From Around the World
God's Amazing Power & Love
My Gift
April 16, 2002 - After reading such inspiring stories on your web site I felt compelled to tell you mine. Surely I have had many many gifts from God in my lifetime, this one remains one of the most remarkable. When the kids were 3 and 4 years old my friend that watched them attended school on Monday evening at a nearby Community College, about 10 miles from home. Since I worked in near the college at the time she would bring my kids and hers, aged 3 and 5 to my office at 5:30 when I got off ~ then she'd go to school and I'd have her kids for about an hour til her husband got home. One afternoon she called me and said she was going to hire a teenage babysitter for that short bit of afternoon time while she left for school and I got home. An odd thing to do ~ she just thought she'd try it in case I ever got hung up at work and to give the teenager who had started babysitting in the neighborhood some short practice. She left for school as usual and I came home and picked up my kids at her house, the teenager had done fine. We packed up and came home. I had no sooner gotten in the door when my friend called. She had been headed for school and was on the fwy just 4 miles outside of our city when her car started smoking from under the hood. She'd had no previous indication of trouble, but pulled over and walked back about 100 feet to the call box. As she reached emergency service on the call box phone, she glanced over to look at her car...It had burst out into flames! She could not even approach it! We believe it was a guardian angel that had told her to leave the kids at home with the teenager. All 4 of them were of the age that they were required to sit in cars sets at the time. She could have never gotten them out in time and as young as they were, they would not have been able to release each other from their car seats inside the station wagon.
—Darlene Drake
The Piano Lesson
Wishing to encourage her young son's progress on the piano, a mother took the small boy to a concert featuring a renowned pianist. After they were seated, the mother spotted a friend in the audience and walked down the aisle to greet her.
Seizing the opportunity to explore the wonders of the concert hall, the little boy rose and eventually explored his way through a door marked "NO ADMITTANCE." When the house lights dimmed and the concert was about to begin, the mother returned to her seat and discovered that her son was missing.
The curtains parted and spotlights focused on the impressive grand piano on stage. In horror, the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard, innocently picking out "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." At that moment, the great piano master made his entrance, quickly moved to the piano, and whispered in the boy's ear, "Don't quit. Keep playing." Then, leaning over, the great pianist reached down with his left hand and began filling in a bass part. Soon his right arm reached around to the other side of the child and he added a running obligato. Together, the old master and the young novice transformed a frightening situation into a wonderfully creative experience. The audience was mesmerized.
That's the way it is with God. What we can accomplish on our own is hardly noteworthy. We try our best, but the results aren't exactly graceful flowing music. But with the hand of the Master, our life's work truly can be beautiful. Next time you set out to accomplish great feats, listen carefully. You can hear the voice of the Master whispering in your ear, "Don't quit. Keep playing." Feel His loving arms around you. Know that His strong hands are playing the concerto of your life. Remember, God doesn't call the equipped, He equips the called. He'll always be there to love and guide you on to great things. Keep the faith, and keep playing. Together, you and the Master will make beautiful music.
A Perfect Mistake
Mothers' father worked as a carpenter. On this particular day, he was building some crates for the clothes his church was sending to some orphanage in China. On his way home, he reached into his shirt pocket to find his glasses, but they were gone. When he mentally replayed his earlier actions, he realized what happened; the glasses had slipped out of his pocket unnoticed and fallen into one of the which he had nailed shut. His brand new glasses were heading for China!
The Great Depression was at it's height and Grandpa had six children. He had spent $20 for those glasses that very morning. He was upset at the thought of having to buy another pair. "It's not fair," he told God as he drove home in frustration. "I've been very faithful in giving of my time and money to your work, and now this."
Several months later, the director of the orphanage was on furlough in the United States. He wanted to visit all the churches that supported him in China, so he came to speak one Sunday at my grandfather's small church in Chicago The missionary began by thanking the people for their faithfulness in supporting the orphanage. "But most of all," he said, "I must thank you for the glasses you sent last year. You see, the Communists had just swept through the orphanage, destroying everything, including my glasses. I was desperate. Even if I had the money, there was simply no way of replacing those glasses. Along with not being able to see well, I experienced headaches every day, so my coworkers and I were much in prayer about this. Then your crates arrived. When my staff removed the covers, they found a pair of glasses lying on top.
The missionary paused long enough to let his words sink in. Then, still gripped with the wonder of it all, he continued: "Folks, when I tried on the glasses, it was as though they had been custom-made just for me! I want to thank you for being a part of that." The people listened, happy for the miraculous glasses. But the missionary surely must have confused their church with another, they thought. There were no glasses on their list of items to be sent overseas. But sitting quietly in the back, with tears streaming down his face, an ordinary carpenter realized the Master Carpenter had used him in an extraordinary way.
The Day I Met Daniel
It was an unusually cold day for the month of May. Spring had arrived and everything was alive with color. But a cold front from the north had brought winter's chill back to Indiana. I sat with two friends in the picture window of a quaint restaurant just off the corner of the town square.
