The house seemed quieter than usual. Michael, my seventeen year old, had just left in the car for the store to return some soda cans and my mother, who lives with us, was away visiting my sister.
It was “Maddy” and I relaxing in the living room in the glow of the candlelight. “Maddy,” our miniature Schnauzer, was sprawled on the rug where he usually is when I’m in the room. I had no clue how this tranquil evening was about to change.
It was about nine on a work night so I decided to take my shower and get ready for bed. I normally take long showers but on this night I cut it short. I don’t know why but it is a good thing I did. As soon as I turned off the water I heard the smoke alarms screaming and the dog scratching frantically at the bathroom door. I put on a pair of slacks, grabbed a towel and without thinking flung open the bathroom door. A thick wall of black smoke rushed in and I instinctively gasped—big mistake. I choked, fell backward s and fainted.
I don’t know what happened in the next minute or so. My next recollection is I’m standing outside, still wrapped in a towel staring at my house that is completely engulfed in flames. Maddy is with me barking frantically but I have no idea how either of us escaped that overpowering smoke. I rushed to my neighbor’s house and Marcel took one look at the inferno behind me and called 911.
Michael had just left the store when he heard the sirens. He pulled his car over to let the fire engines pass and as is his habit he raised his hand and offered a little prayer for those in distress. Little did he know that he was praying for his mother, our dog and his own house?
When the fireman arrived it seemed half the town was right behind them. The fire fighters did everything they could but the house was too far-gone. I never saw anything burn so quickly. Like many New England homes built in the 19th century the walls had been stuffed with newspapers and hay to provide insulation. Our old colonial went up like a tinderbox. All we could do was stand helplessly and watch our home burn.
A school friend of Mike’s pointed out an eerie sight. Framed in the window of an upstairs bedroom was the velvet portrait of Jesus hanging on the wall over Michael’s bed and illuminated by the flickering flames below.
We learned later that the fire was started probably when the dog knocked over a candle on a table by the window that fell igniting a phone book. When the window curtain caught fire the flames literally raced through the walls.
The next day, after spending a short night at my friend’s house, Michael and I returned to what was left of our home. There was only one wall standing. We found only two things not completely destroyed by the fire. One was a blanket my mother had crocheted although it reeked of smoke. The other was the framed portrait of Jesus that was still hanging on the one remaining wall.
When we took the portrait down there was no evidence of the fire. It didn’t even have a smoky smell to it. How do you explain that?
Sylvia Jarvis
Sturbridge, Massachusetts
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Hope Haulers
I’m a salesman and a part time chaplain to the trucking industry. This is a true story.
Three days after 9//11, 2001 I was on my way to Destin Fl. for the annual convention of the Tennessee Trucking Association where I planned to launch Hope Haulers, a family of services to and through the trucking industry. Upon arrival I wasn’t surprised to find everyone talking about 9/11. When I spoke with the association president he asked me if I would deliver the opening prayer. I said I would.
When I stood up in front of the convention, and I hadn’t planned this, I said, “looking out at your faces I see some of you are wondering what is going on in the world and others of you look worried. I might feel the same way if it wasn’t for my faith and knowing my destiny. I believe God has us all here for a reason and if any of you have uncertainty in your life and are anxious see me before you leave this conference.”
Two hundred and fifty people talked with me over the next three days.
Shortly after returning to Nashville I went to the chapel at the truck stop in Antioch to pick up some tools that I left there before going to Florida and to talk with Chaplain Doug. A young man came in and started asking the chaplain questions. The nature of the questions told me I should retreat to the chaplain’s quarters and pray for Doug while he talks with the man.
I could hear the chaplain making progress when a lady truck driver comes in and interrupts the conversation. I came out and suggest that the lady and I go next door to the restaurant. She is angry with God and unloads on me. We talk for more than an hour and she calms down. I realize I have to leave and I give her my cell number and head back to the chapel to pickup my tools.
The chapel is empty and I wonder how Doug made out with the young man. As I walk out of the chapel with my tools I notice a truck waiting to pull up to the fuel isle but there is no truck in front of it. The driver is just staring straight ahead.
