Free Stuff!

          Back in the 1980s we lived in New York City. Our kids ranked in ages elementary school level down to baby.

          It was during this time I learned people discarded things at curbs on garbage days. This may sound strange—that I didn’t realize this until then, but we had lived in a rural setting prior to this with a burning barrel and mission truck that collected our trash. We didn’t even have a curb until we moved into the City.

          I admit it. I liked finding furnishings and sometimes toys on curbs. Some of these were nicer than what we already had (or didn’t have).

          Our kids, however, hated when their mom exclaimed, “Oh wow,” swerved right, and hit the brakes. It didn’t take them long to learn what that meant, and they’d exclaim, “Uh oh! Duck!”

          What! My kids weren’t thrilled with their mother’s discoveries and savings? Hmph! Much to their chagrin, that didn’t stop me.

          I remember as a girl always wishing I had a canopy bed once I’d seen one. This carried over to the time when we had a daughter. If only we could get her a canopy bed! Dream on, Sarah.

          We pulled out of our driveway one day, turned the corner and my eyes spotted it! Lo and behold! It was beautiful! Okay. It wasn’t that beautiful, but it was better than anything I could’ve imagined. A white canopy bed head- and foot-boards!

          I had to get it, swerved right, hit the brakes, and heard my kids mutter, “Uh oh! Duck!”

          I didn’t care, and they needed to be unwilling partners in getting this bed home. It wouldn’t fit in the car, so I told the kids, “Roll down your windows, and, boys, you can help me get the two parts on the roof of the car.

          They wanted to die yet did help while making sure their faces weren’t turned in view of the oncoming traffic.

          We got the 2 large pieces up there yet lacked anything with which to secure them. So, I gave orders: “You’re all going to reach up outside your windows—me too—and we will drive slowly to get this home.”

          There were audible groans, but the hands went out the windows and held on tight. I turned on the flashers.

          Although very close to home, we were on a major 4-lane road and couldn’t turn around at that point. I needed to drive around the block which ended up being multiple blocks before one-ways went the right way to get us home.

          Our kids survived, and our daughter got her canopy bed—the one I dreamed of more than she ever did. Oh well. I cleaned it and gave it new life with a fresh coat of paint.

          A beautiful bed, and it was free!

          Another wonderful find happened when I was on my way to pick up the kids from school. I happened to glance down a side street and spotted an antique treadle sewing machine table, complete with sewing machine. My heart likely skipped a beat! I couldn’t stop to get it then because the silly school had a rule that parents were supposed to be on time to pick up their kids. (Imagine that.)

          I actually prayed that item would still be there by the time I collected the 3 kids and got the baby back into his carseat, etc. I told the kids, “We need to hurry! There’s something I’ve got to get! And I’m going to need your help. I think it’s heavy.

          They looked wide-eyed at each other and chorused, “Uh oh…”

           I pulled up to the sewing machine and table the same minute another person did. I admit, I wanted to dash over and grab hold of it! But my heart wouldn’t let me. Instead, I said, “What a find, huh?”

          “It’s great! I’ve always loved this type thingy,” she said, “but I’m going to pass on it.”

          I think I must’ve grinned ear to ear at that moment!

          “Can I help you get it into your car?” she asked.

          Oh, how happy our kids were—not!—as they sheepishly peeked over the edge of the car doors.

          I took that treasure home and gave it new life.

          Free! An antique t’boot!

          Many years later (while I still “honed” my curb shopping skills) I took a long walk with son, Stephen (the baby in the last find), who rode his bike ahead of me back and forth so it was sort of like walking together but totally not. We didn’t live in New York City anymore. Instead, we lived in upstate New York on a lovely hillside with houses spread far apart from one another.

          When we were about a mile from home, I spotted it! My heart skipped beats, I’m sure! Now, first let me explain what one of my weaknesses is (oh, I don’t have many—haha): Doll houses! Yes, I adore them and am sure if I was wealthy, I’d have a room in my house for all my dreamed-of doll houses. Good thing I’m not wealthy, but…

          …how could I leave this lovely Colonial on the trash heap? I went to grab it.

