out there!”

And so, with great HESITATION, I went away ALONE, Thursday afternoon. North of Spokane I crossed the Pend Oreille River at Usk, and chose my mountain camp site on Browns Creek. I feebly pulled my propane cook stove out onto the tailgate of my truck and fixed some dinner, then weakly crawled into my sleeping bag in the back of the truck.

But SOMETHING HAPPENED TO ME during that Thursday night, August 4, 2005, while I slept in back of my Ford pickup truck. It would make a great story to say that I was deep in prayer, or that an angel came and spoke to me, or that I had some wonderful encounter with the Lord. But the truth is that I crawled into the back of my truck in total exhaustion, and went sound asleep. Whatever form God’s visit took that night I may never know.

When I woke up on Friday morning, I laid in my sleeping bag and remembered that one year ago on that day, MARTY HAD RUSHED ME TO THE HOSPITAL believing I was dying.

As I climbed out of my sleeping bag I realized that I felt BETTER than I had felt all week. After breakfast, I felt so good I decided to walk back down the Forest Service road toward Half Moon Lake. I couldn’t remember how far that was, but I took my trusty walking stick — my constant companion — and slowly started off, TRUDGING ALONG in my usual fashion. I felt so good after I trudged along the first 50 yards that I decided to try for ANOTHER 50. Then it became another 50, and then another 50.

The enemy of my soul began to harass me. But I kept trudging along. He reminded me that Marty didn’t even know exactly where I’d gone to camp. He reminded me that there was no cell phone coverage in this narrow valley. But I kept walking.

He told me what a fool I was. He reminded me that there had been absolutely no one come by on this isolated Forest Service road. He told me I was going to die out here alone, and Marty wouldn’t even know where to send help to find me. But I walked on.

As I approached the lake, the ugly voice challenged me to turn around an look at the road I had just followed. I had come down a long hill.  He sneered and snarled that the RETURN TRIP would be OVER A MILE, UPHILL! He growled, “You’ll never make it!” Then he said, “See that big rock over there across the road . . . you need to just go over there and sit down, and wait for SOMEBODY to come by and help you!”

By this time I was feed up with listening to the voice from Hell. And I began to answer him every time he brought up his discouraging words. And I would say, “Devil . . . hang it on your horn . . . I’m walking.”

As I turned back toward camp and began trudging up the long hill with my walking stick, every time the ugly voice shouted at me, I responded with “Devil . . . hang it on your horn . . . I’m walking.”  “You’re not being fair to your wife and family” he would snarl. And I would respond, “Devil . . . hang it on your horn . . . I’m walking.” “You’ll be dead and bear bait before they find your body,” he would scream. And I would snarl back, “Devil . . . hang it on your horn!”

I was almost to the top of the hill when it dawned on me that I had really PICKED UP MY PACE, and every hundred yards became STRONGER. By the time I reached my camp, I was CARRYING MY WALKING STICK like a rifle, and walking FULL-STRIDE! Glory to God!

After I fixed lunch back at camp, instead of taking my usual nap, I felt so good I WALKED ANOTHER MILE. And I left my WALKING STICK at camp! I could scarcely believe it — I was walking at a regular walking pace for the FIRST TIME in over a year!

For some strange reason, my old camp guitar was in the truck. It had been nearly a year since I could play it. I got my old guitar out and sat by the campfire and played the guitar for 3 solid hours — something I couldn’t ever HOPE TO DO the day before.

After I fixed dinner, I knew that I HAD TO CALL MARTY, to tell her the wonderful news. But there was no cell phone coverage in that canyon. I noticed a Forest Service road going up a far ridge, and I knew if I could get on that ridge, I could get a signal and could call Marty.

I grabbed my truck keys from my pocket and started to climb in the truck. Then I stopped, and triumphantly proclaimed “I’m not driving, I’m WALKING!”

And so I WENT FOR ANOTHER HIKE — UP A RIDGE AND BACK — THREE OR FOUR MORE MILES! When I called Marty, she told me later that she knew I was healed the moment she heard my voice. I sounded like my old self again! I called my son and my daughter boldly proclaimed my healing to them.