The food and the company were both especially good that day. As we talked, my attention was drawn outside, across the street. There, walking into town, was a man who appeared to be carrying all his worldly goods on his back. He was carrying a well-worn sign that read, "I will work for food." My heart sank. I brought him to the attention of my friends and noticed that others around us had stopped eating to focus on him. Heads moved in a mixture of sadness and disbelief. We continued with our meal, but his image lingered in my mind. We finished our meal and went our separate ways. I had errands to do and quickly set out to accomplish them. I glanced toward the town square, looking somewhat halfheartedly for the strange visitor. I was fearful, knowing that seeing him again would call for some response. I drove through town and saw nothing of him. I made some purchases at a store and got back in my car. Deep within me, the Spirit of God kept speaking to me: "Don't go back to the office until you've at least driven once more around the square." And so, with some hesitancy, I headed back into town. As I turned the square's third corner, I saw him.
He was standing on the steps of the stone-front church, going through his sack. I stopped and looked, feeling both compelled to speak to him, yet wanting to drive on. The empty parking space on the corner seemed to be a sign from God: an invitation to park. I pulled in, got out and approached the town's newest visitor.
"Looking for the pastor?" I asked.
"Not really," he replied. "Just resting."
"Have you eaten today?"
"Oh, I ate something early this morning."
"Would you like to have lunch with me?"
"Do you have some work I could do for you?"
"No work," I replied. "I commute here to work from the city, but I would like to take you to lunch."
"Sure," he replied with a smile. As he began to gather his things, I asked some surface questions.
"Where you headed?"
"St. Louis."
"Where you from?"
"Oh, all over; mostly Florida."
"How long you been walking?"
"Fourteen years," came the reply.
I knew I had met someone unusual. We sat across from each other in the same restaurant I had left only minutes earlier. His hair was long and straight, and he had a neatly trimmed dark beard. His skin was deeply tanned, and his face was weathered slightly beyond his 38 years. His eyes were dark yet clear, and he spoke with an eloquence and articulation that was startling. He removed his jacket to reveal a bright red T-shirt that said, "Jesus is The Never Ending Story."
Then Daniel's story began to unfold. He had seen rough times early in life. He'd made some wrong choices and reaped the consequences. Fourteen years earlier, while backpacking across the country, he had stopped on the beach in Daytona. He tried to hire on with some men who were putting up a large tent and some equipment. A concert, he thought. He was hired, but the tent would not house a concert but revival services, and in those services he saw life more clearly. He gave his life over to God.
"Nothing's been the same since," he said. "I felt the Lord telling me to keep walking, and so I did, some 14 years now."
"Ever think of stopping?" I asked.
"Oh, once in a while, when it seems to get the best of me. But God has given me this calling. I give out Bibles. That's what's in my sack. I work to buy food and Bibles, and I give them out when His Spirit leads."
I sat amazed. My homeless friend was not homeless. He was on a mission and lived this way by choice. The question burned inside for a moment and then I asked:
"What's it like?"
"What?"
"To walk into a town carrying all your things on your back and to show your sign?"
"Oh, it was humiliating at first. People would stare and make comments. Once someone tossed a piece of half-eaten bread and made a gesture that certainly didn't make me feel welcome. But then it became humbling to realize that God was using me to touch lives and change people's concepts of other folks like me."
My concept was changing too. We finished our dessert and gathered his things. Just outside the door he paused. He turned to me and said, "Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me."
I felt as if we were on holy ground. "Could you use another Bible?" I asked. He said he preferred a certain translation. It traveled well and was not too heavy. It was also his personal favorite. "I've read through it 14 times," he said. "I'm not sure we've got one of those, but let's stop by our church and see." I was able to find my new friend a Bible that would do well, and he seemed very grateful.
"Where you headed from here?" I asked.
"Well, I found this little map on the back of this amusement park coupon."
"Are you hoping to hire on there for a while?"
"No, I just figure I should go there. I figure someone under that star
right there needs a Bible, so that's where I'm going next." He smiled, and the warmth of his spirit radiated the sincerity of his mission.
I drove him back to the town square where we'd met two hours earlier, and as we drove, it started raining. We parked and unloaded his things.
"Would you sign my autograph book?" he asked. "I like to keep messages from folks I meet.
I wrote in his little book that his commitment to his calling had touched my life. I encouraged him to stay strong. And I left him with a verse of scripture, Jeremiah 29:11 "For I know the thoughts that I think
toward you," saith the LORD, "thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end."
"Thanks, man," he said. "I know we just met and we're really just strangers, but I love you."
"I know," I said. "I love you, too."
"The Lord is good."
"Yes. He is."
"How long has it been since someone hugged you?" I asked.
"A long time," he replied. And so on the busy street corner in the
drizzling rain, my new friend and I embraced, and I felt deep inside that I had been changed. He put his things on his back, smiled his winning smile and said, "See you in the New Jerusalem."
"I'll be there!" was my reply.
He began his journey again. He headed away with his sign dangling from his bedroll and pack of Bibles. He stopped, turned and said, "When you see something that makes you think of me, will you pray for me?"
"You bet," I shouted back. "God bless."
