I’ll begin with some good news: Kenneth and Angela Foy are back after an absence of 18 months. For years, he was pastor of New Life Baptist Mission on Gentilly, not far from the seminary campus, while also serving as a counselor at our Brantley Baptist Center for the homeless. Angela worked as a legal secretary for a downtown law firm, alongside my daughter-in-law Julie.

“We evacuated to Grove City, Ohio,” they said. They attended the First Baptist Church there. “We were surprised to find they were Southern Baptists and they were surprised to find we were, too!” they laughed. “Those are the most wonderful people,” they said, referring to the church members and Pastor Jerry Neal. Angela said, “They hated to see us go.”

It’s still uncertain what they will do here, now that they’re back. The law firm long ago filled the vacancy left by Angela’s absence, and Kenneth and his scattered congregation had to sell their small church building. “We couldn’t handle the mortgage plus our house payment in Ohio.” Now, they’ve got their Ohio house on the market and planning to return to New Orleans permanently.

“We thought about relocating to Baton Rouge,” one of them said. “But we ran into someone here who said, ‘What do you mean going to Baton Rouge! We need you here!'” Kenneth said, “I couldn’t get that voice out of my mind. I think the Lord was using her to tell us we’re supposed to be in New Orleans.”

I’ve written the Ohio pastor to thank the church for taking such good care of the Foys. In the meantime, Kenneth is looking for opportunities to preach. These days, we have very few African-American churches and the ones we do have, post-Katrina, are struggling to make a go of it. We’ll appreciate prayers for the Foys.

John Claypool used to preach a sermon which he entitled, “Good Luck, Bad Luck–Who Is To Say?” The story on which he based the message is priceless. (Preachers, take note!)

The Chinese tell about a poor old farmer who owned a single horse which he used for everything. That animal pulled the plow, drew the wagon, provided a ride into town, everything. One day a bee stung the horse and he bolted off into the mountains. The farmer searched for days and was unable to find him. When he returned home empty-handed, his neighbors came out to greet him. They said, “We’re so sorry for your bad luck in losing your horse.” The old man just said, “Bad luck, good luck–who is to say?”

A few days later, the horse returned, accompanied by twelve wild horses which he had encountered. The old farmer penned up all the horses, and the news spread throughout the village. Neighbors came by to congratulate the farmer on his good luck. He shrugged and said, “Good luck, bad luck–who is to say?”

The farmer’s son began to work at breaking the horses so they could be sold, and in the process, was thrown and his leg was broken in three places. As word of the accident got around, the neighbors came to tell the father, “We’re sorry about the bad luck of your son getting hurt.” The man just said, “Bad luck, good luck–who is to say?”

About that time a war broke out between some of the provinces in that part of China. The army came through the village drafting every young man they could find. Because the farmer’s son was injured, they passed him by. That saved his life, because everyone from the village who was drafted was killed in battle. Once again, the townspeople congratulated the farmer on his good luck. And once again, he answered, “Good luck, bad luck–who can tell?”

Claypool makes two points from this story: one, that we humans are in no way able to draw final conclusions about anything that happens to us; and two, God is always at work for good in everything that happens.

Recently, the Lord has been telling me that the time for tears over New Orleans is over. It’s now time to look to the future, to this new thing the Lord is doing here.

We in this city are not unlike the Israelites in the wilderness. They were on the way to the Promised Land but the temptation was strong to keep looking back to Egypt and longing for the few pleasures they had enjoyed in that otherwise miserable existence. They would sit around in late evenings and commisserate with one another, saying, “We remember the watermelons.” Another would say, “I miss the onions.” “And the garlic.” “The leeks.” “The cucumbers.”

How easily they had forgotten the slavery of their Egyptian life, the slaughter of their male babies, and the hopelessness of their very existence. All they’re remembering is cucumbers and melons and garlic. (That’s in the Bible, Ginger. It’s Numbers 11.)

It was either Major Ian Thomas or Vance Havner–can’t recall which–who used to scoff at the way Israel was longing for these simple pleasures from their sad past. “Melons are 95 percent water!” he would say. “Cucumbers are 12 inches of indigestion. And of course, garlic speaks for itself.”

So from now on, my eyes must not be on the broken past and ruined history of this city. I’m to focus on the new things God is doing here.

After all, we who follow the Lord Christ serve a Lord who delights in taking broken vessels and making them whole again, even to the point of improving on the original.

Pray with us for that, please.