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Quips, Quotes, Wisdom & Scriptures A place to share your quotes, scriptures, and other spiritual wisdom you would like to share.

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Old 06-18-2002, 07:15 AM
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Psalm 23

This was emailed to me . . .

Uplifting Interpretation

In his beautiful book, "I Shall Not Want," Robert Ketchum tells of a Bible
School teacher who asked her group of children if anyone could quote the
entire Twenty-third Psalm.

A golden-haired, four-and-a-half-year-old girl was among those who raised
their hands. A bit skeptical, the teacher asked if she could really quote
the entire psalm. The little girl came to the front of the room, faced the
class, made a perky little bow, and said: "The Lord is my shepherd, that's
all I want." She bowed again and went and sat down.

That may well be the greatest interpretation ever heard.

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Old 06-18-2002, 07:41 AM
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God, are you still awake? poem

God, Are You Still Awake? ~ By Author Unknown)

God, are You still awake?
Have you got a minute or two?
You're pretty good at understanding,
And I really need to talk to you.

You see, Mommy came to tuck me in,
Like she does every night.
I was trying to play a trick on her,
Since she can't see without the light.

I was going to close my eyes
And pretend to be asleep.
But when I heard her crying,
I didn't dare let out a peep.

She started talking to you, God.
Did You hear the things she said?
Could you hear what she was saying
As she stood beside my bed?

Why would Mommy be so sad?
I wondered just what I had done,
And then I began to remember it all
As she named them one by one...

This morning we worked in the garden,
But, honest, I really didn't know
That if I picked all those little yellow blooms
The tomatoes wouldn't grow!

Charlie and I were trying to be helpers,
'Cause I know that's what Mommy needs,
But I don't think she was too happy with us
When we pulled up carrots instead of weeds.

Mommy said we should stop for the day,
She decided we had helped quite enough.
I sure had worked up an appetite...
I didn't know gardening was so tough!

We had peanut-butter and jelly for lunch,
And I shared too much, I guess...
But I didn't realize until I was done
That Charlie had made such a mess.

Mommy said she needed a nap,
She had one of her headaches today.
She told me to keep an eye on my sister
And find something quiet to play.

Well, God, do You remember all those curls
You gave my little sister Jenny?
We played barber shop...very quietly...
And now, well, she doesn't have any.

Boy, was Mommy mad at me...
I had to go sit on my bed.
She said never to cut "people hair" again.
I guess I'll practice on Charlie instead.

We sat and watched poor old Albert,
I just knew he must be so bored
Going round and round in the same place all day,
Wouldn't you think so Lord?

I didn't think it would hurt to let him out for awhile.
I mean, mice need exercise, too.
By the way, have you seen Albert lately?
He's been sort of missing since two.

Mommy sent us outside for the rest of the day.
She said we needed fresh air.
But when Daddy came home she told him
He was trying to get something out of her hair.

We thought Mommy needed cheering up,
So we decided to brighten her day.
But, God, did You see the look on her face
When we gave her that pretty bouquet?

We had gotten a little bit dirty,
So Mommy said to get in the tub.
"Use soap this time," she reminded,
"And please don't forget to scrub."

Charlie didn't like the water too much,
But I lathered up real good.
I knew Mommy would be so proud of me
For cleaning up like I should.

I went downstairs to the table,
But during dinner it started to rain..
I'd forgotten to turn off the water, it seems,
And I hadn't unplugged the drain!

I decided right then it was just about time
To start getting ready for bed,
When Mommy said, "It's sure been a long day,"
And her face began turning all red.

I lay there listening to Mommy
As she told You about our day.
I thought about all of the things I had done
And I wondered what I should say.

I was just about to tell her
That I'd been awake all along,
And ask her to please forgive me
For all of those things I'd done wrong.

When suddenly I heard her whisper,
"God, forgive me for today...
For not being more understanding
When those problems came my way...

