Old Mrs. Parson's garden

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA)

All the children of the small neighborhood called her Old Mrs. Parson. All but Sammy. One time Sammy called her Old Mrs. Parson and his daddy heard and took his strap to Sammy's backside leaving a sore reminder of what would happen if "I ever hear you use such disrespectful language again! You call her Mrs. Parson, or ma'am. Nothing more, nothing less, you hear?"

And Sammy heard. That's how his daddy was. Quick to whip, quick to hit the bottle, quick to forget.

Sammy spent a lot of time away from his daddy and his strap. But on those days when he couldn't get away early enough, Daddy would give him a good whipping, take to the bottle and then leave him alone for days on end.

Maybe that's why Sammy gravitated to Mrs. Parson and her garden. From his earliest recollections of her, she took on the persona of grandma and mother. Something lacking in Sammy's real life.

He had to pass her house in the morning to get to school and always took the same route home in the afternoon. Most days, she'd be working in that small plot of ground. Sammy once measured it for some fencing. Not a lot of land, 12 ft by 12 ft, more or less. It was, in fact, almost her entire front yard. The black, plastic fencing was bought at a discount store and Sammy put it in for her, taking time to make sure the lines were straight and true. That's how Mrs. Parson insisted it be. "Like my life," she said, "straight and true before the Lord, that's how I live and that's how I sow my seeds." Mrs. Parson had the next-door neighbor use her Polaroid camera to take a picture of her and Sammy in front of that black, plastic fencing. Both beaming, she with her arm around the slight boy's figure.

Rainy days would send Mrs. Parson to her tiny porch, rocking in an old wooden rocker someone once left by the sidewalk for the trash man.

Sammy had fixed the arms on the chair; they'd been ready to fall off. Then he sanded down a couple of places where the wood was rough from years of use. Finally, he stained it with some left over stain he found in his daddy's tool shed. Daddy never missed it. He hadn't been in that tool shed since the night Sammy's momma left the hard man with the painful strap.

Mrs. Parson sat in that old rocker and smiled to the children as they passed, calling out greetings and reminders about Sunday school at the Baptist Church where she taught.

Sammy went with her most Sunday mornings, long as his daddy wasn't being mean with the strap and keeping him locked in his room for spite.

He'd listen to the Bible stories, sing the songs and learn the verses. Mrs. Parson handed out little coupons when the children memorized a Bible verse. They were good for candy and other treats like marbles and whistles.

Most times, Sammy would leave his treasures at Mrs. Parson's house. Just for safekeeping and a reason to come and visit.

Each day, they spent time checking out the little plants in her garden, pulling a weed here and there. Then they'd visit on the front porch, Mrs. Parson in the old rocker, Sammy on the top step. Always with a glass of milk and a plate of her homemade cookies.

"Boys are always hungry, got empty bellies that need filling with milk and cookies." She'd say and then add, "So how are those cookies? Not sure they got real good this time, tried a new recipe."

Sammy would smile, mouth full of chocolate, raisins, oatmeal, molasses, not able to swallow quickly enough to answer and she would say, "Well, since you aren't sure, better give you a couple more... don't see that I'm going to need to eat all those cookies." And she'd fill his glass to the brim, load up his plate one more time before he'd head back to the dark house, a block up the street, and whatever was waiting for him.

Once in Sunday school, Mrs. Parson brought in a bunch of her plants, taken from the good soil in her small yard and planted into small containers for the children. A Bible verse waved like a flag glued to a popsicle stick and a smiley face she'd painted on the outside of the clay pots read, "God loves you and so do I. Remember to sow seeds for him."

Sammy took that plant home and hid it in his dreary room, remembering to place it on his window sill each day for some sunshine and carefully water it so that it would live.

One morning, Mrs. Parson wasn't outside to greet the children, or work in her garden. Sammy knew in his gut that something wasn't right, but he had to get to school. On the way home, he stopped and stood on her porch, knocking and knocking.

The next-door neighbor came out of her house. Wiping her eyes, she told Sammy that Mrs. Parsons had gone to garden in heaven for Jesus and "You'd best get on home now, boy."

Sammy turned, a blow to his body that almost bent him in half. Slowly, he walked past the 12 ft by 12 ft garden with the black, plastic fence that lined up straight and true when he heard the neighbor calling him back.

"Wait, boy! Wait! I almost forgot. She left this for you." The neighbor came off her steps and met Sammy halfway. "She was holding this in her hands when I found her this morning. She struggled to talk... said to give it to you. Said to tell you 'Sow those seeds, Sammy. God loves you and so do I.'"

Sammy took the precious picture of the 12 ft by 12 ft garden with the black, plastic fence that lined up straight and true, the old woman and young boy, beaming.

When he got back to his dreary room, he was glad to hear his daddy snoring and sleeping off a binge. He looked at the picture, caressing it in his hands and turned it over. On the back was written... "My dear friend, Sammy. I pray he grows up straight and true for the Lord."

Many years later, Sammy stood in front of a congregation in a black gown with a white collar. His first day at the Baptist church in a large city far from the small neighborhood he grew up in. He'd asked the organist to end the morning with his favorite song, Bringing in the sheaves.

As he opened his Bible to the text he was using for his first sermon, he saw the picture of the 12 ft by 12 ft garden with the black, plastic fence that lined up straight and true, the old woman and young boy, beaming.

His throat caught for one moment in the fine church were 600 people sat expectantly. He stood quietly, head bowed. Then he raised his head, spoke clearly and with authority.

