Here’s what happened today. That would be Thursday, May 15, 2008.

Dean McKinley Dacus emailed. She started by saying that she came to know the Lord in a youth revival at our church in May of 1968–precisely forty years ago–and that I had baptized her. She was 14 and the only member of her family in church. Her father went to Heaven in August of that year and I did his funeral. So, she’s reminding me of this. As though she needed to.

I said to her (via e-mail of course), “Dean, over these years, I have thought of you so often.” I gave her a couple of reasons that I’ll not put here, then added, “I asked you once, ‘Do you have someone to talk with about these things that are worrying you?’ You gave me an answer I’ve never forgotten. ‘I didn’t before. But now that Jesus Christ is in my life, I do now.'”

Now, put yourself in this pastor’s place and imagine a kid from 40 years ago reconnecting with you. How good do you think that feels? A little foretaste of Heaven.

Dean mentioned that after I left at the end of 1970, Hugh Martin came as pastor of the church (that would be Emmanuel Baptist in Greenville, Mississippi) and how blessed she feels to have had two such terrific pastors in her life at such a young age. I passed that on to my dear brother Hugh Martin up in Philadelphia, Mississippi, so he can connect with her too. (more about Hugh below)

Isn’t the internet wonderful! This generation is the first to be able to do this.

I am constantly being amazed and surprised by someone from the past discovering our website and reaching in to the present and making a connection.

I had an e-mail a few weeks ago from a church secretary in Florida who had found this website. She said, “You might not remember me, but you’ll never forget my husband.” When she told me why, I agreed that she was right about that. Here’s the story.

That Sunday evening in January of 1975, I was driving by the Holiday Inn in Columbus, Mississippi, to pick up the guest speaker for our church. As I waited in the left lane to pull into the parking lot, the car’s blinker going, I glanced into the rear view mirror. A car was barreling down on me and about to rear-end mine.

It’s funny what you do when you realize you’re about to be hit. I blew the horn. And he plowed into me.

I was driving a 1972 Pontiac Bonneville–they were massive, very long and very heavy–while he, the secretary’s husband, was driving every man’s dream, a Corvette sports car. When he hit my car, the fiberglass body on his exploded into large parts and scattered all over the highway. My car sustained a tiny dent in the bumper. I didn’t even have it fixed, as I recall.

The driver got out cussing and fussing. He was upset, although not at me. When he found out I was a preacher, he said, “I was on my way to church.” I thought, “Exactly where you need to be.”

In the email exchange, his wife said her husband continues to have a love affair with Corvettes, and now has the–I don’t know–sixth one he has owned, something like that. I said, “He doesn’t learn, does he!” Not a very sturdy body if the car hits something.

That was a fun re-connection.

Mike McCain chimed in. I’ve not seen him since the mid-1960s when I led him to Christ and baptized him as a 15 year old. He’s pastoring an interdenomination church up in Minnesota or Wisconsin. (If he reads this, he can straighten me out by leaving a comment.)

I’ve told on this website of the time the McCains were attending the Paradis Baptist Church, some 25 miles west of New Orleans on Highway 90. Mrs. McCain and the two children, Mike and his little sister, were coming to church regularly, and so one night I called on the family in the Mimosa Park subdivision. Toward 8:30 or 8:45 pm, I was leaving the house when Mr. McCain, whom I had not met, came in from work at the shipyards in New Orleans (where my son Neil works today). We greeted each other, and because it was late, I left and was driving back to Paradis where we lived in a small apartment in the back of the church.

Along the way, I began to have this overpowering sensation that I should have spoken to Mr. McCain about his relationship to the Lord. The further I drove, the stronger the feeling became. Finally, I did a little bargaining with the Lord. “If that traffic light at Boutte is red, I’ll know you want me to go back and talk with him.” That was the only traffic light on that highway for 20 miles, and late at night, it was never red. But that night it was. I could have gotten out of the car and walked around it, it stayed red so long. So I turned around and went back.

Now I began working myself up into some kind of anxiety. How embarrassing would it be to return to his house when I was just there? Will he think me silly? What will I say?

I parked in the driveway and knocked on the door. When he opened it, I said, “Mr. McCain, I apologize, but after leaving, I realized I would have liked to visit with you. Would that be all right?”