I hiked back to camp rejoicing. Then the Devil took after me again. He sneered “Even if you are healed, your muscles aren’t used to DOING ANYTHING. You’re going to wake up in the morning SO SORE you won’t be able to move! And I said, “Devil . . . hang it on your horn!”

I woke up on Saturday morning and felt TERRIFIC! Not ONE MUSCLE was sore in my whole body. I stretched, and grinned, and crawled out of the truck.

And before breakfast — just BECAUSE I COULD —I climbed an elk trail up a steep dirt bank thirty yards to the top, and back, praising God IN MY HEART!

And just before I slid to the bottom of the bank — God said to me, “Now . . . praise Me out LOUD!” And for the next hour, up and down Browns Creek I walked, with my hands in the air, SHOUTING PRAISES UNTO GOD!

THE FIRST WEEK OF AUGUST, 2005, ON A THURSDAY NIGHT — while camping alone at Browns Creek, northeast of Spokane — GOD TOUCHED ME MIGHTILY.

As I drove back home that morning, there was a worship chorus that we were singing in our church at the time. I sang it over and over and over again. It says:

“You deserve the glory, and the honor;
Lord, we lift our hands in worship,
As we lift Your holy Name.
You deserve the glory, and the honor;
Lord, we lift our hands in worship,
As we lift Your holy Name.

You are great — You do miracles so great!
There is no one else like you;
There is no one else like you;
You are great — You do miracles so great!
There is no one else like you;
There is no one else like you!”

The next week was an amazing turnaround in every way. Marty and I drove back up there, and checked the mileage. That Friday I had walked between 7 AND 9 MILES, without ever stopping along the way to rest — something I never thought I might do again in what was left of my life.

Back at home, I could actually sleep in our own bed again. I could set up to the table to eat our meals. I actually RAN short distances — and went up the stairs TWO AT A TIME, just because I COULD!

Psalm 30:5 says, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

My Autoimmune Disease

If you have not heard the miracle story of my Divine Healing from an autoimmune disease, you need to read this!  The blog "Part One" is the story of the long days of illness, and "Part Two" is the miracle ending.

PART ONE

In 2002 I became aware of struggling with constant extreme tiredness and weakness. I was 60 years old, and had been in the ministry all of my adult life. I became more and more weary. I questioned the possibility of “burn-out”.

Over several months I resigned from most of my ministry-related responsibilities, except my pastorate. I resigned from my District leadership position in Royal Rangers, because I was just too worn out. That condition of weariness continued to increase over the next two years. In the winter of 2003/2004 I had bouts with “the flu” several times, with a low-grade fever, nauseated, coughing, congestion, sore throat, and aching muscles.

In the early summer of 2004 I decided to sell my riding horse “Doc” (Percheron/Quarter horse cross) because of his size. My knees were hurting me a lot, and going up and down stairs and getting on and off my very tall and large horse (17+ hands tall) were just too painful.

In mid-June I was the Teen Camp Director of a interdenominational church youth camp. Midway through the week of camp, I became so nervous, shaky, and fatigued that I turned my duties over to someone else, and left camp a day early.

The end of June I helped our son Scott move his family to Minnesota for ministry.

A few days after the Fourth of July, 2004, I attended District Ranger Camp for Royal Rangers. Because of feeling so weak and “wiped out” I agreed to perform my duties as camp chaplain on a limited basis for the week.

Our vacation was scheduled for the last three weeks of July, 2004, but we stayed home the first week because I was sick. After regaining some strength, we left for our cabin in Okanogan County, where we spent two weeks.

On Monday, August 2, 2004, after returning from vacation, I got hit hard by some sort of flu-like virus. Over the next few days I was nauseated with vomiting, diarrhea, and sweating profusely. I lost a tremendous amount of fluid, and couldn’t keep anything down to replenish the fluids lost. The weather was very hot. On Thursday my illness exhilarated, and by early evening I had a fever of 104 degrees. Our family doctor, Dr. Thomas Hanson, instructed my wife by telephone to take me to emergency at Holy Family Hospital. He said later that I might have died that night if Marty hadn’t gotten me there when she did.