"This morning I will preach from Ecclesiastes 11:6. I use the New American Standard Translation. "Sow your seed in the morning and do not be idle in the evening, for you do not know whether morning or evening sowing will succeed, or whether both of them alike will be good."

He scanned the congregation, beaming. "Let me tell you how the Lord used Mrs. Parson and her garden..."



Comments:


That was great
by: Patricia Roberts

Dear Debi,

That was so beautiful. I had a lot of tears in my eyes as I read. Yhanks for sharing. God bless you.

Patricia Roberts
Harrison



by: Lynn Mosher

Oh, Debi, this is absolutely wonderful. It became hard to read as tears filled my eyes. What a touching story. Thank you for sharing this. I loved, loved, loved it!

Intercessory Prayer - a phone call home

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA)

3 a.m. and I was wide suddenly awake. Something had prodded me, tagging me to wakefulness. I lay quietly, listening. My husband breathed deeply, firmly off in some distant land of dreams. Our labrador, Doktor, also slept, although not as soundly, unconsciously ever watching and ready to jump up if he was needed. The night was still, no thunder or lightening to disturb us.

"What woke me?" I thought. I turned, twisted the pillow under my head, looking for a sweet spot to get myself curled into and back to some zzz's of my own.

Seconds later, I realized sleep was going to flee from me for the rest of the night. I decided to get up and head downstairs so I wouldn't wake the giant next to me. Ironic, he'd slept through three babies, countless nights of walking and bouncing bottoms, bottles, teething and sickness and I'm worried that a little tossing might wake him?

In the easy chair that the children always called dad's chair I sat, a strong urge to pray.

So I did...pray. A quick phone call to my Father in Heaven. For loved ones, children, friend's and their needs...so many more. But finally it seemed that special prayer was needed for my son, Josh.

I asked for mercy, salvation, protection. Each day, during rush hour, he zings along on his Kawasaki with the racing traffic on the Schuylkill Express. A roller coaster many miles long, only a few exits and dangerous merges. A full helmet protects his head, special coat and gear for his body. But the helmet can only do so much. His car had lasted until college graduation, now an organ donor for other cars with mechanical needs...school loans loomed and his bike was a cheap ride with the price of gasoline over the $4 mark.

But my mother's heart was in constant talks with the Lord.

I prayed especially for Josh's protection as he hurried to his job. For the Holy Spirit to protect and guide.

Peace set in and after watching the early, early show, I started coffee at 4:30 a.m., sat and waited for my giant to wake with the sunrise.

Later that evening, a phone call home.

"Hey mom, if you couldn't get me earlier today, I had to buy a new cell phone." He listened to my motherly sighs and whys and continued, "Now don't freak, mom, but it fell out of my pocket on the way to work this morning and a car ran over it."

"Joshua!"

"It's ok, I got the phone and retrieved the card inside so I bought a cheap phone at the store and put the old card in it. It works good as new."

"How did you get the phone off the highway?" The morning traffic usually consisted of about 100,000 vehicles in a few short hours.

"I stopped traffic." So simply said. My heart stopped too, and it took a moment to breath again.

"Look, everything is ok, don't worry...I'll call you tomorrow...love you." And that was that. A phone call home, a heartfelt prayer, my heart stops, beats again, my breathing slowly returns to normal.

And then it hit me! "He's the reason You woke me up this morning. For intercssory prayer." The thought was enormous and sobering. I know that I am right. This is not a maybe, maybe not. This was a direct phone call from my Father to get me up and spend time in prayer for youngest. As always, God's word is powerful, 1 Thessalonians 5:17 "Pray without ceasing."

Intercessory prayer, a phone call home to my Dad, a prompting from the Holy Spirit and all because of the love of my Savior, Jesus.


Comments:


dad and Josh
by: Madeline Kauffman

Just read what you wrote about your dad and Josh. excellent job on both!!!!!!!!!! God really gave you a lot of talent



by: Toni

Debi,

What a wonderful example of prayer and intercession that clearly comes from God! When we are connected to Him, as you are, what wonderful communication we receive!

These are such comforting words to read; for they help us all, especially when we're concerned about our loved ones, friends, our country--everyone!

Thank you for a wonderful Fourth of July piece!

Blessings Always,

Toni

Sons on motorcycles are for following!

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA, USA)

Sixty miles an hour we flew down the Schuylkill Express nearing the exit for Route 1. I followed.

I hate to follow! Especially when the person I am trying desperately to stay directly behind and keep a safe distance from all the other crazy drivers on this merciless highway, is my son on his motorcycle.

Heading toward our destination, his first apartment and solo living arrangements, didn't make matters any better.

Most of the ride I sat with tissue box close to my side, ready to supply me with the scented, lotioned squares that I continually forgot not to wipe my tear-stained glasses with.

Now I was driving half blinded by sun glare and sun lotion.

The entire 1 1/2 hours I prayed. "Dear God, protect him and guide him. And help me to let go and let You do what needs to be done to bring this boy to You. Amen."

How many times, moms, have we had to learn to let go and let God? If you are like me, it's a daily battle between my Walton's complex (wanting to fix everything) and my understanding of God's direct word.

It reminds me of another mother, following her son. Picture with me....

The woman followed, as closely as the hardened soldiers permitted, stifling cries each time her first-born was prodded by the sharp tips of the bloodied swords. Unnoticed, her headdress slipped from her hair, kicked aside by the streaming crowd of gawkers who couldn't wait to witness the executions and pushed behind her.

Praying - aching, heartrending whispers to an Unseen Listener. She questioned, "Almighty One, please deliver Him. Why would you give Him to us, if You were only going to let Him be stolen away by this evil? I cannot understand? WHY!"

