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Category: Encouragement

Words of Encouragement

Words of Encouragement

Psalm 39:4

Lord remind me how brief my time on earth will be.
Remind me that my days are numbered — how fleeting my life is.

____

Life is short no matter how long we live.  If we have something important we want to do, we must not put it off for a better day.  If you knew you only had six months to live, what would you do?  Tell someone you love them? Deal with undisciplined areas in your life? Tell someone about Jesus?  Because life is short, don’t neglect what is truly important.  —

Psalm 103;15-16-17

15. Our days on earth are like grass; like wildflowers, we bloom and die.
16. The wind blows, and we are gone — as though we had never been here.
17. But the love of the Lord remains forever with those who fear him.

Psalm 139;16

You saw me before I was born
Every day of my life was
Recorded in your book
Every moment was laid out
Before a single day had passed.

Sometimes God has to peel back the layers of our heart to reach us just as this tree has been peeled back.

The Dress

The Dress

This was a hand-out when I did my internship for counseling at Grace Ministries.  It had all of us crying, so I thought everyone needed a good cry for the day.  I was sending to a friend and I thought why not post it for everyone else.

Have a blessed day and enjoy this, it will take 10 minutes to read.

 

The Dress

Margaret Jensen from “First We Have Coffee”

Mama sat rocking gently, the bright wool afghan wound around her bony knees.  Staring out across the quiet lake below our house she sang softly to herself.  A faraway look filled her eyes, her mind was somewhere in the “long ago.”  Janice, who had come for a visit, heard her murmur, “Love and forgive, Love and forgive.”

“Bestemor, you are talking to yourself again,” Jan laughed as she pulled up a stool to snuggle close to her.  The house was quiet with the contentment that comes when those you love have returned home and are close by your side.

Pressing Mama’s thin, blue-veined hand against her own soft, younger cheek, Jan asked, “What were you reading?”

Mama stroked the open Bible lovingly, “When you stand praying, forgive: (Mark 11:25)

“But, Bestemor, there are some things you can’t forgive.”

I knew Jan was in for a story.

Stroking Jan’s soft blond hair, Bestemor rocked a little slower and added, “I’ll tell you a story, Janice.  We’ll call the girl Mary and the man John.

“It happened a long time ago.”  I reached for my coffee cup and listened from the kitchen.  I had heard the story a few days before, but had promised not to tell it.

Bestemor’s white hair framed her gentle face, and her blue eyes held that far-away look.  Jan waited.  These were moments she would hold in her heart forever.  She would remember  and tell her children.

“Mary was young, filled with dreams of love for her husband, John, and her love for God and His service.  John, restless and impatient in his new pastorate in the farmlands of Wisconsin, longed for the libraries and action of New York City or Chicago, where he had attended seminary.  John’s brilliant mind craved books.  Mary saw beauty in everything—the smell of the freshly plowed fields, the song of a bird, the first sign of spring, crocuses and violets.

“She tied her tiny daughter to her lap while she drove the horse and buggy to the country church.  John would ride with Deacon Olsen to gather parishioners along the way.  Mary sang to the wind and laughed with the birds.  But she had one secret longing, a new dress for spring.  Not the somber brown or black, befitting a minister’s wife, but a soft voile billowing dress with lace around the neck and sleeves, and a big sash.  There was no money!  Carefully she laid plans.  She would put pennies into a box until there was enough money to buy a new kerosene lamp for John and material for a new dress.  She would reuse the lace from an old velvet dress in the trunk.  Someday she would make a blue velvet dress for baby Louise.

“The day came when the treadle machine purred like music while Mary sang and sewed.  Golden-haired Louise played with empty spools and clothes pins.  The small house shone, clean.  The new lamp had a place of honor on John’s reading table.  Violets filled a bowl on the starched tablecloth, and cups were placed for afternoon coffee when John would return home.

“In a playful mood, Mary pulled down her long brown hair, brushed it in the morning sun.  Then she put on her new dress, soft pink voile with violets and lace.  A sash tied in the back and Mary swung around to the delightful squeals of Louise.  It was spring!  She was young, just twenty-three, with another new life within her and Louise to rock and love.  The wilderness church, the somber immigrants tilling the land, and the severe harshness of long winters had isolated the young wife into her world of poetry and song.  She grew to love the faithful people and share their joys and sorrows.