I was “out of my head”, and too ill to dress myself and walk to the car, but with Marty’s all-out effort and assistance she somehow got me up the stairs and out to the car in my pajamas. We arrived at the emergency room on August 5, 2004, between 8 and 9 p.m. My temperature was 102 degrees. Over the next three hours the ER personnel brought the fever down, gave me a chest x-ray, and an EKG. It was finally decided that I should be admitted, and somewhere around midnight I was taken upstairs and admitted into room 506, bed 1.

Because of the severe dehydration, my potassium and sodium were dangerously low. There was some question as to whether the x-ray showed pneumonia. My kidneys did not seem to be functioning properly. My heart was not functioning properly, with the top chambers “fluttering” instead of beating normally, and my heart-rate was high.

Over the next two days I was given constant fluids and medication intravenously. I was given medications orally on a number of occasions. Blood samples were taken several times, I was given insulin shots several times, and my blood-sugar was checked regularly. I was visited by Doctor Byrd, Doctor Everett from the Heart Institute, and a pacemaker technician who came to text my pacer (which I have had since 1987). Dr. Bird placed me on a 1400 calorie diet while I was in the hospital. Somewhere in the middle of the day I was wheeled downstairs for an ultrasound of my kidneys. I lost over 25 pounds in a week.

After many tests, lots of fluids by IV, and a whole lot of powerful prayer, I was released on Saturday evening, August 7. The doctors kept me in the hospital for several days without being able to determine the cause of the high fever. They released me, and I went home limper than a dishrag. Decisions on the heart and the pacemaker were placed on “hold” until the blood has been thinned to prevent a stroke.

I woke up the morning of August 28th feeling fairly good, but as the day progressed my condition deteriorated. After calling Doctor Hansen, Marty took me back to the emergency room at Holy Family Hospital on Saturday evening, August 28, for the second stay in August. Again, I was taken in because of a very high fever (without cause), severe head ache, and very sore throat.

It was determined in the emergency room, after consulting with Dr. LeRoy Byrd (the attending physician from the first hospital stay) that they would admit me back to the 5th floor. Within the next couple of days I had episodes of severe cold chills, drenched in sweat, with violent shaking and multiple blankets brought in. They changed my bedding several times because of being soaked in sweat. Dr. Byrd was perplexed, because there seemed to be no cause. To attempt some relief, high doses of Prednisone was given by IV, which seemed to help over a couple of days, and I began to get stronger.

In addition to Doctor Byrd treating me, they called in a specialist in infectious disease. The medical opinion was that I had an infection somewhere in my body, but they were not able to determine where that infection was located.

After a lot of glucose and antibiotics by IV, multiple shots of steroids (Prednisone) to fight inflammation, and then regular shots of insulin to deal with raising blood sugar levels, I was released on Wednesday, September 1, to rest at home while they were waiting to get the results back from the many, many blood samples taken. The latest blood tests, ultrasounds, and heart check-ups found nothing out of the ordinary.

I had several doctor appointments the week after being released. I had an appointment with the “infectious disease” specialist, Dr. Mark Gillum. He could find nothing. He, too, agreed that there was something really wrong, but couldn’t find it. The warning he gave was that it might take several months to regain the strength lost over six weeks of sickness. There were more blood tests, and more doctor’s appointments. Dr. Byrd was leaning toward there being some sort of autoimmune disease, possibly Lupus. In Dr. Byrd’s office, they took a number of blood samples, some of which were critical unusual tests to try to pin down more precisely what type of auto-immune disorder I had. The last batch of blood tests cost $1,300.00, and we had no health insurance for any of this. Dr. Byrd, told us one day in his clinic, “Finding the exact obscure strain of autoimmune disease that you have is like looking for a zebra in North America.”

