God Knows Your Needs

Ever wonder if the Lord really knows what you want and need?
David Smallbone felt God leading him to promote Christian concerts in his homeland, Australia, where only 5 percent of the people believed in Christ. When too few fans filled his seats during one major tour, however, David took a $250,000 bath in red ink.
Creditors repossessed his home, and the father of six looked for work elsewhere. A top artist offered him a job in Nashville, so the Smallbones sold their furniture and other possessions and purchased tickets to the United States.
A few weeks after they arrived, however, David was informed that his position was "no longer available." He literally could not get out of bed for several days. When he and his wife explained to their children what happened, they all got on their knees and asked God to help them.
Interesting things began to happen. God provided bags of groceries, a minivan, and odd jobs. Then the biggest surprise of all - a recording contract for David's oldest daughter, Rebecca, age 15. She recorded her first album using an old family name, St. James.
Flash forward to today. David promotes his own daughter's sold-out concerts. Rebecca St. James has become one of the hottest Christian artists in America. Christianity Today magazine has named her one of the top 50 up-and-coming evangelical leaders under age 40. All along - no surprise - God knew what he was doing!

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Eleven Stray Words: Why I was (briefly) America’s Most Wanted

A friend and I were flying from San Francisco to Chicago. Five minutes before takeoff, a gate agent from the airline came on the plane and said to me, “Get your bags and come with me."
I got my bags out of the bin and followed her into the jetway. “Why?" I asked, “Is this a random security check?"
She said, “The captain refused to have you on this flight."
We walked up the jetway, me now realising I'm probably going to miss this flight, and wondering, What in the world is going on? In the terminal, she pointed me to the black vinyl seats. “Sit there. A supervisor will come talk to you."
I'm waiting here, perplexed, looking out the window as the plane I should be on backs away from the gate. I know this airline has no more flights to Chicago for ten hours. I demand, “What's going on?"
The gate agent says flatly, “A supervisor will talk to you."
I sit back down. Suddenly it hits me: My friend had been ordered out of the line for a baggage check and thus boarded the plane much later than I. When he came on the plane, I asked, “Why were you stopped? Was it your beady terrorist eyes? Explosives?" My friend shook his head quickly, getting me to shut up, but I'd already said those things. THAT was what was causing this.
Soon four uniformed San Francisco cops, revolvers on their hips, walk up to me. “Do you know why you're here?"
"No," I reply. “I was hoping you'd tell me."
"Isn't there anything you said that caused you to be here?"
"Well," I said, “I did make a comment to my friend about looking like a terrorist. I know I shouldn't have said that. I was just making a private joke."
The cop, steel hair and strong jaw, shoots back, “You can't joke about those things. They may not allow you to fly again in the future."
Another cop grills me. One takes my driver's license and runs a criminal background check. Another calls the FAA to see what they want to do with me. A senior airline rep pulls the cops aside and talks about me. All I can hear is, “What did he tell you?" and “Well, they're gone, so we can't confirm what they heard."
I'm wondering, Am I going to be arrested? Are they going to make me fly on another airline and buy another ticket, probably tomorrow? Are they going to strip-search me?
Finally, the senior airline rep comes over. “Who was your friend?" I told him the name. “How do you spell that?" He disappears, probably to check whether that name matches the passenger manifest for the flight.
Great. Now I've gotten my friend in trouble. They're going to hassle him and question him when he lands in Chicago.
One cop looks down at me, arms folded. “So they let your friend go on the flight and not you, huh?"
"Well," I mumble weakly, “he didn't say something stupid. I did."
The airline rep returns. “You realise that you can't talk about these things. We're in a new day."
"I know that," I said. "It was stupid, and I shouldn't have said it."
"Another passenger overheard you and refused to fly on the flight. The captain was told, and he made the decision to remove you from the flight."
Gulp.
"We've decided to let you fly again on our airline. The next flight out is at 11:30 tonight. You'll get into Chicago at 5:30 in the morning.
Inwardly I groan, but quickly say, “Thank you."
The lead cop looks down at me: “You win the prize for Idiot of the Day."
So I sit in the San Francisco airport for nine-and-a-half hours, losing an entire night's sleep. All because of a few stray words.
"If anyone is never at fault in what he says, he is a perfect man, able to keep his whole body in check." James 3:3

by Kevin Miller

Never Stay Down

The 1981 movie Chariots of Fire portrays the true story of Eric Liddell, a man who competed for Great Britain in the 1924 Olympics before becoming a missionary.
One memorable scene that appeared to be Hollywood fiction, actually happened. A year before the Olympic showdown, Liddell ran in a meet between England, Ireland, and Scotland. In the 440-yard event, moments after the gun sounded, Liddell tangled feet with J.J. Gillies of England and tumbled to the track. Dazed, Liddell sat there, not knowing whether he could get up, when the official screamed, "Get up and run!"
He jumped to his feet and pursued the pack, now a full twenty yards ahead of him.
With forty yards to go, he pulled into third place, then second. Right at the tape he passed Gillies, stuck his chest out, won the race, collapsing in total exhaustion.
The next day The Scotsman newspaper reported, "The circumstances in which Liddell won the race made it a performance bordering on the miraculous." Some described it as "the greatest track performance they had ever seen."
Some of you have been knocked down by foolish decisions, by a person, or even Satan himself. When we're down on the track, we're ashamed and depressed. The only real shame is to stay down. God's word compels you, "Get up and run!" Forget what lies behind and run for the prize God has waiting for you.
Philippians 1:6 doesn't say, "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day you fail and flop on the track." It says, "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Jesus Christ."

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Hitting The Wall

At the beginning of a marathon, runners feel strong and energetic. For years, they've followed a regimen prescribing what to eat, how much to train, and how much to rest. They're ready.
Then the gun sounds, and they take off. Sixteen miles into that marathon, though, they no longer feel energetic, do they?
Blisters begin to rub raw; it feels like a knife has lodged in their side. Legs turn to mush, and muscles scream in pain.
It happens in life, too. We get down the road, and there's pain involved. We say, "This hurts, so it must not be God's will."
But pain doesn't mean it's no longer God's will. Sometimes the race God calls us to run is filled with pain. Remember that God didn't call you just to begin a noble task or relationship. He wants us to keep running and be great finishers. World-class runners have a "kick." A "kick" is a runner's term that means when they get to that last one hundred yards, they can still sprint to the finish line and win the race. God wants us to have a "kick." No matter what the circumstance, God wants us to finish strong.

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Grasping the Opportunity

My one and a half year old daughter has picked up a new phrase "I can't" which really means I won't. Often times in our lives we are called upon by the Lord to display a commitment that doesn’t say I can't but how can I? I read this story in our local newspaper a few years ago. In the seaside town of Provincetown, MA, on Cape Cod a man and his wife were sitting on their porch overlooking the ocean when the man noticed a disturbance in the water just a few feet from their house. At first he assumed it was a school of blues that had travelled to close to shore and were in a feeding frenzy. But upon closer examination he noticed it was actually one large fish, a shark perhaps, since they are not uncommon in these waters. But as he stared he made out the distinct shape of a large Tuna with its characteristic forked tail. Knowing that these fish weigh hundreds of pounds and can fetch thousands of dollars, he wondered how he might catch it. He returned to his porch and found an old rope from a lobster pot. He fashioned the rope into a lasso and set out for the water. On his second attempt he was able to throw the lasso around the forked tail of the Tuna and drag it into shore. A few phone calls later and the fish was off to market. How diligently we seize the opportunities that God sends our way in large amount will determine what we accomplish while on this earth and what praise we will receive from His lips in heaven.