"God bless." And that was the last I saw of him. Late that evening as I left my office, the wind blew strong. The cold front had settled hard upon the town. I bundled up and hurried to my car. As I sat back and reached for the emergency brake, I saw them - a pair of well worn brown work gloves neatly laid over the length of the handle. I picked them up and thought of my friend and wondered if his hands would stay warm that night without them. I remembered his words: "If you see something that makes you think of me, will you pray for me?" Today his gloves lie on my desk in my office. They help me to see the world and its people in a new way, and they help me remember those two hours with my unique friend and to pray for his ministry.
"See you in the New Jerusalem," he said. Yes Daniel, I know I will. —Author unknown
God works in many ways and if sharing this with the whole world could touch only one soul, it is worth every letter.
When I was only two my mother left me and my father. Going through my teenage years I wondered many a day where she was and how she was and felt very depressed thinking of what it could have been like with her in my life.
I was seventeen and went with my friend to a youth evening at her church. We first had praise and worship and the priest invited those who needed prayer to come forward. With my mother on my mind I had a sudden urge to go. Not wanting to go alone my friend went with me. I was standing and she kneeled on the floor next to me.
My heart was broken at that moment and I cried like I had never cried before. I felt a tap on my shoulder and as I looked up, there a brunette lady dressed in a plain, yet fashionable, white dress stood. I will never forget her face. She looked at me, smiled and said: "All I want to tell you is that He loves you."
In my despair I smiled and closed my face with my hands again. But all that heavy sorrow in my heart had been lifted. After the service I walked around to find and thank her. She was nowhere to be found. I ask my friend who that lady was, she said what lady. When I told her the one that came to me during prayer she told me that she never saw any feet near us or any woman for that matter. I have given this a lot of thought afterwards and came to one conclusion. It could not have been a councilor for they spend quite a while with you and pray continuously whilst standing with you. If anyone did approach us my friend would definitely have seen them.
Those few words she said has been my reassurance in God and kept me going since I was a toddler. How would she know that those words will lift my spirit. Thus: my conclusion: I was toughed by an Angel.
God Bless
Best Regards
Sené
South Africa
This Story has been floating around the WWW for awhile now, but it was sent to me by a dear friend (also from South Africa) and I just could not resist including it in these Amazing Stories of God's power and grace - Ellen
A young man had been to Wednesday night Bible Study. The Pastor had shared about listening to God and obeying the Lord's voice. The young man couldn't help but wonder, "Does God still speak to people?"
After service he went out with some friends for coffee and pie and they discussed the message. Several different ones talked about how God had led them in different ways. It was about ten o'clock when the young man started driving home. Sitting in his car, he just began to pray, "God.. If you still speak to people speak to me. I will listen. I will do my best to obey."
As he drove done the main street of his town, he had the strangest thought, stop and buy a gallon of milk. He shook his head and said out loud, "God is that you?" He didn't get a reply and started on toward home. But again, the thought, buy a gallon of milk. The young man thought about Samuel and how he didn't recognize the voice of God, and how little Samuel ran to Eli.
"Okay, God, in case that is you, I will buy the milk." It didn't seem like too hard a test of obedience. He could always use the milk. He stopped and purchased the gallon of milk and started off toward home. As he passed Seventh street, he again felt the urge, "Turn down that street." This is crazy he thought and drove on pass the intersection.
Again, he felt that he should turn down seventh street. At the next intersection, he turned back and headed down Seventh. Half jokingly, he said out loud, "Okay, God, I will". He drove several blocks, when suddenly, he felt like he should stop. He pulled over to the curb and looked around. He was in semi commercial area of town. It wasn't the best but it wasn't the worst of neighborhoods either.
The businesses were closed and most of the houses looked dark like the people were already in bed. Again, he sensed something, "Go and give the milk to the people in the house across the street."
The young man looked at the house. It was dark and it looked like the people were either gone or they were already asleep. He started to open the door and then sat back in the car seat. "Lord, this is insane. Those people are asleep and if I wake them up, they are going to be mad and I will look stupid."
Again, he felt like he should go and give the milk. Finally, he opened the door, "Okay God, if this is you, I will go to the door and I will give them the milk. If you want me to look like a crazy person, okay. I want to be obedient. I guess that will count for something but if they don't answer right away, I am out of here."
He walked across the street and rang the bell. He could hear some noise inside. A man's voice yelled out, "Who is it? What do you want?"
Then the door opened before the young man could get away. The man was standing there in his jeans and T-shirt. He looked like he just got out of bed. He had a strange look on his face and he didn't seem to happy to have some stranger standing on his doorstep. "What is it?"
The young man thrust out the gallon of milk, "Here, I brought this to you." The man took the milk and rushed down a hall way speaking loudly in Spanish. Then from down the hall came a woman carrying the milk toward the kitchen. The man was following her holding a baby. The baby was crying. The man had tears streaming down his face.
The man began speaking and half crying, "We were just praying. We had some big bills this month and we ran out of money. We didn't have any milk for our baby. I was just praying and asking God to show me how to get some milk." His wife in the kitchen yelled out, "I ask him to send an Angel with some.. Are you an Angel?"
The young man reached into his wallet and pulled out all the money he had on him and put in the man's hand. He turned and walked back toward his car and the tears were streaming down his face. He knew that God still answers prayers.
Thank you too for taking the time to write me. Thanks for the bible verses.
