Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul
#1
November 17, 8:58 pm
Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul
Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul
The Healing Power of Forgiveness
To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.
Inspirational Stories of Hope, Devotion, Faith and Miracles
The Story:
I thought about her. I dreamed about her. I saw her in every woman I met. Some had her name----Cathy. Others had her deep-set blue eyes or curly dark hair. Even the slightest resemblance turned my stomach into a knot.
Weeks, months, years passed. Was I never to be free of this woman who had gone after my husband and then, following our divorce, married him? I couldn’t go on like this. The resentment, guilt and anger drained the life out of everything I did. I blamed myself. I went into counseling. I attended self-help classes, enrolled in seminars and workshops. I read books. I talked to anyone who would listen. I ran. I walked the beach. I drove for miles to nowhere I screamed into my pillow at night. I prayed. I did everything I knew how to do.
Then one Saturday I was drawn to a daylong seminar on the healing power of forgiveness held at a church in my neighborhood. The leader invited participants to close their eyes and locate someone in their lives they had not forgiven----for whatever reason, real or imagined. Cathy. There she was again, looming large in my mind’s eye.
Next, he asked us to look at whether or not we’d be willing to forgive that person. My stomach churned, my hands perspired and my head throbbed. I had to get out of that room, but something kept me in my seat.
How could I forgive a person like Cathy? She had not only hurt me, but she’d hurt my children. So I turned my attention to other people in my life. My mother. She’d be easy to forgive. Or my friend, Ann. Or my former high school English teacher. Anyone but Cathy. But there was no escape. The name and the image of her face persisted.
Then a voice within gently asked, “Are you ready to let go of this? To release her? To forgive yourself, too?”
I turned hot, then cold. I started to shake. I was certain everyone around me could hear my heart beating.
Yes, I was willing. I couldn’t hold on to my anger any longer. It was killing me. In that moment and incredible shift occurred within me. I simply let go. I can’t describe it. I don’t know what happened or what allowed me at that moment to do something I had resisted so doggedly. All I know is that for the first time in four years I completely surrendered to the Holy Spirit. I released my grip on Cathy, on my ex-husband, on myself. I let go of the rage and resentment---just like that.
Within seconds, energy rushed through every cell of my body. My mind became alert, my heart lightened. Suddenly I realized that as long as I separated myself from even one person, I separated myself from God. How self-righteous I had been. How arrogant. How judgmental. How important it had been for me to be right, no matter what the cost. And it had cost me plenty----my health, my spontaneity, my aliveness.
I had no idea what was next, but it didn’t matter. That night I slept straight through until morning. No dreams, no haunting face and no reminders.
The following Monday, I walked into my office and wrote Cathy a letter. The words spilled onto the page without effort.
“Dear Cathy, “I began. “On Saturday morning…” and I proceeded to tell her what had occurred during the seminar. I also told her how I had hated her for what she had done to my marriage and to my family, and , as a result, how I had denied both of us the healing power of forgiveness. I apologized for my hateful thoughts. I signed my name, slipped the letter into an envelope, and popped it in the mail, relieved and invigorated.
Two days later, the phone rang. “Karen?”
There was no mistaking the voice.
“It’s Cathy,” she said softly.
I was surprised that my stomach remained calm. My hands were dry. My voice was steady and sure. I listened more than I talked----unusual for me. I found myself actually interested in what she had to say.
Cathy thanked me for the letter and acknowledged my courage in writing it. Then she told me how sorry she was---for everything. She talked briefly about her regret, her sadness for me, for my children and more. All I had ever wanted to hear from her, she said that day.
As I replaced the receiver, another insight came to me. I realized that as nice as it was to hear her words of apology, they didn’t really matter. They paled in comparison to what God was teaching me. Buried deep in the trauma of my divorce was the truth I had been looking for all my life without even knowing it. No one can hurt me as long as I am in God’s hands. Unless I allow it, no one can rob me of my joy.
----Karen O’Connor-----
Chicken Soup for the Christian Woman’s Soul
God bless,
Prayeristhekey
#2
February 1, 6:38 pm
Chicken Soup for the Soul
A Perfect Mistake
Story:
Grandpa Nybakken loved life----especially when he could play a trick on somebody. At those times, his large Norwegian frame shook with laughter while he feigned innocent surprise, exclaiming, "Oh, forevermore!" But on a cold Saturday in downtown Chicago, Grandpa felt that God played a trick on him, and Grandpa wasn't laughing.
Mother's father worked as a carpenter. On this particular day, he was building some crates for the clothes his church was sending to an orphanage in China. On his way home, he reached into his shirt pocket to find his glasses, but they were gone. He remembered putting them there that morning, so he drove back to the church. His search proved fruitless.
When he mentally replayed his earlier actions, he realized what happened. The glasses had slipped out of his pocket unnoticed and fallen into one of the crates, which he had nailed shut. His brand new glasses were heading to China!
The Great Depression was at its height, and Grandpa has six children. He had spent twenty dollars for those glasses that very morning.
"It's not fair," he told God as he drove home in frustration. "I've been very faithful in giving of my time and money to your work, and now this."
Several months later, the director of the orphanage was on furlough in the United States. He wanted to visit all the churches that supported him in China, so he came to speak one Sunday night at my grandfather's small church in Chicago. Grandpa and his family sat in their customary seats among the sparse congregation.
The missionary began by thanking the people for their faithfulness in supporting the orphanage.
"But most of all," he said, "I must thank you for the glasses you sent last year. You see, the Communists had just swept through the orphanage, destoying everything, including my glasses. I was desperate.
"Even if I had the money, there was simply no way of replacing those glasses. Along with not being able to see well, I experienced headaches every day, so my coworkers and I were much in prayer about this. Then your crates arrived. When my staff removed the covers, they found a pair of glasses lying on top."
The missionary paused long enough to let his words sink in. Then, still gripped with the wonder of it all, he continued: "Folks, when I tried on the glasses, it was as though they had been custom-made just for me! I want to thank you for being a part of that."
The people listened, happy for the miraculous glasses. But the missionary surely must have confused their church with another, they thought. There were no glasses on their list of items to be sent overseas.
But sitting quietly in the back, with tears streaming down his face, an ordinary carpenter realized the Master Carpenter had used him in an extraordinary way.
---Cheryl Walterman Stewart---
Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul
A Perfect Mistake
Story:
Grandpa Nybakken loved life----especially when he could play a trick on somebody. At those times, his large Norwegian frame shook with laughter while he feigned innocent surprise, exclaiming, "Oh, forevermore!" But on a cold Saturday in downtown Chicago, Grandpa felt that God played a trick on him, and Grandpa wasn't laughing.
Mother's father worked as a carpenter. On this particular day, he was building some crates for the clothes his church was sending to an orphanage in China. On his way home, he reached into his shirt pocket to find his glasses, but they were gone. He remembered putting them there that morning, so he drove back to the church. His search proved fruitless.
When he mentally replayed his earlier actions, he realized what happened. The glasses had slipped out of his pocket unnoticed and fallen into one of the crates, which he had nailed shut. His brand new glasses were heading to China!
The Great Depression was at its height, and Grandpa has six children. He had spent twenty dollars for those glasses that very morning.
"It's not fair," he told God as he drove home in frustration. "I've been very faithful in giving of my time and money to your work, and now this."
Several months later, the director of the orphanage was on furlough in the United States. He wanted to visit all the churches that supported him in China, so he came to speak one Sunday night at my grandfather's small church in Chicago. Grandpa and his family sat in their customary seats among the sparse congregation.
The missionary began by thanking the people for their faithfulness in supporting the orphanage.
"But most of all," he said, "I must thank you for the glasses you sent last year. You see, the Communists had just swept through the orphanage, destoying everything, including my glasses. I was desperate.
"Even if I had the money, there was simply no way of replacing those glasses. Along with not being able to see well, I experienced headaches every day, so my coworkers and I were much in prayer about this. Then your crates arrived. When my staff removed the covers, they found a pair of glasses lying on top."
The missionary paused long enough to let his words sink in. Then, still gripped with the wonder of it all, he continued: "Folks, when I tried on the glasses, it was as though they had been custom-made just for me! I want to thank you for being a part of that."
The people listened, happy for the miraculous glasses. But the missionary surely must have confused their church with another, they thought. There were no glasses on their list of items to be sent overseas.
But sitting quietly in the back, with tears streaming down his face, an ordinary carpenter realized the Master Carpenter had used him in an extraordinary way.
---Cheryl Walterman Stewart---
Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul
#3
February 4, 9:43 pm
Chicken Soup for the Mother and Son Soul
Forwarded Prayer
The Story:
Like every other Tuesday morning, after driving my middle son to the high school, I returned home at 8:00 to read my e-mails before waking the younger children for school. A woman from our church had sent me a prayer, with the request to pass it on to all those I thought might need it. I sent it to my best friend, a new Christian; to an ill woman in my writer’s group; and to my sister, who had just recently acknowledged her belief in the power of prayer. The last person I sent it to was my oldest son, Scott. Just twenty years old, he lived in his own apartment a couple of miles away and was a part-time inexperienced mate on a lobster boat. Scott balked at my fears of him fishing or lobstering. I knew he was at work but would find my e-mail with the prayer when he returned home.
As my day progressed, so did my workload and I ran errands for most of the morning. When I returned home around noon, I found Scott sitting on our couch with one foot wrapped in plastic and duct tape. He stood up and gave me the biggest hug I’d ever received. I felt him trembling. “What’s happened?”