He was the very definition of graciousness, invited me in, and we had a great visit. The next Sunday he was in church and he came regularly thereafter. Sometime later–I’m hazy on the chronology–I moved to pastor the church in Greenville, Mississippi, and one day, he called me long distance.

“Brother Joe, this is Lynn McCain. I’m ready to be saved. Can you help me?” I laughed out loud. I sure could. What a joy that was. We went over some scriptures and then he prayed, asking Jesus into his life.

In the mid-1990s after I had returned to the New Orleans area to pastor the First Baptist Church of Kenner, Mrs. McCain showed up at one of our Christmas pageants. She was living in a retirement community at Prairieville, this side of Baton Rouge, and was the friend of one of our ex-members who brought her to the service. She told me Mr. McCain had died some years before, and the kids were grown up.

One day, Mike McCain’s name showed up on my computer. I was so thrilled to find he is still serving the Lord, and more, that he is pastoring a church.

Foretastes of heaven.

A year or so ago, I told about meeting Clifford Stine, a Hollywood cinematographer, in the early 1970s when he had retired and moved to Jackson, Mississippi. As I recall, I baptized him. He and I sat and talked about the movies he had worked on–beginning with the original King Kong, if you can believe it–and how he had been Universal’s director of special effects for many years. He told of the large Christian community in Southern California, and I recall so much of our conversation. Then, I got an email.

My longtime friend, Becky Cleveland of Knoxville–she was raised at First Baptist-Jackson–had read that, as she does everything we put here, and responded, “Clifford Stine was my uncle.”

Small world.

I sometimes tell pastors to be careful what you say, because you never know who’s in the audience. If that’s true of a congregation of fifty people, it’s a hundred times as likely to be the case with the internet. Some public figures hire firms to track the times and places their names appear in the internet, and once in a while, one will read something I wrote and respond. I’ve been chewed out more than once.

That’s how I met Robert Cerasoli, the new inspector-general for New Orleans. I sure was glad I spoke of him favorably, because he chimed in with a great e-mail and told how he’s a fellow believer and appreciated the prayers. Since then, we’ve exchanged more notes and had a long visit in his office and I continue to pray for him.

I mentioned Hugh Martin following me as pastor of Emmanuel in Greenville, Mississippi. Actually, he and I go back before that. In the mid-1960s we were in seminary together here in New Orleans. Often, between class, we would stand around with other students and brag about what the Lord was doing in the churches we were serving. One day, Hugh got a call from a friend in Greenville. Lawrence Bryant said, “We’re looking for a new pastor and while I was praying, the Lord put you on my heart. Does he want you to be our preacher?”

Hugh said, “No, I’ve just accepted the pastorate of the Valence Street Baptist Church in New Orleans.” Bryant said, “Maybe the Lord wants you to recommend someone to us.” Hugh said, “That would be Joe McKeever.”

Neither of us had ever heard the other preach. We simply knew each other’s heart, and from that, Hugh felt I would be right for that church. The upshot is that in November of 1967, just after we graduated from seminary, I became pastor of Emmanuel and stayed through the 1970 year. And when I left….

Lawrence Bryant became chairman of the pastor search committee once more and called Hugh at Valence Street. He ended up becoming the pastor of Emmanuel, where he stayed for many years.

And now, even though he (like some of us) is getting a few years on him, Hugh Martin is still pastoring the Lord’s churches—and we are so honored to have him read these articles and from time to time, leave his comments.

Well, I could tell you about Bobby Hood, another classmate, who is still preaching in Mississippi. And Tom Monroe, another seminary brother, who reconnected just today. And probably a dozen church members from at least forty years ago who are still part of our lives as a result of the internet. Then, there must be that many more from 20 and 30 years ago.

Hey, it doesn’t hurt to get a few years on you when you have so many good friends to make the journey with.

I’m not sure how many people receive our emailings, but it’s somewhere around 1200. A 42 cent stamp for that many letters would have me bankrupt in two weeks. But the entire cost of the website for a full year, and this covers all my postings and all the emailings, the entire cost is $120 annually.

This is truly the age of miracles. I’m so grateful to have gotten in on this blessing.

Last week at the 50th reunion of our high school graduating class, we received a booklet with everyone’s name and contact information. Many had listed their email address. We are adding them to our list to receive these twice-weekly mailings. It’s such an easy way of staying in touch.

As always, we invite readers to leave your own comments at the end of these articles. Others find they enjoy your comments as much or more than the article itself.