          “Oh no, Mom! You’re not gonna, are ya?” Stephen questioned, straddling his bike, rolling it a distance from me.

          “It’ll be prime real estate when I’m done with it, and someone will enjoy it!” I got it down. “I can handle it. You go ahead home.”

          “Then I’m outa here!” Stephen zoomed off to save his reputation from this affluent street where some of his schoolmates lived.

          I was only half way home when I tired from carrying my curb find and was perspiring like a water fountain.

          Just then a car pulled up. Our chiropractor! “Need a lift?”

          “Sure,” I replied, this time me being the slightly embarrassed one realizing our doc only bought his kids top-notch toys. “I couldn’t pass this up. I’m a sucker for doll houses, and it will increase in property value with a face-lift, etc.”

          “That was a good one in its day!” He said and dropped me home with my fantastic find.

          Free! And I so enjoyed that project as did our grandchildren who played with it for several years before I “put it on the market.” SOLD!

           We found other freebies over the years; but the canopy bed, sewing machine & table, and doll house? Prizes!

          Sometimes great things can be free. But there’s another “thing” that’s free that surpasses anything on earth ever.

          Salvation! New life in Christ!

          I “picked” that when I was 12 years old. I grew up knowing about God’s free gift, how Jesus died on the cross for my sins, how He rose again in 3 days proving He truly was God, and how He is preparing a place in Heaven for all who believe in Him as their Lord and Savior.

          Yes, I knew all that but didn’t accept Him into my heart until that fall day when I knelt beside my bed and told Jesus I was a sinner, I was sorry for the wrong I’d done, I believed He was Who He said He was, and I wanted Him to come into my heart and life.

          Free! The best thing ever ever ever! How could new life with eternal life included be anything less!

          I hope you who read this blog post know Jesus as your Savior and Lord. If not, I pray you’ll come to realize your need of His free gift and do as I did when I was 12. It’s not hard. In fact, it’s easy—the best, greatest gift!

          And it never comes with a price tag. Jesus paid that with His blood when He died on Calvary. There He cried out “Tetelestai!” It is finished. Paid in full!          

Jesus Paid It All

 

I hear the Savior say, “Thy strength indeed is small,

Child of weakness, watch and pray, find in Me thine all in all.”

 

(Refrain) Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe;

Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow.

 

Lord, now indeed I find Thy pow’r and Thine alone,

Can change the leper’s spots and melt the heart of stone. (Refrain)

 

For nothing good have I where-by Thy grace to claim;

I’ll wash my garments white in the blood of Calv’ry’s Lamb. (Refrain)

 

And when, before the throne, I stand in Him complete,

“Jesus died my soul to save,” my lips shall still repeat. (Refrain)

 

(from the hymn, Jesus Paid It All, by Elvina M. Hall, 1865, public domain)

 

Freely, Freely

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BS1ndKgU36I&list=RDBS1ndKgU36I&start_radio=1

 

#free #curbshopping #embarrassingyourkids #greatfinds #deals

#salvation #freegift #bloodbought #God #Jesus

 

Photo Credit: istock.com

(…and, yes, I think it’s funny there are FREE trash images!)

The Work of Our Hands

         There are so many things I love about our church—the people, our pastor, the singing of hymns, the fact that we stand when the Bible is read, and that we carry one another’s burdens and rejoice with the church family when they joy.

          But I also love something else—the beauty displayed in the sanctuary. Large, tall American and Christian flags flank the top of the platform, and a huge open Bible rests forefront.

          There’s something else, though. In this particular blog post I wish to share with you about the flower arrangements, beautifully designed and changed often throughout the year.

          I wondered who produced the floral arrangements. We’ve only been a part of this church family since we settled in Missouri, unlike many members who’ve been there forever (okay, maybe not forever but a long, long time).

          Come to find out these were arranged by two lovely octogenarians—identical twins, t’ boot! Jenette and Jeniece—Jenette being a member of the congregation. I admired their skill and faithfulness to this task.

          But imagine my surprise to discover the church had a flower room! Yes, full of beautiful arrangements—the “flower girls” preparing them all.

