Children’s Story

The Strength of Clinton

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When Clinton Stevens was eleven years old, he was taken very sick with pneumonia. During convalescence, he suffered an unexpected relapse, and his mother and the doctor worked hard to keep him alive.

“It is ten to one if he gets well,” said Dr. Bemis, shaking his head. “If he does, he will never be very strong.”

Mrs. Stevens smoothed Clinton’s pillow even more tenderly than before. Poor Clinton! He had always been such a rollicking, rosy-cheeked lad. Surely it was hard to bear.

The long March days dragged slowly along, and April was well advanced before Clinton could sit at the window and watch the grass grow green on the slope of the lawn. He looked frail and delicate. He had a cough, too, a troublesome “bark,” that he always kept back as long as he could.

The bright sunlight poured steadily through the window, and Clinton held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Why, Ma Stevens!” he said, after a moment, “Just look at my hands! They used to be regular hands, but now are as thin and white as a girl’s. It does not look like I would pull many weeds for Mr. Carter this summer, does it?”

Mrs. Stevens took his thin hands in her own patient ones. “Never mind, dearie,” she said, “they will grow plump and brown again, I hope.” A group of schoolchildren were passing by, shouting and frolicking. Clinton leaned forward and watched them till the last one was gone. Some of them waved their caps, but he did not seem elated.

“Mother,” he said, “I believe I will go to bed if you will help me. I guess I am not quite so strong now as I used to be.”

Clinton did not pull weeds for Mr. Carter that summer, but he rode around with the milkman and did a little outdoor work for his mother, which helped him to mend. One morning in July, he surprised the village by riding out on his bicycle, but he overdid it, and it was several weeks before he again appeared. His cough continued, though not as severe as in the spring, and it was decided to let him go to school in the fall.

Dr. Bemis told Mrs. Stevens that the school room would be a good place to test Clinton’s strength. And he was right. In no other place does a young person’s strength develop or debase itself so readily, for honor or dishonor. Of course, the doctor had referred to physical strength, but moral strength is much more important.

Clinton was a bright lad, given his age. Although he had not looked into his books during the summer, he was placed in the same grade he had left when taken sick. He did not find much difficulty keeping up with his studies except spelling. Whenever he received a perfect mark on that subject, he felt that a real victory had been won.

About Christmas time, the regular examinations were held. The teacher offered a prize to each grade; the pupil receiving the highest average in all studies would receive the prize. Much excitement, no little speculation, and a great deal of studying ensued. Clinton felt fairly confident over all his studies except spelling. So he carried his spelling book home every night, and he and his mother spent the evenings in wrestling with the long and difficult words.

Examination day came at length, and the afternoon for the seventh grade spelling test was at hand. The words were to be written, and handed in. Across the aisle from Clinton sat Harry Meyers. Several times when the teacher pronounced a word, Harry looked slyly down into the palm of his hand. Clinton watched him, his cheeks growing pink with shame. Then he looked around at the others. Many of them had some dishonest device for copying the words. Clinton swallowed something in his throat, and looked across at Billy Matthews, who pursed up his lips and nodded, as if to say that he understood.

The papers were handed in, and school was dismissed. On Monday, after the morning exercises, Miss Brooks gave out the prizes to the three grades under her care. “I have now to award the prize for the highest average to the seventh grade,” she said. “But first I wish to say a few words on your conduct during the recent examination in spelling. I shall censure no one in particular, although there is one boy who must set no more bad examples. No one spelled all the words correctly — Clinton Stevens the least of any — making his average quite low; yet the prize goes to him. I will tell you why” — as a chorus of O!  greeted her ears. “Spelling is Clinton’s hardest subject, but he could easily have spelled more words right had he not possessed sufficient strength to prevent him from falling into the way followed by some of you.”

As Clinton went up the aisle for his prize, he felt like crying, but he managed to smile instead. A few days before, Harry Meyers had ridiculed him because he was not strong enough to throw a snowball from the school house to the road; now the teacher had said he was strong.

Clinton’s Aunt Jennie came to visit the family in December, bringing her little daughter Grace with her. Grace was obsessed with pulling other people’s hair, and Clinton was her favorite. She began on him cautiously, then aggressively. Clinton stood it for a while and then asked her, politely but firmly, to stop. She stopped for a half a day.

One night, Clinton came home from school pale and tired. Some of the boys had been taunting him on his spare frame and imitating his cough, which had grown worse as the winter advanced. Sitting down by the window, he looked out at the falling snow. Grace slipped up behind him and gave his hair a sharp tweak. He struck out hastily and hit her. She was not hurt, only very much surprised, but she began to cry lustily, and Aunt Jennie came hurrying in and took the child in her arms.

That night, after supper, Clinton went into the sitting room and called Grace to him. “I want to tell you something,” he said. “I am sorry that I hit you, and I ask your pardon. Will you forgive me?” Grace agreed quickly and said shyly, “Next time I want to pull someone’s hair, I will pull my own.”

Aunt Jennie was in the next room and overheard the conversation. “It strikes me, Sarah,” she said to Mrs. Stevens later, “that Clinton is a remarkably strong boy for one who is not strong. Most boys would not have taken the trouble to ask a small girl to forgive them, even if they were completely wrong. But Clinton has a strong character.”

One August night, when Clinton was thirteen, the boys planned to have a corn roast. “We will get the corn in old Carter’s lot,” said Harry Meyers. “He has just acres of it and can spare a bushel. Will you go with us, Clinton?”

Clinton hesitated. “No,” said he, “I guess not; and I should think if you want to roast corn, you could get it out of your own gardens. But if Mr. Carter’s corn is better than any other, why not ask him?”