He plopped back on the couch with his arm still around me. “My captain and I went out at three o’clock this morning to pull traps. Around eight, I was in charge of throwing the lines of traps over the side of the boat while he was at the helm. I had no idea my foot was tangled in the line when I threw it. “His voice quaked as he recounted the weight of the traps pulling him over the side of the boat, fighting with all his strength to hold on, feeling the icy cold of the black water below, knowing that without immediate help, death was looming.
The captain, oblivious to the situation, had continued steering the boat along its course. After a few minutes, he peeked around the corner to shout to Scott.
“Oh, dear God!” he exclaimed as he hurried toward my son, dangling over the side of the boat. He frantically cut the line holding the traps and pulled Scott to safety.
As I praised God and hugged my son closer, I understood what so many fishermen had told me about respecting the sea, that it was unmerciful to those who failed to learn its power.
After Scott returned to his apartment, I received an e-mail from him. “Mom, the prayer you forwarded came at eight o’clock! That was the same moment I was holding onto life with all my might!”
The moment when God’s strength had provided his.
----Kimberly Ripley-----
God bless,
Prayeristhekey
Forwarded Prayer
The Story:
Like every other Tuesday morning, after driving my middle son to the high school, I returned home at 8:00 to read my e-mails before waking the younger children for school. A woman from our church had sent me a prayer, with the request to pass it on to all those I thought might need it. I sent it to my best friend, a new Christian; to an ill woman in my writer’s group; and to my sister, who had just recently acknowledged her belief in the power of prayer. The last person I sent it to was my oldest son, Scott. Just twenty years old, he lived in his own apartment a couple of miles away and was a part-time inexperienced mate on a lobster boat. Scott balked at my fears of him fishing or lobstering. I knew he was at work but would find my e-mail with the prayer when he returned home.
As my day progressed, so did my workload and I ran errands for most of the morning. When I returned home around noon, I found Scott sitting on our couch with one foot wrapped in plastic and duct tape. He stood up and gave me the biggest hug I’d ever received. I felt him trembling. “What’s happened?”
He plopped back on the couch with his arm still around me. “My captain and I went out at three o’clock this morning to pull traps. Around eight, I was in charge of throwing the lines of traps over the side of the boat while he was at the helm. I had no idea my foot was tangled in the line when I threw it. “His voice quaked as he recounted the weight of the traps pulling him over the side of the boat, fighting with all his strength to hold on, feeling the icy cold of the black water below, knowing that without immediate help, death was looming.
The captain, oblivious to the situation, had continued steering the boat along its course. After a few minutes, he peeked around the corner to shout to Scott.
“Oh, dear God!” he exclaimed as he hurried toward my son, dangling over the side of the boat. He frantically cut the line holding the traps and pulled Scott to safety.
As I praised God and hugged my son closer, I understood what so many fishermen had told me about respecting the sea, that it was unmerciful to those who failed to learn its power.
After Scott returned to his apartment, I received an e-mail from him. “Mom, the prayer you forwarded came at eight o’clock! That was the same moment I was holding onto life with all my might!”
The moment when God’s strength had provided his.
----Kimberly Ripley-----
God bless,
Prayeristhekey
Last update on February 4, 9:43 pm by Prayeristhekey.
#4
February 19, 7:04 am
Traveling with Visitors
Story:
My mother's face was illuminated, free of signs of anxiety or pain. Her eyes were wide open and brilliantly clear, their lids no longer shuttering from acute spasms of pain. A wonderful, bubbling laughter spilled forth from her lips while she conversed with her visitor.
Standing unseen in the doorway of her bedroom, I peered silently at the miraculous transformation in my terminlly ill mother, watching her wait patiently for a reply from her visitor then continue with her animated words and laughter. My mother was quite lucid, and her aphasia (difficult speech) improved when she spoke with her visitor.
This wasn't the first time I'd noticed this strange, baffling phenomenon. Physically, her body lay in a hospital bed in my home, ravaged by breast cancer, which spread to her bones, brain and other organs. She required complete care for every daily need, which I provided with the help of hospice. But I knew she was slowly traveling away from this physical earth, preparing to take her final journey. It had started the day she called me into her room with a voice that was coherent and clear as a bell. "Claire, tell that man to move away from the television. I can't see my soaps." I, of course, saw no one, but my mother's head tilted, trying to watch her shows. I yelled out anyway, "Hey, move it! My mom can't see around you!"
"He's not moving," Mother chuckled. She waved her hand at me and just continued to watch her show, peering around her visitor. I asked her who he was, and she gave me a look that intimated I was the one who was utterly confused. "You know who. Now be quiet, I'm watching my show." She wrinkled her face at me then ignored me, keeping her head tilted at the strange angle.
During the past weeks, a man came to play cards in a chair in her room. Her deceased mother stood there shaking her finger at her. Her deceased aunt sat on her bed, talking about past days when they were young. And there were others who she wouldn't introduce me to. Sometimes I interrupted their talks, questioning Mother about her visitors. She tried to include me in their conversations, but soon I got an exasperated look thrown my way before she turned and explained to her visitor that I was her strange daughter.
But I knew my mother was leaving me and starting to travel closer to her new home. Were her visitors guides, helping her begin her journey to her new home as she leaves her tired worn-out body behind? Some days I asked her if she wanted to go with them. Her reply was, "They're visiting me, Claire. I'll go visit them soon. Now, I'd like something to drink."
The past days, her visitors have been coming more frequently, spending more time in her room. Between visits she sleeps, restless, moving her hands and legs. I even whisper in her ear, "Go to the light, Mother." How can I be selfish and try to keep her here when there is a better place for her where she won't suffer any longer?
Today, my mother was staring up at the corner of the ceiling as I encouraged her to eat at least three spoonfuls of food. I inquired what she was staring at. Very calmly, she answered, "I'm just watching those three angels fly around. Each time they come, I know I'm going to have another visitor."
My mouth dropped open in shock. Angels. I watched her glazed eyes clear up once again, her facial features smooth out and a warm smile appear on her lips.
Her death quickly approaches, but my mother, her angels and her visitors have shown me not to be fearful or upset about her next step of leaving this earth. I know now she won't be alone
-----Claire Luna-Pinsker----
God bless,
prayeristhekey
Story:
My mother's face was illuminated, free of signs of anxiety or pain. Her eyes were wide open and brilliantly clear, their lids no longer shuttering from acute spasms of pain. A wonderful, bubbling laughter spilled forth from her lips while she conversed with her visitor.
Standing unseen in the doorway of her bedroom, I peered silently at the miraculous transformation in my terminlly ill mother, watching her wait patiently for a reply from her visitor then continue with her animated words and laughter. My mother was quite lucid, and her aphasia (difficult speech) improved when she spoke with her visitor.
This wasn't the first time I'd noticed this strange, baffling phenomenon. Physically, her body lay in a hospital bed in my home, ravaged by breast cancer, which spread to her bones, brain and other organs. She required complete care for every daily need, which I provided with the help of hospice. But I knew she was slowly traveling away from this physical earth, preparing to take her final journey. It had started the day she called me into her room with a voice that was coherent and clear as a bell. "Claire, tell that man to move away from the television. I can't see my soaps." I, of course, saw no one, but my mother's head tilted, trying to watch her shows. I yelled out anyway, "Hey, move it! My mom can't see around you!"
"He's not moving," Mother chuckled. She waved her hand at me and just continued to watch her show, peering around her visitor. I asked her who he was, and she gave me a look that intimated I was the one who was utterly confused. "You know who. Now be quiet, I'm watching my show." She wrinkled her face at me then ignored me, keeping her head tilted at the strange angle.
During the past weeks, a man came to play cards in a chair in her room. Her deceased mother stood there shaking her finger at her. Her deceased aunt sat on her bed, talking about past days when they were young. And there were others who she wouldn't introduce me to. Sometimes I interrupted their talks, questioning Mother about her visitors. She tried to include me in their conversations, but soon I got an exasperated look thrown my way before she turned and explained to her visitor that I was her strange daughter.
But I knew my mother was leaving me and starting to travel closer to her new home. Were her visitors guides, helping her begin her journey to her new home as she leaves her tired worn-out body behind? Some days I asked her if she wanted to go with them. Her reply was, "They're visiting me, Claire. I'll go visit them soon. Now, I'd like something to drink."
The past days, her visitors have been coming more frequently, spending more time in her room. Between visits she sleeps, restless, moving her hands and legs. I even whisper in her ear, "Go to the light, Mother." How can I be selfish and try to keep her here when there is a better place for her where she won't suffer any longer?
Today, my mother was staring up at the corner of the ceiling as I encouraged her to eat at least three spoonfuls of food. I inquired what she was staring at. Very calmly, she answered, "I'm just watching those three angels fly around. Each time they come, I know I'm going to have another visitor."
My mouth dropped open in shock. Angels. I watched her glazed eyes clear up once again, her facial features smooth out and a warm smile appear on her lips.