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The Story of the Weed Garden

Once there was a man who owned a small plot of ground. One day he said to himself what shall I do with this land, why let it stand idle? He decided I will plant a garden and I will be diligent and work hard and when harvest comes the land will yield a great portion of fruit. So he sowed some seed and watered and worked the piece of land.
Eventually one day it began to grow, the man was so excited. He was encouraged to work all the harder. Every day he went into the field planting, watering, pruning and chasing away the birds and animals that would devour his work.
As time went on sometimes he would be discouraged. He would look at his garden and think to himself “for all the labour I do the growth looks so sparse". Still he continued to do his job, because that's what you do with a garden. One day he looked in his garden and he saw a small healthy looking plant he had not seen before. It was a small weed. Soon the weed grew and multiplied. The man went to his garden and he was amazed at the growth and strength of this plant. It seemed to do all that you would want a plant to do and it required no help.
The man began to watch it's growth every day with a new fever of enthusiasm. Every morning he would race to his field and see the progress. “Wow!" he thought, “yesterday there was a few and now there are many." Day after day the garden looked fuller and fuller. He stopped worrying about the labour he used to do “I've worked long enough" he thought “Now it's time to see some real growth". Sometimes he would take a walk and see his neighbours' gardens; “Ha, they look so small!"
“If they had half the gardening sense I do they'd really have something going". Finally in time the big day came. It was time for harvest. The man went to his garden to gather his rewards. There it was a beautiful field of green. All those old weak plants he used to work with were long since gone. He thought “well let's get with it".
He went to his plants and began to examine each one closely. Hmm no fruit on the leaves, hmm no fruit on the stock. Let's pull one up and see what's there. He dug, and tugged and pulled. Out it came, he looked at the roots, nothing there either. He stopped and sat a minute. “What's happening" he thought. Then in shock he realized his plight, “They bear no fruit!". For all there growth, the weeds were worthless. He lamented “They looked so great, Oh how they grew and flourished all season".
The man sat and moaned, what could he now do, harvest was over.
Application: Luke 8:8-18; The seed God gave us to plant in the hearts of man, his Word, may not always be the most popular. It may not always be well accepted. It may not be the one easiest to work with. It may not bring in the multitude you were hoping for, but it's the only one that produces fruit.

submitted by Missionary Michael J. Carney

Jeremy's Egg

Jeremy was born with a twisted body, a slow mind and a chronic, terminal illness that had been slowly killing him all his young life. Still, his parents had tried to give him as normal a life as possible and had sent him to St. Theresa's Elementary School. At the age of 12, Jeremy was only in second grade, seemingly unable to learn. His teacher, Doris Miller, often became exasperated with him. He would squirm in his seat, drool and make grunting noises. At other times, he spoke clearly and distinctly, as if a spot of light had penetrated the darkness of his brain. Most of the time, however, Jeremy irritated his teacher. One day, she called his parents and asked them to come to St. Teresa's for a consultation. As the Forresters sat quietly in the empty classroom, Doris said to them, “Jeremy really belongs in a special school. It isn't fair to him to be with younger children who don't have learning problems. Why, there is a five-year gap between his age and that of the other students!”
Mrs. Forrester cried softly into a tissue while her husband spoke. “Miss Miller,” he said, “there is no school of that kind nearby. It would be a terrible shock for Jeremy if we had to take him out of this school. We know he really likes it here.”
Doris sat for a long time after they left, staring at the snow outside the window. Its coldness seemed to seep into her soul. She wanted to sympathise with the Forresters. After all, their only child had a terminal illness. But it wasn't fair to keep him in her class. She had 18 other youngsters to teach and Jeremy was a distraction. Furthermore, he would never learn to read or write. Why waste any more time trying? As she pondered the situation, guilt washed over her. “Oh God," she said aloud, “here I am complaining when my problems are nothing compared with that poor family! Please help me to be more patient with Jeremy.” From that day on, she tried hard to ignore Jeremy's noises and his blank stares.
Then one day he limped to her desk, dragging his bad leg behind him. “I love you, Miss Miller," he exclaimed, loudly enough for the whole class to hear. The other children snickered, and Doris' face turned red. She stammered, “Wh-Why, that's very nice, Jeremy. Now please take your seat.”
Spring came, and the children talked excitedly about the coming of Easter. Doris told them the story of Jesus, and then to emphasise the idea of new life springing forth, she gave each of the children a large plastic egg. “Now," she said to them “I want you to take this home and bring it back tomorrow with something inside that shows new life. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss Miller!” the children responded enthusiastically - all except for Jeremy. He just listened intently, his eyes never left her face. He did not even make his usual noises. Had he understood what she had said about Jesus' death and resurrection? Did he understand the assignment? Perhaps she should call his parents and explain the project to them. That evening, Doris' kitchen sink stopped up. She called the landlord and waited an hour for him to come by and unclog it. After that, she still had to shop for groceries, iron a blouse and prepare a vocabulary test for the next day. She completely forgot about phoning Jeremy's parents.
The next morning, 19 children came to school, laughing and talking as they placed their eggs in the large wicker basket on Miss Miller's desk. After they completed their Math lesson, it was time to open the eggs. In the first egg, Doris found a flower. “Oh yes, a flower is certainly a sign of new life,” she said. “When plants peek through the ground we know that spring is here.”A small girl in the first row waved her arms. “That's my egg, Miss Miller,” she called out.
The next egg contained a plastic butterfly, which looked very real. Doris held it up. “We all know that a caterpillar changes and grows into a beautiful butterfly. Yes that is new life, too.” Little Judy smiled proudly and said, “Miss Miller, that one is mine.”
Next Doris found a rock with moss on it. She explained that the moss, too, showed life. Billy spoke up from the back of the classroom. “My Daddy helped me!” he beamed.
Then Doris opened the fourth egg. She gasped. The egg was empty! Surely it must be Jeremy's, she thought, and, of course, he did not understand her instructions. If only she had not forgotten to phone his parents. Because she did not want to embarrass him, she quietly set the egg aside and reached for another.
Suddenly Jeremy spoke up. “Miss Miller, aren't you going to talk about my egg?”
Flustered, Doris replied, “but Jeremy - your egg is empty!”
He looked into her eyes and said softly, “Yes, but Jesus' tomb was empty too!”
Time stopped. When she could speak again, Doris asked him, “Do you know why the tomb was empty?”
“Oh yes!" Jeremy exclaimed. “Jesus was killed and put in there. Then his Father raised him up!”
The recess bell rang. While the children excitedly ran out to the school yard, Doris cried. The cold inside her melted completely away. Three months later Jeremy died. Those who paid their respects at the mortuary were surprised to see 19 eggs on top of his casket, all of them empty.