          When I learned who was responsible for the floral decorations, I wanted to meet this person (not realizing then Jenette had a twin).

          You see, my husband and I are part of the music ministry at church. We love serving in this way, but the disadvantage (besides always having full hands to and from the car)? We never finished packing up instruments before most of the people exited the church. Thus, after a handful of years there, we still didn’t know all our church family.

          And I didn’t know Jenette, so I decided to write her a note to tell her how much I love the flowers. The way she blends them, the textures, the color schemes!

          She replied with so much gratitude, warmth, and love! And it wasn’t long after that we met and exchanged hugs. (She’s a small lady but a big hugger!)

          I also wanted to know more about these ladies and how they became the “flower girls.”

          Yes, Jenette and her sister did this together, just like they did so many other things in their long lives. But now Jenette serves alone since God walked Jeniece Home last year.

          I asked Jenette if she’d share with you how she and Jeniece “adopted” the mission of flower arranging, and she gladly agreed. So, now I’ll turn over this blog post to her.

          Thank you, precious Jenette! 

          “I have been fixing flower arrangements for my church for about 6 years. Before I started doing this, my friend fixed them until she passed away. I prayed about it and felt like God wanted me to take on that role, so I told the preacher.

          I don’t feel like I have a talent for arranging flowers, but I pray before I start, and God guides me. I love doing anything to serve and honor Him.

          I have always loved wild flowers in the field, so I have God’s flower garden in my backyard. I did this with the help of my twin Jeniece. She helped me dig up wild field flowers to plant in my yard.

          I always asked Jeniece’s opinion about every arrangement, then she would go with me to take them to the church.

          God started showing me how to fix so many different arrangements that I had several prepared in advance. God knew that I would need them as I contracted an autoimmune disease for about a year and couldn’t use my hands. My children had to care for me. and my daughter stayed with me. God healed me, and I was so thankful to be able to do the flowers again as I get such enjoyment out of it.

          I had 2 children, a boy and a girl—and Jeniece had one daughter. She thought she was not going to have any children, but after being married 8 years, she finally had a girl. Unfortunately, her daughter had cancer and passed away at 50 years old.

          Our Bible verse is Matthew 7:12 as the Golden Rule is a favorite of mine and my twin sister. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” One of our all-time gospel favorites is Amazing Grace— sang at Jeniece’s funeral.

          It’s going to be a different life without Jeniece, but with God’s help I can make it.”  –Jenette 

          Jenette continues adding beauty to our world and church. And, even as Jenette still cares for her backyard garden, Jeniece is in “the Garden of Eden in the skies” (translation of the Hebrew word for Heaven)! Isn’t that amazing? Twins still walking in their gardens!

          As I thought more about these ladies, I’m reminded about the work of our hands—using them for the Lord. I also reflected on the talents God has loaned us. The church flower arrangements are visible reminders too; and I smile, thinking of the lovely ladies who used their hands and talents (yes, Jenette—you do have this talent) for the Lord.

          Have I given God my Hands? Do I use them for Him? Not all my hands find to do for the Lord require talent. Some of those things are just needful, time-consuming, and hard work. On other occasions God may ask me to do something for Him that really does require talent. Either way, am I willing? I pray I’m faithful in this!

          May you be also—just like the “flower girls!”

“…establish thou the work of our hands upon us;

yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.” Psalm 90:17b

&

“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might…” Ecclesiastes 9:10a

I Give My Hands to Do Your Work

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lL5QrV5f89g&list=RDlL5QrV5f89g&start_radio=1

.

 

#hands #flowers #floralarrangements #twins #Godsdesign #talent #servingtheLord #gardens #workofourhands

 

Photo credit:

Twins when young—used w/ permission from J. Waggoner

Twins when older—by Linda Heman, used w/ permission

Hebrew interpretation: Carolyn Burns 

One Feisty Old Man

           Can you imagine serving in the Military at the age of 78? 

          Impossible you think?

          Contraire!

          Let’s travel back to the town of Menotomy, Massachusetts—Revolutionary War time. The date? April 19^th, 1775.