Her death quickly approaches, but my mother, her angels and her visitors have shown me not to be fearful or upset about her next step of leaving this earth. I know now she won't be alone
-----Claire Luna-Pinsker----
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#5
February 25, 1:36 pm
Chicken Soup for the Soul
"A Heart To Give"
Story:
As I lay in bed on Thanksgiving Day 1989, my gody wracked with pain, I found little to be thankful for. Some months earlier, I had broken my foot. Having been a world-chanpion steer wrestler on the rodeo circuit in my early years, I certainly didn;t worry over broken bones. The main problem was the inconvenience of the cast. But as the weeks went by, I began to experience intense pain. Finally, the cast was cut away, and the source of pain revealed. Somehow, the cast had cut the bottom of my foot, and since I was a diabetic, gangrene had quickly set in. After several days of intravenous antibiotics., I went home, but the wound never healed. The searing, throbbing pain was unbearable, and my temperature escalated. I knew what the next step would be.
The following morning, an emergency surgical team prepared to amputate my right leg, just below the knee. Though I had protested in the beginning, now I just wanted to live and to be out of pain. After the surgery, I gradually moved from a wheelchair to crutches and often hopped around on my good leg, until a blister appeared on my foot. Six months later, I was a forty-four-year-old double amputee. I had felt sorry for myself after the first amputation, but it was nothing compared to the anger and rage I experienced with the second.
When I was a youngster, I had joined a little country church and thought that took care of my religion. I didn't talk to God the way some people claim to. I took care of myself and figured most folks would be better off if they did the same. What I learned about God growing up was that He was to be feared, and I had experienced enough fear in my own home. I certainly didn't need more from some deity.
But now, as a grown man trying to cope with two "stubs" instead of legs, I even lost my fear of God. As I sat in the middle of the bathroom floor, unable to raise myself up, I cursed God violently. So what if He struck me with lightning, could that be much worse? Maybe I wasn't the best person in the world, but I didn't deserve this.
Eventually, I was fitted with two prostheses and spent time in rehabilitation learning to walk again. By 1995, I was back to a fairly normal lifestyle, with a good job, wife and family. Then, I began having chest pains. The pain was familiar. When I was thirty-one, I had quintuple heart bypass surgery. Years later, stents were placed in the arteries. What else could they possibly repair? Increasing pain and total exhaustion forced me into the hospital. Finally, the doctor recommended a heart transplant, even though my medical problems posed a great risk. Having been a gambler in my rodeo days. I didn't like the odds they were giving me, but I saw no other option.
Being accepted by a transplant team was no easy task. As a diabetic and double amputee, some teams wouldn't even consider me. And even if I was accepted, I would have to go on a waiting list, which could take months or years. Even if I got lucky and received a heart, there were no guarantees that the surgery would work.
When I had the bypass surgery years earlier, I was put on a heart-lung machine to keep my heart pumping during surgery, and then an electrical impulse restarted my heart to function on its own. But this time, someone else's heart would be placed in my body. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the only One who could make a brand new heart start beating was Almighty God, and I figured I had alienated Him completely the day I cursed Him. I was tired of the anger and bitterness, and didn't want to live what life I had left raging against my circumstances. So, I made my peace with God.
Eventually, I was accepted as a transplant candidate, and on the day after Christmas, I went into the hospital with hope and apprehension to wait for a new heart. It was like living with life and death at the same time. One minute I thought of being healthy again; the next minute the reality surfaced that I might die.
Finally, on January 22nd, the doctor told me a heart had been located. I gathered my family together. As they prepared me for surgery, I felt complete peace.
Suddenly, the doctor came in and told us there was a problem. Hesitantly, he said, "We have a seventeen-year-old boy on a ventilator who probably won't make it through the night without a heart." He paused awkwardly. "I don't know how to ask you this, but would you consider giving him the heart?" He emphasized that the heart was originally intended for me, and it was my choice. I could keep it, since there was no way of knowing when another heart would become available or how long my body would make it without one.
From the moment I was notified a heart had been donated, I had gone from disbelief to elation, from aprehension to acceptance, and now I wasn't sure what I was feeling. How do I choose who lives or dies?
The tough part was knowing what my family would go through if I didn't receive another heart. I didn't want to make my wife a widow. I wanted to live and see my grandchildren grow up. The easy part was knowing who needed the heart most.
It was the toughest and the easiest decision I ever made.
The young man survived the surgery, and one week later I received my new heart, an even better physiological match for my body than the previous one. Several months later, one of the doctors told me that he knew of no one in medical history who had chosen to give up a donor heart to someone else.
That was seven years ago. Today, it takes extra energy for me to walk, but I enjoy going places and meeting people. I wear shorts everywhere I go, no matter what the season or weather. I want people to see my prostheses and ask questions., so I can tell them about my medical miracles. When they ask, I tell them that God gave me new legs so I could walk with Him. Then, I explain how He gave me two new hearts---this physical heart transplanted into my chest cavity and a spiritual one deep in my soul, which overflows with His love.
John Patterson as told by Louise Tucker Jones
God bless,
prayeristhekey
"A Heart To Give"
Story:
As I lay in bed on Thanksgiving Day 1989, my gody wracked with pain, I found little to be thankful for. Some months earlier, I had broken my foot. Having been a world-chanpion steer wrestler on the rodeo circuit in my early years, I certainly didn;t worry over broken bones. The main problem was the inconvenience of the cast. But as the weeks went by, I began to experience intense pain. Finally, the cast was cut away, and the source of pain revealed. Somehow, the cast had cut the bottom of my foot, and since I was a diabetic, gangrene had quickly set in. After several days of intravenous antibiotics., I went home, but the wound never healed. The searing, throbbing pain was unbearable, and my temperature escalated. I knew what the next step would be.
The following morning, an emergency surgical team prepared to amputate my right leg, just below the knee. Though I had protested in the beginning, now I just wanted to live and to be out of pain. After the surgery, I gradually moved from a wheelchair to crutches and often hopped around on my good leg, until a blister appeared on my foot. Six months later, I was a forty-four-year-old double amputee. I had felt sorry for myself after the first amputation, but it was nothing compared to the anger and rage I experienced with the second.
When I was a youngster, I had joined a little country church and thought that took care of my religion. I didn't talk to God the way some people claim to. I took care of myself and figured most folks would be better off if they did the same. What I learned about God growing up was that He was to be feared, and I had experienced enough fear in my own home. I certainly didn't need more from some deity.
But now, as a grown man trying to cope with two "stubs" instead of legs, I even lost my fear of God. As I sat in the middle of the bathroom floor, unable to raise myself up, I cursed God violently. So what if He struck me with lightning, could that be much worse? Maybe I wasn't the best person in the world, but I didn't deserve this.
Eventually, I was fitted with two prostheses and spent time in rehabilitation learning to walk again. By 1995, I was back to a fairly normal lifestyle, with a good job, wife and family. Then, I began having chest pains. The pain was familiar. When I was thirty-one, I had quintuple heart bypass surgery. Years later, stents were placed in the arteries. What else could they possibly repair? Increasing pain and total exhaustion forced me into the hospital. Finally, the doctor recommended a heart transplant, even though my medical problems posed a great risk. Having been a gambler in my rodeo days. I didn't like the odds they were giving me, but I saw no other option.
Being accepted by a transplant team was no easy task. As a diabetic and double amputee, some teams wouldn't even consider me. And even if I was accepted, I would have to go on a waiting list, which could take months or years. Even if I got lucky and received a heart, there were no guarantees that the surgery would work.
When I had the bypass surgery years earlier, I was put on a heart-lung machine to keep my heart pumping during surgery, and then an electrical impulse restarted my heart to function on its own. But this time, someone else's heart would be placed in my body. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the only One who could make a brand new heart start beating was Almighty God, and I figured I had alienated Him completely the day I cursed Him. I was tired of the anger and bitterness, and didn't want to live what life I had left raging against my circumstances. So, I made my peace with God.
Eventually, I was accepted as a transplant candidate, and on the day after Christmas, I went into the hospital with hope and apprehension to wait for a new heart. It was like living with life and death at the same time. One minute I thought of being healthy again; the next minute the reality surfaced that I might die.
Finally, on January 22nd, the doctor told me a heart had been located. I gathered my family together. As they prepared me for surgery, I felt complete peace.
Suddenly, the doctor came in and told us there was a problem. Hesitantly, he said, "We have a seventeen-year-old boy on a ventilator who probably won't make it through the night without a heart." He paused awkwardly. "I don't know how to ask you this, but would you consider giving him the heart?" He emphasized that the heart was originally intended for me, and it was my choice. I could keep it, since there was no way of knowing when another heart would become available or how long my body would make it without one.
From the moment I was notified a heart had been donated, I had gone from disbelief to elation, from aprehension to acceptance, and now I wasn't sure what I was feeling. How do I choose who lives or dies?
The tough part was knowing what my family would go through if I didn't receive another heart. I didn't want to make my wife a widow. I wanted to live and see my grandchildren grow up. The easy part was knowing who needed the heart most.
It was the toughest and the easiest decision I ever made.
The young man survived the surgery, and one week later I received my new heart, an even better physiological match for my body than the previous one. Several months later, one of the doctors told me that he knew of no one in medical history who had chosen to give up a donor heart to someone else.
That was seven years ago. Today, it takes extra energy for me to walk, but I enjoy going places and meeting people. I wear shorts everywhere I go, no matter what the season or weather. I want people to see my prostheses and ask questions., so I can tell them about my medical miracles. When they ask, I tell them that God gave me new legs so I could walk with Him. Then, I explain how He gave me two new hearts---this physical heart transplanted into my chest cavity and a spiritual one deep in my soul, which overflows with His love.