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Noah

And God said unto Noah, Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and the length of the ark shall be 300 cubits.
And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep them alive with thee.
And Noah said, Sign here, and leavest Thou a deposit. And the Lord signed there, and left He a deposit.
And Noah was 600 years old when the flood of waters was upon the earth.
And the Lord said unto Noah, Where is the ark, which I commanded thee to build?
And Noah said unto the Lord, Verily, I have had three carpenters off ill.
The gopher wood supplier hath let me down - yea, even though the gopher wood hath been on order for nigh upon 12 months. The damp-course specialist hath not mined up. What can I do, O Lord ?
And God said unto Noah, I want that ark finished even after seven days and seven nights.
And Noah said, It will be so.
And it was not so.
And the Lord said unto Noah, What seemeth to be the trouble this time?And Noah said unto the Lord, Mine sub-contractor hath gone bankrupt. The pitch which Thou commandest me to put on the outside and on the inside of the ark hath not arrived. The plumber hath gone on strike.
Noah rent his garments and said, The glazier departeth on holiday to Majorca yes - even though I offerest him double time. Shem, my son, who helpeth me on the ark side of the business hath formed a pop group with his brothers Ham and Japheth. Lord, I am undone.
And God said in his wrath, Noah, do not thou mucketh Me about.
The end of all flesh is come before me; for the Earth is filled with violence through them; and behold, I will destroy them with the Earth. How can I destroy them with the earth if thou art incapable of completing the job that thou was contracted to do? And Noah said, Lo, thc contract will be fulfilled. And Lo, it was not fulfilled. And Noah said unto the Lord, The gopher wood is definitely in the warehouse. Verily, and the gopher wood supplier waiteth only upon his servant to find the invoices before he delivereth the gopher wood unto me.
And the Lord grew angry and said, Scrubbeth thou round the gopher wood What about the animals?
Of fowls after their kind, and of cattle after their kind, of every creeping thing of the Earth after his kind two of every sort have I ordered to come unto thee, to keep them alive.
Where for example, are the giraffes?
And Noah said unto the Lord, They are expected today.
And the Lord said unto Noah, And where are the clean beasts, the male and the female; to keep their seed alive upon the face of all the earth?
And Noah said, The van cometh on Tuesday; yea it will be so.
And the Lord said unto Noah, How about the unicorns?
And Noah wrung his hands and wept, saying, Lord, Lord, they are a discontinued line. Thou canst not get unicorns for love nor money.
And God said, Come thou, Noah, I have left with thee a deposit, and thou hast signed a contract.
Where are the monkeys, and the bears, and the hippopotami, and the elephants, and the zebras and the hartebeests. two of each kind; and of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male and the female?
And Noah said unto the Lord, They have been delivered unto the wrong address, but should arriveth on Friday; all save the fowls of the air by sevens, for it hath just been told unto me that fowls of the air are sold only in half-dozens.
And God said unto Noah, Thou hast not made an ark of gopher wood, nor hast thou lined it with pitch within and with-out; and of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort hast thou failed to bring into the ark. What sayest thou, Noah?
And Noah kissed the Earth and said, Lord, Lord, thou knowest in thy wisdom what it is like with delivery dates.
And the Lord in his wisdom said, Noah, my son, I knowest. Why else dost thou think I have caused a flood to descend upon the Earth?

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David and Goliath - from the NASB [New Aussie Strine Bible]

Now the Anzacs stood on a mountain on one side of the valley, and the enemy stood on the other side. The enemy had a great lump of a bloke called Goliath, who was over nine feet tall. He had a skid lid of solid brass on his noggin, armour all over him, and his spear must have weighed a ton.
Goliath stood and yelled out, “Come on and fight ya mob of dingoes! Pick out a bloke and let's see what he's made of! If he can bump me off, we'll be your rouseabouts, and vice versa." This really scared the living daylights out of the Anzacs. It put the wind up 'em good and proper. “If only we had Ned Kelly here with his armour on," they said. Even the Prime Minister was spooked out of his brain.
Now Dave was the youngest son of Jesse, from a small one-horse town out the back of Bourke. Jesse had eight rascals, and was over the hill and just about ready to kick the bucket. The three oldest boys were diggers in the army, but Dave worked for his old man as a sheep musterer. One day, Jesse said to Dave, “Come here, kid, and take this heap of tucker to your brothers in the army. Give a bit to the C.O. as well, so he'll give your brothers a fair go. Now stop muckin' around and get cracking. I haven't got all day."
So Dave got up when the day was a pup, picked up his swag, and headed off to see his brothers. It took so long he had to stop for smoko on the way. He boiled the billy and had a good cuppa. Meanwhile, the Anzacs were up the creek in a barbed wire canoe. They were so despetate, the Prime Minister even offered his daughter in marriage to the first bloke who would take on the big yobbo, and she was quite a sheila! Also, they would get a pile of dough into the bargain - that was a bit of alright! But still, no-one wanted to have a go.
When Dave found one of his brothers, he said, “G'day, mate! How ya goin?" They then told Dave what Goliath had said. Dave then asked, “Who does this great nong think he is? Just let me have a go at that ratbag. I'll let him have it!" Dave's oldest brother Trev, really chucked a mental. He did his block! “What are ya?" he said. “Who do you think you are, you little squirt! You'd better stop shooting your mouth off, or you'll come a cropper good and proper."
"Strike a light!" said Dave. “Don't jump down me throat!"
"You couldn't fight your way out of a wet paper bag, you little twerp," said Trev.
"I reckon I could," replied Dave.
When Dave's second oldest brother, Norm, heard what Dave was saying, he laughed his head off, and said, “Stone the crows, Dave, what do you think this is - bush week?"
Dave's third brother, Fred, couldn't see anything funny in it at all. He just looked at Dave like he'd gone fair round the bend, and said, “why don't you go back to the bush where you belong?"
"Fair go, replied Dave, why don't you give me a break!" Then he took off yelling over his shoulder, “You no-hopers wouldn't know what day of the week it was!"
Dave then went to se the P.M., and told him he would give it a go. The P.M. said, “You've got two chances of killing that greasy giant - Buckley's and none."
"Oh, I dunno," said Dave, “The Lord my God helped me kill a dingo and a bunyip with my bare hands. I reckon He could help me do this oversized galah like a dinner."
When the P.M. saw that Dave was fair dinkum, he finally gave in and tried to give Dave a great stack of armour. Dave could hardly walk with it on. “This is hopeless," he said, “I'll fix him without all this garbage. She'll be right, mate."
Then Dave walked out to meet Goliath, carrying only his shanghai. When Goliath saw him, he nearly laughed his head off, saying, “What do you think I am kid, a puppy dog or something? Take one step closer and you'll get the biggest knuckle sandwich You've ever seen. I'll have you for breakfast, ya numb skull."
"Come off the grass." Dave yelled back at him, “Just because You've got a head like a hub cap you think you're a big wheel. Well I've got news for you, buster, and it's all bad! I'm coming against you in the name of the Lord."
As Goliath ran to meet him, Dave quickly popped a gibber into his shanghai, and slung it at Goliath. It went like a rocket, and got him fair in the scone.
"Howzat! !" shouted the Anzacs with one voice.
Goliath went out like a light and carked it. Dave ran over, took out the giant's sword, and lopped off his noggin.
"You little ripper!" all the diggers yelled. They ran down the side of the mountain shouting, “Good on ya, matie," and singing “Come on Aussie come on."
Later on, the P.M. asked his off sider who Dave was and where he came from. His reply was that Dave came from the other side of the black stump, where the crows fly backwards to keep the dust out of their eyes. The P.M shook his head and said, “What a bottler!"