Back in March, 1991 I believe an angel visited me in the hospital one day. I had just been through complicated surgery on my right leg, which I almost lost, and I was having therapy. One day the therapist stood me up and saw my leg was beginning to swell so sent me back to my room. She told the nurses to call my surgeon immediately. I thought, "Oh no, I'm going to loose my leg after all !!"
I was lying there with my leg propped up, praying, and looking out the window crying... so upset I remember, when a lady dressed in a beige all weather coat, with long salt and pepper colored hair entered my room. I thought she was there to see the lady next to me whose name was Dot. I said, "Dot isn't here right now she's in therapy."
She said, "Who? What is your name dear?", and I told her "Pat."
She could see I had been crying and took my hand in hers. She said, "Pat you're upset.... and when I entered this hospital downstairs something just told me to come up here on the 2nd floor."
She told me was a preacher. She said she preached in a Baptist church, in Franklin County where I was born.
She talked to me for a while and I began to calm down and feel some better. She prayed for me. Upon leaving she took a $20 bill out of her purse and stuck it in my hand and said, "I want you to buy yourself something pretty when you get out and every time you look at it you'll think of me."
I took the money and gave it to a little church near my house who desperately needed a roof. So now, every time I go by that church, I think of that lady.
Whether or not she was an angel is only known to God, but to me she was the sweetest angel a person could have had that day. I asked the nurses did they see the lady and they said they saw no one. But I had
the $20 bill in my hand and they just all laughed and said I wish she'd visited me.
We cannot find the church where she preaches in Franklin County!
By the way, I'm walking on both legs. Doing great!
God bless,
Pat
I am glad that you have enjoyed Sarah's Tears, I have received many comments both by e-mail and Heartwarmers about this story. Others are using it on sites and in other areas and would be glad to have it placed on your site. The goal when I wrote it was to motivate and to promote God's love, the story has done that far above its original design.
The following is a true story. I wrote it while I was a nursing student and used it for a commencement exercise speech. The song and woman in the room are actual. I listened myself outside that door and was moved greatly. When it came time to compose the speech I was to give to my fellow graduating students, I remembered that moment and used it to illustrate what "service" means. I pray that this story will help someone like Sarah who may be tired and feels like they don't make a difference. You do.
-- Tony Collins <readcoll@aol.com>
Late one December night on the cancer ward the halls were quiet and solemn, the patients were asleep and most of the visitors were gone. The nurses were gathered about the nurse's station preparing for shift change. Sarah, one of the nurses, was especially tired, having worked seven straight 12 hour days. The kids had needs, her husband had been laid off, and the house payment was due. What kept her going was that in January she was going to find a new job. After ten years of answering call lights, working short staffed, putting up with constant administrative changes, she had decided that it was not worth the effort anymore
PING. PING. PING. Sara angrily looked at the call light box, "Good grief!" The patient was a seventy-year-old woman. Sarah had been to her room at the end of the hall at least fifteen times. Angrily she started down the hall. On her way, she suddenly stopped. She stood motionless as a soft voice wafted out of room 235.
"And then one day
I'll cross the river;
I'll fight life's final war with pain;
And then as death gives way to victory,
I'll see the lights of glory and I'll know He lives."
Tears welled up in her eyes as she listened and thought about the young woman in that room -- a thirty-five year old mother of two with cancer, with only a week to live, perhaps days. Sarah stood there, with tears in her eyes, remembering how this young terminal woman had such peace. The patient would speak to everyone who came into her room and she would smile even in her pain and took the time to share her faith and let people know the reason for her peace was a faith in God. All the nurses who had been around her commented on her strength and how they had felt peace and calm after talking with this exceptional young woman.
"Because He lives, I can face tomorrow;
Because He lives, all fear is gone;
Because I know who holds the future,
Life is worth all the living, just because He lives."
Unstoppable tears flowed as Sarah stood a few moments more, but the tears had taken on a newness. No longer were they tears of sadness for this young woman but tears of renewal that washed away the disappointment and disillusionment of her job, and the fear about the future.
Sarah started down the hall to answer the call light, but she was no longer going to check on some pestering old woman. She was going to the room of a patient, a person, a fellow human in need. Sarah no longer looked to January so she could quit -- she looked to her next shift when she would again have the opportunity to serve her fellow man.
Sarah left work with a new outlook on life. She had a rekindling of the spirit of service that had motivated her to become a nurse. Those fires had almost died, but for a young terminal woman who had the desire to be of service to her fellow man even unto death.
This is a reminder to me that the reason that we are on this earth at all is to be of service to each other. Christ said it best when He said, "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his brother."
Two years after I came to California, there came to my office one day a fragile young woman, expecting her first baby. Her history was not good from an emotional standpoint, though she came from a fine family.
I built her up as well as I could and found her increasingly wholesome and interesting as time went on, partly because of the effort she was making to be calm and patient and to keep her emotional and nervous reactions under control.