The specialists agreed that I had a very rare form of autoimmune disease, difficult to specify, but that it was incurable. It seems the disease was effecting parts of the nervous system that control voluntary muscle movement, therefore causing a loss of signals which the nerves normally send to the muscles. As the disease progressed, nerve cells that control muscle cells were gradually lost. The disease began at my extremities, and slowly moved up my arms and legs. Somehow, the doctors suspected, either the sensors on my muscles that received the message to “move” were being neutralized or destroyed, or perhaps the message center itself was losing ability to tell my body to work. The result was somewhat similar to Lou Gehrig’s disease. The symptoms result from an autoimmune attack against the nerve-muscle junction, in which the body’s immune system attacks the receptors on my muscles. As the number of receptors declines, the signals sent to the muscles become weaker. The bulk of muscle was still there, but the ability to perform was fading fast. It was only a matter of time until the disease moved to my chest. The heart and the lungs are all muscle. I would then be put on a respirator for a short time, but then there would be nothing they could do. There was no cure for autoimmune diseases. This fast-moving disease would eventually be FATAL — take my life.

The tests and hopelessness continued for a year, without much change nor without much hope. The most hopeful thing our family doctor could say was, “Be thankful for the good days!” My physical abilities and emotional abilities went up and down from day to day like a roller coaster. The longer it went, the less “good days” there were.

Some Sundays I could preach in my church and some Sundays I couldn’t even attend. I missed 62 services in my church. In the services I WAS able to attend, I did not have the strength to play my guitar in worship. I had to sit on a stool behind the pulpit to speak. Away from the church, I was unable to hold the phone to my ear for more than a minute or so, unable to use the keyboard on my computer for more than a few minutes at a time, and unable to walk any distance without the aid of my trusty walking stick.

The first part of the most recent blood tests came back, but they were just the standard tests that most diabetics have to have taken several times a year. All of those tests came back normal. Weeks later the more unusual blood tests came back. Everything was within normal range except one, which was barely elevated.

The struggle continued, with some really good days, and then some days that were a real wipe-out. Periodically I ran a low-grade fever which didn’t seem to have a cause, and didn’t seem to last long. There was a nearly continuous slight headache and ringing in the ears.

In the months that followed the August hospital stays, what we came to call “incidents” became part of my life. An “incidents” was when, without noticeable warning, it was as if a switch was thrown and all my strength would dissipate almost instantly. When this happened, every muscle in my body seeming to go into vibrating trembles, and I would temporarily become a nervous wreck, and lose my equilibrium.

These “incidents” lasted an hour or two and then slowly subsided, after which I remained very weak for a day or two. The “incidents” happened once or sometimes twice a week. The rest of the time, I was pretty weak all of the time. My blood sugar didn’t seem to change when I had these “incidents”. Sometimes, if I sat down for awhile and ate a light snack, it seemed to help recover.

For three months. Dr. LeRoy Byrd gave me a prescription for Prednisone, a steroid, which I began taking on November 23rd. I started out at 30 mg for the first couple of days and then dropped back to 20 mg per day. Prednisone made a great deal of difference in my condition. It did not solve the problem, but did allow me to function most of the time. I improved from being unable to walk 200 yards, to being able to walk a mile. I found my condition to be somewhat like a roller-coaster. On the topside of the cycle I had quite a bit of strength and energy. On the bottom side I was wobbly, shaky, weak, and feeling like my muscles were all vibrating. Sometimes I could drop from feeling good to feeling limp and shaky within a few minutes.

Over that year of diagnosed disease, I struggled along by sheer determination and will-power. I DETERMINED that I would not lay down and quit — and I daily “cracked the whip” over myself to keep moving WHETHER my body thought it could move or not. We continued to remember that God is the “Great Physician” and is OUR HEALER — and was able to heal me in any instant.

So after a year of total muscular weakness, I had been prayed for by big crowds, small crowds, little groups, and individuals. I was falsely prophesied over a number of times. I was told that there must be sin in my life or I would not be sick. I had been prayed for many times, by many different people. I tried to “take it by faith” and all the other pieces of advise we give sick people. But when you are desperately sick there simply is no way to fake it or to step out by faith. You cannot fake what your muscles simply will not do, no matter how you want them to respond. Occasionally, well-meaning believers can unintentionally be very cruel. I was challenged to step right out in faith and walk — which I could not do, though I wanted to. Others questioned my faith, and I questioned my faith myself. I learned some great lessons about compassion, when I was on the “sick” end of things.

