When the New Orleans ministers met in Jackson, Mississippi, last Wednesday, Ken Taylor (professor at the seminary and pastor of Elysian Fields Baptist Church) said, “I’ve been preaching through John’s Gospel. And my next sermon–the one that was canceled when we all fled the storm–was to be from John 11. The resurrection.”

You cannot be a serious follower of Jesus Christ and not believe in resurrection.

Resurrections come in all shapes and sizes. Someone has asked that I tell you about the time God gave one to our family.

When I was thirteen, our house burned. That in itself was awful, but it came at the worst time in our lives. Two years earlier, the coal mines in West Virginia had shut down, Dad was laid off, and we moved into my widowed grandmother’s house in rural Alabama. Unable to find work there, Dad farmed. Once in a while, he got a few days’ work in a push mine, a home-made tunnel that was as primitive as anything from the 1800s, dangerous and dark and poor paying. Trying to feed and clothe a family of six children, one takes what he can get.

The feeding came easily; we lived on a farm. The clothing was the hard part. The shoes I was wearing had long since worn out, but there was no choice but to wear them on. We had moved across the hill to an uncle’s vacant house, four rooms it was, so you can imagine how crowded we were. I had no coat, and in the winter when I stood waiting for the bus in short sleeves, I would say, ‘I’m hot natured. Can’t stand coats.’ Kids can be such liars. My brother Ron was graduating from high school that year and they had scraped the money together to find him a graduating suit. Then, on that February, 1954, day some coals must have rolled out of the open grate and onto the wood floor. Dad had gone to Jasper and Mom was across the hill at Granny’s house. We were all in school.

It was like a death. You thought you were as low as it was possible to get, then someone found a way to go lower. As we stood around the smoldering remains, Ron said, “Mom, did you save my suit?” She said, “Son, we didn’t save anything.” So we all cried.

The resurrection started within hours. Family members from far and wide arrived at Granny’s–where this bunch of evacuees, refugees, it all applies–had gone. They brought clothing and money. Before bedtime, Dad had six hundred dollars in his pocket. That would probably be six thousand today. Uncle Ted Spain, owner of the destroyed house and the 107 acres it sat on, and forest ranger in Guntersville, came down to offer his comfort. That night, Dad and Uncle Ted agreed that we would purchase the 107 acres. Dad gave him the six hundred as a down payment. My out of work father got up that morning with a ton of concerns on how to provide for his family, saw what little he had disappear that day, but went to bed a landowner.

My cousin Dennis Ingle in Birmingham cleaned out his closet and sent me a dozen pairs of jeans, good ones, I mean, plus shirts and coats and shoes. I had more clothing that night than I’d ever had before. Okay, Dennis was a little taller than me, but, hey, this was great. His mom Aunt Maureen said, “Darling, did you keep anything for yourself?” Dennis said, “Yes, Ma’am, one suit.”

In a few days, Dad and my brothers started cutting timber on the property and swapping for dry lumber. We built a house, with the help of relatives and neighbors. That house is still there, added on to over the years. Mom is 89 and Dad is 93. Only last week, Dad said, “The house fire was awful, but it was the best thing that ever happened to us.”

My friend Randy had been laid off from his work. He had managed two garment plants in Vernon, Alabama, a few miles from Columbus, Mississippi, and someone bought them and sent in their own managers. Suddenly, Randy had to find another job. We were neighbors on the same street, our kids were best friends, I was their pastor.

One day, Randy heard Paul Harvey advertising Servicemaster, the company that cleans offices and homes. He sold his boat and borrowed money from his folks and bought a franchise for this section of Mississippi. He took the training and he went to work. Randy never minded real work. In time, he brought his two sons into the business.

Randy McCall has probably won every award that ServiceMaster gives its franchisees. He doesn’t talk about these things, but I see the awards on the walls around the house, and photos of the ceremonies. That company is as proud of him as his friends are proud for him. Randy has retired now, I guess we could say, although he goes into the office occasionally. Probably to count his money. Chris, my son Neil’s best friend and co-conspirator in teenage mischief, now runs the company.

Randy and Chris (okay, primarily their wives Charlene and Stacy) have built these incredible homes outside Columbus, with a lake in front of each and a pool behind the big house. They’re active in church, and Chris has been chairing some key committees. That is, until recently when they all decided they were getting so much work from the Memphis area, he and Stacy should move to Senatobia.

When Katrina hit, and our family was staying in hotels and with various family members, Chris called Neil. “Now I know why God has not let my house sell. He wants you and your family in it.” They spent a whole day taking things out of storage and refurnishing the house. As I write, Neil and Julie and Grant and Abby and Erin are living in that house. At home in Jefferson Parish, the all-clear is now sounding, and we’ll all be going home next week. We already loved the McCalls; we have a thirty year history with them. Old friends are the best friends, aren’t they. But they have carved out a place in our hearts that no one else can ever occupy.

Resurrection. Like the time my friend Robert was laid off from his job. He was fifty years old and what was he to do. After grieving for a few days, he stood up and found out about an insurance agency that was available and took the training. When he got sick, his wife Retha quit her job teaching home economics at the school and helped out in the office. Later, she took the training to be an agent, too, and after Robert’s death, she was the agent. They do not know this, and being a pushy kind of friend, I’ve never asked their permission or that of the McCalls, but I’ve told their story again and again in churches all over the land. I tell it to say: okay, life knocks you down. Get up, and get back into the game. The Lord may have something better for you.

My friend Cathy once sent me a framed piece of art that says, “When God closes a door, He opens a window.” I like that. It’s a variation of the line I’ve used for years: When a door closes in your face, just keep on walking, because God has one He is opening just down the hall.

We’ll go back into the New Orleans area in a few days. The official word from Jefferson Parish is that the River Ridge folks may come home today, Friday, and residents of the portion of Metairie where Neil and Julie live may return starting tomorrow. But we’re not going just yet.

I have a revival starting Sunday at Ridgecrest Baptist Church in Ozark, Alabama, with Pastor Jim Hill. He and his people have planned and prayed and worked for this many months, and when Katrina hit, it never occurred to me that I should cancel the meeting. Later, when the meetings multiplied and the demands on my life mounted and that thought occurred, Margaret said, “It could be the reason the Lord did not let it occur to you is He has something special in mind for this meeting.” I pray that’s the case. We will go through next Thursday night, September 22, and return home to New Orleans on Friday.

Neil could go home this weekend, but he said, “I’m not leaving Chris to have to take all this furniture back to storage by himself.” Besides, there is not a lot of point in joining the traffic jam back into the city just yet. The official line from Parish President Aaron Broussard is that “life is spartan; most businesses are not open yet.”

We’ll be going home in a few days. Many are already there.

Let the resurrection begin.