John Patterson as told by Louise Tucker Jones
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#6
February 27, 2:23 pm
Chicken Soup for the Soul
"Forgiven"
Story:
The real power of healing is not about curing diseases. This was revealed to me by a male nurse who spent a lot of time with a women in a nursing home who hadn't been able to walk for six years. Edward lifted her in and out of her chair or into the bed, depending on her schedule.
She always wanted to talk about God and forgiveness. Because Edward had had a near-death experience, he felt confortable doing this.
One night it was so late that Edward slipped out without being the one to put her to bed. He was heading for his car in the parking lot when he heard her call, "Edward!" He snuck back inside and into her room.
"Are you sure God forgives us for everything?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm sure, from my own experience," he said. "You know the gospel song that tells us, "He knows every lie that you and I have told, and though it makes Him very sad to see the way we live, he'll always say "I forgive."'"
She sighed. "When I was a young woman, I stole my parents' silver and sold it so I would have enough money to get married. I've never told anyone and no one ever found out. Will God forgive me?"
"Yes," Edward reassured her. "God will forgive you. Good night."
When Edward returned to work the next morning, he was told to see the administrator who asked what he had told the woman the night before.
"As usual," Edward explained, "we talked about God and forgiveness. Why?
"At 3:00 A.M. the woman came out of her room and , with no help, walked the entire length of the nursing home, put her Bible and teeth on the nurse's desk and said, 'I don't need these any more.' Then she returned and walked back to her room, laid down and died."
This is what the soul of nursing is all about, the reason God created a world where we can all be nurses by showing our compassion and empathy for the wounded.
-----Bernie Siegel-----
God bless,
prayeristhekey
"Forgiven"
Story:
The real power of healing is not about curing diseases. This was revealed to me by a male nurse who spent a lot of time with a women in a nursing home who hadn't been able to walk for six years. Edward lifted her in and out of her chair or into the bed, depending on her schedule.
She always wanted to talk about God and forgiveness. Because Edward had had a near-death experience, he felt confortable doing this.
One night it was so late that Edward slipped out without being the one to put her to bed. He was heading for his car in the parking lot when he heard her call, "Edward!" He snuck back inside and into her room.
"Are you sure God forgives us for everything?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm sure, from my own experience," he said. "You know the gospel song that tells us, "He knows every lie that you and I have told, and though it makes Him very sad to see the way we live, he'll always say "I forgive."'"
She sighed. "When I was a young woman, I stole my parents' silver and sold it so I would have enough money to get married. I've never told anyone and no one ever found out. Will God forgive me?"
"Yes," Edward reassured her. "God will forgive you. Good night."
When Edward returned to work the next morning, he was told to see the administrator who asked what he had told the woman the night before.
"As usual," Edward explained, "we talked about God and forgiveness. Why?
"At 3:00 A.M. the woman came out of her room and , with no help, walked the entire length of the nursing home, put her Bible and teeth on the nurse's desk and said, 'I don't need these any more.' Then she returned and walked back to her room, laid down and died."
This is what the soul of nursing is all about, the reason God created a world where we can all be nurses by showing our compassion and empathy for the wounded.
-----Bernie Siegel-----
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#7
February 28, 12:54 pm
Chicken Soup for the Soul
My First Miracle
Story:
I believe in miracles becaue I've seen so many of them. A patient was referred to me who was one hundred and two years old. "There's a sore under my denture," she said. "I told my own dentist it's nothing, but he insisted I come see you."
Her eighty-year-old son accompanied her. He would occasionally attempt to add something to her story but she would say, "Hush up, son!" She wanted to tell it herself. I found a large cancer that extended over much of the roof of her mouth. A biopsy later confirmed the diagnosis---a particularly bad sort of cancer.
During her next appointment, I explained to her the seriousness of the problem. She reached down, clasped my hand in hers and said, "I know you're worried about me, but I'm just fine."
I knew differently. After considerable effort on my part, and kindness on her part because she wanted to please me, she consented to have me refer her to a cancer surgeon. She saw him, but as I expected, declined treatment.
About six months later she returned to my office.
"How ae you?" I asked. Her son started to speak, but she told him to hush once again.
"I'm just fine, honey," she said to me. "When can I get started on fixing my denture?"
Surprised to see her at all, I sputtered, "Let me take a look in your mouth and we'll see about it," I was thinking, no way.
I couldn't believe my eyes. The cancer that had covered nearly the entire roof of her mouth was gone---only one small area of redness remained.
I had read of such things happening, but had never actually seen them with my own eyes. I was dumbfounded.
"You see, honey? Like I told you, I'm fine," she said, patting my antiseptically gloved hand.
Now I believe her.
That was my first miracle. Since then I've seen many others, because they keep getting easier to see. In fact, miracles are daily events for me now. Every time I remember to take a slow, deep breath, I think about the miracle of being alive---how the sun rises and the Earth turns, all the while shooting through space at thousands of miles an hour. And people are a miracle, for through them we have a chance to know ourselves, to know God and to love beyond ourselves. We have a chance to show kindness, to provide service, and to see the miracles of one another.
Since my first miracle, I've come to understand that the time and place for a miracle is wherever we choose to find it.
-----Dane E. Smith----
Chicken Soup to inspire the Body & Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
My First Miracle
Story:
I believe in miracles becaue I've seen so many of them. A patient was referred to me who was one hundred and two years old. "There's a sore under my denture," she said. "I told my own dentist it's nothing, but he insisted I come see you."
Her eighty-year-old son accompanied her. He would occasionally attempt to add something to her story but she would say, "Hush up, son!" She wanted to tell it herself. I found a large cancer that extended over much of the roof of her mouth. A biopsy later confirmed the diagnosis---a particularly bad sort of cancer.
During her next appointment, I explained to her the seriousness of the problem. She reached down, clasped my hand in hers and said, "I know you're worried about me, but I'm just fine."
I knew differently. After considerable effort on my part, and kindness on her part because she wanted to please me, she consented to have me refer her to a cancer surgeon. She saw him, but as I expected, declined treatment.
About six months later she returned to my office.
"How ae you?" I asked. Her son started to speak, but she told him to hush once again.
"I'm just fine, honey," she said to me. "When can I get started on fixing my denture?"
Surprised to see her at all, I sputtered, "Let me take a look in your mouth and we'll see about it," I was thinking, no way.
I couldn't believe my eyes. The cancer that had covered nearly the entire roof of her mouth was gone---only one small area of redness remained.
I had read of such things happening, but had never actually seen them with my own eyes. I was dumbfounded.
"You see, honey? Like I told you, I'm fine," she said, patting my antiseptically gloved hand.
Now I believe her.
That was my first miracle. Since then I've seen many others, because they keep getting easier to see. In fact, miracles are daily events for me now. Every time I remember to take a slow, deep breath, I think about the miracle of being alive---how the sun rises and the Earth turns, all the while shooting through space at thousands of miles an hour. And people are a miracle, for through them we have a chance to know ourselves, to know God and to love beyond ourselves. We have a chance to show kindness, to provide service, and to see the miracles of one another.
Since my first miracle, I've come to understand that the time and place for a miracle is wherever we choose to find it.
-----Dane E. Smith----
Chicken Soup to inspire the Body & Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
Last update on February 28, 12:54 pm by Prayeristhekey.
#8
March 1, 12:01 pm
Chicken Soup for the Soul
Missing the Boat
"The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.
2 Peter 3:9
Story:
In 1910, Abraham Bank, my great-grandfather, was impressed into the Russian army. At the time, he was twenty-one years old and had lived near Vilna in Latvia for his entire life. He was a qualified rabbi, shochet, and mohel.
The prospect of twenty-five years of mandatory military service was unthinkable to Abraham. So he decided to pack a few clothes and personal belongings and leave his hometown during the night. He promised his girlfriend, Rebecca, that he would write.
Abraham traveled via Finland to Stockholm, Sweden, where he worked for a while as a stevedore. He earned his passage to London where he continued to work. His goal was to earn enough money to follow in the footsteps of his brother, who had already emigrated to America.
Two years after leaving his home in Latvia, Abraham was finally able to buy a ticket on a ship leaving from Southampton that would take him from England to America.
Abraham ran into two difficulties. The first was the knowledge that he would not be able to get Kosher food in the steerage class of the ship. The second was the trouble he would have in getting from London to Southampton over Passover, as the holiday ended on the night before the ship would be boarding.
Finally, Abraham decided not to use his ticket. He remained in London for a few months and then emigrated to South Africa, where eight years later Rebecca joined him. It was not until 1987 that Abraham's descendants---his grandson (my father) and his family-- made the move to America that Abraham had come so close to making seventy-five years earlier.
I have a good cause to be grateful to Zeida for deciding not to use that ticket all those years ago. In fact, it might well have been the best decision he ever made. The name of the ship that steamed into the Atlantic that day was the "Titanic."
Chicken Soup for the Soul
-----Tanya Bank----
God bless,
prayeristhekey
Missing the Boat
"The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.
2 Peter 3:9
Story:
In 1910, Abraham Bank, my great-grandfather, was impressed into the Russian army. At the time, he was twenty-one years old and had lived near Vilna in Latvia for his entire life. He was a qualified rabbi, shochet, and mohel.
The prospect of twenty-five years of mandatory military service was unthinkable to Abraham. So he decided to pack a few clothes and personal belongings and leave his hometown during the night. He promised his girlfriend, Rebecca, that he would write.