I yell, “hey trucker you can move up.” No response, the driver keeps staring ahead.
I walk over and jump up on his rail. “You ok?”
The driver slowly moves his head and says he is waiting for his wife who is in the restaurant. Then he adds, “I’m a mess.”
I tell him to pull around and park and to meet me in the chapel. I drop my tools in my truck and I spot Doug in the restaurant. He tells me he had a good talk with the young man and has scheduled a follow up tomorrow. Together we go into the chapel and pray for the man parking his truck.
After a few minutes, he comes into the chapel. “You have something heavy weighing you down?” He nods. I ask, “are you a Christian?”
“Sorta.”
“Did you ever accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”
“Sorta.”
“Let’s address sorta. What do you mean by sorta?”
He tells me that he was kicked out of his house when he was 15, moved into the home of a pastor and his wife. He lived in the basement for a few years and that is when he “sorta” heard about the Lord.
.
“I find a good starting point is getting right with the Lord, would you like to do that,” I ask?
“OK, how do I do that?”
“Go for it! Just start praying.”
There is a long silence. He starts to sweat.
I say, “Tracey there is a battle going on right now over you. If it is alright with you I’ll put my hands on you and I’ll pray over your body. Are you comfortable with this?” He says, “Yeah.”
After two minutes of prayer he opens up and there is a stream of confession, repentance and acceptance of Jesus as his Lord and Savior. We all rejoice. He tells us that the gal waiting in his truck is not his wife but his live in girlfriend.
“I need to get right with that. When she came out of the restaurant with our food she wanted to leave. I told her I had to go to the chapel. She said I’ll wait here.” He looks at me and says, “When I saw you go into the chapel I wondered if you were the chaplain. When I saw you come out I hoped you would come over. When you spoke I couldn’t move my head it was like it was frozen.”
Then he says, “I’m an owner operator. I’ve lost my job, I’m behind in my payments and I’m broke, I had a spot all picked out one and half hours up the road where I was going to drive off and end it all. Then you jumped up on my truck.”
Chuck Sonn
Nashville, Tennessee
Three days after 9//11, 2001 I was on my way to Destin Fl. for the annual convention of the Tennessee Trucking Association where I planned to launch Hope Haulers, a family of services to and through the trucking industry. Upon arrival I wasn’t surprised to find everyone talking about 9/11. When I spoke with the association president he asked me if I would deliver the opening prayer. I said I would.
When I stood up in front of the convention, and I hadn’t planned this, I said, “looking out at your faces I see some of you are wondering what is going on in the world and others of you look worried. I might feel the same way if it wasn’t for my faith and knowing my destiny. I believe God has us all here for a reason and if any of you have uncertainty in your life and are anxious see me before you leave this conference.”
Two hundred and fifty people talked with me over the next three days.
Shortly after returning to Nashville I went to the chapel at the truck stop in Antioch to pick up some tools that I left there before going to Florida and to talk with Chaplain Doug. A young man came in and started asking the chaplain questions. The nature of the questions told me I should retreat to the chaplain’s quarters and pray for Doug while he talks with the man.
I could hear the chaplain making progress when a lady truck driver comes in and interrupts the conversation. I came out and suggest that the lady and I go next door to the restaurant. She is angry with God and unloads on me. We talk for more than an hour and she calms down. I realize I have to leave and I give her my cell number and head back to the chapel to pickup my tools.
The chapel is empty and I wonder how Doug made out with the young man. As I walk out of the chapel with my tools I notice a truck waiting to pull up to the fuel isle but there is no truck in front of it. The driver is just staring straight ahead.
I yell, “hey trucker you can move up.” No response, the driver keeps staring ahead.
I walk over and jump up on his rail. “You ok?”
The driver slowly moves his head and says he is waiting for his wife who is in the restaurant. Then he adds, “I’m a mess.”
I tell him to pull around and park and to meet me in the chapel. I drop my tools in my truck and I spot Doug in the restaurant. He tells me he had a good talk with the young man and has scheduled a follow up tomorrow. Together we go into the chapel and pray for the man parking his truck.