For not handling situations
In the way You wanted me to...
For getting angry and losing my temper,
Things I know You don't want me to do.

And, God, please give me more patience,
Help me make it through another day,
I'll do better tomorrow, I promise...
In Jesus' name I pray."

Wiping her eyes, she kissed me
And knelt there beside my bed.
She stroked my hair for a little while..
"I love you precious," Mommy said.

She left the room without ever knowing
That I'd been awake all the time.
And God, could we make it our little secret?
You know, just Yours and mine?

I'm sorry I was so much trouble today,
I really didn't mean to be...
Daddy says it's tough to be a kid sometimes,
But I think it's harder on Mommy than me.

Well, goodnight, God. Thanks for listening.
It's sure nice to know You're there.
I feel so much better when I talk to You
'Cause You always hear my prayer.

And I'll do better tomorrow, I promise...
Just You wait and see!
I'll try not to be so much trouble again,
But, God,please give more patience to Mommy...

....Just in case!

Amen.
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Old 06-22-2003, 11:09 AM
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A Little Girl's Prayer

A Little Girl’s Prayer

A true story from a missionary Nurse working in a camp & orphanage in the Belgian Congo (Africa)


One night I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in spite of all we could do she died leaving us with a tiny premature baby and a crying two-year-old daughter. I knew we would have difficulty keeping the baby alive, as we did not have electricity to run an incubator, as well as no special feeding facilities.

Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts. One student midwife went for the box we had for such babies and the cotton wool the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to stoke up the fire and to fill a hot water bottle.

She returned shortly in distress to tell me that in filling the bottle it had burst. You see, rubber perishes easily in tropical climates. “And it was our last hot water bottle!” She exclaimed.

As in the west it is no good crying over spilled milk, so in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over burst hot water bottles. They do not grow on trees and there are no drug stores down the forest pathways.

“All right”, I said, “Put the baby as close to the fire as you safely can, and sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts. Your job is to keep the baby warm.”

The following noon as I did most days, I went to have prayers with any of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the children various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby, I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle. The baby could so easily die if it got chilled.

I also told them of them two year old sister crying because her mother had died. During the prayer time, one ten year old girl named Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt conciseness of our African children.
“Please God,” she prayed, “send us a water bottle. It’ll be no good tomorrow, God, as the baby will be dead, so please send it this afternoon.”
While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added, “By the way of a corollary, and while you are about it God, would please send a dolly for the little girl so she will know that You really love her”.

As so often with children’s prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say “Amen?” I just did not believe that God could do this. Oh yes, I know that He can do everything. The Bible says so. But there are limits, aren’t there?

The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending me a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at
That particular time, and I had never received a parcel from home. Anyway if anyone did send me a parcel, who would put in a water bottle? I lived on the equator!

Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching the nurses training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time I reached my home the car had gone, but there on the verandah, was
A large twenty-two pound parcel.

I felt tears pricking my eyes, I could not open the parcel alone, so I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully untying each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly.

The excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children began to look a little bored. Then came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas-that would make a nice batch of buns for the weekend.

Then as I put my hand in again, I felt the….. Could it really be?
I grasped it and pulled it out Yes, a brand new, rubber water bottle!

I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He could.
Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward, crying out, “If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly, too!”

Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully dressed dolly. Her eyes shone! She had never doubted.
Looking up at me, she ask: “Can I go over with you, mummy, and give this dolly to that little girl, so she will know that Jesus really does love her?”

That parcel had been on the way for five whole months. Packed up by my former Sunday school class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God’s prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. And one of the girls had put in a dolly for an African girl five months before in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year old to bring it that afternoon.

BY Helen Roseveare

Helen Roseveare was a missionary from Northern Ireland. This is a true story that took place in the 1950’s while she was serving as a missionary at a camp in what was then known as the Belgian Congo in Central Africa.
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Old 06-22-2003, 11:16 AM
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Believing

Believing


Many people say, "I believe only what I see for myself." That's not necessarily true either because, by and large, people see and believe only what they want to see and believe--and refuse to see and believe all else—regardless of the evidence.