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Former Enemies

Some years ago, while leading a church group on a tour of Pearl Harbour, I stood among the clergy and their spouses in the gleaming white-arched and covered Memorial above the USS Arizona. One minister in our group, a man from Maine, had been there on December 7th, 1941 - the day the Japanese flew in to sink our Pacific Naval Fleet. He had not been aboard the Arizona, but his ship had also been hit. He described vividly the horror of being aboard the flaming and sinking vessel as bullets flew and bombs roared. As I listened, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a Japanese tourist entering the Memorial.
It was the man's fine clothes - long tie, buttoned sports jacket, and shiny brown lace-up shoes - that initially attracted my attention. In Hawaii, professionals like lawyers, corporate executives, soldiers and ministers seldom, if ever, wear ties or jackets. Even network television news anchors wear open-collared aloha shirts. This man, dressed as he was, stood out.
Two women walked with him. The older one I took to be his wife, the other perhaps an older daughter. Both wore conservative dresses and fancy shoes. The man appeared to be in his sixties, and while he may have spoken English, I only heard him speak Japanese. In his left hand, he carried, almost shyly, an ornate and obviously costly multi-flowered wreath about eighteen inches across.
Our group's veteran continued to speak as we clustered around him. He described being caught below deck: feeling disoriented as the ship took on water where he stood, fire coming from above and the smoke stealing his breath. His buddy lay dead at his feet as the young sailor struggled in the darkness to escape, fear and adrenaline propelling him to the surface. Everyone in our group was so engrossed in his story, that no one, except for me, noticed the Japanese tourist and his family who walked quite near to us.
As I watched, the tourist stopped, turned to his wife and daughter and spoke to them. They stood quietly, almost solemnly. Then the man straightened his tie, first at the neck and then near the belt, and tugged at the hem of his jacket. As if in preparation, he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and then exhaled. Alone, he sombrely stepped forward toward the railing at the water's edge above the sunken warship.
The other tourists swirled around him. From what I could see and hear, they were apparently all Americans. They were talking, laughing, looking, asking questions; some were listening to our minister's story, but none seemed aware of the tourist who had captured my attention.
I don't believe the Japanese man understood the minister's words. As I listened to one man and watched the other, the Japanese tourist came to the rail, bowed at the waist, and then stood erect. He began to speak; I heard his words but could not comprehend then. However from his tone and the look on his face, I felt their meaning. His manner conveyed so many things at once - confession, sorrow, hurt, honor, dignity, remorse and benediction.
When he had finished his quiet prayer, he gravely dropped the flowered wreath into the seawater - the same water the minister kept mentioning in his reminiscence - and watched as the wreath floated away on the tide. The man struggled to remain formal, to keep face, but his tears betrayed him. I guessed he must have been a soldier, a warrior of the air, whose own plane had showered the bombs and bullets that had torn through our soldiers, sinking their ships. It struck me that he had come on a pilgrimage of repentance, not to our government, but to the gravesite of those young men whose lives he had taken in the name of war.
Stepping backward one pace, the Japanese veteran then closed his eyes and bowed again, very deeply, and very slowly from the waist. Then he stood tall, turned around and rejoined his family. His deed done, they began to leave. All the while, our minister veteran continued his narrative. He and the group were oblivious to the poignant counterpoint occurring behind them.
But I was not the only American to witness the Japanese man's actions. As I watched his family leave, I noticed another American step away from the wall on which he had been leaning. He was dressed casually, and wore a red windbreaker with the VFW emblem on it. He had a potbelly, thinning hair and held his hat in his hand. I assumed the man was a WW II veteran. 'Perhaps he had served in the Pacific,' I thought, 'and was himself on a pilgrimage.'
As the Japanese family walked by him, the American stepped directly into their path, blocking their way. I immediately tensed, fearing a confrontation. The startled Japanese tourist, who had been deep in thought, stopped short, surprise and sorrow mixed on his face. His family, eyes on the ground, stopped abruptly, then crowded closer around him.
But the American simply stood at attention, once again a strong, straight-backed soldier. Then he raised his right hand slowly and stiffly to his forehead, saluting his former enemy.
The American remained in salute until the Japanese, with dawning understanding, returned the gesture.
As the tourists milled by, the two men stood as if alone, joined by their shared pain, glories, honors and memories, until the American, while remaining at attention, slowly lowered his arm and formally stepped backward one pace. The Japanese tourist, when his arms were both once again at his side, bowed formally to the man in front of him. To my surprise, the American returned the honour.
Neither said a word. Neither had to. Their solemn faces wet with tears, expressed to each other in a universal language what could never have been said in words.
I watched as the two men, their reconciliation complete, went their separate ways, united in a way I had never imagined possible.

Reverend Peter Baldwin Panagore (c) 1998, from Chicken Soup for the Veteran's Soul

Badly Named

This is a true story, printed in the Vancouver Sun, June 8, 2000.

WATERFORD TOWNSHIP, MICH. - All someone said was “Hi, Jack!" but at a suburban Detroit, airport that was enough to create a crisis.
A microphone happened to be open Monday when someone greeted the co-pilot aboard a corporate jet, and the tower heard “hijack," police Lieutenant Rick Crigger said.
Oakland International Airport tower officials called the Waterford police.
They in turn called in a whole extra shift of police, the Oakland County Sheriff's department SWAT team, the FBI and other federal authorities.
The plane was told to return to the tower, and the pilot's identification was checked.
"I like false alarms like that," Police Chief John Dean said. “They are good for training purposes. Nobody was hurt and they were just delayed a few minutes."
Once the alarm was over, the law officers could laugh about it. "They'll probably pass a rule that no one named Jack can ever be hired in aviation again," said Waterford Captain Chuck Jehle.

Bush-lovers?

This list is circulating among Forest Service employees. These are “actual" comments on Forest Service registration sheets and comment cards by backpackers completing wilderness camping trips:

• “A small deer came into my camp and stole my bag of pickles. Is there a way I can get reimbursed? Please call."
• “Escalators would help on steep uphill sections."
• “Instead of a permit system or regulations, the Forest Service needs to reduce worldwide population growth to limit the number of visitors to the wilderness."
• “Trails need to be wider so people can walk while holding hands."
• “Ban walking sticks in wilderness. Hikers that use walking sticks are more likely to chase animals."
• “All the mile markers are missing this year."
• “Trails need to be reconstructed. Please avoid building trails that go uphill."
• “Too many bugs and leeches and spiders and spider webs. Please spray the wilderness to rid the area of these pests."
• “Please pave the trails so they can be plowed of snow in the winter."
• “Chair lifts need to be in some places so that we can get to wonderful views without having to hike to them."
• “The coyotes made too much noise last night and kept me awake. Please eradicate these annoying animals."
• “Reflectors need to be placed on trees every 50 feet so people can hike at night with flashlights."
• “Need more signs to inform the people to keep the area pristine."
• “A McDonald's would be nice at the trailhead."
• “The places where trails do not exist are not well-marked."
• “Too many rocks in the mountains."

The Tablecloth Across The Miles

so named by Dr. G. Jo Floyd
The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry, to reopen a church in urban Brooklyn, arrived in early October excited about their opportunities. When they saw their church, it was very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve. They worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, etc., and on December 18 were ahead of schedule and just about finished. On December 19 a terrible tempest-a driving rainstorm hit the area and lasted for two days.
On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church. His heart sunk when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 6 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high. The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Christmas Eve service, headed home. On the way he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity so he stopped in.
One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory coloured, crocheted table cloth with exquisite work, fine colours and a cross embroidered right in the centre. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church. By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45 minutes later. She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area. Then he noticed the woman walking down the centre aisle.
Her face was like a sheet. “Pastor," she asked, “where did you get that tablecloth?" The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crotched into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria.
The woman could hardly believe it as the pastor told how he had just gotten the tablecloth. The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria. When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week. She was captured, sent to prison and never saw her husband or her home again.
The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the pastor keep it for the church. The pastor insisted on driving her home, that was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.
What a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return.
One older man, whom the pastor recognised from the neighbourhood, continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the pastor wondered why he wasn't leaving. The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike?
He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety, and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a concentration camp. He never saw his wife or his home again for all the 35 years in between.
The pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier. He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Christmas reunion he could ever imagine.