After a few minutes, he comes into the chapel. “You have something heavy weighing you down?” He nods. I ask, “are you a Christian?”
“Sorta.”
“Did you ever accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”
“Sorta.”
“Let’s address sorta. What do you mean by sorta?”
He tells me that he was kicked out of his house when he was 15, moved into the home of a pastor and his wife. He lived in the basement for a few years and that is when he “sorta” heard about the Lord.
.
“I find a good starting point is getting right with the Lord, would you like to do that,” I ask?
“OK, how do I do that?”
“Go for it! Just start praying.”
There is a long silence. He starts to sweat.
I say, “Tracey there is a battle going on right now over you. If it is alright with you I’ll put my hands on you and I’ll pray over your body. Are you comfortable with this?” He says, “Yeah.”
After two minutes of prayer he opens up and there is a stream of confession, repentance and acceptance of Jesus as his Lord and Savior. We all rejoice. He tells us that the gal waiting in his truck is not his wife but his live in girlfriend.
“I need to get right with that. When she came out of the restaurant with our food she wanted to leave. I told her I had to go to the chapel. She said I’ll wait here.” He looks at me and says, “When I saw you go into the chapel I wondered if you were the chaplain. When I saw you come out I hoped you would come over. When you spoke I couldn’t move my head it was like it was frozen.”
Then he says, “I’m an owner operator. I’ve lost my job, I’m behind in my payments and I’m broke, I had a spot all picked out one and half hours up the road where I was going to drive off and end it all. Then you jumped up on my truck.”
Chuck Sonn
Nashville, Tennessee
Saturday, February 9, 2008
One of the Greatest
February 9
Malcolm L. Daniels died January 24, 2008 at age 81. He was awarded a Purple Heart after being severly wounded during the Battle of Wingen in France during World War II. He was truly one of the Greatest Generation.
I met Malcolm in the summer of 1948 when we were both on the staff at Camp Yawgoog, a Boy Scout reservation in Rockville, Rhode Island. "Peppy," that was his camp nickname, was the chef and I was an apprentice on the waterfront. We were tent mates that summer. He was 21 and walked with a noticable limp and I was 15 and wet behind the ears.
One day when were changing to go swimming I noticed his wound...six indentations, each the size of a bullet, running up the inside of the thigh of one leg.
I said something brillant like, "is that where you were shot?"
"Yeah," he smiled, "and I'm glad he was a trained gunner."
(I didn't know what he meant then but years later when I was drafted into the army I was taught to fire a machine gun in bursts of six rounds to control accuracy.)
As an inpetuous teenager I badgered Peppy with questions about the war and his experiences. He wouldn't talk about it much but he eventually told me two personal experiences that still bring a smile. Here they are in Peppy's words as I remember them.
"My unit was fighting across France, hedge row to hedge row. It was getting late in the day and
we were told to hold up in this paticular hedge row for the night. We were digging in and I distinctly smelled coffee. So did my buddy. We slung our rifles over our shoulders and went looking for the brew with a canteen cup in our hand. We pulled back some bushes and there sat three Krauts with a coffee pot on a sterno and their rifles stacked nearby. I don't know who was more surprised. No one moved. We held out our cups and the German nearest the pot lifted it slowly and poured a small amout in each cup. We said thanks and backed up slowly and then beat it out of there. We ran to our position, grabbed some more guys and went back but the Germans were gone. Just the hot sterno remained. "
"We were still in France when I got hit. I drifted in and out of consciousness. I remember a corpsman putting a tourniquet on my leg. When I came to, there was a German loosening it.
I passed out again. When I regained consciousness I realized I was on a cart. I heard Germans
talking and I thought, 'God I've been captured.' Then I heard a voice in English ask, 'How are we doing here GI?'
'' I opened my eyes to see a smiling American. I was in a forward aid station and it was the German wounded who were the prisoners."
In memory of:
Malcolm "Peppy" Daniels.
Cranston, R.I.
Malcolm L. Daniels died January 24, 2008 at age 81. He was awarded a Purple Heart after being severly wounded during the Battle of Wingen in France during World War II. He was truly one of the Greatest Generation.
