Butter Rum Cartoon

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Sunday, January 20, 2013


Henry Lund was born around 1905, the firstborn son of Julius and Gina Lund who emigrated from Norway not long before. When Henry was three, he became very ill. He was lying in bed with his parents watching over him, when suddenly he sat up and gazed upward; he reached up and laughed, and his lifeless body fell back on the bed. The little boy had seen a glorious and delightful vision just before he died.

Julius and Gina were both awestruck and broken as the soul of their son departed. The miracle that took place as Henry left this world was told for generations to come.  In 1908 a second son, Clarence, was born, and the story of his brother's death made a big impact on him. Clarence grew up to become a minister, hoping that all people could experience the same joy that Henry did at the end of their earthly lives.

Clarence Lund is my father, and although his death in 1978 was more physically painful than his brother's, he had the assurance and wonderful joy that he would see our Lord Jesus face to face.

I miss Dad, and I miss the Uncle Henry I have yet to meet. But I've passed down little Henry's story to my family, and to others, and now to you.  God bless you.

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  1. A beautiful story. Glad that your father didn't die when he was a child, because I would have never met you many years after. God bless you Dale!

  2. Desert nights, I remember
    clouds shredded to wisps,
    wisps slowly wafting,
    curling cross nails of starlight,
    cold diamonds studding the lapis firmament.

    I knew the reason why Jesus withdrew
    from curious questions to silence,
    to the desert to listen to His Heart,
    beating in waves outward, inward,
    spreading out like a carpet over sand and thorns,
    cold boulders sheltering sleeping serpents,
    gathering in like a mother hugging lost children fiercely.

    Desert nights, I listened for daybreak,
    cold creatures scuttling over cold stones,
    grit of glass, shards of ancient eruptions,
    scattering scintill√¶, saluting dawn’s rosy fingers,
    the sun mounting, exhaling welcome from a purple ridge,
    now red-rimmed, gold-streaming, screaming,
    “Come to life! O sleepers, awake!”

    Michael Lake