Before opening my mail and letting you read over my shoulder, you will be interested in knowing the attendance at Sunday evening’s Billy Graham service has been variously reported in the media as 17,800 and 16,000. Which means no one really knows. A group of pastors met downtown this morning to go through the hundreds of decision cards and sort them, getting ready to assign them to participating churches for followup. One pastor said there were “700 decisions” made on Saturday night. While we rejoice at this, we remind ourselves that all the efforts were worthwhile if they made the difference in one soul’s eternal destiny.

Letter one. I’ve known Mel since the 1980s when I was his mother-in-law’s pastor in Mississippi. A few years ago, he and his wife joined our church in Louisiana. Today, he wrote to say that lately he has been uneasy about his relationship with the Lord. “My heart was condemning me,” as he put it. So he decided to go back and make certain of his salvation. He took the little Billy Graham booklet “Steps to Peace With God” and read it, then did what it prescribes, namely, praying a prayer in which he repented of his sin and asked Jesus into his life to save him forever. He wanted me to know about it, and wondered if his pastor would mind baptizing an old guy like him.

I wrote back rejoicing over his decision and added: “In my notes of the Billy Graham sermon Sunday night, the very last sentence I jotted down was this: ‘If you’re not sure, you need to be certain.'” That’s what Mel was doing. I told him his pastor would be delighted to baptize him.

One of the songs from Nicole Mullen Sunday afternoon was about assurance of salvation. Those who were present will recall her refrain, “I know that I know that I know that I know….”

Letter two. One of the finest United Methodist churches on the planet is one some good friends of mine belong to in Mississippi. I haven’t asked the pastor’s permission to tell what he did Sunday, so I’ll not mention the location. But he was so courageous, I applaud the man and celebrate the faithfulness of his people.

In her note today, my friend said the pastor laid aside the sermon he had planned for Sunday morning in order to deal with some anonymous letters he had received. They had attacked the chairman of the church’s missions committee, a man, my friend said, who is as fine as any on earth. It seems that the state Methodist paper had listed the financial contributions to the United Methodist Committee on Relief, the agency helping in post-hurricane ministry on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Even though their church had given large amounts of money, they were not listed at all. That was enough to convince some that the chairman was embezzling, and they made those allegations to the pastor in anonymous notes.

In his message, the pastor talked about the dangers of character assassination, particularly through cowardly unsigned letters, and told what had actually happened. This particular church was on the ground in the devastated area before the UMCOR got going, and by the time they handed a check for $25,000 to the committee, its leaders told the church, “You’re doing just fine. Keep doing what you are doing.” Which, I assume, meant to keep on with their direct aid for churches, pastors, and communities without having to go through the committee. The pastor pointed out that since Katrina this church has given some $148,000 in direct aid plus other kinds of goods and ministries.

Then the pastor explained the structures the church has in place to make certain its contributions are spent wisely, that every dollar is accounted for. When he finished, he said, “You and I have two responsibilities in this: to stand up for those who are wrongfully accused and to forgive the perpetrators.” As he came to the benediction, he pointed out the church’s missions committee chairman and said, “He’s sitting right over there.” The congregation rose up and swarmed about the man and his wife, loving them, encouraging them, hugging them. Tears were flowing like rain. The chairman’s wife said, “I’ve never felt such love.”

I applaud a pastor who got it right. I would give a hundred dollars to know if the slanderous-letter-writers repent or if they get angry at their pastor and withdraw. Nothing, absolutely nothing, tells the story about one’s Christianity as how he reacts when he is rebuked for his sin.

Letter three. When I returned home Saturday night from the Graham crusade, a hand-written letter from my nine-year-old granddaughter Abby lay on the drawing table in my study. “Grandpa,” she wrote, “please don’t tell my parents. But I’m running away from home.” I was stunned. Not my Abby, the sweetest, stablest child I know. “I just don’t belong here any more,” she wrote. At the bottom, she drew a picture of herself with a backpack, and the words, “Abby running away.” She signed it, “Love, Abby.”

Margaret and I were completely puzzled. Was she teasing us? Everyone in this family teases, with my being the master of the art. But this is too serious a matter to be dismissed lightly. It was then midnight and too late to check on her, but I wrote her a letter in response.

“Dear Abby: As you asked, I will not tell your parents. But if you are going to run away, I have one request: take me with you. Because I love you so much that if you ran away, I would cry 24 hours a day. I don’t mind crying a little, but not that much. Oh, and Grandma wants to come too because she adores you so much. And your sister Erin will want to come because you are best friends. And your Dad and Mom and your brother.” At the bottom of the page, I drew each of us walking, carrying our own backpacks, all of us running away with Abby.

Sunday morning after church, Neil called to invite me to ride the church bus to the Arena for the Graham crusade. I asked to speak with Abby. “I was just teasing, Grandpa,” she said. Are you sure? “Yes. I thought you knew I was.” I assured her it was a scary thought, and asked if she would sit beside me on the bus.

On the way to the crusade, I gave her the letter she wrote to me and mine to her. She read mine and smiled at the part about all of us running away with her, then took them to the back seat so her folks could read them. Her mom will probably add them to the scrapbook of childhood memories. When she came back, she said, “Grandpa, if I ever do run away, I’m coming to your house.” Now, that’s a deal, I said, and made her promise that’s what she would do if she ever had to leave home.

After all, Grandpa’s house is just an extension of home anyway.

Monday was a busy day at our associational offices. A leadership team from one of our churches hurt by the storm came by, seeking counsel from Freddie Arnold and me (mostly Freddie) on their relocation and rebuilding. The new pastor of one of our ethnic churches came by, ready to start a mission church in a needy area of New Orleans where large numbers of his people live. Some men from the Billy Graham Rapid Response Team dropped by, bringing a van load of computers to give to churches and pastors needing them. Volunteer workers were trying to get Freddie’s FEMA trailer functioning correctly.

All of that was the fun part.

The difficult part of my day was the 90 minutes I spent in the dentist’s chair this afternoon. An old bridge–we’re talking about vintage 1975–was giving me trouble and will have to be replaced. Underneath were some teeth needing repair work. Lots of fun. I ate soup for supper, as the feeling did not return to the right side of my head until 8 o’clock.