I met Malcolm in the summer of 1948 when we were both on the staff at Camp Yawgoog, a Boy Scout reservation in Rockville, Rhode Island. "Peppy," that was his camp nickname, was the chef and I was an apprentice on the waterfront. We were tent mates that summer. He was 21 and walked with a noticable limp and I was 15 and wet behind the ears.
One day when were changing to go swimming I noticed his wound...six indentations, each the size of a bullet, running up the inside of the thigh of one leg.
I said something brillant like, "is that where you were shot?"
"Yeah," he smiled, "and I'm glad he was a trained gunner."
(I didn't know what he meant then but years later when I was drafted into the army I was taught to fire a machine gun in bursts of six rounds to control accuracy.)
As an inpetuous teenager I badgered Peppy with questions about the war and his experiences. He wouldn't talk about it much but he eventually told me two personal experiences that still bring a smile. Here they are in Peppy's words as I remember them.
"My unit was fighting across France, hedge row to hedge row. It was getting late in the day and
we were told to hold up in this paticular hedge row for the night. We were digging in and I distinctly smelled coffee. So did my buddy. We slung our rifles over our shoulders and went looking for the brew with a canteen cup in our hand. We pulled back some bushes and there sat three Krauts with a coffee pot on a sterno and their rifles stacked nearby. I don't know who was more surprised. No one moved. We held out our cups and the German nearest the pot lifted it slowly and poured a small amout in each cup. We said thanks and backed up slowly and then beat it out of there. We ran to our position, grabbed some more guys and went back but the Germans were gone. Just the hot sterno remained. "
"We were still in France when I got hit. I drifted in and out of consciousness. I remember a corpsman putting a tourniquet on my leg. When I came to, there was a German loosening it.
I passed out again. When I regained consciousness I realized I was on a cart. I heard Germans
talking and I thought, 'God I've been captured.' Then I heard a voice in English ask, 'How are we doing here GI?'
'' I opened my eyes to see a smiling American. I was in a forward aid station and it was the German wounded who were the prisoners."
In memory of:
Malcolm "Peppy" Daniels.
Cranston, R.I.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Ran Out of Gas
I had gone to the mall for a job interview. I spotted a man pushing a broom when I entered and I figured he must know where the main office is located. He was very pleasant and appeared to know a lot about this mall.
During my interview for a management position I mentioned the nice man I encountered pushing the broom. Guess I thought I would put in a good word for him since he showed kindness to me. After I described him they smiled and said, “ Oh that’s Jeff, he owns this mall. That is one of the ways he gets to talk with the customers.”
I was hired as a manager of that mall.
After that Jeff and I kept bumping in to each other. He was always cordial and we would have friendly albeit brief conversations. Several months went by and then I learned that Jeff had sold this mall for something around $29,000,000. Shortly after this the new owners gave me an envelope to deliver to Jeff’s home.
I wasn’t surprised to find that his home was a mansion right on the water but I was surprised when I pressed the front door bell and it was Jeff who opened the door. He greeted me warmly and invited me into his home. He opened the envelope and told me that it was a sizeable check representing his part of the commission of the sale of the mall. He or someone in his family was a licensed real estate broker.
He shared with me that his family foundation was inundated by requests for money. He said he was really looking “to find something to give to that is making a difference.” Since I didn’t immediately respond he said, “If you run into any, let me know.” I said I would.
A couple of years later I was driving near the coast when I see a guy standing by his car on the side of the road. It is Jeff. He has run out of gas and I offer to take him to the nearest filling station. which turns out to be some distance. We chat.
I ask him if he is still looking for an organization to give to that is making a difference. He asks what I have in mind? I tell him about a new organization called Gifts From God, which is feeding the hungry and helping families needing furniture or providing a car free to struggling single moms. By the time we are back to his car with a can of gasoline he has agreed to come to my office and meet with Mike Butterfield, the president of Gifts from God. From that meeting came a much needed seed grant from Jeff’s family foundation.