Abraham traveled via Finland to Stockholm, Sweden, where he worked for a while as a stevedore. He earned his passage to London where he continued to work. His goal was to earn enough money to follow in the footsteps of his brother, who had already emigrated to America.
Two years after leaving his home in Latvia, Abraham was finally able to buy a ticket on a ship leaving from Southampton that would take him from England to America.
Abraham ran into two difficulties. The first was the knowledge that he would not be able to get Kosher food in the steerage class of the ship. The second was the trouble he would have in getting from London to Southampton over Passover, as the holiday ended on the night before the ship would be boarding.
Finally, Abraham decided not to use his ticket. He remained in London for a few months and then emigrated to South Africa, where eight years later Rebecca joined him. It was not until 1987 that Abraham's descendants---his grandson (my father) and his family-- made the move to America that Abraham had come so close to making seventy-five years earlier.
I have a good cause to be grateful to Zeida for deciding not to use that ticket all those years ago. In fact, it might well have been the best decision he ever made. The name of the ship that steamed into the Atlantic that day was the "Titanic."
Chicken Soup for the Soul
-----Tanya Bank----
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#9
March 2, 1:01 pm
Just Two Tickets to Indy
Chicken Soup for the family Soul
Story:
We had talked about the possiblility and its ramification for months as test after test failed to confirm or deny the diagnosis. But now we sat in my office crushed by the reality that it was true: John had ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease. The insidious affliction strikes the muscular system of its victim, eventually draining the body of all strength to support even breathing and a beating heart.
John had been my business partner, my friend, my mentor for many years. He was the kind of friend who pushed you beyond what you thought you could do. John always saw you not for what you are but for what he thought you could be, and then he never let you accept anything less. He told me one time, "I wouldn't really be much of a friend if I let you settle for what you think is your best."
We sat in the office crying and holding hands like two adolescent children, realizing that the crippling death sentence would not allow John to live for more than two years. I asked him to think about the one thing he had always dreamed of doing that he hadn't done. Was there some event he would like to see, such as the running of the bulls in Spain, or would he prefer to take Bonnie, his beloved, to the Great Wall of China or the Wailing Wall?
His response was predictble. As a lifelong car-racing enthusiast, John had always wanted to go to the Indianapolis 500. Unfortunately, it seemed that the tickets for the event were tied up in corporate commitments or fans who handed their seats down through the family as a legacy.
However, I confidently told John it would be no problem. Many of my clients had connections to the automobile industry, from tire makers to parts suppliers; someone was bound to have access to tickets. But my confidence was misplaced. Time after time, I was told that even though the request was noble, the corporate allotment was predetermined for years in the future. The 1996 Indy came and went and I was unable to get the tickets for Bonnie and John.
I took advantage of my position for fifteen months as a speaker and asked over one hundred audiences for the tickets. My hopes were sagging as the months passed and the 1997 Memorial Day classic loomed nearer. While John's faith remained and his hopes drove him on to lead a normal life, his body declined and his strength weakened. He would often say, "This disease thinks it has me, well little does it know I got it and it ain't seen anything like me."
For all of his positive faith, I knew in my heart that 1997 would be John's last chance to see the event. By the time I became desperate enough to call them, even the scalpers were out of tickets. In a depression for weeks because I failed to act sooner, I could barely face John and Bonnie. I had failed to make his wish come true. John reassured me that he appreciated my efforts but said, "You are going to die worrying about this ticket thing before I die of ALS."
Then two weeks before the event, the telephone rang and Peggy Zomack of Cooper Power in Pittsburgh asked the question that stopped by breathing.
"Rick," she said, "are you still looking for those Indy 500 tickets?" Then she had to ask, "Rick, are you still there?" I couln't say anything. My voice was paralyzed. Eventually, I got the words out and through tears assured her that she was heaven sent. She put the tickets in overnight mail, and I called Bonnie.
"Bonnie," I said. "Tomorrow, before 10:00 A.M., I will have in my hands tickets to the 1997 Indy 500 for you and John." She and I rejoiced for several minutes through bouts of more tears. Then a horrifying thought struck me, "Bonnie, I don't know if you will be able to find a room. The 500 is just a couple of weeks from now."
"Oh don't worry about that," she replied, "I paid for the room almost a year ago. I knew if I showed enough faith, God would provide the tickets somehow."
----Rick Phillips-------
Chicken Soup for the Family Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
Chicken Soup for the family Soul
Story:
We had talked about the possiblility and its ramification for months as test after test failed to confirm or deny the diagnosis. But now we sat in my office crushed by the reality that it was true: John had ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease. The insidious affliction strikes the muscular system of its victim, eventually draining the body of all strength to support even breathing and a beating heart.
John had been my business partner, my friend, my mentor for many years. He was the kind of friend who pushed you beyond what you thought you could do. John always saw you not for what you are but for what he thought you could be, and then he never let you accept anything less. He told me one time, "I wouldn't really be much of a friend if I let you settle for what you think is your best."
We sat in the office crying and holding hands like two adolescent children, realizing that the crippling death sentence would not allow John to live for more than two years. I asked him to think about the one thing he had always dreamed of doing that he hadn't done. Was there some event he would like to see, such as the running of the bulls in Spain, or would he prefer to take Bonnie, his beloved, to the Great Wall of China or the Wailing Wall?
His response was predictble. As a lifelong car-racing enthusiast, John had always wanted to go to the Indianapolis 500. Unfortunately, it seemed that the tickets for the event were tied up in corporate commitments or fans who handed their seats down through the family as a legacy.
However, I confidently told John it would be no problem. Many of my clients had connections to the automobile industry, from tire makers to parts suppliers; someone was bound to have access to tickets. But my confidence was misplaced. Time after time, I was told that even though the request was noble, the corporate allotment was predetermined for years in the future. The 1996 Indy came and went and I was unable to get the tickets for Bonnie and John.
I took advantage of my position for fifteen months as a speaker and asked over one hundred audiences for the tickets. My hopes were sagging as the months passed and the 1997 Memorial Day classic loomed nearer. While John's faith remained and his hopes drove him on to lead a normal life, his body declined and his strength weakened. He would often say, "This disease thinks it has me, well little does it know I got it and it ain't seen anything like me."
For all of his positive faith, I knew in my heart that 1997 would be John's last chance to see the event. By the time I became desperate enough to call them, even the scalpers were out of tickets. In a depression for weeks because I failed to act sooner, I could barely face John and Bonnie. I had failed to make his wish come true. John reassured me that he appreciated my efforts but said, "You are going to die worrying about this ticket thing before I die of ALS."
Then two weeks before the event, the telephone rang and Peggy Zomack of Cooper Power in Pittsburgh asked the question that stopped by breathing.
"Rick," she said, "are you still looking for those Indy 500 tickets?" Then she had to ask, "Rick, are you still there?" I couln't say anything. My voice was paralyzed. Eventually, I got the words out and through tears assured her that she was heaven sent. She put the tickets in overnight mail, and I called Bonnie.
"Bonnie," I said. "Tomorrow, before 10:00 A.M., I will have in my hands tickets to the 1997 Indy 500 for you and John." She and I rejoiced for several minutes through bouts of more tears. Then a horrifying thought struck me, "Bonnie, I don't know if you will be able to find a room. The 500 is just a couple of weeks from now."
"Oh don't worry about that," she replied, "I paid for the room almost a year ago. I knew if I showed enough faith, God would provide the tickets somehow."
----Rick Phillips-------
Chicken Soup for the Family Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#10
March 3, 1:44 pm
Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul
Like an Angel
Returning to work as a nurse after an illness of six months was an ordeal in itself, but now the bitter cold and intense winds added to my stress. The employee entrance to the hospital was on the west side of the old brick building. The parking lot was on the east side across the street, so I'd have to cross the vast expanse to reach the entrance, with the unrelenting wind pushing me along.
My recent bout with pneumonia and the subsequent asthma attacks made me doubt if I could survive the walk on this subzero morning. After parking my car, I crossed the street and carefully battled the elements as I started for the entrance. Within seconds, I realized it was hopeless. My weakened condition and the penetrating cold took my breath away. The icy winds blowing off Lake Michigan pierced my lungs like shards of crystal. My chest tightened. I realized I would soon be in distress and unable to make the distance. I looked back at the warm car and contemplated whether to return to it or risk going ahead. The early morning darkness seemed to close in on me, and wafts of icy snow blew around my legs.
At that moment a shaft of light opened in the shadows on the side of the building, spilling light from a small doorway onto the pavement ahead of me. A tall, lean figure in a long, threadbare woolen coat and knit cap stood silhouetted against the amber light from the doorway. He stood holding the door against the frigid air and waved for me to come in.
I could see the boiler room inside, an area prohibited to nursing personnel. I didn't want to be in trouble for being in a restricted area, but it was predawn, dark and cold, and I could barely breathe. My mind raced. The elderly black man raised his arm and motioned me toward him for the second time. I thanked him for getting me out of the cold and followed him past the steaming pipes of the boiler room. I had a sense of deep calm and peace as he spoke in soft tones and led me through the maze of pipes. As if he were trying to reassure me, he talked about the cold, the old pipes and cautioned me to watch my step. He opened a doorway and I was directly in front of my time clock.