          British forces marching back to Boston from the Battles of Lexington and Concord were targets for colonial militiamen.

          Captain Samuel Whittemore was in his field when he spotted a British relief brigade approaching. He prepared for battle, determined to protect his property and hometown. Taking cover behind a stone wall, he loaded his musket, fired, and killed a British grenadier. The Captain then drew his dueling pistols, taking down another grenadier (and possibly another soldier).

          This elderly man didn’t think twice before rendering his service at the age of 78—a Veteran of previous wars (his last time serving at age 64). History records Captain Whittemore as the oldest soldier in the Revolutionary War.

          I wonder what “lit the fire” under this gentleman. Might it have been the published words of Thomas Paine in Common Sense?

“These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine

patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that

stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like

hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harderthe conflict, the more glorious the triumph.”

          Age isn’t the only amazing thing about this gentleman! His courage continued despite the Redcoats blowing off part of his face and cheekbone. They then bayoneted him numerous times (no less than 6), clubbed him in the head, and shouted, “We have killed the old rebel!”

          Whittemore “lay in a pool of his own blood with his hat and clothes shot through in many places—and in a position showing he attempted to again load his musket.”* He was discovered 4 hours later.

          The doctor attending him gave no hope of survival. But…

          …he didn’t die. Not then anyway.

          Would you believe that feisty old man lived another 18 years? Yes, to the ripe old age of 96.

          Many people today retire at the age of 65 or there abouts and settle into a life of leisure. Some take on part-time employment to remain active, adopt a hobby, join clubs, travel.

          Others may not be able to be as active, dealing with infirmities. But…

          If you’re not dead (and I assume you’re not since you’re reading this blog post), you’re not finished yet. You have purpose until your last breath. Oh, you may be led in a different direction than what previously filled your days. but God has something He wants you to do.

          Senior citizen, if you’re not sure what that is, ask Him. And while you await His reply, think on these words found in Psalm 71:18 (NKJV):

“Now also when I am old and grayheaded, O God,

                              do not forsake me,

                                    Until I declare Your strength to this generation, 

                                    Your power to everyone who is to come.”

          No, you won’t be called up for Military service, so take a deep breath. Ahhhh. You may not even be physically able to do all that Captain Whittemore accomplished at his ripe old age. But…

          Can you pray for others? Visit someone who’s lonely? Help youth build something creative? Teach a skill? Take a short-term mission trip? Give a testimony to folks who’d be blessed to know God has been faithful to you always—thus fulfilling the challenge in the Bible verse above—declaring God’s strength and power to everyone?

          Opportunities are endless, and the risk of you getting your cheek blown off with a musket ball during any of them? Minimal to zip!

I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go

 

It may not be on the mountain’s height or over the stormy sea,

It may not be at the battle’s front my Lord will have need of me;

But if by a still, small voice He calls to paths I do not know,

I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in Thine, I’ll go where You want me to go.

 

(Refrain) I’ll go where you want me to go, dear Lord, o’er mountain or plain or sea;

I’ll say what you want me to say, dear Lord, I’ll be what You want me to be.

 

Perhaps today there are loving words which Jesus would have me speak,

There may be now, in the paths of sin, some wand’rer whom I should seek;

O Savior, if Thou wilt be my Guide, tho dark and rugged the way,

My voice shall echo the message sweet, I’ll say what You want me to say. (Refrain)

 

There’s surely somewhere a lowly place in earth’s harvest fields so wide,

Where I may labor thru life’s short day for Jesus the Crucified;

So, trusting my all into Thy care—I know Thou lovest me.

I’ll do Thy will with a heart sincere, I’ll be what You want me to be. (Refrain)

 

(from the hymn, I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go, by Mary Brown, c. 1891, public domain)

This blog post is dedicated to Roger Hofmann, Jim Wickliffe, & Ronnie Fieker—

3 “feisty old” men who still love & serve the Lord in their “upper” years.

 

P.S.—Lo and behold, we learned my husband is distantly related to

Captain Samuel Whittemore—common ancestral connection: his paternal grandparents.