“But today was spring and she danced with abandoned joy in her new billowing dress.

“With a flash of summer lightning, Mary was whirled around by an angry John, whose storm of frustration unleashed the fury within him.  “Money for foolishness! No libraries, no books, no one to talk to about anything except cows and chickens, planting and harvest.’ Like a smoldering volcano, John erupted with rage and ripped the dress to shreds.  Just as suddenly the storm was over, and the galloping hoofs of John’s horse broke the quiet terror.  As he rode into the wind he unleashed the remainder of his fury on the passing fields and their wide-eyed cows and clucking chickens.  He longed to gallop from Wisconsin to the heart of New York—his beloved library.

“Huddled in a corner, Mary clutched Louise and the shredded dress.  Trembling with fear and anger she remained motionless.  Too drained to weep, she was sick with an emptiness and an unutterable longing for her mother in New York.  There was no one to turn to in that lonely farmland.  She remembered Psalm 34:4: ‘I sought the LORD, and he heard me, and delivered me from all my fears.’ Then she wept, long and deep, and cried unto the Lord.”

Bestemor paused.  “Be slow to cry to man, Janice, but let your cry be unto God. ”She rocked slowly, then continued.

“Mary set her heart to seek a way of escape.  She would make a pallet up in the loft and take Louise to sleep with her.  John would sleep alone.  Then she folded the shredded dress in a small package and hid it in her trunk.  Pastor Hansen was coming to visit the rural churches and Mary decided to bide her time, to quietly wait and show the dress to Pastor Hansen, then ask for assistance to leave John and return to New York.  With quiet determination she put on her dark dress and combed her long brown hair into a severe knot, befitting a minister’s wife.  She set the table for supper.  When John returned late in the night his supper was in the warming oven.  Mary was asleep in the loft with Louise curled in her arms.

“Quietly John ate his supper and looked for Mary.  When he found her in the loft, he ordered her back to their bed and put Louise in her crib.  Mary gently tucked Louise in her crib and obediently went to bed.  John’s storm had passed, but he was unaware of the debris in its wake.

“Life went on as usual, but the song was gone and Mary’s steps were weighted with bitterness.  She quietly waited and thought out her plans.

“The arrival of Pastor Hansen brought a new exuberance to John as the two ministers discussed books and theology and the work of the church conference.  Mary served quietly.  No one would have guessed the anguish behind her gently face as she worshipped with the faithful congregation but she heard little of the sermons.

“The final service was drawing to a close and, as yet, Mary had not had the opportunity to see Pastor Hansen alone.  She had to find the opening, perhaps this Sunday afternoon, when John would visit a shut-in member while Pastor Hansen would meditate on the evening message.  With a quickened mind she decided to listen to the sermon and perhaps use his comments as an opening.

“The text this morning is found in Mark 11:25: “When ye stand praying, forgive.” Forgiveness is not optional, but a command.  Forgiveness is not a feeling, but an act of faith, a definite act of the will to forgive, in obedience to God’s command.  The feeling comes later, the feeling of peace.  When we offer to God our hurts and despair, God will pour his love and compassion into the wounds and His healing will come.’

“Oh, no,’ Mary cried inside. “I can’t forgive, and I can never forget!’

“The sermon continued. “Someone may be thinking, “I can never forget, even if I could forgive.” You are right, you can’t forget, but you needn’t be devastated by remembering.  God’s love and His forgiveness can and will cushion the memory until the imprint is gone.  When you forgive, you must destroy the evidence, and remember only to love. “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”  In closing let us stand and say the Lord’s prayer.  “Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.”

“John and Pastor Hansen rode home with Deacon Olsen.  Mary stepped into her buggy, tied her wide black hat with a scarf, and carefully secured Louise around her waist.  As the horse, Dolly trotted briskly down the country road, Mary’s scalding tears poured forth.