story submitted by Bob Reid

A Wonderful Story About Love

Like any good mother, when Karen found out that another baby was on the way, she did what she could to help her 3 year old son, Michael, prepare for a new sibling. They found out that the new baby was going to be a girl, and day after day, night after night, Michael sang to his little sister in Mommy's tummy. He was building a bond of love with his little sister before he even met her. The pregnancy progressed normally for Karen, an active member of the Panther Creek United Methodist Church in Morristown, Tennessee. In time, the labour pains came. Soon it was every five minutes, every three, every minute. But serious complications arose during delivery and Karen found herself in hours of labour. Would a C-section be required? Finally, after a long struggle, Michael's little sister was born. But she was in very serious condition.
With a siren howling in the night, the ambulance rushed the infant to the neonatal intensive care unit at St. Mary's Hospital, Knoxville, Tennessee.
The days inched by. The little girl got worse. The paediatric specialist regretfully had to tell the parents, “There is very little hope. Be prepared for the worst."
Karen and her husband contacted a local cemetery about a burial plot. They had fixed up a special room in their home for the new baby – but now they found themselves having to plan for a funeral.
Michael, however, kept begging his parents to let him see his sister.
"I want to sing to her," he kept saying. Week two in intensive care looked as if a funeral would come before the week was over.
Michael kept nagging about singing to his sister, but kids are never allowed in the Intensive Care. Karen made up her mind, though. She would take Michael whether they liked it or not! If he didn't see his sister right then, he may never see her alive.
She dressed him in an oversized scrub suit and marched him into ICU.
He looked like a walking laundry basket, but the head nurse recognized him as a child and bellowed “Get that kid out of here now! NO children are allowed!" The mother rose up strong in Karen, and the usually mild-mannered lady glared steel-eyed right into the head nurse's face, her lips a firm line. “He is not leaving until he sings to his sister!"
Karen towed Michael to his sister's bedside. He gazed at the tiny infant losing the battle to live. After a moment, he began to sing. In the pure hearted voice of a 3-year-old Michael sang: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray."
Instantly the baby girl seemed to respond. Her pulse rate began to calm down and become steady. “Keep on singing, Michael," encouraged Karen with tears in her eyes. “You never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away."
As Michael sang to his sister, the baby's ragged, strained breathing became as smooth as a kitten's purr. “Keep on singing, sweetheart!!"
"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my hands..." Michael's little sister began to relax as rest, healing rest, seemed to sweep over her.
"Keep on singing, Michael." Tears had now conquered the face of the head nurse and Karen glowed. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. Please don't take my sunshine away...."
The next, day...the very next day...the little girl was well enough to go home! “Women's Day Magazine" called it “The Miracle of a Brother's Song."
The medical staff just called it a miracle Karen called it a miracle of God's love!
Never give up on the people you love. Love is so Incredibly powerful.

Author Unknown

Reaching Out

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighbourhood. I remember well the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.
I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was “Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know.
"Information Please" could supply anybody's number and the correct time.
My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbour. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.
The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the foot stool in the parlour and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlour and held it to my ear. “Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information"
"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.
"No," I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could.
"Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.
After that, I called “Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk, that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called “Information Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."
Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone. “Information Please." "Information," said the now familiar voice. “How do you spell fix?" I asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. “Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle I had about half-an-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then, without thinking what I was doing, I dialled my hometown operator and said, “Information, please."
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.
"Information."
I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, “Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, “I guess your finger must have healed by now."
I laughed, “So it's really still you," I said. “I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time."
"I wonder," she said, “if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
"Please do," she said. “Just ask for Sally."
Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, “Information."
I asked for Sally. “Are you a friend?" she said.
"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. “Sally had been working part time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."
Before I could hang up she said, “Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"
"Yes."
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you. The note said, “Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

- Author Unknown

Life And Death Urgency

Sitting on the hard wooden bleachers at Fort Benning while attending the United States Army Airborne School, we prepared for our first parachute jump. Soon we would soar hundreds of feet above the red Georgia clay and hear the jump-master bark out the orders, “Stand up! Hook up! Check equipment! Stand in the door! Go! Go! Go!" Understandably, the instructors had our undivided attention.
The Airborne sergeant's voice rang out confidently as he explained what to do in case of a parachute malfunction. “If your main parachute should fail to deploy, don't panic-pull the handle of your auxiliary parachute. Should your auxiliary parachute fail to fill with air, don't panic-pull it in toward your body and then vigorously throw it away from yourself. Should your auxiliary chute again fail to deploy, don't panic-vigorously repeat this process." He paused dramatically, looking intently into our eyes. Then with a slight mischievous grin he slowly stated, “Should this also fail, don't panic. You'll have the rest of your life to get your parachute to deploy."

source unknown

Things Are Not Always What They Seem

Two travelling angels stopped to spend the night in the home of a wealthy family. The family was rude and refused to let the angels stay in the mansion's guestroom. Instead the angels were given a small space in the cold basement. As they made their bed on the hard floor, the older angel saw a hole in the wall and repaired it. When the younger angel asked why, the older angel replied, “Things aren't always what they seem."
The next night the pair came to rest at the house of a very poor, but very hospitable farmer and his wife. After sharing what little food they had the couple let the angels sleep in their bed where they could have a good night's rest. When the sun came up the next morning the angels found the farmer and his wife in tears. Their only cow, whose milk had been their sole income, lay dead in the field. The younger angel was infuriated and asked the older angel how could you have let this happen? The first man had everything, yet you helped him, she accused. The second family had little but was willing to share everything, and you let the cow die.
"Things aren't always what they seem," the older angel replied. “When we stayed in the basement of the mansion, I noticed there was gold stored in that hole in the wall. Since the owner was so obsessed with greed and unwilling to share his good fortune, I sealed the wall so he wouldn’t find it."
"Then last night as we slept in the farmer’s bed, the angel of death came for his wife. I gave him the cow instead. Things aren't always what they seem." Sometimes that is exactly what happens when things don't turn out the way they should. If you have faith, you just need to trust that every outcome is always to your advantage. You might not know it until some time later...

source unknown

The Final Confrontation

After living a “decent" life, my time on earth came to an end. The first thing I remember is sitting on a bench in the waiting room of what I thought to be a court house.
The doors opened and I was instructed to come in and have a seat by the defence table. As I looked around I saw the “prosecutor." He was a villainous looking gent who snarled as he stared at me. He definitely was the most evil person I have ever seen.
I sat down and looked to my left and there sat my lawyer, a kind and gentle looking man whose appearance seemed familiar to me.
The corner door flew open and there appeared the judge in full flowing robes. He commanded an awesome presence as he moved across the room. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. As he took his seat behind the bench, he said, “Let us begin."
The prosecutor rose and said, “My name is Satan and I am here to show you why this man belongs in hell." He proceeded to tell of lies that I told, things that I stole, and in the past when I cheated others. Satan told of other horrible perversions that were once in my life and the more he spoke, the further down in my seat I sank. I was so embarrassed that I couldn't look at anyone, even my own lawyer, as the Devil told of sins that even I had completely forgotten about.
As upset as I was at Satan for telling all these things about me, I was equally upset at my representative who sat there silently not offering any form of defence at all. I know I had been guilty of those things, but I had done some good in my life - couldn't that at least equal out part of the harm I've done? Satan finished with a fury and said, “This man belongs in hell, he is guilty of all that I have charged and there is not a person who can prove otherwise.
When it was his turn, my lawyer first asked if he might approach the bench. The judge allowed this over the strong objection of Satan, and beckoned him to come forward. As he got up and started walking, I was able to see him in his full splendour and majesty. I realised why he seemed so familiar. This was Jesus representing me, my Lord and my Saviour. He stopped at the bench and softly said to the judge, “Hi Dad," and then he turned to address the court. “Satan was correct in saying that this man had sinned, I won't deny any of these allegations. And yes the wage of sin is death, and this man deserves to be punished." Jesus took a deep breath and turned to his Father with outstretched arms and proclaimed, “However, I died on the cross so that this person might have eternal life and he has accepted me as his Saviour, so he is mine." My Lord continued with, “His name is written in the book of life and no one can snatch him from me. Satan still does not understand yet. This man is not to be given justice, but rather mercy."
As Jesus sat down, he quietly paused, looked at his Father and replied, “There is nothing else that needs to be done. I've done it all."
The judge lifted his mighty hand and slammed the gavel down. The following words bellowed from his lips... “This man is free. The penalty for him has already been paid in full. Case dismissed."
As my Lord led me away, I could hear Satan ranting and raving, “I won't give up, I'll win the next one."
I asked Jesus as he gave me my instructions where to go next, “Have you ever lost a case?" Christ lovingly smiled and said, “Everyone that has come to me and asked me to represent them has received the same verdict as you, Paid in Full."