 

 #RevolutionaryWar #battleofMenotomyMA #soldier #elderly #purpose #nevertooold #seniorcitizen

*from The Indispensables—The Diverse Soldier-Mariners Who Shaped the Country, Formed the Navy,

and Rowed Washington Across the Delaware, by Patrick K. O’Donnell, 2021, Atlantic Monthly Press, NY

and additional information from Wikipedia.

 

Photo credit: characature—Boston.com / obit—findagrave.com

A Time Like No Other ~ Part 2

          It seems fitting, as I pen this blog post for you, that storms are pouring through our region. One after another, feeling like they’ll never end, although we know they will.

          We often equate “storms” with difficult events in our lives. I’ll share with you in this second half about storms in ours and how those tie in with my friend, Joan.

          First though, let me say I believe the death of a child is the hardest type of pain and grief parents can ever feel. How can mothers and fathers ever get over this? Yet, as one wise woman shared with me once, “Life goes on for the living.”

          It has to, but sometimes that seems impossible.

          For Joan and her husband, it took them in two different directions. No, they never separated or divorced, but Joan sought help to work through her grief and called out to God repeatedly. Her husband “seemed lost” in his grief, went on through his working day because he had to, then pretty much “buried himself” when home.

          I was blessed to have such a friend as Joan. We met when I was 11 years old. She was a mom with youngsters then. Through the testimony of her neighbor, Joan came to the same church we attended and had accepted Jesus as her Savior. Joan volunteered to help at VBS that year. That’s where we “connected.” We’d grow a no-matter-what friendship—the kind that only gets stronger whatever came our way.

          So, here I was now with a brokenhearted friend and me living a couple hours away. But that didn’t sever the ties. We talked by phone, and I visited her up till the time Brian and I married—then he also joined me in this friendship.

          Not only did Joan and her husband lose their son (and their daughter, her brother), but even before he was buried, people (family included) hurled condemnation on them. “You should’ve raised him differently.” And “If you hadn’t found religion, this wouldn’t’ve happened.” And “It’s obvious you drove him to this. No kid in their right mind would just leave home like that.” Etc.

          Joan shared with us that the accusations were almost too hard to endure on top of the already crippling grief that buried them. Still, she determined to heal because she just couldn’t imagine going through life without finding solace.

          Eighteen years passed when we’d face our time like no other—when our world crumbled.

          August 1996. Brian and I needed a friend who truly understood our pain. Our child ran away. Who was the first person I sought out? It should’ve been God, but I’m not sure it was. I do, however, remember calling Joan.

          At that point we didn’t know if our child was just “gone” or worse. I cannot go into all that took place, but I can tell you it was utter torment!

          …a time like no other!

          We did learn enough about our child’s whereabouts and how she ended up 600+ miles away. But from the end of October into the following year, I feared the worst and cried day and night.

          Brian tried to reassure me our child was not dead—that she was “out there” somewhere and would eventually come home. Thank the Lord, my husband was right, although she didn’t choose to come back to us.

          Joan’s phone line was open to us any time of day or night. She checked in on us, and I was grateful to have her—more than I know how to express!

          Why share all this with you, readers? Because deep friendships matter. This commitment. This bond. Especially when one who’s already been on grief’s journey can turn around, take your hand, and lead you to a better place.

          That’s who Joan was to me. Like God’s Word shares:

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies

and God of all comfort, Who comforts us in all our affliction so that

we will be able to comfort those who are in…any affliction with the comfort

with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” II Corinthians 1:3,4 (nasb)

 

          No one desires grief or pain. (At least I don’t think we do!) Yet, when the storms of life engulf us and we see no way out, God is our very help. When we turn to Him for solace and rescue, He brings comfort and walks with us through our grief and pain. Carries us when we can’t walk against the wind, and eventually brings us to a place of healing.

          No, we’re no longer the same. The storm has left its scars; but by relying on Him, we’ve received the best Counsel ever—from the One Who knows what it’s like to go through the worst!

