God and a Rag Doll

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Week of July 22

 

One morning before leaving for high school, God put it on my heart that I was going to be in a car accident that day. I told my older sister who urged me not to go to school.

 

I told her I had to go today because if I was absent or late one more day I was risking being expelled. Besides I had stayed up late finishing the hair on my Raggedy Ann Doll for my Home Economics class that had to be turned in this morning in order to get credit.

 

My friend Robin drove up in her Riviera at the usual time. While my sister kept telling me not to tempt fate by going to school, I prayed over the car asking God for his protection. When I got into the car with my books and Raggedy Ann doll I noticed a St. Christopher Medal hanging from the rear view mirror. It hadn’t been there before.

 

“Who gave you the medal Robin, your mother?”

 

“My  grandmother.”

 

That’s neat I thought, we can use all the protection possible, especially today. Everything went well until we entered the Natchez Highway and Robin speeded up. We hit a patch of black ice and slid off the highway and smashed onto a cement irrigation box that propelled the car backwards. We flipped completely over three times before coming to a stop right side up. I passed out. I came too with Robin yelling my name.

 

I was crunched up against the mangled door and window that was shattered and bowed from the impact. Wedged between my head and the window was the Raggedy Ann Doll. The hair of the doll was caught at the top of the window and the doll acted as cushion for me preventing serious injury.

 

Robin and I crawled out of the car and ran off to the first house we could see to call our parents. When we returned to the car a state trooper was standing by our wreck. He said when he saw the damage and nobody in the car he thought our bodies had already been taken to the morgue. He told us we shouldn’t have left the scene of an accident.

 

Our parents arrived and they drove us to school but nobody ever said anything about being late that day.

 

Colleen Jorgenson
 Veradale, Washington

"God,give me a sign"

Week of July 14, 2013

 

“Some of you are feeling pretty low right now but believe me you will feel a lot better in six weeks.”

 

I heard him loud and clear. I wanted this six-week Divorce Recovery Workshop at my church to be over now so I could feel better. The instructor was right about one thing. I was feeling lower than a reptile slithering in the mud. I hoped he was right about feeling better in six weeks. All I could do now was hold onto that hope.

 

My marriage of seven years wasn’t officially over yet but it had ended a long time ago. Drugs and alcohol had taken their toll. I had been the one to sober up first but all I got for my effort was more verbal abuse from a husband that blamed everything on me,. He continued to medicate himself while I felt a constant ache of loneliness and the pain from the yelling and nightly name calling. There seemed to be no end. Somebody had to end this madness. I moved out and filed for divorce.

 

I told all this to my Divorce Recovery small group. Each person in the group got to share their situation. We all listened to each other with compassion. I felt particularly sorry for the gals with young children. At least I didn’t have that problem. A childhood disease had left me barren. I didn’t think I could ever feel good about that but I was thankful now that I didn’t have to go through this with a child too.

 

The group and our facilitator became my support base for the next several weeks. We helped each other deal with the grieving over the loss of an intimate relationship and to focus on what we had to do to become a whole person again. That meant we had to let go of the anger and the blame in order to begin the healing process. The group was there for me the night my divorce became official by court order. I was glad to be with them and not alone in my apartment.

 

The instructor was right. I did feel better on “graduation night” from the workshop and there were plenty of tears and hugs and brownies. Our group exchanged phone numbers before leaving. The high I felt at the end of the workshop came crashing down a week later when I lost my high salaried marketing position. The corporation just eliminated the entire department.

 

I was devastated. During all the trials of the divorce I had poured myself into the job and had relied on the steady income to keep me independent. Now what would I do? How would I keep the apartment once the severance pay ran out? I went into depression. It got worse as the weeks went by and I couldn’t find another position within the corporation or a like paying job in the city.

 

 I was at or nearing the bottom of my depression pit when a friend from the divorce group called. She asked me how I was doing and I told her. She invited me to he son’s sixth birthday party that afternoon and I at first declined. But she insisted and I thought maybe it would cheer me up.