One month before her baby was due, her routine examination showed that her baby was in a breech position. As a rule, the baby's head is in the lower part of the uterus for months before delivery, not because it is heavier and "sinks" in the surrounding fluid, but simply because it fits more comfortably in that position. There is no routine "turning" of all babies at the seventh or eighth month, as is so generally supposed. But the occasional baby found in a breech position in the last month not infrequently changes to the normal vertex position with the head down by the time it is ready to be born, so that only about one baby in 25 is born in the breech position.
This is fortunate, as the death rate of breech babies is comparatively high because of the difficulty in delivering the after-coming head, and the imperative need of delivering it rather quickly after the body is born. At that moment the cord becomes compressed between the baby's hard little head and the mother's bony pelvis. When no oxygen reaches the baby's bloodstream, it inevitably dies in a few short minutes.
Everyone in the delivery room is tense, except the mother herself, in a breech delivery, especially if it is a first baby, when the difficulty is greater. The mother is usually quietly asleep or almost so. The case I was speaking of was a "complete" breech -- the baby's legs and feet being folded under it, tailor fashion -- in contrast to the "frank" breech, in which the thighs and legs are folded back on a baby's body like a jackknife, the little rear end backing its way into the world first of all.
The hardest thing for the attending doctor to do with any breech delivery is to keep his hands away from it until the natural forces of expulsion have thoroughly dilated the firm maternal structures that delay its progress. I waited as patiently as I could, sending frequent messages to the excited family in the corridor outside.
At last the time had come, and I gently drew down one little foot, I grasped the other, but for some reason I could not understand, it would not come down beside the first one. I pulled again, gently enough but with a little force, with light pressure on the abdomen from above by my assisting nurse, and the baby's body moved down just enough for me to see that it was a little girl -- and then, to my consternation, I saw that the other foot would never be beside the first one. The entire thigh from the hip to the knee was missing and that one foot never could reach below the opposite knee. And a baby girl was to suffer this, a curious defect that I had never seen before, nor have I since!
There followed the hardest struggle I have ever had with myself. I knew what a dreadful effect it would have upon the unstable nervous system of the mother. I felt sure that the family would almost certainly impoverish itself in taking the child to every famous orthopedist in the world whose achievements might offer a ray of hope.
Most of all, I saw this little girl sitting sadly by herself while other girls laughed and danced and ran and played -- and then I suddenly realized that there was something that would save every pang but once, and that once thing was in my power.
One breech baby in 10 dies in delivery because it is not delivered rapidly enough, and now -- if only I did not hurry! If I could slow my hand, if I could make myself delay those few short moments. It would not be an easy delivery, anyway. No one in all this world would ever know. The mother, after the first shock of grief, would probably be glad she had lost a child so sadly handicapped. In a year or two she would try again and this tragic fate would never be repeated. "Don't bring this suffering upon them," the small voice within me said. "This baby has never taken a breath -- don't let her ever take one. You probably can't get it out in time, anyway. Don't hurry. Don't be a fool and bring this terrible thing upon them. Suppose your conscience does hurt a little; can't you stand it better than they can? Maybe your conscience will hurt worse if you do get it out in time."
I motioned to the nurse for the warm sterile towel that is always ready for me in a breech delivery to wrap around the baby's body so that stimulation of the cold air of the outside world may not induce a sudden expansion of the baby's chest, causing the aspiration of fluid or mucus that might bring death.
But this time the towel was only to conceal from the attending nurses that which my eyes alone had seen. With the touch of that pitiful little foot in my hand, a pang of sorrow for the baby's future swept through me, and my decision was made.
I glanced at the clock. Three of the allotted seven or eight minutes had already gone. Every eye in the room was upon me and I could feel the tension in their eagerness to do instantly what I asked, totally unaware of what I was feeling. I hoped they could not possibly detect the tension of my own struggle at that moment. These nurses had seen me deliver dozens of breech babies successfully - yes, and they had seen me fail too. Now they were going to see me fail again. For the first time in my medical life, I was deliberately discarding what I had been taught was right for something that I felt sure was better.
I slipped my hand beneath the towel to feel the pulsation's of the baby's cord, a certain index of its condition. Two or three minutes more would be enough. So that I might seem to be doing something, I drew the baby down a little lower to "split out" the arms, the usual next step, and as I did so the little pink foot on the good side bobbed out from its protecting towel and pressed firmly against my slowly moving hand, the hand into whose keeping the safety of the mother and the baby had been entrusted. There was a sudden convulsive movement of the babies body, an actual feeling of strength and life and vigor.
It was too much. I couldn't do it. I delivered the baby with her pitiful little leg. I told the family the next day, and with a catch in my voice, I told the mother.
Every foreboding came true. The mother was in a hospital for months. I saw her once or twice and she looked like a wraith of her former self. I heard of them indirectly from time to time. They had been to Rochester, Minn. They had been to Chicago and to Boston. Finally I lost track of them altogether.
As the years went on, I blamed myself bitterly for not having had the strength to yield to my temptation. Through the many years that I have been there, there has developed in our hospital a pretty custom of staging an
elaborate Christmas party each year for the employees, the nurses and the doctors of the staff. There is always a beautifully decorated tree on the stage of our little auditorium. The girls spend weeks in preparation. We have so many difficult things to do during the year, so much discipline and so many of the stern realities of life, that we have set aside this one day to touch upon the emotional and spiritual side. It is almost like going to an impressive church service, as each year we dedicate ourselves a new to the year ahead.