However, what I see and believe has absolutely no effect on what is. What is, is--whether I see and believe it or not. For instance, I've never seen an atom but I've seen (at least in pictures) the evidence of its incredible power and believe it is real. I work near a power plant
and can't see the electric power it is generating, but its electricity is probably powering my computer on which I am typing this article right now. I can't see the electricity but whether I believe it is real or not doesn't affect its reality. It just is.

I've never seen God either but I see evidence of his presence and mighty power everywhere I look--I see and believe because I want and choose to believe. With God, as with many things in life, believing is seeing. Indeed, the heavens declare the glory of God. Believe it and you will see.
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Old 06-22-2003, 11:21 AM
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God's Vessel

God's Vessel

The following story goes to show us that we never know when God will use us as his vessel to send His saving strength & message.

It was hard to watch her fail. Physically she was growing thinner and more stooped. Mentally she was losing her ability to sort out reality. Initially, my grandmother had railed angrily against the symptoms of Alzheimer's disease that were eroding who she had always been. Eventually, the anger gave way to frustration, and then resignation.

My grandmother had always been a strong woman. She was also a woman with a deep faith in God. As she lost her ability to live alone, my father moved her into his home. She seemed to enjoy being surrounded by the noise and activity of a large, extended family.

As she slipped further away from us mentally, my grandmother would occasionally have moments of lucidity when she knew where she was and recognized everyone around her. We never knew what prompted those moments, when they would occur or how long they would last.

Toward the end of her life she became convinced that her mother had knit everything she owned. "Mama knit my boots," she would tell strangers, holding up a foot clad in galoshes. Soon we were putting on her boots for her and helping her zip up her coat.

During my grandmother's last autumn with us, we decided to take a family outing. Grandma loved flowers, so my dad bought her a rose. She carried it proudly through the fair, stopping often to breathe in its fragrance. She couldn't go on the carnival rides so she sat on a bench close by and waited while the rest of the family rode. Her moments of lucidity were now a thing of the past.

A sullen-looking young woman already occupied the bench, but said she wouldn't mind sharing the bench. "Mama knit my coat," my grandmother told the young woman as she sat down.

When we came back to the bench the young woman, looking as though she had been crying, was holding the rose. "Thank you for sharing your grandmother with me," she said. Then she told us her story. She had decided that day was to be her last on Earth. In deep despair and feeling she had nothing to live for, she was planning to go home and commit suicide. While seated together, she found herself pouring out her troubles.

"Your grandmother listened to me," said the young woman. "She told me about a time, during the Depression, when she had lost hope. She said that God loved me and would watch over and help me make it through my problems. She gave me this rose.

She told me that my life would unfold, just like this rose, and that I would be surprised by its beauty. She told me my life was a gift. She said she would be praying for me."
We stood, dumbfounded, as she hugged my grandmother and thanked her for saving her life. Grandma just smiled a vacant smile and patted her arm. As the young woman turned to leave, she waved good-bye to us. Grandma waved back and then turned to look at us, still standing in amazement.

"Mama knit my hat," Grandma said.
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Old 06-22-2003, 11:26 AM
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The Old Phone

The Old Phone


When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone's number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. "Information, please" I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information."

"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. "Isn't your mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked. "No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and
it hurts." "Can you open the icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called, Information Please," and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better. Another day I was on the telephone, "Information Please." "Information," said in the now familiar voice. "How do I spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind
she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please." Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well. "Information."

I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now." I laughed, "So it's really you," I said. "I wonder if >you have any idea how much you meant to me during at time?" "I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your call
meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. "Please do", she said. "Just ask for Sally."



Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, "Information." I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" she said. "Yes, a very old friend," I answered.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."

Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute, did you say your name was Paul?"

