One might imagine that there should be a story about Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther in this anthology of greatness. Although this would be gratifying and appropriate company to connect these champions of normalcy with, this conjecture would certainly miss the criterion for the hero I wished to applaud.

You have just read about attributes that often are overlooked, giftings that are sometimes not honored, and citizens who can sadly slip past our lives unnoticed. It is never ones intention to fail to miss the extraordinary people that walk through our lives. More so it is certainly not our aim to ever fail to see the extraordinary ones that are always around. But somehow, in the midst of a busy day, a crowded lifestyle, or because of a distorted view we have unknowingly adopted, we can miss those amazing examples that God has planted around us.

As you read these seemingly ordinary stories, I hope you were able to see a paradigm shift in the attributes I chose to underscore. I hope you as you took a peek at commonplace lives that you saw glances of virtues that are trying to express themselves through your own life.

Those virtues are sometimes hidden so deep inside that they are never discovered.

Those virtues may battle your pursuit of the American dream.

Those are the qualities that stand in stark contrast to your desire for honor.

Those merits are the voice inside that is hushed when you close your eyes to your neighbor.

Those little known extraordinary virtues stay tucked away

Because if they are uncovered,

Something else has to give.

Something else has to disappear

Something else has to be denied.

Often times that something else - is me.

Nobody likes to deny themselves.

However I can guarantee that when you walked through the gallery of the portraits that were painted for you, you stopped and admired the artwork of the Creator in lives well lived.

Why?

Deep inside of all of us, extraordinary is yearning to live through death to ourselves. The Creator calls this the Image of God. Some people present this image better than others. They may display it in ordinary places through simple things, and in quiet ways, but there is nothing run of the mill about looking like God.

The image of God is a beautiful quality to exhibit.

The image of God, when it is displayed accurately exemplifies the pursuit of the right things.

The image of God, when represented authentically is what is truly extraordinary.

Although we have seen great examples of extraordinary, the best example we have of the Image of God was lived out in the incarnate life of Jesus Christ.

He is our ultimate model of what living an extraordinary life is all about.

He personified humility in the unassuming nature that he came.

He portrayed love in His approach to people through his life.

He embodied selflessness in the way he denied himself through his death.

Characteristics that aren’t sought after…

Virtues that are easily set aside for something better…

Qualities that are rarely seen in the lives we admire…

The price of extraordinary is much higher than we calculated.

The value is less appreciated than it deserves.

But everyday we have a new opportunity to become truly extraordinary.

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            Cynthia, my wife has an unceasing angst of being in front of people if more than two or three are present. She loves the scripture that allows anything to be done in His name with those numbers in mind if she has to take the lead. You must understand my emphasis on this undiminished anxiety within her. Florence is an effective type “A” personality, and with that comes the ability to get things done. A you delve deeper, you can see that there is an anointing in her that is able to see things in people they can’t see themselves. She comes across this anointing, I believe because she brings her daily decisions before God more frequently than most. In any case, she approached Cynthia about the need for a worship leader for an upcoming women’s conference that was to be held at our church. In any other situation, Cynthia would have proceeded to turn and begin to sprint the other direction at full speed. Sprinting would be Cynthia’s second least favorite activity desired next to the question being posed to her at that moment.

“I told her yes,” screaming at her highest octave, she recounted to me later.

“What was I thinking? I can’t sing, much less lead ladies at a conference in worship!?”

I didn’t have a response – just a large grin that I tried to hide with everything within me.

“How in the world did this happen?” I whispered under my breath.

At that moment I could have sworn I saw a pig flutter past my window.

And sure enough, one prayerful request from Sister Florence, and the next thing you know my wife is leading worship for a gathering of women much larger than two or three.

Eight years old and clueless

You would have never thought that my path would cross with Florence again. Well, at least after my eighth birthday. Little did I know I would serve under her and her husband twelve years later? But way before that, I encountered this woman of prayer at a moment where my life changed forever.

There I sat in a hot chapel with no air conditioning in the humid Ozarks of Missouri. The red haired lady in the front of the room was explaining the theology of the Baptism of the Holy Ghost as she called it. I don’t recollect knowing who he she was or even caring at this time. Her pencil was pointing to the overhead projecting a big shadow on the ivory colored screen hanging with duct tape and rope.

“The baptism of the Holy Ghost first took place in Acts 1:8. Will you open your bibles and read that with me together?”

She went on to explain some things I understood, and others I certainly didn’t. But one thing was for certain. Later I concluded that she had spent costly hours in meditation over this teaching time. Not because it was unusually long as I remembered, but that there was a preparation in the spiritual realm that far surpassed her words I later realized. She was a woman of prayer. She had a confident faith that unswervingly knew that God would show up in a mighty way in that little chapel at a kid’s summer camp.

Her teaching that day was far from extraordinary, but when Florence gave what she had to the Lord, the result was far from ordinary.

Although I had other things on my mind as well, when she gave the invitation to accept this free gift from above, I stood to my feet and rushed to the altar.

She had explained one thing I did understand.

And that was that “it was free”, and “it was for me.”

I liked presents and she conveyed it in such a way that helped me comprehend that God was a giver of good gifts.