         Here’s how God uses those experiences—God comforted Joan as she sought Him (also attending a support group for parents who lost children and benefitting greatly from that), Joan comforted me (us) in a way I accepted because she’d “been there” and our friendship was so strong. And, once we were on the healing journey, God brought people into our lives with whom we could share His Words and offer them comfort.

          On this subject: I remember reading that Betsy ten Boom told her sister Corrie (both having been in the concentration camps)* that when they were freed, “We will tell everyone that there is no pit that is so deep, that God is not deeper still…they will believe us, because we have been there.”

          Pain and grief are great “authenticators.” If you’ve been through storms and survived with God’s help, you have “earned the privilege” of helping others get through their storms. And, as Betsy expressed (although she did not survive the camps—only Corrie did) those who are hurting will believe you because you have “been there.”

          I’ve told many people, we didn’t “get in the line” for the hardships we’d go through—runaway child, accusations that crushed us, blame for what kind of parents we were, etc., but God wastes nothing!

          Even the deepest pain—the most awful “storm damage”—can be used to point others who hurt to our God. The Rescuer. Comforter. Healer.

Till the Storm Passes By

by Hovie Lister (playing the piano in this video)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HdDM0K9XC78

 

*Their story is told in the book, The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom—also made into a movie.

#storms #runaway #falseaccusations #pain #grief #healing #Godofallcomfort

Photo Credit: istock.com

A Time Like No Other ~ Part 1

           May 1978. A month like no other!

          What excitement filled the air as Brian popped the question. “Will you marry me?”

          My answer? “Yes!”

          We sealed “the deal” with a kiss, then Brian put in a call to my dad asking his permission which Dad gave, then yelled, “Ruth, pick up the other phone!”

         When Mom got on the extension, Brian shared the news with my ear closely pressed to the earpiece and him so I could join the call.

          Mom added, “Are you sure you can afford her dental bills?” (Leave it to Mom to mention my rotten teeth at this glowing moment.)

          After the call, Brian and I said our goodnights, and he headed to his room down the road from where my Hope town house was.

          Hope Town. Where we met. Where we fell in love. Let me give you a little explanation of these surroundings and our situations within them.

          In 1976, I went as a home missionary to Hope Town Christian School for the disabled. The administration “tried me out” as a summer camp counselor before I could apply for full-time ministry. When I did, I received approval to come onboard as a houseparent at the year-round residential facility. I’d share this responsibility with another gal, together caring for up to 6 disabled children and teens.

          Brian applied to Hope Town a year later. He was assigned as a teacher’s aid in the school program and was given lots of odd jobs during after-school hours.

          So, that’s how we met and reached this day when the question came up in the merry month of May!

          It was Brian’s weekend off (ours didn’t mesh at that point), and he took his usual upstate NY trip to spend time with his folks and help in his home church. He’d return late Sunday night.

          That particular Sunday, I wanted to visit one of our Hope Town kids who was long-term in the hospital 35 miles away. Another staffer offered to go along to help get the rest of our “family” to Sunday School and church. So, I planned to drive to see Carol and make it back in time to rejoin the kids/teens in the dining hall.

          I’d need to hurry a bit to make it to the hospital, visit Carol, and be back for after church dinner; but it was doable. I grabbed my cassette player and a few tapes, got in my VW Beetle, and started off, forgetting to buckle my seatbelt. My mind was ½ on this journey and ½ on Brian. I hardly noticed it had rained and roads were wet. I popped a sermon into the cassette player. That would be “church” for me this particular day.

          I zipped along the wet highway that passed through a state park. As I attempted to turn the steering wheel left to follow a curve, my “bug” instead headed straight. The brakes didn’t work either. I flew off the road, over a ditch, and through brush while crying out, “Help, Lord!”

          The car hit a small tree causing it to tip partway over, and it landed, lodged between two other huge trees.

          My head hit the top of the car, and I stayed there stunned a moment before wiggling my fingers and toes to see if I’d broken my neck. (Yes, I’d read Joni.) They moved, and I cried, “Thank You, God!”

          What to do next. I heard a couple cars go by on the highway I’d left involuntarily, but I was below road level and pretty much out of view. Thankfully, my VW Beetle had a sunroof. When the car came to its abrupt stop, not totally up-side-down, there remained space enough for me (I was much thinner then) to crawl out the sun roof. I worked my way through the broken brush, up the embankment, onto the highway.