A year later I am driving on Laurel Road in Venice and I am rounding a curve and there is Jeff standing by his car on the side of the road. Yep! He was out of gas again. .
“You have come to my rescue again, it must be time for another grant to Gifts From God,” he grins.
It was. Mike had called me a few days earlier with a bleak financial report and said we need another grant from Jeff’s foundation. What are the odds of this happening twice. Go Figure.
We subsequenly received the second grant which I call truly a gift from God.
Lloyd Keith
Osprey, Florida
During my interview for a management position I mentioned the nice man I encountered pushing the broom. Guess I thought I would put in a good word for him since he showed kindness to me. After I described him they smiled and said, “ Oh that’s Jeff, he owns this mall. That is one of the ways he gets to talk with the customers.”
I was hired as a manager of that mall.
After that Jeff and I kept bumping in to each other. He was always cordial and we would have friendly albeit brief conversations. Several months went by and then I learned that Jeff had sold this mall for something around $29,000,000. Shortly after this the new owners gave me an envelope to deliver to Jeff’s home.
I wasn’t surprised to find that his home was a mansion right on the water but I was surprised when I pressed the front door bell and it was Jeff who opened the door. He greeted me warmly and invited me into his home. He opened the envelope and told me that it was a sizeable check representing his part of the commission of the sale of the mall. He or someone in his family was a licensed real estate broker.
He shared with me that his family foundation was inundated by requests for money. He said he was really looking “to find something to give to that is making a difference.” Since I didn’t immediately respond he said, “If you run into any, let me know.” I said I would.
A couple of years later I was driving near the coast when I see a guy standing by his car on the side of the road. It is Jeff. He has run out of gas and I offer to take him to the nearest filling station. which turns out to be some distance. We chat.
I ask him if he is still looking for an organization to give to that is making a difference. He asks what I have in mind? I tell him about a new organization called Gifts From God, which is feeding the hungry and helping families needing furniture or providing a car free to struggling single moms. By the time we are back to his car with a can of gasoline he has agreed to come to my office and meet with Mike Butterfield, the president of Gifts from God. From that meeting came a much needed seed grant from Jeff’s family foundation.
A year later I am driving on Laurel Road in Venice and I am rounding a curve and there is Jeff standing by his car on the side of the road. Yep! He was out of gas again. .
“You have come to my rescue again, it must be time for another grant to Gifts From God,” he grins.
It was. Mike had called me a few days earlier with a bleak financial report and said we need another grant from Jeff’s foundation. What are the odds of this happening twice. Go Figure.
We subsequenly received the second grant which I call truly a gift from God.
Lloyd Keith
Osprey, Florida
Friday, January 25, 2008
"Pull Over"
When I was little, my parents, brother and I made yearly trips to Maine, my mother's home state. Our trip was a long one from North Carolina to this northern destination, but we always looked forward to it.
The year was 1966 and we were on our yearly trek. I was about eight years old. My brother, who is older than me by 17 months, was sitting in the back with me and we were both trying to spot unusual landmarks. We were on the Massachusetts's Turnpike and it was a bright and beautiful sunny day, about two in the afternoon. My father was driving and mother was talking to him about how excited she was to be going home to Maine.
Out of nowhere a booming voice filled the entire car, "Pull over!" We all looked at each other and then my father looked in his rear view mirror. We couldn't locate the source of the "voice". Again, more emphatically we heard, "Pull Over!” I recall the surprised look on all our faces. Our heads were turning in all directions trying to spot where this "voice" was coming from. Mother and father were saying that maybe it was a state police helicopter with a megaphone. My brother and I were saying, "What was that? What was that?" Because we expected our parent's to know.
Once again the "voice" came, "Pull Over!" So, we did. Father and mother both got out of the car and were anxiously waiting to see if a police car was going to stop behind them. Had we been speeding? Was there something wrong with the car that the authorities may have spotted? I heard the nervousness in my parents’ voices as they questioned each other about what it could be and continued to look all around.
We had pulled over to the emergency lane and there they stood, just outside the car, craning their necks and heads in all directions, behind them, up in the air, looking and searching everywhere for the source of the voice.