source unknown

God Never Leaves Us

One tribe of native Americans had a unique practice for training young braves. On the night of a boy's thirteenth birthday, he was placed in a dense forest to spend the entire night alone. Until then he had never been away from the security of his family and tribe. But on this night he was blindfolded and taken miles away. When he took off the blindfold, he was in the middle of thick woods. By himself. All night long.
Every time a twig snapped, he probably visualised a wild animal ready to pounce. Every time an animal howled, he imagined a wolf leaping out of the darkness. Every time the wind blew, he wondered what more sinister sound it masked. No doubt it was a terrifying night for many.
After what seemed like an eternity, the first rays of sunlight entered the interior of the forest. Looking around, the boy saw flowers, trees, and the outline of the path. Then, to his utter astonishment, he beheld the figure of a man standing just a few feet away, armed with a bow and arrow. It was the boy's father. He had been there all night long.
Can you think of any better way for a child to learn how God allows us to face the tests of life? God is always present with us. God's presence is unseen, but it is more real than life itself.

source unknown

Billionaire For A Day

Jeff Ferrera of Waukegan, Illinois, was reconciling his chequebook and called First National Bank of Chicago to get his current balance.
"Your primary checking account currently has a balance of $924,844,204.32," droned the electronic voice. Ferrera was one of 826 customers who were almost billionaires for a day because of the biggest error in the history of U.S. banking. The goof amounted to almost $764 billion, more than six times the total assets of First Chicago NBD Corporation. “I had a lot of people saying in jest to transfer it to the Cayman Islands and run for it," Ferrera said. But, like most of the others, he simply reported the error to bank officials, who could say only that it was a “computer programming error."
It pays to remember that all earthly wealth is just as temporal - sometimes more so than we'd like to imagine!

source unknown

Chasing After Happiness

In New York City, there are eight million cats and eleven million dogs. New York City is basically just concrete and steel, so when you have a pet in New York City and it dies, you can't just go out in the back yard and bury it. The city authorities decided that for $50 they would dispose of your deceased pet for you.
One lady was enterprising. She thought, I can render a service to people in the city and save them money. She placed an ad in the newspaper that said, “When your pet dies, I will come and take care of the carcass for you for $25." This lady would go to the local Salvation Army and buy an old suitcase for two dollars. Then when someone would call about his or her pet, she would go to the home and put the deceased pet in the suitcase.
She would then take a ride on the subway, where there are thieves. She would set the suitcase down, and she would act like she wasn't watching. A thief would come by and steal her suitcase. She'd look up and say, “Wait. Stop. Thief." My guess is the people who stole those suitcases got a real surprise when they got home.
A lot of us are like those New York thieves. We're chasing after happiness, and we grab what we think will give us happiness; however, when we get it, it doesn't quite deliver.

source unknown

The Babe in the Blythe

She was gorgeous and tanned and God used her to teach me a lesson by Ben Patterson
Peter Taylor Forsyth said God is an infinite opportunist. I believe that, and here is one reason why: the Babe in Blythe.
Blythe is a desert town on the Arizona-California border. My family and I were on our way back home from vacation when we stopped at a McDonalds in Blythe. It was packed with tired travelers like us. Lauretta, my wife, asked me to hold Mary, our eighteen-month old, while she went to the restroom and our three sons romped in the play area.
Picture me holding my daughter, a few feet from the restroom doors, as the Babe from Blythe emerged from behind those doors. She was gorgeous - tanned and dressed as, well, as young women are wont to dress in warm desert climates.
And she was looking right at me, smiling warmly! My fatigued mind was suddenly focused. I straightened up and smiled back, flush with the adolescent conceit that even though I was much older than she was, I must still be a very attractive man. Babes still take notice!
Our smiles and eyes met for longer than a mere random encounter as she walked past. Then I noticed my reflection in the mirror along the wall and saw who she was smiling at. It was me, all right, but it wasn't Ben Patterson the Mature Hunk. It was Ben Patterson, Mary's Daddy. He was middle aged, a little lumpy, and holding a precious child. That's what delighted the Babe.
My first reaction was embarrassment. Silly fool, you aren't what you thought you were!
But as I continued to look in the mirror, I decided I liked what I saw there more than I liked what I first thought the Babe saw. I like being Mary's Daddy. I like it a lot. Ditto for Dan and Joel and Andy. It's better to be a daddy than a stud. My deflation turned into elation.
Whether or not that is what Forsyth meant by God being an infinite opportunist, that's what I mean. He orchestrated my lust and conceit into a blessed realization of my true glory and happiness. God was smiling at me through the smile of the Babe in Blythe.
With one deft stroke, he seized the moment, stripped me bare, and clothed me with mercy.
He's done that my whole life. I remember the first time, as I was preaching, I made a broad gesture and several heads in the congregation turned and looked where I was pointing. The same flush I felt in Blythe came over me. They're really listening to me! I point this way and they look this way. Feels good! I did it again, and again heads turned.
Later, when I thought about the flush and the tawdry little experiment, I was stricken with shame. A snarling zoo of false motives was exposed. I'm often shocked at all the wrong reasons I have for doing the right things.
Many times, when I am thus stripped bare, I have been tempted to resign the ministry. I have no right to be a minister of the gospel. That is, of course, correct - but in more than one way. I have no right because of my sin, and no right because of God's mercy. The ministry is never a right, always a mercy.
The apostle Paul is clear: it is “through God's mercy we have this ministry," the upshot being, therefore, “we do not lose heart" (2 Cor. 4:1). We were saved by grace, we are saved by grace, and we will be saved by grace. What made me a child of God also makes me his servant. God made a bad man like Paul an apostle simply to show the world how gracious he is (1 Tim. 1:15, 16). My friends, I could not minister another day in Christ's name if I did not believe this was the truth.

Yet I Will Praise

Margaret Sangster Phippen wrote that in the mid 1950s her father, British minister W. E. Sangster, began to notice some uneasiness in his throat and a dragging in his leg. When he went to the doctor, he found that he had an incurable disease that caused progressive muscular atrophy. His muscles would gradually waste away, his voice would fail, his throat would soon become unable to swallow.
Sangster threw himself into his work in British home missions, figuring he could still write and he would have even more time for prayer. “Let me stay in the struggle Lord," he pleaded. “I don't mind if I can no longer be a general, but give me just a regiment to lead." He wrote articles and books, and helped organize prayer cells throughout England. “I'm only in the kindergarten of suffering," he told people who pitied him.
Gradually Sangster's legs became useless. His voice went completely. But he could still hold a pen, shakily. On Easter morning, just a few weeks before he died, he wrote a letter to his daughter. In it, he said, “It is terrible to wake up on Easter morning and have no voice to shout, 'He is risen!' - but it would be still more terrible to have a voice and not want to shout."