This past year the arrangement was somewhat changed. The tree, on one side of the stage, had been sprayed with sliver paint and was hung with scores of gleaming silver and tinsel ornaments, without a trace of color anywhere, and with no lights hung upon the tree itself. It shone but faintly in the dimly lighted auditorium.
Every doctor of the staff who could possibly be there was in his seat. The first rows were reserved for the nurses and the moment the procession entered, each girl in uniform, each one crowned by her nurse's cap, her badge of office. Around their shoulders were their blue Red Cross capes, one end tossed back to show the deep red lining. We rose as one man to do them honor, and as the last one reached her seat, and we settled in our places again, the organ began the opening notes of one of the oldest of our carols. Slowly down the middle aisle, marching from the back of the auditorium, came 20 other girls singing softly, our own nurses, in full uniform, each holding high a lighted candle, while through the auditorium floated the familiar strains of "Silent Night." We were on our feet again instantly. I could have killed anyone who spoke to me then, because I couldn't have answered, and by the time they reached their seats I couldn't see. And then a great blue floodlight at the back was turned on very slowly, gradually covering the tree with increasing splendor: brighter and brighter,
until every ornament was almost a flame.
On the opposite side of the stage a curtain was slowly drawn, and we saw three lovely young musicians, all in shimmering white evening gowns. They played very softly in unison with the organ -- a harp, a cello and a violin. I am quite sure I was not the only old sissy there whose eyes were filled with tears. I have always like the harp, and I love to watch the grace of a skillful player. I was especially fascinated by this young harpist. She played
extraordinarily well, as if she loved it. Her slender fingers flickered across the strings, and as the nurses sang, her face, made beautiful by a mass of auburn hair, was upturned as if the world that moment were a wonderful and holy place. I waited when the short program was over to congratulate the chief nurse on the unusual effects she had arranged.
As I sat alone, there came running down the aisle a woman whom I did not know. She came to me with arms outstretched. "Oh, you saw her," she cried. "You must have recognized your baby. That was my daughter who played the harp -- and I saw you watching her.
"Don't you remember the little girl who was born with only one good leg 17 years ago? We tried everything else first, but now she has a whole artificial leg on that side -- but you would never know it, would you? She can walk, sheen swim, and she can almost dance.
"But, best of all, through all those years when she couldn't do those things, she learned to use her hands so wonderfully. She is going to be one of the world's great harpists. She is my whole life, and now she is so happy?
And here she is!"
As we spoke, this sweet young girl had quietly approached us, her eyes glowing, and now she stood beside me.
"This is your first doctor, my dear -- our doctor," her mother said. Her voice trembled. I could see her literally swept back, as I was, through all the years of heartache to the day when I told her what she had to face.
"He was the first one to tell me about you. He brought you to me."
Impulsively I took the child in my arms. Across her warm young shoulder I saw the creeping clock of the delivery room 17 years before. I lived again those awful moments when her life was in my hand, when I had decided on deliberate infanticide. I held her away from me and looked at her.
"You never will know, my dear," I said, "you never will know, nor will anyone else in all the world, just what tonight has meant to me. Go back to your harp for a moment, please -- and play "Silent Night" for me alone. I have a load on my shoulders that no one has ever seen, a load that only you can take away."
Her mother sat beside me and quietly took my hand as her daughter played. Perhaps she knew what was in my mind. And as the last strains of "Silent Night, Holy Night" faded again, I think I found the answer, and the comfort, I had waited for so long."
TWO BABES IN A MANGER
(a true story - author unknown)
In 1994, two Americans answered an invitation from the Russian Department of Education to teach in Russia. They were invited to teach at many places including a large orphanage. About 100 boys and girls who had been abandoned, abused, and left in the care of a government run program were in the orphanage. The two Americans relate the following story in their own words:
"It was nearing the holiday season, 1994, time for our orphans to hear, for the first time, the traditional story of Christmas. We told them about Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem. Finding no room in the inn, the couple went to a stable, where the baby Jesus was born and placed in a manger. Throughout the story, the children and orphanage staff sat in amazement as they listened. Some sat on the edges of their stools, trying to grasp every word. Completing the story, we gave the children three small pieces of cardboard to make a crude manger.
"Each child was given a small paper square, cut from yellow napkins I had brought with me. No colored paper was available in the city. Following instructions, the children tore the paper and carefully laid strips in the manger for straw. Small squares of flannel, cut from a worn-out nightgown an American lady was throwing away as she left Russia, were used for the baby's blanket. A doll like baby was cut from tan felt we had brought from the United States.
"The orphans were busy assembling their manger as I walked among them to see if they needed any help. All went well until I got to one table where little Misha sat. He looked to be about 6 years old and had finished his project. As I looked at the little boy's manger, I was startled to see not one, but two babies in the manger. Quickly, I called for the translator to ask the lad why there were two babies in the manger.
"Crossing his arms in front of him and looking at this completed manger scene, the child began to repeat the story very seriously. For such a young boy, who had only heard the Christmas story once, he related the happenings accurately -- until he came to the part where Mary put the baby Jesus in the manger.