I quickly punched my time card, then turned to thank him and to tell him that he had probably saved my life, but he was gone. As mysteriously as he came, he'd left.
In the weeks followed, I looked for him, but on one knew who he was. I had many questions for him: How did he know I was out there in the dark, since there were no windows on the door or on that side of the building? Why did he risk his job by giving me access to a restricted area? How did he know which was my time clock since various departments used different clocks? And why did no one know him?
The memory of that figure silhouetted against the light, motioning for me to follow, reminds me that angels come in many forms.
Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul
Naomi Follis
God bless,
prayeristhekey
Like an Angel
Returning to work as a nurse after an illness of six months was an ordeal in itself, but now the bitter cold and intense winds added to my stress. The employee entrance to the hospital was on the west side of the old brick building. The parking lot was on the east side across the street, so I'd have to cross the vast expanse to reach the entrance, with the unrelenting wind pushing me along.
My recent bout with pneumonia and the subsequent asthma attacks made me doubt if I could survive the walk on this subzero morning. After parking my car, I crossed the street and carefully battled the elements as I started for the entrance. Within seconds, I realized it was hopeless. My weakened condition and the penetrating cold took my breath away. The icy winds blowing off Lake Michigan pierced my lungs like shards of crystal. My chest tightened. I realized I would soon be in distress and unable to make the distance. I looked back at the warm car and contemplated whether to return to it or risk going ahead. The early morning darkness seemed to close in on me, and wafts of icy snow blew around my legs.
At that moment a shaft of light opened in the shadows on the side of the building, spilling light from a small doorway onto the pavement ahead of me. A tall, lean figure in a long, threadbare woolen coat and knit cap stood silhouetted against the amber light from the doorway. He stood holding the door against the frigid air and waved for me to come in.
I could see the boiler room inside, an area prohibited to nursing personnel. I didn't want to be in trouble for being in a restricted area, but it was predawn, dark and cold, and I could barely breathe. My mind raced. The elderly black man raised his arm and motioned me toward him for the second time. I thanked him for getting me out of the cold and followed him past the steaming pipes of the boiler room. I had a sense of deep calm and peace as he spoke in soft tones and led me through the maze of pipes. As if he were trying to reassure me, he talked about the cold, the old pipes and cautioned me to watch my step. He opened a doorway and I was directly in front of my time clock.
I quickly punched my time card, then turned to thank him and to tell him that he had probably saved my life, but he was gone. As mysteriously as he came, he'd left.
In the weeks followed, I looked for him, but on one knew who he was. I had many questions for him: How did he know I was out there in the dark, since there were no windows on the door or on that side of the building? Why did he risk his job by giving me access to a restricted area? How did he know which was my time clock since various departments used different clocks? And why did no one know him?
The memory of that figure silhouetted against the light, motioning for me to follow, reminds me that angels come in many forms.
Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul
Naomi Follis
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#11
March 4, 4:07 pm
Chicken Soup for the Soul
Keep Your Fork
Story:
The sound of Martha's voice on the other end of the telephone always brought a smile to Brother Jim's face. She was not only one of the oldest members of the congregation, but one of the most faithful. Aunt Martie, as all the children called her, just seemed to ooze faith, hope and love wherever she went.
This time, however, there seemed to be an unusual tone to her words.
"Preacher, could you stop by this afternoon? I need to talk with you." "Of course. I'll be there around three. Is that okay?"
As they sat facing each other in the quiet of her small living room, Jim learned the reason for what he sensed in her voice. Martha told him that her doctor had just discovered a previously undetected tumor.
"He says I probably have six months to live." Martha's words were certainly serious, yet there was a definite calm about her.
"I'm so sorry to...." but before Jim could finish, Martha interrupted.
"Don't be. The Lord has been good. I have lived a long life. I'm ready to go. You know that."
"I know." Jim whispered with a reassuring nod.
"But I do want to talk with you about my funeral. I have been thnking about it, and there are things that I want."
The two talked quietly for a long time. They talked about Martha's favorite hymns, the passages of Scripture that had meant so much to her through the years, and the many memories they shared from the five years Jim had been with Central Church.
When it seemed that they had covered just about everything, Aunt Martie paused, looked up at Jim with a twinkle in her eye, and then added, "One more thing, Preacher. When they bury me, I want my old Bible in one hand and a fork in the other."
"A fork?" Jim was sure he had heard everything, but this caught him by surprise. "Why do you want to be buried with a fork?"
I have been thinking about all of the church dinners and banquets that I attended through the years," she explained. "I couldn't begin to count them all. But one thing sticks in my mind.
"At those really nice get-togethers, when the meal was almost finished, a server or maybe the hostess would come by to collect the dirty dishes. I can hear the words now. Sometimes, at the best ones, somebody would lean over my shoulder and whisper, 'You can keep your fork.'
"And do you know what that meant? Dessert was coming!
"It didn't mean a cup of Jell-O or pudding or even a dish of ice cream. You don't need a fork for that. It meant the good stuff, like chocolate cake or cherry pie! When they told me I could keep my fork, I knew the best was yet to come!
"That's exactly what I want people to talk about at my funeral. Oh, they can talk about all the good times we had together. That would be nice.
"But when they walk by my casket and look at my pretty blue dress, I want them to turn to one another and say, 'Why the fork?'
"That's what I want to say. I want you to tell them that I kept my fork because the best is yet to come."
Dr. Roger William Thomas
Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
Keep Your Fork
Story:
The sound of Martha's voice on the other end of the telephone always brought a smile to Brother Jim's face. She was not only one of the oldest members of the congregation, but one of the most faithful. Aunt Martie, as all the children called her, just seemed to ooze faith, hope and love wherever she went.
This time, however, there seemed to be an unusual tone to her words.
"Preacher, could you stop by this afternoon? I need to talk with you." "Of course. I'll be there around three. Is that okay?"
As they sat facing each other in the quiet of her small living room, Jim learned the reason for what he sensed in her voice. Martha told him that her doctor had just discovered a previously undetected tumor.
"He says I probably have six months to live." Martha's words were certainly serious, yet there was a definite calm about her.
"I'm so sorry to...." but before Jim could finish, Martha interrupted.
"Don't be. The Lord has been good. I have lived a long life. I'm ready to go. You know that."
"I know." Jim whispered with a reassuring nod.
"But I do want to talk with you about my funeral. I have been thnking about it, and there are things that I want."
The two talked quietly for a long time. They talked about Martha's favorite hymns, the passages of Scripture that had meant so much to her through the years, and the many memories they shared from the five years Jim had been with Central Church.
When it seemed that they had covered just about everything, Aunt Martie paused, looked up at Jim with a twinkle in her eye, and then added, "One more thing, Preacher. When they bury me, I want my old Bible in one hand and a fork in the other."
"A fork?" Jim was sure he had heard everything, but this caught him by surprise. "Why do you want to be buried with a fork?"
I have been thinking about all of the church dinners and banquets that I attended through the years," she explained. "I couldn't begin to count them all. But one thing sticks in my mind.
"At those really nice get-togethers, when the meal was almost finished, a server or maybe the hostess would come by to collect the dirty dishes. I can hear the words now. Sometimes, at the best ones, somebody would lean over my shoulder and whisper, 'You can keep your fork.'
"And do you know what that meant? Dessert was coming!
"It didn't mean a cup of Jell-O or pudding or even a dish of ice cream. You don't need a fork for that. It meant the good stuff, like chocolate cake or cherry pie! When they told me I could keep my fork, I knew the best was yet to come!
"That's exactly what I want people to talk about at my funeral. Oh, they can talk about all the good times we had together. That would be nice.
"But when they walk by my casket and look at my pretty blue dress, I want them to turn to one another and say, 'Why the fork?'
"That's what I want to say. I want you to tell them that I kept my fork because the best is yet to come."
Dr. Roger William Thomas
Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#12
March 5, 12:52 pm
Chicken Soup for the Soul
A Perfect Mistake
Story:
Grandpa Nybakken loved life----especially when he could play a trick on somebody. At those times, his large Norwegian frame shook with laughter while he feigned innocent surprise, exclaiming, "Oh, forevermore!" But on a cold Saturday in downtown Chicago, Grandpa felt that God played a trick on him, and Grandpa wasn't laughing.
Mother's father worked as a carpenter. On this particular day, he was building some crates for the clothes his church was sending to an orphanage in China. On his way home, he reached into his shirt pocket to find his glasses, but they were gone. He remembered putting them there that morning, so he drove back to the church. His search proved fruitless.
When he mentally replayed his earlier actions, he realized what happened. The glasses had slipped out of his pocket unnoticed and fallen into one of the crates, which he had nailed shut. His brand new glasses were heading to China!
The Great Depression was at its height, and Grandpa has six children. He had spent twenty dollars for those glasses that very morning.
"It's not fair," he told God as he drove home in frustration. "I've been very faithful in giving of my time and money to your work, and now this."
Several months later, the director of the orphanage was on furlough in the United States. He wanted to visit all the churches that supported him in China, so he came to speak one Sunday night at my grandfather's small church in Chicago. Grandpa and his family sat in their customary seats among the sparse congregation.
The missionary began by thanking the people for their faithfulness in supporting the orphanage.
"But most of all," he said, "I must thank you for the glasses you sent last year. You see, the Communists had just swept through the orphanage, destoying everything, including my glasses. I was desperate.