source unknown

The Father at the Cross

Last week my son, Bjorn, got sick.
I took his temperature, and it was 102.5. The Children's Advil came out. He slugged down the appropriate dose for his size. Forty-five minutes later the fever was back down to 100.
Just before bed, I checked his temperature again. It was back up. More Advil. I checked again 45 minutes later; now it was 103. Concerned, I asked Bjorn to drink more water. He obliged, but he was clearly languishing.
My wife, Mary, slept with our youngest son, Kristian. I slept alone in our bedroom and monitored Bjorn through the night. At 12:30 a.m. the thermometer was shaken down and placed under the tongue of my lethargic son. His skin was hot. His affect dulled. 104.
I called the urgent care facility at the local medical centre. They said, “Bring him in as soon as possible."
Mary took Bjorn in while I stayed home with Kristian. While she started the van, I got Bjorn ready. I jostled him. He awoke. I told him we were going to the doctor. He looked at me with weary, wondering eyes and said, “Am I going to die, Daddy?"
Immediately, I had three reactions. Common sense: “No, you are not going to die. We need to get this fever down." Emotional: “I'm scared." Visions of children with bizarre diseases flooded my heart. Spiritual: “Dear Jesus, Cover him. Heal him. Love him."
I conveyed the common sense reaction to Bjorn, not wanting to scare him, and I was fairly certain his fever was not life threatening. But my mind flashed to the many parents in this world who have had to look at their children, knowing that the ultimate answer to that question was “Yes." I can barely write as I contemplate that circumstance. And I wonder if in the heavenly places there was once a conversation between the Father and the Son, when the Son asked the question, “Am I going to die, Daddy?" and in his heart the Father knew the answer was “Yes."

source unknown

A True Story from Africa

One night I had worked hard to help a mother in the labour ward; but in spite of all we could do she died leaving us with a tiny premature baby and a crying two-year-old daughter. We would have difficulty keeping the baby alive, as we had no incubator. (We had no electricity to run an incubator.) We also had no special feeding facilities.
Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts. One student midwife went for the box we had for such babies and the cotton wool the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She came back shortly in distress to tell me that in filling the bottle, it had burst. Rubber perishes easily in tropical climates. “And it is our last hot water bottle!" she exclaimed.
As in the West it is no good crying over spilled milk, so in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over burst water bottles. They do not grow on trees, and there are no drugstores down forest pathways. “All right," I said, “put the baby as near the fire as you safely can, and sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts. “Your job is to keep the baby warm."
The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with any of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle. The baby could so easily die if it got chills. I also told them of the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died.
During the prayer time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt conciseness of our African children. “Please, God," she prayed, “send us a water bottle. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, as the baby will be dead, so please send it this afternoon."
While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added by way of a corollary, “And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little girl so she'll know You really love her?"
As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say, “Amen?" I just did not believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I know that He can do everything. The Bible says so. But there are limits, aren't there? The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending me a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had never, ever received a parcel from home.
Anyway, if anyone did send me a parcel, who would put in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator!
Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time I reached home, the car had gone, but there, on the veranda, was a large twenty-two pound parcel. l felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone, so I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly. Excitement was mounting.
Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly coloured, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children looked a little bored. Then came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas - that would make a batch of buns for the weekend. Then, as I put my hand in again, I felt the.....could it really be? I grasped it and pulled it out-yes, a brand-new, rubber hot water bottle I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He could. Ruth was in the front row of, the children. She rushed forward, crying out, “If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly, too!" Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully dressed dolly. Her eyes shone! She had never doubted. Looking up at me, she asked: “Can I go over with you, Mummy, and give this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?"
That parcel had been on the way for five whole months. Packed up by my former Sunday school class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. And one of the girls had put in a dolly for an African child-five months before-in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it “that afternoon." "Before they call, I will answer!" Isa 65:24"

source unknown

Under the Garage Door

It was all so very ordinary, until we landed in Denver for a plane change. As I collected my belongings from the overhead bin, an announcement was made for Mr. Lloyd Glenn to see the United Customer Service Representative immediately. I thought nothing of it until I reached the door to leave the plane, and I heard a gentleman asking every male if they were Mr. Glenn. At this point I knew something was wrong and my heart sunk. When I got off the plane a solemn-faced young man came toward me and said, “Mr. Glenn, there is an emergency at your home. I do not know what the emergency is, or who is involved, but I will take you to the phone so you can call the hospital." My heart was now pounding, but the will to be calm took over. Woodenly, I followed this stranger to the distant telephone where I called the number he gave me for the Mission Hospital. My call was put through to the trauma centre where I learned that my three-year-old son had been trapped underneath the automatic garage door for several minutes, and that when my wife had found him he was dead. CPR had been performed by a neighbour, who is a doctor, and the paramedics had continued the treatment as Brian was transported to the hospital. By the time of my call, Brian was revived and they believed he would live, but they did not know how much damage had been done to his brain, nor to his heart. They explained that the door had completely closed on his little sternum right over his heart. He had been severely crushed. After speaking with the medical staff, my wife sounded worried but not hysterical, and I took comfort in her calmness. The return flight seemed to last forever, but finally I arrived at the hospital six hours after the garage door had come down. When I walked into the intensive care unit, nothing could have prepared me to see my little son laying so still on a great big bed with tubes and monitors everywhere. He was on a respirator. I glanced at my wife who stood and tried to give me a reassuring smile. It all seemed like a terrible dream. I was filled-in with the details and given a guarded prognosis. Brian was going to live, and the preliminary tests indicated that his heart was OK, two miracles in and of themselves. But only time would tell if his brain received any damage. Throughout the seemingly endless hours, my wife was calm. She felt that Brian would eventually be all right. I hung on to her words and faith like a lifeline. All that night and the next day Brian remained unconscious. It seemed like forever since I had left for my business trip the day before. Finally at two o'clock that afternoon, our son regained consciousness and sat up uttering the most beautiful words I have ever heard spoken. He said, “Daddy hold me" and he reached for me with his little arms. [TEAR BREAK...smile]
By the next day he was pronounced as having no neurological or physical deficits, and the story of his miraculous survival spread throughout the hospital. You cannot imagine we took Brian home, we felt a unique reverence for the life and love of our Heavenly Father that comes to those who brush death so closely..
In the days that followed there was a special spirit about our home. Our two older children were much closer to their little brother. My wife and I were much closer to each other, and all of us were very close as a whole family. Life took on a less stressful pace.
Perspective seemed to be more focused, and balance much easier to gain and maintain. We felt deeply blessed. Our gratitude was truly profound.
The story is not over (smile)!
Almost a month later to the day of the accident, Brian awoke from his afternoon nap and said, “Sit down Mummy. I have something to tell you." At this time in his life, Brian usually spoke in small phrases, so to say a large sentence surprised my wife.
She sat down with him on his bed, and he began his sacred and remarkable story. “Do you remember when I got stuck under the garage door? Well, it was so heavy and it hurt really bad. I called to you, but you couldn't hear me. I started to cry, but then it hurt too bad. And then the 'birdies' came."
"The birdies?" my wife asked puzzled. “Yes," he replied. “The birdies made a whooshing sound and flew into the garage. They took care of me." “They did?" “Yes," he said. “One of the birdies came and got you. She came to tell you I got stuck under the door." A sweet reverent feeling filled the room. The spirit was so strong and yet lighter than air. My wife realised that a three-year-old had no concept of death and spirits, so he was referring to the beings who came to him from beyond as “birdies" because they were up in the air like birds that fly. “What did the birdies look like?" she asked.. Brian answered, “They were so beautiful. They were dressed in white, all white. Some of them had green and white. But some of them had on just white."
"Did they say anything?" “Yes," he answered. “They told me the baby would be all right." “The baby?" my wife asked confused. Brian answered. “The baby laying on the garage floor." He went on, “You came out and opened the garage door and ran to the baby. You told the baby to stay and not leave." My wife nearly collapsed upon hearing this, for she had indeed gone and knelt beside Brian's body and seeing his crushed chest whispered, “Don't leave us Brian, please stay if you can." As she listened to Brian telling her the words she had spoken, she realised that the spirit had left his body and was looking down from above on this little lifeless form. “Then what happened?" she asked. “We went on a trip." he said, “Far, far away." He grew agitated trying to say the things he didn't seem to have the words for. My wife tried to calm and comfort him, and let him know it would be okay. He struggled with wanting to tell something that obviously was very important to him, but finding the words was difficult. “We flew so fast up in the air. They're so pretty Mummy," he added. “And there are lots and lots of birdies." My wife was stunned. Into her mind the sweet comforting spirit enveloped her more soundly, but with an urgency she had never before known. Brian went on to tell her that the “birdies" had told him that he had to come back and tell everyone about the birdies." He said they brought him back to the house and that a big fire truck, and an ambulance were there. A man was bringing the baby out on a white bed and he tried to tell the man that the baby would be okay, but the man couldn't hear him. He said the birdies told him he had to go with the ambulance, but they would be near him. He said they were so pretty and so peaceful, and he didn't want to come back. Then the bright light came. He said that the light was so bright and so warm, and he loved the bright light so much. Someone was in the bright light and put their arms around him, and told him, “I love you but you have to go back. You have to play baseball, and tell everyone about the birdies.
"Then the person in the bright light kissed him and waved bye-bye. Then woosh, the big sound came and they went into the clouds. The story went on for an hour. He taught us that “birdies" were always with us, but we don't see them because we look with our eyes and we don't hear them because we listen with our ears. But they are always there, you can only see them in here (he put his hand over his heart). They whisper the things to help us to do what is right because they love us so much. Brian continued, stating, “I have a plan, Mummy. You have a plan. Daddy has a plan. Everyone has a plan. We must all live our plan and keep our promises. The birdies help us to do that cause they love us so much." In the weeks that followed, he often came to us and told all, or part of it, again and again. Always the story remained the same. The details were never changed or out of order. A few times he added further bits of information and clarified the message he had already delivered. It never ceased to amaze us how he could tell such detail and speak beyond his ability when he talked about his birdies. Everywhere he went, he told strangers about the “birdies." Surprisingly, no one ever looked at him strangely when he did this. Rather, they always got a softened look on their face and smiled. Needless to say, we have not been the same ever since that day, and pray we never will be.

