Will Vaus

On one of our recent walks around town, in the midst of the coronavirus lockdown, we happened to meet someone I know. And he said to me as he walked past us, six feet distant, “So, you are out here walking in the valley of the shadow of death?” And I responded, “Yes, it’s where I live.” My friend was not sure he understood me, so he asked about my statement later. I explained, we all live in the valley of the shadow of death. We cannot escape it. Perhaps as a pastor, one who conducts funerals, I am more aware of it than others. The story is told of another pastor whose wife died. While the pastor was driving his children to the funeral, they stopped at an intersection and a semi tractor-trailer crossed their path. As the semi passed, the shadow of it enveloped their car. The pastor used the opportunity as a teachable moment. He asked his children, “Which would you rather be hit by, the semi or the shadow?”  His children responded, “The shadow of course.” Then t

On one occasion, Billy Graham met alone with Winston Churchill. At one point in the conversation, the Prime Minister looked Billy in the eye and said, “I am a man without hope. Do you have any real hope?” Billy asked, “Are you without hope for your own soul’s salvation?”  Churchill responded, “Frankly, I think about that a great deal.”  Billy had his New Testament with him. Knowing that they had only a few minutes left together, Billy explained the way of salvation. Churchill seemed receptive. Billy talked about God’s plan for the future. Churchill’s eyes seemed to light up at the prospect. At precisely 12:30, Churchill’s assistant knocked. “Sir Winston, the Duke of Windsor is here for your luncheon.” “Let him wait!” Churchill growled. The two men went on talking for another 15 minutes, then Billy asked if he could pray. “Most certainly,” Churchill said, standing up. “I’d appreciate it.” Billy prayed for the difficult situations the Prime Minster faced

Margaret Sangster Phippen wrote that in the mid 1950s her father, British minister W. E. Sangster, began to notice some uneasiness in his throat and a dragging in his leg. When he went to the doctor, he found that he had an incurable disease that caused progressive muscular atrophy. His muscles would gradually waste away, his voice would fail, his throat would soon become unable to swallow. Sangster threw himself into his work in British home missions, figuring he could still write, and he would have even more time for prayer. “Let me stay in the struggle Lord,” he pleaded. “I don’t mind if I can no longer be a general but give me just a regiment to lead.” He wrote articles and books and helped organize prayer cells throughout England. “I’m only in the kindergarten of suffering,” he told people who pitied him. Gradually Sangster’s legs became useless. His voice went completely. But he could still hold a pen, shakily. On Easter morning, just a few weeks before he died, he wrote a lett