          It wasn’t long before a small truck came along. I thumbed the driver, and he pulled over. I explained I’d had a wreck and asked if he’d take me to where I lived—Hope Town. He was most obliging. (Phew!)

          Back at Hope Town, all the residents and staff were finishing dinner. My fellow houseparent took the kids home while I called a tow truck and got a ride back to where my “bug” was.

          At the accident sight, a policeman awaited me. “We won’t charge you for the damage you’ve done to the park.” (How nice.) “You were lucky, Miss.” He pointed to the accident sight. “Had your car gone to the left or right, it would’ve plowed into one of those trees. The outcome would’ve been very different.

           I shared how I had prayed as the car flew off the road, and God did help me.”

          Soon the tow truck I’d called earlier arrived, pulled the car out, and plopped it upright. Ironically, the car seemed only slightly dented above the passenger-side door. I was able to drive it back to Hope Town.

          I didn’t initially feel any pain in my head, but I did sport humongous bruises on my leg and arm. (Unbeknownst to me then, I’d fractured a couple ribs and also damaged the tippy-top of my spine, causing me life-long difficulty with migraines.)

           It had been a long, hard day.

          Monday was my scheduled day off. My boss suggested I head home to New Jersey for the week—to recover. How grateful I was for that gift! I’d be with my folks right after I’d become engaged, and we could “talk wedding” while I recovered some.

          Black and blue but happy! That was me as I headed home in my I-don’t-trust-you-anymore car! (I later learned what had happened was called hydroplaning, and I didn’t ever care to do that again!)

          During the week in Jersey, I called my best friend, Joan, to see about a visit.

          She hesitated then said, “Sarah Ann, Mike ran away.”

          Mike? Her son—the boy I’d known since he was 4. A kid I’d babysat—he and his sister!

          How totally broken Joan and her husband must be! “Maybe I’d better wait till next time?” I suggested.

          “No. I want to see you. Need to. It would help.”

          So, I went to visit this lady who was ever-so-dear to me. After long embraces and tears shed, I sat across the table from Joan, held her hands, and listened. At the end of the visit, we both pleaded with God to bring Mike home.

          Mike will come home, I thought as I drove back to my parents’. After all, his high school graduation is just around the corner. He wouldn’t miss that!

          But Mike didn’t come home. He couldn’t.

          He had died.

          So, the week of supposed-to-be recovery and sharing excitement over wedding plans ended, instead, grieving at the funeral home with Mike’s family and friends.

          A May like no other, that 1978 year. From one week to the next, emotions flying to the heights and diving lower than anyone could fathom—as wild as the needle on a Richter Scale during an earthquake!

          Years later, the Holy Spirit would use our friendship with these dear ones to carry out Scripture found in II Corinthians 1:3,4.

          Reader, have you experienced times like these? Times that made your knees buckle—and tear your heart? Has the Holy Spirit ministered to you through God’s Word? Through others who’ve hurt and understand your pain?

          Next blog post—Part 2.

Does Jesus Care?

 

Does Jesus care when my heart is pained too deeply for mirth or song;

As the burdens press, and the cares distress, and the way grows weary and long?

 

(Refrain) O yes, He cares! I know He cares! His heart is touched with my grief;

When the days are weary, the long nights dreary, I know my Savior cares.

 

Does Jesus care when my way is dark with a nameless dread and fear?

As the daylight fades into deep night shades, does He care enough to be near? (Refrain)

 

Does Jesus care when I’ve tried and failed to resist some temptation strong;

When for my deep grief I find no relief, though my tears flow all the night long? (Refrain)

 

Does Jesus care when I’ve said goodbye to the dearest on earth to me,

And my sad heart aches till it nearly breaks—Is it aught to Him? Does He see? (Refrain)

 

(from hymn Does Jesus Care? by Frank E. Graeff, 1901, public domain)

#love #engagement #caraccident #bestfriend #runaway #heartbreak #Godshelp

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