In her distress, her last plea came through stiff lips, causing her heart to beat erratically in her chest. Certain she was going to be overcome by the heat, heart palpitations and mind-altering agony as she watched her first-born's hands and ankles yanked unto the wood that He had carried up the long, rough walk to the crest of the hill. She prayed for death... her own. "Almighty One, let me die first. Let me not see what He must go through... I beg You!"

The loud pounding of metal upon metal, crunching bones, cries from Yeshua, seemed to be magnified in her head, echoing over and over even after the dastardly deed was done and the vehicle of death was slapped into the predug holes in the ground.

The dismal setting, soldiers laughing, betting over His death, the other two prisoners verbally sparring in their own private agony of hell. The casual, "party" atmosphere of the crowd, added to her intense pain.

"What good can come of this!" She wept openly now. Dirt, tears and mucus competing for a place on her worn face.

John put an arm around her and finally He looked directly at her, smiling that smile he had used since he was but a boy in his father's carpenter shop. That smile that said...

"I love you." His beautiful brown eyes gazed kindly upon her. Her tears poured fresh. She wondered how many tears one body can possibly produce. And then Yeshua spoke.

"Woman, behold thy son...son behold thy mother." And He smiled again, a sincere, loving smile before His face broke out in sweat, his features twisted as His body slipped further down the instrument of torture, the skin, bones and sinew losing their hold around the long, metal nails.

So long...so soon..."It is FINISHED!"

From this point in scripture, God began to move His mighty plan into speed mode. So much happened in the next few days, weeks and years as the church embraced the Living Christ and Christians began to serve Yeshua.

And so I will follow...The SON as I follow my son and daughters...I will pray without ceasing. I do not need to know how long...how soon... I only need to know, "...Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day." 2 Timothy 1:12


Comments:


Sons
by: Madeline

Beautiful You continue to amaze me. God gave you such a talent with words.




by: Toni

Debi,

Beautifully written; with so much truth and love! I like the comparison of the past and present--how each relates to the other...

And, I like how you wrote about separation--how hard it is to let go.

Thank you for such inspiration and wonder!

Toni

Cadillacs are for Singing!

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA)

Grandpop had a cadillac, a huge monster of a whale made of steel and leather and smelling of peppermints. At today's gas prices it would be better used as a storage area for unused boxes of toys, books, old clothing and gardening equipment. In 1960's fuel-friendly environment it was a terrific and inexpensive method of entertainment.

Grandpop would pull up in the gleaming white whale and I would jump in the back seat next to my cousin. With Grandmom by his side, her hair pulled back in a crazy patterned scarf, the windows down and breeze blowing, off we'd go.

From my earliest memories, I remember that when my bottom hit the leather seat, my mouth would open up and music would pour out.

Grandpop didn't permit the playing of a radio when we were running along in his caddie. The only music was the music we made ourselves. Grandpop had a wonderful rich bass, a lovely tone. His was a voice that would have been a tremendous addition to any Gospel group. My cousin had a sweet soprano sound. Grandmom hummed along, fairly tone death but still enjoying the buzz of the melody. I learned early on how to jump between the melody of a hymn to a high tenor, low alto, higher soprano. What a musical education I received as we headed for ice cream sodas or just a drive to enjoy God's paintings through the countryside.

Those old tunes stay with me today. I can recall lyrics to hundreds of hymns. Hymns written from great personal hardship, hurt and suffering. Hymns written as a joyous expression of the writer's love of Jesus Christ.

Victory in Jesus, my Savior forever...Grandpop's all time favorite hymn. Bringing in the sheaves, my Grandmother's constant request. No drive was ever complete until those hymns had been sung, every verse, chorus repeated, many times over. Even when there was personal family heartache, we would sing. Then our voices sometimes cracked with emotion, but singing brought peace and joy. And peace and joy brought singing.

The Psalms of Assent, sung on pilgrimage by the children of Israel. Traveling songs. I understand that concept. That's how we traveled - singing to God.

Psalms 126: 1 - 6 When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion, we were like them that dream. Then was our mouth filled with laughter, and our tongue with singing; then said they among the heathen, The Lord had done great things for them. The Lord hath done great things for us, whereof we are glad. Turn again our captivity, O Lord, as the streams in the south. They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth, and weepeth - bearing precious seed, shall doubltess come again with rejoicing bringing his sheaves with him. KJV

I will soon be a grandma; Baby #1 comes sometime in November and I will definitely sing with that baby the old hymns, the newer praise and worship melodies, teaching instinctively how to harmonize and hold a melody line. Whether that child is tone deaf or the next American Idol, that baby will hear the voice of praise from my lips and heart. Psalms of Assent will be our radio as we travel God's road together, in my smaller car with cloth seats and gas-friendly engine.

Then will our mouth be filled with laughter and our tongues with singing - Hallelujah I have found Him, whom my soul so long has craved, Jesus satisfies my longings, through His blood I now am saved.

Let's all go for ice cream!

Comments:


grampop and grammom
by: Madeline K.

Great days I remember well



by: Katherine Harms

What a great memory! and what a lesson. I love the image of all of you flying down the road in a cloud of music.
My musical grandmother left me a heritage of singing through work. I know I am in the groove when I am cleaning or cooking or polishing something and discover I am singing. One of my earliest memories is my grandmother singing as she whizzed through the house with a dustmop.
A beautiful piece.