What happened next I could not explain? Her approach was not conventional by today’s de rigueur standards, but was the son of God’s?

I was touched by power, and my little body began to sob and cry uncontrollably. I remember feeling peaceful inside as I cried with joy. I didn’t understand it and I didn’t have to. And I don’t know what your theology is, but at eight, I didn’t have one. Then out of nowhere, I began to say words I didn’t know.

I even asked, “What are these words I’m saying?”

I laughed and cried and sat in God’s presence unlike what I would ever expect a 3^rd grader to do.

That experience still stays with me as the single biggest reason I can never doubt that God is there. Through the cynical high school years and often skeptical college years, I never doubted for a moment that God was real because of the amazing experience I had that morning. And it came to pass, because of the obedience of a lady who had spent enough time with God to have the faith that an eight year old could experience His presence.

More than anything else she did, one thing I know – she prayed. What an ordinary statement! But I am just one of countless lives in Kansas, Guatemala, and around the globe that were extraordinarily touched by that life that spent daily time with God.

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The lost art of prayer 

            A   person is not coined as extraordinary because someone else speaks their praise. They are simply extraordinary without a word ever being spoken about their life.

            Florence went about her business differently than some you could say. At first glance, she may have come across as short in her demeanor or preoccupied. But the more you got to know her; you realized that her motive in doing so was always to show concern to those who needed it most. She was a pastor’s wife who did her duty well. She was known to preach on Sunday morning at times. She was also known to sit and support her husband while he preached at other times.

            You could always know where you stood with Florence. She told you if you were out of line. She also made sure to let you know when you were doing a good job. She never overstated or exaggerated her view. Her objectiveness was refreshing in a world where people love to gain your acceptance by telling you what you want to hear.

            Prayer meeting began promptly at 9am every Monday morning and 6pm every Monday evening respectively. This was something you could tell was of very high priority to her. Even if that was all I observed, it would be enough to make her heart after God stand out in pastoral life where our busy schedules manipulate us to think we do not have time for interceding.

            The meeting began with the faithful in attendance that she had groomed over time reading over a freshly typed list each week of people that needed attention in prayer. It was obvious that she had taken great concern in her compilation of the weekly list to make sure as not to miss anyone that needed our intercession.  This was not just a meager list of five or ten; it covered one whole 8 x 11 sheet, two columns wide in ten point font often spilling to the back side of the paper. It was in categories of family members and friends who needed salvation, those who are sick at home, and those sick in the hospital. There were listed those in need of a major miracle, those with an ongoing trial, and even those who needed a touch around the globe, and a few others that I’m not extraordinarily caring enough to remember. But she would.

            We then would take out our pens and pencils following her example and read over the list together, making notes on any late breaking updates the group had heard today. She’d put on her reading glasses and I never entertained the notion that this was just a social event to drink coffee and waste time. She meant business.  Often, she would tell us how she had spent the night before in the ICU with a dear sister or brother or how she had just come from visiting sister so and so that was on the list in a convalescent home. It was never to toot her own horn, because you knew she didn’t have time to waste with such trivial character hang ups.  

            She was always conveying the urgency to pray. Florence would then go on to mention in the prayer meeting all of the praise reports that had taken place this week and share a short devotional.

            The devotional was short; the praise reports frequently were not. This stands out to me as the proof in the pudding that these prayer meetings as I began to realize were the foundational pillars that held up our church.

            There I kneeled trying to keep up every Monday morning with her energy and zeal for young Bobby who had walked away from the Lord and his family and Sister Sheridan who lost her husband. Many times, I am embarrassed to admit that my mind would wander and I would even fall into the same temptation that Matthew and Mark fell into and drift off to sleep. I put myself into their biblical company to somehow disguise my shortcomings.

            However, Florence needed no disguise when it came to speaking to her Father in heaven. Customarily, not to be confused with ordinarily, I could hear her cry out to God for the pain of her flock. Crying, not in the figurative sense, but quite literally she felt for their needs, she hurt for their families, she anguished for their situations. Regularly, she visually looked broken after prayer times, but not beaten. There was a fixed, conquering buoyancy in her gaze. She knew she would be victorious. Why?

            I imagine her background previous to this interval of her life held many trials that could have brought her to this maturity. Previous to my having the privilege of knowing her, she was a survivor of MS and cancer because of prayer. Florence watched first hand as God healed her body of these often fatal diseases. For her, they were only a detour in her pursuit to the prize. This may give us a gander at her unswerving faith when she intercedes for the burdened. This assuredly helps us understand her identification with the pain of her sisters and brothers. Moreover, she served for ?? years as a missionary in the most impoverished areas of Guatemala with her husband. She recollects her darkest moment with meekness as prayer was the weapon that brought her triumph. Recounting that she was like any other human just waking up and choosing each day to give God his place in her trials.

            Although her narrative is quite moving, her story will probably never be chosen for a screenplay of any movie. Regardless, it does uncover an extraordinary person in the everyday life most overlook.

            More could be said of her knack for discerning people’s motives, her uncanny giftedness to lead a congregation in worship without a word being sung, and her simple realness when you wanted someone to relate to you. But something very ordinary in her brought out about things I never thought I would witness.