source unknown

They Just Won’t Give Up!

Scott Hanson is a news reporter and anchor with WESH-Channel 2 in Orlando, Florida. This piece was excerpted from the Orlando Sentinel Star newspaper. It is worth a careful reading, so take your time - and think long and hard about it!! :-)
My father died on Jan 02, 1995. He left no forwarding address.
Therefore, it fell to me to collect his mail. I didn't expect much really, since my sisters and I had been careful to notify his bank, insurance agent and a host of other businesses that one of their customers was no more.
You would think a death notice would cut down on the amount of correspondence from those firms. Quite the contrary. Instead - for months, mind you - my deceased father continued to receive mail from companies that had been told of his passing but pressed on, determined to contact him anyway.
The first to hope for a reply from beyond the grave was my father's bank.

Dear Mr. Hanson,
Our records indicate payment is due for overdraft protection on your checking account. Efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Therefore, we are automatically withdrawing your monthly $28.00 service charge from your account. Please adjust your records accordingly.
Sincerely,
The Phoenix Branch

Dear Phoenix Branch,
This is to notify you once again that Mr. Hanson died Jan 02, 1995. It is therefore unlikely he will be overdrawing his account. Please close his account, and adjust your books accordingly.
Sincerely,
Scott Hansom

Later that same week, I received this note from Dad's insurance company. Again, this is a firm that had been told in no uncertain terms of his death.

Dear Mr. Hanson,
It's time to renew your auto insurance policy! To continue your coverage, you must send $54.17 to this office immediately. Failure to do so will result in the cancellation of your policy, and interruption of your coverage.
Sincerely,
Your Insurance Agent

Dear Insurance Agent,
This is to remind you that Mr. Hanson has been dead since January. As such, the odds he'll be involved in a collision are quite minimal. Please cancel the policy, and adjust your books accordingly.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson.

The next day, I went to my mailbox to find this:
Dear Mr. Hanson,
Let me introduce myself. I am a psychic reader, and it is very important that you contact me immediately. I sense that you are about to enter a time of unprecedented financial prosperity. Please call the enclosed 900 number immediately, so I can tell you how best to take full advantage of the opportunities that are coming your way.
Sincerely,
Your Psychic Reader

Dear Psychic Reader,
My father regrets he will be unable to call your 900 number. As a psychic reader, I'm sure you already know my father is dead, and had been for more that three weeks when you mailed your letter to him. I sense my father would be more than happy to take you up on your offer of a psychic reading, should you care to meet with him personally.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson
P.S. Should you be in contact with my father in the future, please ask him if he'd like to renew his car insurance.

A few months of calm passed, and then these arrived:

Dear Mr. Hanson,
Our records indicate a balance of $112 has accrued for overdraft protection on your checking account. Efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Please pay the minimum amount due, or contact this office to make other arrangements. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving all of your future borrowing needs.
Sincerely,
Your Bank's San Diego District Office

Dear San Diego District Office,
I am writing to you for the third time now to tell you my father died in January. Since then, the number of checks he's written has dropped dramatically. Being dead, he has no plans to use his overdraft protection or pay even the minimum amount due for a service he no longer needs.
As for future borrowing needs, well, don't hold your breath.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson

Dear Mr. Hanson,
Records show you owe a balance of $54.17 to your insurance agent. Efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Therefore, the matter has been turned over to us for collection.
Please remit the amount of $54.17 to our office or we will be forced to take legal action to collect the debt.
Sincerely,
Your Insurance Agent's Collection Agency

Dear Collection Agency,
I told your client. Now I'm telling you. Dad's dead. He doesn't need insurance. He's dead. Dead, dead, dead. I doubt even your lawyers can change that. Please adjust your books accordingly.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson

A few more months, and:
Dear Mr. Hanson,
Our records show an unpaid balance of $224 has accrued for overdraft protection on your checking account. Our efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful.
Please remit the amount in full to this office, or the matter will be turned over to a collection agency. Such action will adversely affect your credit history.
Sincerely,
Your Bank's Los Angeles Regional Office

Dear Los Angeles Regional Office,
I am writing for the fourth time to the fourth person at the fourth address to tell your bank that my father passed away in January. Since that time, I've watched with a mixture of amazement and amusement as your bank continues to transact business with him. Now, you are even threatening his credit history.
It should come as no surprise that you have received little response from my deceased father. It should also be small news that his credit history is of minor importance to him now.
For the fourth and final time, please adjust your books accordingly.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson

Dear Mr. Hanson,
This is your final notice of payment due to your insurance agent. If our firm does not receive payment of $54.17, we will commence legal action on the matter. Please contact us at once.
Sincerely,
Your Insurance Agent's Collection Agency

Dear Insurance Agent's Collection Agency,
You may contact my father via the enclosed 900 number.
Sincerely,

Scott Hanson
It has now been a couple of months since I've heard from these firms. Either the people writing these letters finally believe my father is dead, or they themselves have died and are now receiving similar correspondence. Actually, there has been a lesson in these letters. Any one of them would be cause for great worry, if sent to a living person. The dead are immune from corporate bullying. There's nothing like dying to put business correspondence in its proper perspective.

Dying is a little harder than it might seem!