Approach His Majesty

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA)

The woman, her tear stained face bent low toward the marble floor in the palace, stepped slowly and respectfully toward the King. He watched her approach, a stern kindness in his eyes. If she wanted his favor, she was going to have to ask, although he already knew what her petition would be. After all, hadn't he watched the circumstances of heartache and pain these many years, wondering why she didn't come to him for his royal intervention.

The guard stopped her, many feet from the golden throne.

"State your name and business." He barked. He was there only to protect his Majesty and this peasant's teary gaze did not touch his heart.

"Deborah, daughter of Ruell, the baker. I need help for a family member cast into exile from his Majesty's dominion."

The guard stayed firm, his sword braced against her body and turned to his right. He watched for the acceptance of this peasant to the inner circle of the throne. The Keeper of his Majesty's inner circle looked toward the King. The King smiled, just once, and the Keeper nodded toward the guard.

"She may approach." His voice was smooth as honey.

The guard began to lead the woman, one step in front of her, his sword crossed before her, but suddenly she darted, shoving the sword aside and tossed herself at the bottom of the glass steps near the feet of the King. Members of the inner circle hurried toward her, behind her the guard raised his sword and would have thrust it through her body had not the Keeper of his Majesty's throne stepped between the sword and her thin frame.

"Stay," He held up a steely hand, "she is welcome. I know her, I have made intercession for her on behalf of the King." The Keeper knelt, an unexpected move, and speaking softly and kindly into the woman's ear, said, "Come, rise, and speak. Look on Him, He will help you."

The peasant woman rose, wonder on her face, hope growing in her heart where seed had lay dormant for so long.

For the next hour she shared her heartaches, earnestly, without excuse or cover up of past history and begged mercy for the one that had been sent from the throne of the Almighty King many years before.

In a gesture of great Grace, the King stood from the gold throne where He had listened to her requests, stepped down the three glass encased steps toward the peasant and in an amazing move took the woman into his arms, lifted her to her feet and kissed her forehead.

"It has already been taken care of. Return home and wait expectantly. Do not turn your gaze from the throne, no matter what may come, but trust and you will see my actions on your behalf."

The woman swooned, relief turned her legs to water and she would have fallen on her face had the King not gently carried her to a waiting cushion, next to many others like her, men and women whose heartaches had brought them also the throne this day.

Many heartbeats later, the woman rose from her place and stretched. She turned to the kitchen in her cape cod style home and began to do the morning dishes. Her prayers had been sent, her answer given, and she would wait and watch the throne for her Heavenly Father's intervention.

The Rippling Effect

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA, USA)

The serenity of the scenery was jarred as the stone was tossed into the large body of water. It began a ripple effect that slowly but surely spread from the epi center where it landed to the outer most ends of the lake. It's effect was felt by many, but the origins unknown to all and no one realized that a stone had been tossed into their body of water...

Ginny was bored and when the phone call came, she was glad for the respite from her self pity.

"Hi girl, watcha doing?" The perky voice on the other end of her cell phone was irritating.

"Nothing, it's boring. Rainy and miserable." Ginny whined.

"Get out of the house, come with me to the youth meeting at church?" Mandy asked.

"That's boring too." Ginny was nothing if not consistent.

"That new guy from the football team will be there." Mandy tempted.

Ginny sat up on her bed, interested. "Yeah? How do you know that?"

"'Cause my brother asked him and he said yes. Then we're going to head over to that new outdoor Taco stand and get something to eat."

Ginny didn't want to act too interested. "Ok, I guess so... it beats sitting around here staring at the tube."

"Great," Mandy was even more enthusiastic than usual. "We'll pick you up in half an hour."

Ginny put the phone down and jumped off her rumpled bed. Tossing open the closet she looked through her wardrobe to see what would be modest enough for the group of teens at the church but still catch the eyes of the new quarterback.

2 hours later, her outfit was the last thing on her mind as Ginny bowed her head and gave place to the leading of the Holy Spirit. As she wiped tears from her eyes, Mandy hugged her new sister in Christ. "See, isn't it everything I ever told you?" Her voice, while lowered, still vibrated perky joy.

Up close, the football jersey he wore made his eyes shine. "Welcome to the family." He smiled broadly.

"You're a Christian too?" Ginny asked.

"Yep, for a long time." His teeth gleamed in his face.

"Come on," Mandy's brother, Joe, was hungry. "We can talk while we eat. I'm starving."

The teens hopped into cars and made a beeline for the greasy pit, and as the last of the cars rippled out of the church parking lot, the quiet descended once again on the peaceful scene.

..."What are you doing Son?" The Father asked as He strolled by the large body of water in Glory.

"Just tossing some rocks into the water. They make this wonderful ripple effect..." Jesus smiled, his countenance beautiful.

"Well, keep up the good work, Son."


Comments:


Wow
by: Steph

That story really hit home for me. I think at times I don't realize that the choices I make can poison or brighten someones life. I get busy & caught up in what I want that I miss how it is hurting or blessing someone else. Thank you for this eye opener. I pray that the Lord will help my ripple effect to be laidened with his light, so he will get the glory.



by: Anonymous

Neat little story about the "rippling effect." How true it is when when do something for Christ--be it small or big--and then watch what happens.

Good writing, with descriptive words that show what happens when we offer seeds of kindness, goodness, help and giving...

The Power of Forgiveness

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville)

My dad and I had a tenuous relationship. From the day I told him about my childlike belief in Jesus, his reaction to my choice was one of constant disbelief.

As I grew, my dad understood me less and less. He often called me a religious nut. Today I can laugh about that and I understand his loss at having a child so completely his opposite. On my wedding day, he pulled my husband-to-be aside and said, "Cut and run boy, she's as nuts as her mother." Fortunately, Rodney decided to stick around.