 

The party was outside in the yard. It was a mistake to be there. The children playing and the mother’s talking about kids and families depressed me more. When they were occupied with a pin the tail on the donkey game I slipped into the house. I wandered into the living room and all of a sudden the tears gushed out and I was shaking uncontrollably.  I cried out to the Lord. With my head bowed and my hand gripping the fireplace mantle I said, “Lord are you there? Let me know. Give me a sign or something that I can know you can hear me… that I matter.”

 

The tears subsided and the shakes stopped. I lifted my head slowly and there in front of me above the mantle I saw through moist eyes a framed copy of “Footprints.”

 

Mary Beth Darling

Portland Oregon

Sherry's Angel

 Week of July 7

 

On a Monday on my lunch hour, I had an appointment to see a doctor at the hospital.  I was bleeding and worried.  All alone and trying to be strong, I ventured to the hospital and before I entered I picked up my Bible that I always carry in the car and read a scripture. 

 

Upon walking into the waiting room I heard God say to me, "Go speak to that man, He is an Angel." 

 

I looked up and saw a man sitting in a wheelchair. His arm was propped up in a brace, and his leg was emaciated but stabilized with a series of halos around it.  I approached him.  

 

His kind eyes looked into my soul, and they took me backwards as he really saw into me.  I said hello and he replied hello.  I asked if he would walk again and he said yes.  Then I asked if he knew that JESUS could heal him. He enthusiastically said YES as if letting me know that I understood and was good to point that out. 

 

So I said my name is Sherry while reaching out to shake his hand, to which he paused and shook my hand and said, "I’m Angel."  I said really?  "Yes," he said. 

 

Then I went upstairs to my doctor and learned all would be OK. When I was walking out I noticed Angel was still there.

 

I went back and let him know that God told me to talk to him, and that he was an Angel. All he said was, "oh," yet never denied it.  Then curiosity got me and I asked how this happened, to which he responded, "an accident.”  Well I said nice to meet you and God bless you Angel.

 

The footnote to this story is years later I was meeting with the Hospital Administrator on business and told him the story.  He said it was peculiar, as the entrance where he sat was an outpatient entrance, and they never let anyone sit there for long.  He had been there for over a half hour.

 

Sherry Sargent

Batavia, Ohio

God can provide a car

A Grandmother’s Vision

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Week of July 1

 

I was 24, single, and living in the Chicago area. I was working at a dead-end job and in debt. In an attempt to get a handle on my spending I attended a Good $ense Finance course at my church, Willow Creek in Barrington, Illinois.I volunteered for Willow’s cars program, where volunteers repair used donated vehicles and make them available for single moms. I like working on engines and besides my old Honda was on its last legs and I hoped to get some tips on how to keep it running. About this time I received in the mail a promotion from my credit union informing me that I was preapproved for a car loan up to $7500. That set the wheels turning in my head. I figured if I were going to seek a better job I would need a better car. Armed with my loan approval letter, I drove off to a used car dealer. I showed the flyer to the salesman and off we went into the car lot. Funny how every car he showed me was on sale for $7500.That week at church I shared my excitement about buying a car with my Good $ense teacher. I told him about the $7500 loan and I showed him a particular car that I had found in Auto Trader.He was friendly but firm in his reaction. "God does not want you to go further in debt, "Why don't you trust God for the car."

His words, while spoken kindly, hit me like a cold shower. I bristled but admitted I had agreed not to take out any more loans. At the Good $ense course I had developed a spending plan which was designed to help me live within my income and to pay down existing debt. We were told good stewardship of the resources we have honors God. When I returned home I threw the Auto Trader in the trash. I would trust God.

 

 The following Saturday I was working with other volunteers in the cars program. I mentioned to the chief mechanic how the transmission on my old Honda was slipping and that I was having a hard time getting out of second gear. I told him I didn't have any money  right now and I wondered if he could help me fix my aging wreck.  I was surprised when he didn't ask any questions but just motioned me to follow him. We went to the back of the lot and he stopped at an old rusted 12-year-old Buick station wagon.

 

"It’s not pretty," he said, “and it is too far gone to give to a single mother to transport her kids. But it runs, has reasonably good tires and the transmission still works. Why don't you drive it home?" God provided. I ended up driving that Buick for nearly two years until I could afford to buy a better car.

 

Peter Buchan

Chicago, Illinois