“She knew what she must do.  She would obey God.  Without waiting to unhitch Dolly, she fled from the buggy and placed sleeping Louise in her crib.  With trembling hands, she took out of the trunk the package with the torn dress, but she couldn’t let go.  The Sunday dinner was in the warming oven; Mary poked the fire and added more wood.  Automatically she put on the coffee pot and set the table.  ‘The evidence must go’ rang in her memory.  ‘I forgive you, John’. She finally picked up the tattered dress with one hand and the stove lid with the other.  Tears splashed on the fire and the dress burned slowly.

“True forgiveness destroys the evidence’ pounded so loudly in her heart that she failed to hear John’s footsteps. ‘Mary what are you doing?’ Trembling with sobs, she said, ‘I am destroying the evidence.’

“To herself she said, “My offering to God.’

“Then John remembered! Pale and shaken he murmured, ‘Please forgive me.”

Bestemor rocked quietly.

“Please Grandmother, what happened?”  Jan begged.  Bestemor waited.  Her eyes followed the ducks on the lake, but her heart was somewhere else.  Softly she continued:

“Now John has gone home.  Fifty-eight years together, and I miss him.”

Wide-eyed with understanding, Jan wrapped her arms around her beloved Bestemor!  “That was you and Grandfather!”  The chair rocked slowly in the quiet room as Bestemor’s loving hand stroked the bowed head.

I slipped quietly down the path of fallen leaves to the lake to feed the ducks.  The four white pet geese honked majestically across the lake as I drank deeply of the cool autumn breeze and felt the burden of old hurts slowly ebbing away.  God’s cushioning love heals old scars.

P.S. A few days later Mama had a dream.  Three angels appeared to her and said, “Come, we are going to a celebration.”  Over the arm of one angel was draped a beautiful dress.



Poppies For Memorial Day

Poppies For Memorial Day

In honor of Memorial Day and those who served, gave their all and the many who were not appreciated, I have a poppy card.  This is a very retired stamp set from Stampin Up, but I have always liked the poppies so much and this is an appropriate time to be using it. I stamped the poppies on all the pieces that make up the design for the challenge, then matted them in Night of Navy cardstock.  I stamped the poppies for the inside sentiment also.  I entered this in the Viva La Verve Challenge for May.

    

 Inside of card.  The sentiment is from a stamp set from Verve Stamps.

Monday we celebrate Memorial Day.  When I was a kid, Memorial Day was always the 30th of May. It was called Decoration Day.  It was made a national holiday in 1971, at that time it was moved to the last Monday in May.

Memorial Day is the day we remember what it means to be a hero. A day to remember the heroes who gave their all for their buddy next to them and for our freedom. These are the real heroes.   It is also a day we can thank those who did not get recognized with the honor they deserved when they returned from the war.

The church I grew up in still calls it Decoration Day.  It is a big event.  Everyone takes a dish and lunch is served.  Family and friends that live out of town come for the celebration.  It is a good time to catch up with family and old friends who live out of town that you do not get to visit often.  I have a friend from childhood that has come from Oregon this year for the event as he was in the war. A far ride for an oldest, Oregon to North Carolina.

I remember the little paper poppies sold by the veterans from the local American Legion to raise money for the needs of the disabled veterans.  Poppies became the symbol of the American Legion.  The other day when I was shopping there were two old veterans sitting outside the entrance of the store taking donations.  If you made a donation, they gave you one of the little paper poppies.  Sure brought back memories of childhood and Decoration Day.

Lt. Col. John McCrae wrote a poem called “In Flander’s Field”. He had walked in a field of poppies where crosses were laid out to mark the graves of the fallen.  You can see at the end of this blog post.  There was also another poem written by Moina Michael as a tribute to Lt. Col. John McCrae’s  “In Flander’s Field”.  It too is at the end of this post.

In Flander’s Field
By Lt. Col. John McCrae, 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields

Lt. Col. John McCrae died of pneumonia in 1918 and is buried in Wimereux, France

We Shall Keep the Faith”
By Moina Michael
Oh! You who sleep in Flanders fields,
Sleep sweet – to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died

We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders field

And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We’ll teach the lesson that you wrought
In Flanders field

 

That’s all for today! Drop by again and visit.

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