"Yes." I answered. "Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you." The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.

Whose life have you touched today?


Lifting you on eagle's wings. May you find the joy and peace you long for.

Life is a journey ... NOT a guided tour.

I loved this story and I hope you enjoy it and get a blessing from it just as I did.

Recieved in an e-mail
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Old 06-22-2003, 11:31 AM
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The Room

The Room

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found
myself in the room.
There were no distinguishing features except for the
one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order.

But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling
and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my
attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude
catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I
have betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," “Jokes I Have Laughed at."

Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things
I've yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents."

I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there
were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived.

Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to
fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have
watched ," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The
cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.


When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt
a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not
willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its
detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards.

But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to
its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long,
self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it..

The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it
contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming
shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled
eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.
I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again.

He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files.
Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand
how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no
lock on its door.

There were still cards to be written.


Sent to me by a pastor friend of mine.....
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Old 06-22-2003, 11:37 AM
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The Smell of Rain

The Smell of Rain

A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing.

Still groggy from surgery, her husband David held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.

That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver the couple's new daughter, Danae Lu Blessing.

At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound and nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature.
Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs.
I don't think she's going to make it', he said, as kindly as he could. "There's only a 10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some
slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one".

Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Danae would likely face if she survived.

She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on.

No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.
Through the dark hours of morning as Danae held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of sleep, growing more and more determined that their tiny daughter would live and live to be a healthy, happy young girl.

But David, fully awake and listening to additional dire details of their daughter's chances of ever leaving the hospital alive, much less healthy, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable. David walked in and said that we needed to talk about making funeral arrangements.

Diana remembers 'I felt so bad for him because he was doing everything trying to include me in what was going on, but I just wouldn't listen, I couldn't listen.'

I said, 'No, I don't want to listen to what the doctors say; Danae is not going to die! One day she will be just fine, and she will be coming home with us!"

As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Danae clung to life hour after hour, with the help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure. But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana.
Because Danae's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially 'raw,' the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Danae struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.

There was never a moment when Danae suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Danae turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time.

And two months later, though doctors continued to gently, but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero.

Danae went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.

Today, five years later, Danae is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She shows no signs, whatsoever, of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she is everything a little girl can be and more, but that happy ending is far from the end of her story.

One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Danae was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ballpark where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing.

As always, Danae was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent.

Hugging her arms across her chest, Danae asked, "Do you smell that?"
Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain."

Danae closed her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that?" Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet, it smells like rain."

Still caught in the moment, Danae shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."

Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Danae then happily hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.

During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Danae on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.

REMEMBER

Faith isn't the ability to believe long and far into the misty future. It's simply taking God at his word and taking the next step.
__________________
Brother Pat.....
Sr. Chaplain / Counselor & Gospel Singer
If we spread the gospel, Jesus will spread salvation.
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Old 06-22-2003, 11:58 AM
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Location: Pasadena, Texas
Posts: 257
Caller ID

Caller ID

Isn't it amazing how God works in our lives! On a Saturday night
several weeks ago, this pastor was working late, and decided to call his wife before he left for home. It was about 10:00 PM, but his wife didn't answer the phone.

The pastor let the phone ring many times. He thought it was odd that she didn't answer, but decided to wrap up a few things and try again in a few minutes. When he tried again she answered right away. He asked her why she hadn't answered before, and she said that it hadn't rung at their house.

They brushed it off as a fluke and went on their merry ways.
The following Monday, the pastor received a call at the church office, which was the phone that he'd used that Saturday night.

The man that he spoke with wanted to know why he'd called on Saturday night.

The pastor couldn't figure out what the man was talking about. Then the man said, "It rang and rang, but I didn't answer." The pastor remembered
the mishap and apologized for disturbing him, explaining that he'd intended to call his wife.