I SPENT THE NEXT YEAR struggling with an OVERWHELMING WEAKNESS. I lived in my recliner, in my pajamas. I slept there, I ate there. I often didn’t have enough strength to use the COMPUTER, hold a telephone to my ear, play my GUITAR, or sometimes to lift a FORK TO MY MOUTH! On most days, it was a difficulty for me to walk 50 yards — I MISSED 62 SERVICES at CrossWind Church in twelve months time. When I WAS able to go to church, I moved along the wall, with both hands on the wall for balance. When I was able to preach, I did so from a stool. I could no longer play my guitar in worship, because my arm simply could not hold itself up, but would droop to my side.

Some interest moved to “Myasthenia Gravis”, a chronic autoimmune neuromuscular disorder, whose name comes from Greek/Latin words meaning “grave muscular weakness”. It results from an autoimmune attack against the nerve-muscle junction, in which the body’s immune system attacks the receptors on the muscles. As the number of receptors declines, the signals sent to the muscles become weaker.

I did an internet search on “Myasthenia Gravis” and was amazed at how much it seemed to DESCRIBE ME. My muscle weakness didn’t take the direction of facial muscle weakness (ocular MG), but the description given also said that sometimes it affects the extremities instead. Approximately 15% to 20% of people who have MG have muscle weakness in the arms and legs. My search indicated that in men, MG often occurs in men after the age of 60. The severity of weakness fluctuates during the day, usually being least severe in the morning and worse as the day progresses, especially after physical activity.

Doctors were in the process of considering “Myasthenia Gravis”, as my mystery autoimmune disease. They were scheduling me for a trip to Seattle for something called a “Tensil Test”, because no one in Spokane was capable of administering it.

By FAITH, I told my congregation while I was sick — “When you come out of valley, the DARK CANYON WILL OPEN UP and give way behind you.”

In my next blog I will tell you the story of the miracle ending to this story of my autoimmune disease.  Our God a God of MIRACLES!

THOUGHTS OF EVANGELINE

She was small in stature, but mighty and determined in spirit. She had three priorities: God, family, and country.

Like her mother before her, Evangeline Buchert loved taking something old and seemingly useless — like an old chair, or an old empty shell of a house in Wauconda, and bring new life to it. This restored house became their mountain ranch and home. It was wonderful having them just a field away.

But even more important than that, I got to spend many hours sitting somewhere in a truck with her, waiting for cowboys to finish the job at hand.

Evangeline and I spent a lot of that time talking, praying, and laughing. She would share a concern with me, and I would tell her that “Jesus is the answer!” We would pray about it, and along the way her faith and trust in God grew.

Evangeline loved her family — her kids and her grand kids. Her home, where ever it was, always had lots of pictures of her loved ones and friends.

I remember after “mom and dad” were living at Wauconda, that Okanogan County changed the name of our road from Summer Road to Cemetery Road. None of us liked that at all! We didn’t want to have “cemetery” in our address! So Evangeline fought and won! It is still “Summer Road” today, with an extra sign that points up the road toward the cemetery. She knew how to take the bull by the horns!

Evangeline was always ready to have family or friends over to visit. And she could be dressed and busy at ranch work, and that evening be all dressed up and ready for whatever the occasion. And she was always ready to be swept off her feet by her husband, friend, and lover, and dance around in Ed's arms to their own music.

What a wonderful lady! She was my dear friend, and adopted mom. She raised four great, loving children, who have always made me feel welcome, loved, and part of the family.

As Ed and Evangeline’s family multiplied, so did their love — NO DIVISION there!

They will be remembered “together” once again, just like they always were!

ARE MOMS SENT FROM HEAVEN?

Do you have a mom? Oh, of course you do. Everyone does! At least that’s what I thought when I was young.

My world was so small and cozy . . . not a care or a fear.

I remember my mom . . . the gentle touch of her hand, the softness of her voice as she read me story after story. Milk toast when I didn’t feel good. (Does anyone remember milk toast?)

I still remember how it felt when she tucked me into bed each night. The prayers . . . yes, she prayed over me when she tucked me into bed. She prayed for all of my hurts, big and not so big.

I remember the effortless way she told me about JESUS. She wove Him into my heart with fine, beautiful threads . . . threads so strong and tight and full of His love for me. And the knowledge that He would always be there with me no matter what! No fear . . . only love and trust. . .