Other cars whizzed past. The travelers were going to their destination like there wasn't anything wrong, other than thinking perhaps, " Why are those crazy people from North Carolina standing on the side of the road looking around"?
Eventually, my mother and father got back into the car. My brother and I were quiet and waited to see if they were going to be able to explain this to us. My father just started the car and we eased back onto the turnpike.
That was it. Nothing happened. No one showed up with blue flashing lights. It was just a voice coming out of nowhere beseeching us to "pull over.” We continued on our trip to Maine and as always we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves once there.
We have discussed this event many times as a family. We all know we heard the "voice" and we each clearly heard the command three times. We experienced something that none of us, to this day, have ever been able to rationally explain. We believe an accident was avoided and God had his hand directly on us.
Donna Everhardt
Charlotte, N.C.
The year was 1966 and we were on our yearly trek. I was about eight years old. My brother, who is older than me by 17 months, was sitting in the back with me and we were both trying to spot unusual landmarks. We were on the Massachusetts's Turnpike and it was a bright and beautiful sunny day, about two in the afternoon. My father was driving and mother was talking to him about how excited she was to be going home to Maine.
Out of nowhere a booming voice filled the entire car, "Pull over!" We all looked at each other and then my father looked in his rear view mirror. We couldn't locate the source of the "voice". Again, more emphatically we heard, "Pull Over!” I recall the surprised look on all our faces. Our heads were turning in all directions trying to spot where this "voice" was coming from. Mother and father were saying that maybe it was a state police helicopter with a megaphone. My brother and I were saying, "What was that? What was that?" Because we expected our parent's to know.
Once again the "voice" came, "Pull Over!" So, we did. Father and mother both got out of the car and were anxiously waiting to see if a police car was going to stop behind them. Had we been speeding? Was there something wrong with the car that the authorities may have spotted? I heard the nervousness in my parents’ voices as they questioned each other about what it could be and continued to look all around.
We had pulled over to the emergency lane and there they stood, just outside the car, craning their necks and heads in all directions, behind them, up in the air, looking and searching everywhere for the source of the voice.
Other cars whizzed past. The travelers were going to their destination like there wasn't anything wrong, other than thinking perhaps, " Why are those crazy people from North Carolina standing on the side of the road looking around"?
Eventually, my mother and father got back into the car. My brother and I were quiet and waited to see if they were going to be able to explain this to us. My father just started the car and we eased back onto the turnpike.
That was it. Nothing happened. No one showed up with blue flashing lights. It was just a voice coming out of nowhere beseeching us to "pull over.” We continued on our trip to Maine and as always we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves once there.
We have discussed this event many times as a family. We all know we heard the "voice" and we each clearly heard the command three times. We experienced something that none of us, to this day, have ever been able to rationally explain. We believe an accident was avoided and God had his hand directly on us.
Donna Everhardt
Charlotte, N.C.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Give Me A Sign
“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, so I said yes.
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.”
“Call on Me in your day of trouble and I will deliver you and you will give me the glory.”
(Psalm 50:15)
Mary Beth Darling
San Francisco, California
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, so I said yes.
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.”
“Call on Me in your day of trouble and I will deliver you and you will give me the glory.”
(Psalm 50:15)
Mary Beth Darling
San Francisco, California
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Led by the Spirit
Some people think I'm a stodgy, cranky, Yankee. Well, they are right-but that's how God restored me. I wasn't always so conservative.
I spent the sixties and seventies searching through drugs, radical politics, rebellion and anger. I spent my adolescence as a ski-bum, working on a riverboat and looking for extremes. I rode motorcycles and did every reckless thing to excess. I believed that life was just an existential malaise of meaningless, random events and if there was no reason to life, I thought I would at least make it exciting.
I fought the system, institutions and all the things my generation rejected. I joined the SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) and I was tear gassed more than once. I tried a lot of things to fill that God-shaped vacuum at my center, but nothing fit. Atheism was my religion. Nothing meant anything in light of death.
Then things I couldn't explain began to happen. I bought a Bible and actually began reading it. God was laying the groundwork.