"Even if I had the money, there was simply no way of replacing those glasses. Along with not being able to see well, I experienced headaches every day, so my coworkers and I were much in prayer about this. Then your crates arrived. When my staff removed the covers, they found a pair of glasses lying on top."
The missionary paused long enough to let his words sink in. Then, still gripped with the wonder of it all, he continued: "Folks, when I tried on the glasses, it was as though they had been custom-made just for me! I want to thank you for being a part of that."
The people listened, happy for the miraculous glasses. But the missionary surely must have confused their church with another, they thought. There were no glasses on their list of items to be sent overseas.
But sitting quietly in the back, with tears streaming down his face, an ordinary carpenter realized the Master Carpenter had used him in an extraordinary way.
---Cheryl Walterman Stewart---
Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
A Perfect Mistake
Story:
Grandpa Nybakken loved life----especially when he could play a trick on somebody. At those times, his large Norwegian frame shook with laughter while he feigned innocent surprise, exclaiming, "Oh, forevermore!" But on a cold Saturday in downtown Chicago, Grandpa felt that God played a trick on him, and Grandpa wasn't laughing.
Mother's father worked as a carpenter. On this particular day, he was building some crates for the clothes his church was sending to an orphanage in China. On his way home, he reached into his shirt pocket to find his glasses, but they were gone. He remembered putting them there that morning, so he drove back to the church. His search proved fruitless.
When he mentally replayed his earlier actions, he realized what happened. The glasses had slipped out of his pocket unnoticed and fallen into one of the crates, which he had nailed shut. His brand new glasses were heading to China!
The Great Depression was at its height, and Grandpa has six children. He had spent twenty dollars for those glasses that very morning.
"It's not fair," he told God as he drove home in frustration. "I've been very faithful in giving of my time and money to your work, and now this."
Several months later, the director of the orphanage was on furlough in the United States. He wanted to visit all the churches that supported him in China, so he came to speak one Sunday night at my grandfather's small church in Chicago. Grandpa and his family sat in their customary seats among the sparse congregation.
The missionary began by thanking the people for their faithfulness in supporting the orphanage.
"But most of all," he said, "I must thank you for the glasses you sent last year. You see, the Communists had just swept through the orphanage, destoying everything, including my glasses. I was desperate.
"Even if I had the money, there was simply no way of replacing those glasses. Along with not being able to see well, I experienced headaches every day, so my coworkers and I were much in prayer about this. Then your crates arrived. When my staff removed the covers, they found a pair of glasses lying on top."
The missionary paused long enough to let his words sink in. Then, still gripped with the wonder of it all, he continued: "Folks, when I tried on the glasses, it was as though they had been custom-made just for me! I want to thank you for being a part of that."
The people listened, happy for the miraculous glasses. But the missionary surely must have confused their church with another, they thought. There were no glasses on their list of items to be sent overseas.
But sitting quietly in the back, with tears streaming down his face, an ordinary carpenter realized the Master Carpenter had used him in an extraordinary way.
---Cheryl Walterman Stewart---
Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#13
March 6, 7:53 pm
Chicken Soup for the Soul
Letters of Hope
Story:
Love is patient, love is kind....It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." (I Corinthians 13:4,7). Our Gran Lindsay, who lives in Burlington, Ontario, has this scripture printed on a magnet on her fridge. To visitors it is only a magnet; to our family it is a gentle reminder of a cherished family story.
It all began with a message in the town newspaper: "For Lindsay---Darling, I am well. Hope you and the children are fine." The year was 1943. A ham radio operator had picked up the fragmented message and directed it to the small-town newspaper.
Martha Lindsay had waited thirteen long months for a word from the Red Cross that her husband, William Lindsay, had survived the sinking of the HMS Exeter on March 1, 1942. She did her best to stay busy with the children, always keeping William in her prayers. One afternoon, the Red Cross finally contacted her with the news that she had been praying for---a William Lindsay had been located and was currently a prisoner of war.
Martha's heart soared: William was alive! She had never given up hope. The Red Cross told Martha to begin writing messages to William---short messages, no more than twenty-five words, on a plain, white postcard---and forwarding them to Geneva. From there, the Red Cross would try to get the postcards to William.
Only one postcard a month was permitted. Martha began by telling William about the antics of their children, Billy and Catherine, who had been babies the last time he saw them. She also did her best to express her love and devotion to her husband on the small, white postcards. In just twenty-five words, she kept reminding him that he was loved. Two and a half agonizing years came and went without receiving and answer from William, but Martha's faith and hope never faltered.
One September morning in 1945, as Martha was getting ready to take the children to school, the mail carrier delivered a small scrap of paper through the mail slot. It had no envelope and no stamp. As she turned the paper over her heart began to pound. Soon her eyes filled with tears as she recognized Williams's handwriting: "Martha, I've been released. I'm coming home."
On a beautiful day in October 1945, William Lindsay returned home to his family. After their tears and joy had subsided, Martha asked William if he had received her cards. Sadly, she learned that not one card had found its way to him in the prisoner-of-war camp.
Shortly after William's return home, there was a knock at the door one day. Martha answered and found a young sailor standing in the doorway.
"Excuse me, are you Martha Lindsay?" he asked.
"Yes I am," she replied.
"Was you husband a prisoner of war?"
"Yes, "she whispered.
With tears in his eyes, he introduced himself. "My name is William Lindsay. I was a prisoner of war, too." He reached into his pocket and , very gently, handed her thirty tiny white postcards tied in a ribbon.
"I received one of these every month," the sailor told her. "They gave me the hope that helped me to survive. From the bottom of my heart I thank you."
Martha just as gently placed the cards back in his hands, and he held them to his heart.
"Love is patient, love is kind......It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres" (I Corinthians 13:4,7).
----Shelley McEwan----
Chicken Soup for the Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
Letters of Hope
Story:
Love is patient, love is kind....It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." (I Corinthians 13:4,7). Our Gran Lindsay, who lives in Burlington, Ontario, has this scripture printed on a magnet on her fridge. To visitors it is only a magnet; to our family it is a gentle reminder of a cherished family story.
It all began with a message in the town newspaper: "For Lindsay---Darling, I am well. Hope you and the children are fine." The year was 1943. A ham radio operator had picked up the fragmented message and directed it to the small-town newspaper.
Martha Lindsay had waited thirteen long months for a word from the Red Cross that her husband, William Lindsay, had survived the sinking of the HMS Exeter on March 1, 1942. She did her best to stay busy with the children, always keeping William in her prayers. One afternoon, the Red Cross finally contacted her with the news that she had been praying for---a William Lindsay had been located and was currently a prisoner of war.
Martha's heart soared: William was alive! She had never given up hope. The Red Cross told Martha to begin writing messages to William---short messages, no more than twenty-five words, on a plain, white postcard---and forwarding them to Geneva. From there, the Red Cross would try to get the postcards to William.
Only one postcard a month was permitted. Martha began by telling William about the antics of their children, Billy and Catherine, who had been babies the last time he saw them. She also did her best to express her love and devotion to her husband on the small, white postcards. In just twenty-five words, she kept reminding him that he was loved. Two and a half agonizing years came and went without receiving and answer from William, but Martha's faith and hope never faltered.
One September morning in 1945, as Martha was getting ready to take the children to school, the mail carrier delivered a small scrap of paper through the mail slot. It had no envelope and no stamp. As she turned the paper over her heart began to pound. Soon her eyes filled with tears as she recognized Williams's handwriting: "Martha, I've been released. I'm coming home."
On a beautiful day in October 1945, William Lindsay returned home to his family. After their tears and joy had subsided, Martha asked William if he had received her cards. Sadly, she learned that not one card had found its way to him in the prisoner-of-war camp.
Shortly after William's return home, there was a knock at the door one day. Martha answered and found a young sailor standing in the doorway.
"Excuse me, are you Martha Lindsay?" he asked.
"Yes I am," she replied.
"Was you husband a prisoner of war?"
"Yes, "she whispered.
With tears in his eyes, he introduced himself. "My name is William Lindsay. I was a prisoner of war, too." He reached into his pocket and , very gently, handed her thirty tiny white postcards tied in a ribbon.
"I received one of these every month," the sailor told her. "They gave me the hope that helped me to survive. From the bottom of my heart I thank you."
Martha just as gently placed the cards back in his hands, and he held them to his heart.
"Love is patient, love is kind......It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres" (I Corinthians 13:4,7).
----Shelley McEwan----
Chicken Soup for the Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#14
March 7, 4:42 pm
Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul
7:07 Prayers
Story:
I sit with the phone in hand, watching the minutes click by on the clock. 7:05, 7:06, 7:07. I hit the button and hear the beginning of a ring. My son answers before it is finished. "Hello, Mom!"
"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you..." I finish with my slightly revised version. "...Happy birthday, your mom loves you."
"Thanks, Mom," Aaron says, a smile in his voice. We talk. He has been watching the clock too, waiting for the expected call. I tell him how much I love him. "I love you, too, Mom." We hand up. I say a special prayer for a blessed birthday for him and begin my morning activities. But my thoughts remain with him, my oldest son.
Thirty-six years old! How long have I been doing 7:07 birthday songs and prayers? I guess most of his life. I didn't plan it that way. It just happened. Aaron was born at 7:07 A.M. one cold, winter morning. St. Patrick's Day, in fact.