The man said, "That's, OK. Let me tell you my story.
You see, I was planning to commit suicide on Saturday night, but before I did, I prayed, 'God if you're there, and you don't want me to do this,give me a sign now.' At that point my phone started to ring. I looked at the caller ID, and it said, 'Almighty God'. I was afraid to answer!"

The reason why it showed on the man's caller ID that the call came from "Almighty God" is because the church that the pastor attends is called Almighty God Tabernacle!!


READ EACH SENTENCE SLOWLY AND THINK ABOUT IT.

Love starts with a smile, grows with a kiss, and ends with a tear.


Good friends are hard to find, harder to leave, and impossible to
forget.

Don't let the past hold you back, you're missing the good stuff.


When it hurts to look back, and you're scared to look ahead, you can look beside you and Jesus will be there.
__________________
Brother Pat.....
Sr. Chaplain / Counselor & Gospel Singer
If we spread the gospel, Jesus will spread salvation.
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Old 06-22-2003, 12:01 PM
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Eight Year Member
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Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Pasadena, Texas
Posts: 257
Jesus My Attorney

JESUS MY ATTORNEY


After living a "decent" life, my time on earth came to an end. The first thing I remember is sitting on a bench in the waiting room of what I thought to be a court house.

The doors opened and I was instructed to come in and have a seat by the defense table. As I looked around I saw the "prosecutor." He was a villainous looking gent who snarled as he stared at me. He definitely was the most evil person I have ever seen.

I sat down and looked to my left and there sat my lawyer, a kind and gentle looking man whose appearance seemed familiar to me.

The corner door flew open and there appeared the judge in full flowing robes. He commanded an awesome presence as he moved across the room. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. As he took his seat behind the bench, He said, "Let us begin."

The prosecutor rose and said, "My name is Satan and I am here to show you why this man belongs in hell." He proceeded to tell of lies that I told, things that I stole, and in the past when I cheated others. Satan told of other horrible perversions that were once in my life and the more he spoke, the further down in my seat I sank. I was so embarrassed that I couldn't look at anyone, even my own lawyer, as the Devil told of sins that even I had completely forgotten about.

As upset as I was at Satan for telling all these things about me, I was equally upset at my representative who sat there silently not offering any form of defense at all. I know I had been guilty of those things, but I had done some good in my life - couldn't that at least equal out part of the harm I've done?

Satan finished with a fury and said, "This man belongs in hell, he is guilty of all that I have charged and there is not a person who can prove otherwise."

When it was! his turn, my lawyer first asked if he might approach the bench. The judge allowed this over the strong objection of Satan, and beckoned him to come forward.

As he got up and started walking, I was able to see him in his full splendor and majesty. I realized why he seemed so familiar. This was Jesus representing me, my Lord and my Savior. He stopped at the bench and softly said to the judge, "Hi Dad," and then he turned to address

the court. "Satan was correct in saying that this man had sinned, I won't deny any of these allegations. And yes the wages of sin is death, and this man deserves to be punished."

Jesus took a deep breath and turned to his Father with outstretched arms and proclaimed, "However, I died on the cross so that this person might have eternal life and he has accepted me as his Savior, so he is mine."

My Lord continued with, "His name is written in the book of life and no one can snatch him from me. Satan still does not understand yet. This man is not to be given justice, but rather mercy."

As Jesus sat down, he quietly paused, looked at his Father and replied, "There is nothing else that needs to be done. I've done it all."

The judge lifted his mighty hand and slammed the gavel down. The following words bellowed from his lips...

"This man is free. The penalty for him has already been paid in full. Case dismissed.

As my Lord led me away, I could hear Satan ranting and raving, "I won't give up, I'll win the next one."

I asked Jesus as he gave me my instructions where to go next, "Have you ever lost a case?"

Christ lovingly smiled and said, "Everyone that has come to me and asked me to represent them has received the same verdict as you, Paid in Full."
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Sr. Chaplain / Counselor & Gospel Singer
If we spread the gospel, Jesus will spread salvation.
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