When I decided to get married, I chose the church to which my family had belonged for centuries- First Church of Christ, Wethersfield. In order to be married there my fiancée and I had to join. The church preaches the Word of God in the Spirit.
My fiancée's relatives, who are from a long line of Christian evangelists in China, were praying for me. So were the faithful at First Church. I believe these prayers prompted God to save me.
The Holy Spirit began to move. It was as though the Bible had been written solely for me. Every time I opened it, the passage I read spoke directly to my needs. Every church bulletin, letter or post card from church seemed to minister to me as though I was the only person for whom it had been written. Sermons seemed prepared just for me as did the worship. And I saw the Holy Spirit in people's faces at church events. Jesus was everywhere.
One night I even had a dream that one of the pastors at the church told me "you will receive a message from your shoe." My cat awakened me, I got up, and went about dressing quietly. I remembered the dream and looked down at my shoes but there was no message. I did notice my suit was wrinkled and changed into another, which was a different color than the first one. Now I had to change my shoe to match my suit. As I was leaving the house I noticed a sticky note stuck to the heel of my shoe. On the sticky note was a Bible verse. " I am the Vine, you are the branches, abide with me."
I've been to the peaks and struggled with valleys. I've had doubts and downs and faith and ups. God is slowly and I must say, painfully at times, remaking me in His Son’s image.
I know God is at work in me, both to will and to work for His good pleasure. He is crucifying my fleshly ways, as I learn to be led by the Spirit.
I am confident of this, "that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." (Philippians 1:6 NIV)
Jesus Christ saved me from myself. Praise God.
Leigh Standish
Wethersfield, Connecticut.
Copywright Thanks Be, First Church of Christ, Wethersfield, Connecticut.
I spent the sixties and seventies searching through drugs, radical politics, rebellion and anger. I spent my adolescence as a ski-bum, working on a riverboat and looking for extremes. I rode motorcycles and did every reckless thing to excess. I believed that life was just an existential malaise of meaningless, random events and if there was no reason to life, I thought I would at least make it exciting.
I fought the system, institutions and all the things my generation rejected. I joined the SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) and I was tear gassed more than once. I tried a lot of things to fill that God-shaped vacuum at my center, but nothing fit. Atheism was my religion. Nothing meant anything in light of death.
Then things I couldn't explain began to happen. I bought a Bible and actually began reading it. God was laying the groundwork.
When I decided to get married, I chose the church to which my family had belonged for centuries- First Church of Christ, Wethersfield. In order to be married there my fiancée and I had to join. The church preaches the Word of God in the Spirit.
My fiancée's relatives, who are from a long line of Christian evangelists in China, were praying for me. So were the faithful at First Church. I believe these prayers prompted God to save me.
The Holy Spirit began to move. It was as though the Bible had been written solely for me. Every time I opened it, the passage I read spoke directly to my needs. Every church bulletin, letter or post card from church seemed to minister to me as though I was the only person for whom it had been written. Sermons seemed prepared just for me as did the worship. And I saw the Holy Spirit in people's faces at church events. Jesus was everywhere.
One night I even had a dream that one of the pastors at the church told me "you will receive a message from your shoe." My cat awakened me, I got up, and went about dressing quietly. I remembered the dream and looked down at my shoes but there was no message. I did notice my suit was wrinkled and changed into another, which was a different color than the first one. Now I had to change my shoe to match my suit. As I was leaving the house I noticed a sticky note stuck to the heel of my shoe. On the sticky note was a Bible verse. " I am the Vine, you are the branches, abide with me."
I've been to the peaks and struggled with valleys. I've had doubts and downs and faith and ups. God is slowly and I must say, painfully at times, remaking me in His Son’s image.
I know God is at work in me, both to will and to work for His good pleasure. He is crucifying my fleshly ways, as I learn to be led by the Spirit.
I am confident of this, "that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." (Philippians 1:6 NIV)
Jesus Christ saved me from myself. Praise God.
Leigh Standish
Wethersfield, Connecticut.
Copywright Thanks Be, First Church of Christ, Wethersfield, Connecticut.
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