"Then Misha started to ad-lib. He made up his own ending to the story as he said, 'And when Maria laid the baby in the manger, Jesus looked at me and asked me if I had a place to stay. I told him I have no mamma and I have no papa, so I don't have any place to stay. Then Jesus told me I could stay with him. But I told him I couldn't, because I didn't have a gift to give him like everybody else did. But I wanted to stay with Jesus so much, so I thought about what I had that maybe I could use for a gift. I thought maybe if I kept him warm, would be a good gift.
"So I asked Jesus, "If I keep you warm, will that be a good enough gift?" And Jesus told me, "If you keep me warm, that will be the best gift anybody ever gave me."
"So I got into the manger, and then Jesus looked at me and he told me I could stay with him -- for always."
As little Misha finished his story, his eyes brimmed full of tears that splashed down his little cheeks. Putting his hand over his face, his head dropped to the table and his shoulders shook as he sobbed and sobbed. The little orphan had found someone who would never abandon nor abuse him, someone who would stay with him -- FOR ALWAYS.
I've learned that it's not what you have in your life, but who you have in your life that counts.
The following story is a true account, taken from an old, out-of-print book called "Touching Incidents And Remarkable Answers To Prayer." It was compiled by S.B. Shaw and published in 1894.
I was a surgeon in the United States Army during the Civil War. After the battle of Gettysburg, there were hundreds of wounded soldiers in my hospital. Many were wounded so severely that a leg or an arm, or sometimes both, needed to be amputated.
One of these was a boy who had only been in the service for three months. Since he was too young to be a soldier, he had enlisted as a drummer. When my assistants came to give him chloroform before the amputation, he turned his head and refused it. When they told him that it was the doctor's orders, he said, "Send the doctor to me." I came to his bedside and said, "Young man, why do you refuse the chloroform? When I found you on the battlefield, you were so far gone that I almost didn't bother to pick you up. But when you opened those large blue eyes, it occurred to me that you had a mother somewhere who might be thinking of you at that very moment. I didn't want you to die on the field, so I had you brought here. But you've lost so much blood that you're just too weak to live through an operation without chloroform. You'd better let me give you some.
He laid his hand on mine, looked me in the face and said, "Doctor, one Sunday afternoon, when I was nine and a half years old, I gave my heart to Christ. I learned to trust Him then, and I've been trusting Him ever since. I know I can trust Him now. He is my strength. He will support me while you amputate my arm and leg." I asked him if he would at least let me give him a little brandy. Again he looked at me and said, "Doctor, when I was about five years old, my mother knelt by my side with her arms around me and said: "Charlie, I am praying to Jesus that you will never take even one drink of alcohol. Your father died a drunkard, and I've asked God to use you to warn people against the dangers of drinking, and to encourage them to love and serve the Lord." I am now 17 years old, and I have never had anything stronger than tea or coffee. There is a very good chance that I am about to die and to go into the presence of my God. Would you send me there with brandy on my breath?"
I will never forget the look that boy gave me. At that time I hated Jesus, but I respected that boy's loyalty to his Savior. And when I saw how he loved and trusted Him to the very end, something deeply touched my heart. I did for that boy what I had never done for any other soldier - I asked him if he wanted to see his chaplain.
Chaplain R. knew the boy well from having seen him frequently at the tent prayer meetings. Taking his hand, he said, "Charlie, I'm really sorry to see you like this." "Oh, I'm all right, sir," Charlie answered. "The doctor offered me chloroform, but I told him I didn't want any. Then he wanted to give me brandy, which I didn't want either. So now, if my Savior calls me, I can go to Him in my right mind."
"You might not die, Charlie," said the chaplain, "but if the Lord does call you home, is there anything I can do for you after you're gone?" "Chaplain, please reach under my pillow and take my little Bible. My mother's address is inside. Please send it to her and write a letter for me. Tell her that since I left home, I have never let a single day pass - no matter if we were on the march on the battlefield, or in the hospital - without reading a portion of God's Word, and daily praying that He would bless her."
"Is there anything else I can do for you, my lad?" asked the chaplain. "Yes - please write a letter to the Sunday School teacher of the Sands Street Church in Brooklyn, New York. Tell him that I've never forgotten his encouragement, good advice, and many prayers for me. They have helped and comforted me through all the dangers of battle. And now, in my dying hour, I thank the Lord for my dear old teacher, and ask Him to bless and strengthen him. That is all."
Then turning to me, he said, "I'm ready, doctor. I promise I won't even groan while you take off my arm and leg, if you don't offer me chloroform." I promised, but I didn't have the courage to take the knife in my hand without first going into the next room and taking a little brandy myself.
While cutting through the flesh, Charlie Coulson never groaned. But when I took the saw to separate the bone, the lad took the corner of his pillow in his mouth, and all I could hear him whisper was, "O Jesus, blessed Jesus! Stand by me now." He kept his promise. He never groaned.