40 years into their marriage, my mother finally called it quits. Dad was developing new ways to cheat on his wife. It's called The Internet. Some of my siblings were able to see him and forgive him. I was holding onto a hard heart.

A few short months after the divorce, my dad was admitted to the hospital. At first, it seemed like just a slight infection.

"Mom, you better go see your dad or you'll never forgive yourself." My oldest child, Tonya, scolded me over the phone.

"I know you're right honey, but I'm still upset with him and don't know how he'll act with me. And I don't want to see that woman." I was adamant.

"Mom, I can't tell you what to do, but you know what you should do." My daughter must have been reading the Apostle Paul's famous words. "Make allowance for each other's faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others. Colossians 3:13" I knew she was right.

After Tonya's call, I prayed. "Dear Lord, I want to know that dad is saved before he dies. I want to visit but please don't let anyone else be there, I can't deal with that too." The Lord knew what was in my heart.

With a knot in my stomach, a lump in my throat and a pounding head, I headed into Dad's hospital room a few short hours after praying.

Thank the Lord, His goodness endures forever. Not only was Dad alone, but his roommate was sound asleep and the nurses didn't disturb us the entire hour I spent with him.

Forgiveness was a short path that day from the parking lot to the hospital room. One last time I broached salvation with my dad. He was different this time - humble, anxious. I believe God, in His mercy, gave my dad one last prodding.

"Dad, no matter what you think of me, my life or my actions all these years, I have never changed what I said to you when I was just a kid. Jesus is my Lord and Savior, my Best Friend. I'm not afraid of death because I know I will go with Him when I die. But you have to make a physical choice to receive Jesus. If you don't, you are choosing against Him."

Dad asked some questions and I answered, sometimes fumbling for words, but always completely earnest. I shared the simple plan of Salvation, asked if I could pray for him and he said yes. I showed him how to talk to Jesus, simply and directly. Dad thanked me for coming, the nurses began to get busy once again and as I stood to leave I gave my father a kiss. Something we hadn't done much in our relationship. I think that kiss touched him as much as anything and it was a kiss that said, "You're forgiven and please forgive me also".

The next day we were called to the hospital. Dad had taken a turn for the worse, unexpectedly and so quickly that they had to put him on a breathing machine so he would stay alive until all four kids could get into the hospital. Mom came too, and gave her own amazing measure of forgiveness to Dad. We spoke to him as his breathing slowed, praying out loud and making sure Dad had us with him until the end.

To this day, I know in my heart that my earthly Dad finally met my Heavenly Father. And I am brought to the realization that as different as we were, I am really so much like my father.

Finally, I am so grateful that my daughter spoke truthfully to me, the Lord touched my hard heart and I was able to forgive...one last time before I someday greet Dad in heaven.

---

Here are some more articles to help you in this important area:

I Need some Scripture on Forgiveness

How Do I Pray for Forgiveness?

How Do I Forgive Myself?




Comments:


Power of Forgiveness
by: Anonymous

What a wonderful and heartfelt testimon! Your words are descriptive absolutely on target!

I can relate to this because my relationship with my father is similar and he is close to dying from bone cancer.

Your words have given me hope and insight on what to do, as my dad approaches the end of his life.

God Bless You for a wonderful testimony!

Follow me, I Know a Short Cut!

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA)

Life is a journey, a trip around God's world with many side roads, back alleys and short cuts.

I've often thought that without God in my life, my journey would have been a dark descent into areas marked "off limits" and "road closed". I'm just that stubborn.

James Dobson pens us as strong-willed children. My mother simplified it to pig-headed. Frankly, I like her term better. It's more colorful and that's exactly why I am the way I am.

God is amazing. He already knows ahead of time who His pig-headed children will be.

If my mother said, "No cookies, it's almost dinner time", I would wait until her back was turned and grab a pretzel. After all, she didn't say "no pretzels".

Because of my determination, this life has been filled with speed bumps that I have tried to fly over, causing great damage to the undercarriage of my life.

Have you ever tried to fly through a yellow light, only to be met in the middle of the intersection with a bad dip in the road and then break the oil pan under your station wagon and try to hide it in the garage before you husband gets home? Just a hypothetical question, of course. But if you can relate, then we are sisters. Twins separated at birth to give our poor mother a break from having two pig-headed children instead of one.

I'm grateful for God's amazing dips. They are a constant reminder that my Savior is in charge of the roads of my life. I'm learning from them; slowly. I'm a repeat customer in the garage of hard knocks and God's mercy.

26 times in Psalm 136 we can read the lines "For His mercy endureth forever". I have challenged this Psalm and found it to be true.

When I was a child my Irish mother once blessed me; "I hope you have a child just like you someday!" And I did. He also is learning from the potholes in life; slowly. And because of the Mercy and Grace I have already received from God's "fix-it" shop, I have learned to be merciful and grace filled with my son. Prayer, oh so much endless prayer and repeat business is the order of my household.

I hope you and I will begin a wonderful journey together as we share with each other how God's mercy has fixed our brakes, patched our tires and replaced our transmissions. Let's begin today. Follow me, I know a short cut!


Comments:


Still a Sis...
by: Lynn Mosher

Though I've always been more the quiet obedient type, I have had the occasional spurt of regrettable rebellion. I loved your article. May the Lord continue to bless your writing.



by: Denise Mistich

That was my nickname, so...we're sisters. Wonderful article, by the way. It's good to laugh at our own folly sometimes!



by: Katherine Harms

I know what you are talking about. My father named me "Miss Independence" because I always thought I had to do it my way. I played the word games with the rules, and I rushed home to see if I could mend or cover over the fractures and scrapes before anyone found out. God's patience and enduring mercy has been stretched out for me. Thanks for a great reminder that God loves his pig-headed children just as much as his Pollyannas.
Good work!