When he was just a toddler, I would wake him at 7:07 and sing "Happy birthday" and tell him about the day of his birth. It became a tradition. Even when he was away at college, I would hear a groggy "Hello, Mom" as soon as I called. The only time I missed calling was the first year after his marriage when Aaron and his wife, Amy, took spring vacation. Certainly, I wouldn't interfere with this. Later that day, Aaron called.
"Why didn't you call at 7:07?" I could hear the disappointment in his voice.
"Honey, I didn't think it was appropriate, and I had no idea where you were."
He quickly responded, "I told Dad the name of the motel where we would be staying."
Something in my heart began to sing. Our tradition would continue.
But it has become more than a tradition and birthday ritual. Though my prayers are always with Aaron, whenever I look at the digital clock and see 7:07, I know it is a special time to pray for him. No matter the day of the year, whether it be morning or night, I stop everything and say a prayer. Sometimes I awake at exactly 7:07 and immediately begin prayers for him, knowing God has called me to pray at this specific time. Through the years I found that Aaron was in great need of prayers at that particular time. Other times, it remained a mystery. But that's okay. I count it a privilege to pray blessings on my son---any day or night at 7:07
-----Louise Tucker Jones----
God bless,
prayeristhekey
7:07 Prayers
Story:
I sit with the phone in hand, watching the minutes click by on the clock. 7:05, 7:06, 7:07. I hit the button and hear the beginning of a ring. My son answers before it is finished. "Hello, Mom!"
"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you..." I finish with my slightly revised version. "...Happy birthday, your mom loves you."
"Thanks, Mom," Aaron says, a smile in his voice. We talk. He has been watching the clock too, waiting for the expected call. I tell him how much I love him. "I love you, too, Mom." We hand up. I say a special prayer for a blessed birthday for him and begin my morning activities. But my thoughts remain with him, my oldest son.
Thirty-six years old! How long have I been doing 7:07 birthday songs and prayers? I guess most of his life. I didn't plan it that way. It just happened. Aaron was born at 7:07 A.M. one cold, winter morning. St. Patrick's Day, in fact.
When he was just a toddler, I would wake him at 7:07 and sing "Happy birthday" and tell him about the day of his birth. It became a tradition. Even when he was away at college, I would hear a groggy "Hello, Mom" as soon as I called. The only time I missed calling was the first year after his marriage when Aaron and his wife, Amy, took spring vacation. Certainly, I wouldn't interfere with this. Later that day, Aaron called.
"Why didn't you call at 7:07?" I could hear the disappointment in his voice.
"Honey, I didn't think it was appropriate, and I had no idea where you were."
He quickly responded, "I told Dad the name of the motel where we would be staying."
Something in my heart began to sing. Our tradition would continue.
But it has become more than a tradition and birthday ritual. Though my prayers are always with Aaron, whenever I look at the digital clock and see 7:07, I know it is a special time to pray for him. No matter the day of the year, whether it be morning or night, I stop everything and say a prayer. Sometimes I awake at exactly 7:07 and immediately begin prayers for him, knowing God has called me to pray at this specific time. Through the years I found that Aaron was in great need of prayers at that particular time. Other times, it remained a mystery. But that's okay. I count it a privilege to pray blessings on my son---any day or night at 7:07
-----Louise Tucker Jones----
God bless,
prayeristhekey
#15
March 8, 4:06 pm
CPR
One Sunday morning I heard my minister say if you want results from prayer, pray for thirty days without ceasing. I didn't know why it was thirty days, but I was willing to give it a try. The following became my daily prayer:
I am available Lord to be used by you each day.
Guide me, precious Lord, and lead me in what I say and do.
May my words and actions be a witness that you are living in me.
To the one that is lonely, may I be a friend.
To those with heavy burdens, help me to meet their needs.
Lord I do not want fame or fortune.
My prayer is that you will use me to glorify your name.
I know I don't have much to offer, but I will give you my all.
Guide me to be what you want me to be
Amen.
On the twenty-first day of this prayer, CPR took on new meaning for me.
I was working an extremely busy twelve-hour night shift in labor and delivery. I had just sat down for my first break when a phone call came from my friend working in the emergency room. I barely recognized her urgent voice. An eighteen-year-old boy had been brought to the ER for alcohol and drug overdose. The young man was very close to death, and they had done all they could do to help him. The father of this boy was requesting a priest or minister, and they were having difficulty locating one who could come to the ER quickly. My friend stated, "We know you're a Christian, and we need you to come and try to comfort this father. Please help."
Reluctantly, I said I would come down. As I waited for the elevator, my thoughts became very judgmental and frustration welled up inside me. Then I remembered the prayer I'd been praying. I walked into the ER and approached the father. Taking his hand, I silently led him to the chapel. Before I could even say, "I am not a minister," this six-foot, 220-pound man sanked into the chair and became a broken-hearted child.
Through his nonstop sobbing, he spoke, "Christian, pray for Raymond." I remember the first time I held my boy. I felt so proud, and I just kept saying, "I have a son." As the years passed, those tiny feet became bigger and walked away from his family's love and entered a strange, hardened and destructive world. Tonight too much alcohol and an overdose of drugs are taking his life. It's as though he wants to rebel against everything his family stood for. He knew what he was doing was wrong. Sometimes he seemed so afraid, but he wouldn't stop. Now it is too late. "Christian, you have to pray for Raymond."
Those large hands trembled in mine and, as I looked into his eyes, I mourned with him. Silence fell between us, as I searched for the words that would comfort this crumbling tower of a man. I felt so inadequate. I wnted to scream, "Lord, it has only been twenty-one days since I began that prayer! I am not ready for this!"
Time was running out, and I knew I couldn't stall any longer. I clutched his hands, now wet with tears, and began to pray. The words came easily, much to my surprise.
I finished praying with him and went to Raymond's bedside. I took his cold, lifeless hand, and once again began to pray. "Lord, I am asking for a miracle, and I know you can do it."
I stayed with them both until Raymond was taken to intensive care. I visited Raymond on a daily basis and continued to pray for him. Eight days passed with little improvement. On the ninth day, I entered the ICU and a miracle had taken place. Raymond was awake and talking with his father.
CPR had taken on a new meaning for me: Christian Pray for Raymond. As I left the ICU with tears falling down my face, I realized, that was the the thirteenth day of my prayer.
Now, I not only believe in miracles, I depend on them.
Johnnie Dowdy
Christian Soup for the Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
One Sunday morning I heard my minister say if you want results from prayer, pray for thirty days without ceasing. I didn't know why it was thirty days, but I was willing to give it a try. The following became my daily prayer:
I am available Lord to be used by you each day.
Guide me, precious Lord, and lead me in what I say and do.
May my words and actions be a witness that you are living in me.
To the one that is lonely, may I be a friend.
To those with heavy burdens, help me to meet their needs.
Lord I do not want fame or fortune.
My prayer is that you will use me to glorify your name.
I know I don't have much to offer, but I will give you my all.
Guide me to be what you want me to be
Amen.
On the twenty-first day of this prayer, CPR took on new meaning for me.
I was working an extremely busy twelve-hour night shift in labor and delivery. I had just sat down for my first break when a phone call came from my friend working in the emergency room. I barely recognized her urgent voice. An eighteen-year-old boy had been brought to the ER for alcohol and drug overdose. The young man was very close to death, and they had done all they could do to help him. The father of this boy was requesting a priest or minister, and they were having difficulty locating one who could come to the ER quickly. My friend stated, "We know you're a Christian, and we need you to come and try to comfort this father. Please help."
Reluctantly, I said I would come down. As I waited for the elevator, my thoughts became very judgmental and frustration welled up inside me. Then I remembered the prayer I'd been praying. I walked into the ER and approached the father. Taking his hand, I silently led him to the chapel. Before I could even say, "I am not a minister," this six-foot, 220-pound man sanked into the chair and became a broken-hearted child.
Through his nonstop sobbing, he spoke, "Christian, pray for Raymond." I remember the first time I held my boy. I felt so proud, and I just kept saying, "I have a son." As the years passed, those tiny feet became bigger and walked away from his family's love and entered a strange, hardened and destructive world. Tonight too much alcohol and an overdose of drugs are taking his life. It's as though he wants to rebel against everything his family stood for. He knew what he was doing was wrong. Sometimes he seemed so afraid, but he wouldn't stop. Now it is too late. "Christian, you have to pray for Raymond."
Those large hands trembled in mine and, as I looked into his eyes, I mourned with him. Silence fell between us, as I searched for the words that would comfort this crumbling tower of a man. I felt so inadequate. I wnted to scream, "Lord, it has only been twenty-one days since I began that prayer! I am not ready for this!"
Time was running out, and I knew I couldn't stall any longer. I clutched his hands, now wet with tears, and began to pray. The words came easily, much to my surprise.
I finished praying with him and went to Raymond's bedside. I took his cold, lifeless hand, and once again began to pray. "Lord, I am asking for a miracle, and I know you can do it."
I stayed with them both until Raymond was taken to intensive care. I visited Raymond on a daily basis and continued to pray for him. Eight days passed with little improvement. On the ninth day, I entered the ICU and a miracle had taken place. Raymond was awake and talking with his father.
CPR had taken on a new meaning for me: Christian Pray for Raymond. As I left the ICU with tears falling down my face, I realized, that was the the thirteenth day of my prayer.
Now, I not only believe in miracles, I depend on them.
Johnnie Dowdy
Christian Soup for the Soul
God bless,
prayeristhekey
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