Then I grew up. I found out that not very many people had a mom like mine, who was loving and kind, with beautiful threads, shiny and tight. Their lives were woven with broken threads all rotten and loose. Unable to love and trust . . . with lives filled with hate and fear.

Lord, please help me to show someone the way to Your great sheltering arms and heart so full of love, grace and trust.

MORE MEMORIES OF YESTERDAY . . .

Grandmothers! I was blessed with more than my share of them, at least if you compare mine with someone who only had one or maybe none.

My Brothers Three and Me, loved to go to “BIG” grandma’s house. Why “BIG” you ask? Well, she was tall . . . compared to “LITTLE” grandma who was short! “LITTLE” grandma was only, maybe, four foot eight or nine inches tall (or should I say short). And only about ninety pounds. “BIG” grandma was about five feet five inches and . . . ? . . . pounds.

Well, anyway . . . we lived a ways away from “BIG” grandma’s house, but not so far that we couldn’t walk there, or ride our bikes. We would go down the hill on Piccadilly Street, (I like that name!) Over the railroad tracks, past the house with the two Great Danes, and into the woods. I can remember running as fast as I could while hollering to my Brothers Three to wait for Me! I didn’t want to go past the railroad tracks alone, or past those big barking dogs! Not to mention the occasional hobo, that was waiting to hop a freight train.

So, safe and sound in the woods at last. This was our favorite place to play all kinds of wild and adventurous make-believe games. Oh, yes, back on the trail to “BIG” grandma’s house. The next obstacle was a large old log that made a perfect bridge to cross the most wonderful creek that any kid would love to play in. Then we wound our way through the trees, ferns and other bushes on a wonderful path that came out in grandma’s back yard.

One of us would telephone mom, so she would know that we made it to grandma’s safe. My grand-kids would be asking me if there really were telephones way back then! We couldn’t stuff them in our pocket and go, but we had ‘em, party lines and all! What’s a party line? Well that’s another story!

“BIG” grandma would give us all hugs and kisses and set us down to milk and cookies, cake, or something wonderful from her bountiful kitchen.

We never knew what lay in store for us there! It could be picking raspberries, blackberries or just playing in grandma’s yard, or in our wonderful “woods”.

Then at supper time, mom and dad would show up and we would enjoy some of “BIG” grandma’s good cooking! Yummy!

Memories of Easter . . .

Easter is a wonderful holiday.  When I was young, all of us kids loved seeing the new babies that Spring brings. We enjoyed all of the beautiful Spring flowers and blossoms on the many fruit trees, around the neighborhood and in our own yards.

I remember my new Easter outfit! It wasn’t just a new dress . . .  it included a hat or something special for my hair, gloves and purse, and of course, pretty new “Sunday School” shoes.

There were Easter Baskets full of that wonderful green grass and . . . oh yes . . . lots of candy and chocolate eggs nestled under and through the grass. And on top of all of that . . . a big chocolate bunny and some fuzzy little yellow chicks. And of course we always had marshmallow Peeps. Yummy.

Our family Easter egg hunt was always lots of fun. Our parents, aunts, and uncles would make us kids stay inside the house, while they hid the eggs! Then we would all be turned loose to find the eggs! It was great!

Of course, before all of the fun at Grandma’s house, we had all been to our Sunday School and Church services.

Then came dinner time! Big family dinners at Grandma’s house were always wonderful, with way more food than anyone could eat! Lots of family, lots of cousins. Did I say lots of food? And Grandma’s HOT CROSS BUNS!  We only had them on Easter. Big fluffy buns with a white frosting “cross” on top of each one of them, remembering the Cross where our Lord and Savior, Jesus, shed His precious blood for all the sin of the world.

But, more than that . . . He died for ME! Jesus loves ME! The pure, wonderful love that comes with forgiveness and grace . . . the LOVE that gives us HOPE for now and eternity. Join your heart, with mine, in thankfulness to Jesus, because He died for us on Calvary, and rose again on that beautiful Easter morning.

Thank you Jesus! You are the BEST!

Dan & Marty Womack in Ministry