Joy Comes in the Morning

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA 19555)

Life's a journey, a series of road blocks, red lights and yield signs. Sometimes life comes to a complete halt...you wait, suspended on a cliff that you somehow reached by traveling a narrow road, no shoulder to pull off. Others have passed you, driving at higher speeds. You feel compelled to ignore the GPS (God's Protective Services) system and follow the rush of traffic without conscious thought.

This past week, God allowed us to drive through a road closed sign that was posted. I'm not sure how we missed it, it was vivid - wooden blockades with brilliant green tape stretched tightly across, florescent orange and black lettering, blinking red lights warning about the closure. I wish I could say it was an accident, but we were clearly warned.

We come to a grinding halt, just enough brakes left to keep us from flying completely off the cliff into oblivion. We wonder...when will the search team...the Guide... find us and place us back on the main road? We fear too much movement, not wanting to make our vehicle teeter too hard on the precipice.

Our stomachs are tied up in knots, breathing becomes difficult...since we are stranded, seemingly in this obscure, off-limits area, we must monitor our water use...we may be here awhile.

Night comes and we pray all through it, bitter tears mixed with condemnation. We wrestle as Jacob with an unseen Angel... and with each other. The accusations begin, "You should have seen the sign, you were driving!" "But you're supposed to be the navigator!"

It is easy to point our fingers at each other, easier not to see our role in how we ended up in this navigational mess. But sometime before dawn, we reach out and hold hands, begging forgiveness for not seeing the sign, for not realizing we were in danger and we forgive and are forgiven by each other. That is when the morning comes and with it...the Search Crew.

The Three have been looking for us all night, saw the broken sign, the shattered glass of the warning lights, the long, black skid marks left on the deserted section of road. The Road Crew leader is a little upset with us. "Didn't we see His warning signs? Why weren't we paying attention to His strategic planning of the blockades?" Yet, He is forgiving. He understands. He has driven this road, a special safety check before He opens it to other travelers. He knows exactly what we were feeling when we left the safety of the main road. He gives us blankets to warm, coffee to sustain and examines us for spiritual injuries.

I wish I could tell you that we are already healed from our exhausting dark wait on that narrow road, but that would be untrue. We are being towed by the wonderful Tow Operator - one of the Three. He warns us that we strayed so far from the main road it is going to take sometime before we are back with the rest of our fellow travelers.

But that instant, when the Son began to rise over the East after our long night of weeping, oh what joy we experienced, what tremendous relief and lifting of our spirit.

Truly as the Psalmist once said...Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning Psalm 30:5



Comments:


Road Signs
by: Kathalene

How true! Sometimes God sends us signs that are so clear we cannot ignore them.
Sometimes we ask God for signs and when we see them, we need to respond.
I strongly believe in faith leading us through the dark of night. I like how you were rescued and the story you made.
Thank you very much!



by: Katherine Harms

This short allegory is a long lesson in the life of faith. Each of us has run more than once past the warning sign, past the arrow that says "This way," right through the guard rail. You vividly describe what it is like to miss the way through either inattention or simple ego. That moment when the Three come to rescue us is indescribable, and the long TOW seems a real blessing, because we know that we really wandered afar.
Beautiful, comforting, and full of wisdom.
Thank you,
Katherine

Quiet Servants

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA, USA)

My grandmother was Irish. She loved to sing the poignant songs of her ancestors. Unfortunately, she sounded more like the wailing of a badly played set of bagpipes. I can hear, as though she was still with us, her nasal version of Leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms. If she was deep in thought, baking one of her famous apple pies in the kitchen, often the words turned into something like leaning, neenee, safe and secure from all la laâs. It didn't matter, the Lord knew she was praising.

She had a heart for Jesus. Grandmom worked at a rescue mission. Her job was to keep the sales room clean and free of debris and pesky rodents. She was the only clerk to serve those who came to the store to buy inexpensive clothing and other items. The money helped the men who stayed at the mission as they worked through bouts of alcoholism and depression.

Several times a month, my mom would drop me off to spend the day with my grandmother. While she worked, I would rifle, hanging upside down, through the large bins that were filled with books and magazines.

On a good day, I could score a Nancy Drew or, scandalous thought, a Harlequin. Grandmom would take her small, golden coin purse from the pocket of her housedress and put money into the register for my books. At the selfish age of 13 I didn't ask if I had to pay, just knew it was taken care of by this life weary, quiet servant of God.

And Grandmom's faith was quiet, warm, gentle, always available. She saw Jesus in every poor soul that came through the mission doors. She had no time for gossip and even less time for those that enjoyed spreading the joyless words.

And she gave. With dollars saved from long hours, she would turn around to put those same dollars back into the mission and purchase thick blankets, quilts and other items that the missionaries requested in their letters home.

I once tossed a worn and faded quilt into a box she was filling for one of our missionaries.

"Not that one." She scolded.

"Why not?" I wondered aloud. "They"re just missionaries."

"Yes, they are missionaries, doing God's work in a foreign country, struggling to make ends meet and we will not give less than our best."

At the time I didn't see why it mattered. But I knew that filling the box was required before we could share a Coney-Island style hamburger. I did what she told me to do. Many years later, I was privileged to meet one of these dear servants and after hearing how much they treasured the arrival of the boxes, I was glad Grandmom had taught me well.