I couldn't sleep that night. Whichever way I tossed and turned, I saw those soft blue eyes, and when I closed my own eyes, the words, "Blessed Jesus, stand by me now," kept ringing in my ears. A little after midnight, I finally left my bed and visited the hospital - a thing I had never done before unless there was an emergency. I had such a strange and strong desire to see that boy. When I got there, an orderly told me that 16 of the badly wounded soldiers had died. "Was Charlie Coulson one of them?" I asked. "No, sir," he answered, "he's sleeping as sweetly as a babe."
When I came to his bed, one of the nurses said that at about nine o'clock, two members of the YMCA came through the hospital to read and sing a hymn. Chaplain R. was with them and he knelt by Charlie's bed and offered up a fervent and soul stirring prayer. Then, while still on their knees, they sang one of the sweetest of all hymns, "Jesus, Lover Of My Soul." Charlie sang along with them, too. I couldn't understand how that boy, who was in such horrible pain, could sing.
Five days after I performed the operation, Charlie sent for me, and it was from him that I heard my first Gospel sermon. "Doctor," he said, "my time has come. I don't expect to see another sunrise. I want to thank you with all my heart for your kindness to me. I know you are Jewish, and that you don't believe in Jesus, but I want you to stay with me, and see me die trusting my Savior to the last moment of my life." I tried to stay, but I just couldn't. I didn't have the courage to stand by and see a Christian boy die rejoicing in the love of that Jesus who I hated. So I hurriedly left the room.
About 20 minutes later an orderly came and found me sitting in my office with my hands covering my face. He told me that Charlie wanted to see me. "I've just seen him," I answered, "and I can't see him again." "But, Doctor, he says he must see you once more before he dies." So I made up my mind to go and see Charlie, say an endearing word, and let him die. However, I was determined that nothing he could say would influence me in the least bit, so far as his Jesus was concerned.
When I entered the hospital I saw he was sinking fast, so I sat down by his bed. Asking me to take his hand, he said, "Doctor, I love you because you are a Jew. The best friend I have found in this world was a Jew." I asked him who that was, and he answered, "Jesus Christ, and I want to introduce you to Him before I die. Will you promise me, Doctor, that what I am about to say to you, you will never forget?" I promised, and he said, "Five days ago, while you amputated my arm and leg, I prayed to the Lord Jesus Christ and asked Him to make His love known to you."
Those words went deep into my heart. I couldn't understand how, when I was causing him the most intense pain, he could forget all about himself and think of nothing but his Savior and my unconverted soul. All I could say to him was, "Well, my dear boy, you will soon be all right." With these words I left him, and 12 minutes later he fell asleep, "safe in the arms of Jesus."
Hundreds of soldiers died in my hospital during the war, but I only followed one to the grave, and that was Charlie Coulson. I rode three miles to see him buried. I had him dressed in a new uniform, and placed in an officer's coffin, with a United States flag over it.
That boy's dying words made a deep impression upon me. I was rich at that time so far as money was concerned, but I would have given every penny I possessed if I could have felt towards Christ as Charlie did. But that feeling cannot be bought with money. Alas, I soon forgot all about my Christian soldier's little sermon, but I could not forget the boy himself. Looking back, I now know that I was under deep conviction of sin at that time. But for nearly ten years I fought against Christ with all the hatred I had, until finally the dear boy's prayer was answered, and I surrendered my life to the love of Jesus.
About a year-and-a-half after my conversion, I went to a prayer meeting one evening in Brooklyn. It was one of those meetings where Christians testify about the loving kindness of God. After several had spoken, an elderly lady stood up and said, "Dear friends, this may be the last time I have a chance to publicly share how good the Lord has been to me. My doctor told me yesterday that my right lung is nearly gone, and my left lung is failing fast, so at the best I only have a short time to be with you. But what is left of me belongs to Jesus. It's a great joy to know that I shall soon meet my son with Jesus in heaven.
"Charlie was not only a soldier for his country, but also a soldier for Christ. He was wounded at the battle of Gettysburg, and was cared for by a Jewish doctor, who amputated his arm and leg. He died five days after the operation. The chaplain of the regiment wrote me a letter, and sent me my boy's Bible. I was told that in his dying hour, my Charlie sent for that Jewish doctor, and said to him, "Doctor, before I die I wish to tell you that five days ago, while you amputated my arm and leg, I prayed to the Lord Jesus Christ for you.'"
As I heard this lady speak, I just couldn't sit still! I left my seat, ran across the room, and taking her hand said, "God bless you, my dear sister. Your boy's prayer has been heard and answered! I am the Jewish doctor that Charlie prayed for, and his Savior is now my Savior! The love of Jesus has won my heart!"
July 29, 1999
A young man who had been raised as an atheist was training to be an Olympic diver. The only religious influence in his life came from his outspoken Christian friend. The young diver never really paid much attention to his friend's sermons, but he heard them often.
One night the diver went to the indoor pool at the college he attended. The lights were all off, but as the pool had big skylights and the moon was bright, there was plenty of light to practice by. The young man climbed up to the highest diving board and as he turned his back to the pool on the edge of the board and extended his arms out, he saw his shadow on the wall. The shadow of his body was in the shape of a cross. Instead of diving, he knelt down and asked God to come into his life. As the young man stood, a maintenance man walked in and turned the lights on. The pool had been drained for repairs.
from - Landrum2@aol.com