She never sat in dinner at the White House, but cooked food for the broken men at the mission.

She never made any headlines, just a short obituary on her passing.

And she never had more than a few dollars at any given time, but she gave to the Lord as much as the widow of old.

She was a quiet servant, Irene Yeakley, for sure and for faith. I hope that as her namesake, I will be just like her.


Comments:


Grammom
by: Madeline

Loved reading this about Mom. Read it before but don't think I commented on it. She was a great Mom. I thank God for seeing to it that my Dad picked the "right" Burrell dsughter.



by: Rose Hickernell, Manheim

What a beautiful story of your grandmother! I cherish the memories of my Godly grandmother and mom, and I pray that I will be loved and remembered as a loving, Godly woman. Debi, I can just hear your voice singing "Leaning, Leaning" in your nasal version that Grandma Irene had. Keep on writing and singing!



by: Katherine Harms

Like you, I had a grandmother who taught me the Christian life by showing me how to live it. Isn't it wonderful when one generation tells the next what how God loves us and what his love calls out of us.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful story. I hope I can be remembered as that kind of grandmother.

Amazing Race Auditions

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA, USA)

WANTED: INDIVIDUALS TO RUN IN AN AMAZING RACE! Qualifications must include; trusting heart, prayerful attitude, study of The Road Map, enthusiasm and willingness to get dirty. For more information contact Jesus @ 1-800-PRAYER.

I'm embarrassed to admit it but, I'm an Amazing Race junkie! I love the reality show that sends men, women and characters of all ages throughout the world on a mission to the final destination making one lucky couple WINNERS.

It fascinates me to see these countries that I've never heard of and certainly will never visit in this lifetime. Running against the clock and pairs of teams sometimes brings out personalities that should never view the light of day! Yet, these people "put themselves out there" as millions watch, often disintegrating before our eyes by yelling and ranting at taxi drivers and locals that speak little to no English.

In this globe trekking maze, the contestants go from one exotic location to another, in search of clues. The show is a constant pressure cooker of emotions, almost every team at some point losing patience and screaming at each other, or worse. Oh, but that wonderful financial award given at the end of the race by the host is enough for most people to "air their dirty laundry" in public without so much as a passing thought.

The Weymouth New Testament translates 2 Timothy 4:7-8 to "I have gone through the glorious contest; I have run the race; I have guarded the faith. From this time onward there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day, and not only to me, but also to all who love the thought of His Appearing."

I love Paul's words to young Timothy. He is encouraging this young man even while he, Paul, sits in a prison cell. Imagine the faith it took to continue to run that race, in his actions, words, deeds, letters to the young Christians all over the globe. Paul trekked in his mind from place to place, redeeming the time wisely, sending out informative narratives and letters to his church family. Sometimes scolding, sometimes interceding, sometimes pleading for a coat or answer that his words were being noted.

And I am encouraged in this race of life, often in moment-by-moment struggles, to read The Road Map, God's word. Spending time in long chats, prayer with my taxi driver, The Holy Spirit, and most of all, rushing to the end where my Host, Lord Jesus will award me the glorious prize. But not only to me, although selfishly motivated that I am to be the first, but to all that wait for His glorious appearing.

So, I am getting my sneakers on, ready to run...anyone willing to trot alongside a middle-aged woman, bad ankles and joints? We'll zip through the glorious contest (spreading the Gospel of Christ), run the race (throughout the world), guard the faith (God's commandment to us). Side by side we will step forward to hear Christ's "well done, enter".

Leaping for Joy

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA)

It had been a long and unprofitable day. Very little money had been tossed at the beggar's mangled feet. His friends had carried him to the gate and left him there early in the morning. As visitors would come to the temple to worship, he'd beg. "Mercy, mercy please for someone who is crippled. I need to eat, mercy."

Sometimes he would receive mercy in the form of the coins needed to help purchase the meager food stock he existed on. Other times he'd receive a sharp rebuke, on the rare occasion, a harsh kick to his already deformed limbs.

Today he sat, dejected, wondering how long the Almighty One would continue to make him live this bleak, indifferent life. "Surely," he thought to himself, "death will be better."

His thoughts were broken by the commotion that someone special was passing near the Temple.

He looked at the two men who were approaching the Beautiful Gate that led into the temple.

Quickly he bowed his head, showing respect of those that were able to move about freely, hoping for a small reward that would save this day from a complete loss for his labors.

"Alms, alms I beg of you." He held both arms out, palms up, waiting with bated breath to see what he might receive.

"Look at me." A clear and commanding voice.

He hesitantly looked into the sun, the afternoon glare making it hard to see the man towering above him.

"Silver or gold I do not have. But what I do have, I share freely with you. In the name of Jesus of Nazareth, by His power, rise up and walk."

The two strangers leaned toward the startled beggar, each man grabbing one of his arms. Before he could explain, point to his broken feet, stop them from trying to help and create more physical pain for him, he was hoisted up in the air and on his feet. He fully expected to tumble, like a rag doll back down to earth, humiliated and humbled. But in the precious seconds it took for him to be lifted, he realized something amazing "I'm healed!"

He shouted, jumping and leaping for joy, not mincing and shuffling but hard bounding jumps onto the dirt pathway. Hopping like a gleeful child, waving his arms and spinning in delirious abandoned joy and shouting praises to The Almighty One. Bumping into the two men, who grinned along with him, knocking over baskets filled with breads and other treats.

The people standing outside the temple gazed, awed and amazed. Some filled with wonder. Some frightened.

"What manner of witch craft is this?" Some thought.

Others, leaders and temple elders watched with narrowed eyes. They'd thought with the death of the Teacher that prophet Yeshua, all these things would have been stopped.

What an amazing visual of God's intervention in the life of this crippled man. What an astounding presence Peter and John were by the power of Jesus Christ.

This story is emotionally vivid to me because I can understand the man's great joy. July 2006, after being hit by a car while on our motorcycle and having my left foot almost severed, I learned what it means to sit, wait for someone's aid, help and have patience in the Lord.

Two years later, I fast forward to this past weekend. My husband and I were shopping at a small store about 2 miles from our home. It was a hardware store, he was fascinated; I was bored. I told him I was going to head home, "Pick me up on the way."

As I walked, a slight limp, a few jagged scars and discoloration is all that is left of the trauma to my foot and ankle, I realized it was the first long, solitary walk I have taken since that split second almost 24 months ago when the car pulled my ankle/foot and everything with it, off my leg.

For almost the next year and a half, I had different exfixators on that leg, metal pins, staff infections, picc lines in the arm, open sores to be treated, operations too many to count.

The joy of that walk hit me. I had to cry and praise the Lord again, new and fresh joy and wonder at being able to do something so simple as put one foot in front of the other. The birds of the air seemed to grasp my joy. A rare, Baltimore Oriole flew in circles above my head, sending his own praises to our Heavenly Father.

My travel home today became a wonderful opportunity to worship the Creator and Ultimate Fixer of broken limbs and broken lives.

Are you sitting and begging for Mercy? Watch, for here He comes!

Story adapted from the book of Acts chapter 3.


Comments:


Jeshua our joy.
by: Madeline

Just read this story.. You are right. Jeshua is our "Great Fixer'. You are amazing with your talent for writing.



by: Toni

Wonderful article, Debbie! I am so happy for you and I thank you for the renewed faith I now have...

Toni



by: Lynn Mosher

Debi, Debi, Debi! What an awesome story. I absolutely loved it. It reminded of author Ken Gire, whose writing I really admire. I'm so happy you are able to jump for joy and I jump with you! Beautiful story!

Be kind one to another

by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA)

The two children were arguing fiercely over the same sand bucket. It didn't matter that the red and green bucket were identical, both claimed the red bucket was the only one that would make the most perfect sand castles.

"It was mine first." She grabbed wildly at the red bucket, almost ripping her brother's fingers off as he clung tightly to the plastic strap.  The strap broke off in his hands and gave him reason to accuse. "Now see what you've done!  I wish I had a brother instead of a smelly sister."

The little girl burst into deep, resentful sobs that shook her small body. She kicked the sand castle at his feet in response.

"That's just plain mean!"  He yelled again.  "Now you've ruined my castle.  I hate you!"

The little girl wailed and then rubbed at her watering eyelids with sandy hands that burned her eyes and made her shriek even harder.

"Hey, hey, what's going on here?"  Daddy had heard the three-alarm from the stand where he had been waiting patiently for lemonade for his two little prize fighters.

Between muffled sobs and cries of indignation, he became aware that most of the difficulty was that each child wanted his/her own way, completely.  Neither was willing to work together to achieve a common goal - one nice sand castle with a moat running around the outer banks.

"Stop now," he calmly scooped the little girl up into his arms and using a bottle of clean water, rinsed the grime from her eyes.  "What will Mommy think when she gets back from the boardwalk?"  He dried her eyes, sat her down and squatted next to the smashed castle that the little boy was trying valiantly to rebuild.

"He took my bucket."  She began.

"She wouldn't share, and I was only trying to help."  He replied indignantly.

Daddy ignored both injured parties and began to scoop the sand into the buckets, red and green alike, creating a good packing before turning both upside down, side by side. He lifted both containers carefully and continued working swiftly to build a small fortification before carving out a small moat around the outside of the castle.

"Wow, you did that fast."  Both children forgot the dried tears on their faces.  Now that he had their attention, he began to teach.

"Jesus says that some people will plant seed, some will water and others will gather the crops from that planting."  He smiled at the quizzical children, at least he had their attention.  "What that means, is that sometimes we have to plant seed..." He made a mound of dry sand. 

"Sometimes we will add the water..." He added a touch of ocean water to give the sand the needed texture to make it solid and turned the bucket upside down. 

"And sometimes we will see how it all comes together."  He removed the bucket leaving a perfect sand building. 

The two children looked at each other, grasping the simple example. 

"And sometimes, if we can't get along, we tear ourselves apart and that makes God very sad."  And with that, Daddy stood and kicked down all the hard work he had so carefully worked on.  He quietly looked from boy to girl to boy.  They smiled.  Both got the message.

"Here, you take the red bucket and I'll use the green one.  If you start at this side, I'll meet you at the back."  The brother handed a spade to his little sister.

An hour later a wondrous sand city had appeared and both children played happily while Daddy watched them thoughtfully.  Mommy returned from her boardwalk shopping and said, "I think we better be going.  We have several hours of driving before we get to grandma's." 

As the family was driving away from the beach, near the home where they'd served many years in ministry, the little boy asked the parents.

"Daddy, why are we really leaving?  Is it something we did wrong."

"No son, it's just that the people can't seem to work together at the old church, and many of them left in anger."  Daddy always tried to answer his children honestly.

The small boy was silent, his sister asleep in her seat next to him.  He took her hand in his and said quietly to his daddy, "Maybe it would have helped if you had brought them to the beach and taught them about building sand castles."

The father's voice caught in his throat as Mommy turned questioning eyes to her husband.

"Maybe it would have helped son, maybe it would."