“O, come, now,” retorted Harry, “do not let it worry you! Half the fun of roasting corn is in taking it. Don’t come, Clinton. You are too nice, Mr. Coughin.”

Clinton’s cheeks flushed red, but he turned away without a word. When Mr. Carter quizzed Billy Matthews, and found out all about it, Clinton was made very happy by the old man’s words: “Not every boy will take the stand you took. You ought to be thankful that you have the strength to say no.”

In the fall, when Clinton was fifteen, his health began to fail noticeably, and Dr. Bemis advised a little wine “to build him up.”

“Mother,” said the boy, after thinking it over, “I am not going to touch any wine. I can get well without it, I know I can. I do not want liquor,” he continued. “ ‘Wine is a mocker,’ you know. Did you not tell me once that Zike Hastings, over in East Bloomfield, became a drunkard by drinking wine when he was sick?”

“Yes, Clinton, I believe I told you so.”

“Well, then, I do not want any wine. I have seen Zike Hastings too many times.”

In December, Aunt Jennie and Grace made their annual visit. With them came Uncle Jonathan, who took a great liking to Clinton.

“My boy,” he said one day, placing a big hand on the lad’s shoulder, “early in the new year, Aunt Jennie and I start for the Pacific Coast. Would you like to go with us?”

“Well, I guess I would!” gasped the surprised boy, joyfully clasping his hands.

“Very well, then, you shall go,” returned Uncle Jonathan, “and your mother, too.”

Clinton began to feel better before they were outside of Pennsylvania. When they had crossed the Mississippi and reached the prairies, his eyes were sparkling with excitement. The mountains gave him new life. Uncle Jonathan watched him with pleasure. “Tell me,” he said one day, when they were winding in and out among the Rockies, “what has given you so much strength of character?”

“Why, it was this way,” said Clinton, bringing his eyes in from a chasm some hundreds of feet below: “One day, when I was beginning to recover from that attack of pneumonia, I saw a lot of the boys romping along, and I felt pretty bad because I could not romp and play, too. Then I thought that if I could not be strong that way, I could have the strength to do right, so I began to try.”

“Succeeded admirably,” said Uncle Jonathan approvingly. “And, really, my boy, I see no reason why you should not shout and play to your heart’s content in a few months.”

And Uncle Jonathan’s words proved true; within a few months, Clinton grew well and strong in the sun-kissed California valley. But throughout his life, he would have reason to be glad that he learned the value of the strength gained by resisting temptation, controlling one’s spirit, and obeying the Lord’s commands.

Stories Worth Re-Reading, Benjamin Keech, ©1913, 23–28

Story – Judging from Appearances

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The train was waiting at a station of one of our western railroads. The baggage master was busy with his checks. Men, women, and children were rushing for the cars, anxious to get seats before the locomotive pulled away.

A man, carelessly dressed, was standing on the station platform, seemingly giving little attention to what was going on. It was easy to see that he was lame; and at a hasty glance, one might have supposed that he was a man of neither wealth nor influence.

The conductor gave him a contemptuous look, and slapping him familiarly on the shoulder, called out, “Hello, Limpy! Better get aboard, or the train will leave you behind.”

The man made no reply. As the train started to move, the man climbed on the last car and walked quietly in and took a seat.

The train had gone a few miles when the conductor appeared at the door of the car where our friend was sitting. Passing along taking tickets, he soon discovered him. “Your ticket, quick!”

“I don’t pay,” replied the lame man quietly.

“Don’t pay?”

“No, sir.”

“We’ll see about that. I shall put you off at the next station.” And he seized his valise.

“Better not be so rough, young man,” returned the stranger.

The conductor released the bag momentarily and, seeing that he could do no more, passed on to collect the fare from the other passengers. As he stopped at a seat a few paces off, a man who had heard the conversation asked, “Do you know who that man is to whom you were speaking?”

“No, sir.”

“That is Peter Warburton, the president of the road.”

“Are you sure?” asked the conductor, trying to conceal his worry.

“I know him.”

The young man’s face became red, but with a strong effort, he controlled himself and continued collecting fares as usual.

Meanwhile, Mr. Warburton sat quietly in his seat. None of those near him could interpret the expression on his face or tell what his next movement would be. He could get the young man fired simply by telling the directors what had transpired. Would he do it? Those who sat near him waited curiously to see what would happen.

Presently, the conductor came back. He walked up to Mr. Warburton’s seat and took his books from his pocket, the bank bills and tickets he had collected, and laid them beside Mr. Warburton.

“I resign my place, sir,” he said.

The president looked over the accounts, motioned him into the vacant seat behind him, and said, “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

The young man sat down, and in a soft-spoken voice, this is what the president said to him.

“My young friend, I have no wish for revenge. You have been imprudent. Your manner would have been injurious to the company if I had been a passenger. I could fire you, but I will not. In the future, remember to be polite to all you meet. You cannot judge a man by the coat he wears, and the poorest should still be treated with kindness. Take up your books, sir. If you change your conduct, nothing that has happened will injure you.”

“Do not judge according to appearance, but judge with righteous judgment.” John 7:24

“Do not look at [the] appearance. … For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7

Sabbath Readings from the Home Circle, Vol. 2, ©1877, 116–120

The Steamboat Trial

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The Bible everywhere conveys the idea that this life is not our home, but a state of probation, that is, of trial and discipline, which is intended to prepare us for another home. In order that all, even the youngest of readers, may understand what is meant by this, let’s look at some familiar examples, drawn from the actual business of life.

When a large steamboat is built, with the intention of having her employed upon the waters of a great river, she must be proved before put to service. Before trial, it is somewhat doubtful whether she will succeed. In the first place, it is not absolutely certain whether her machinery will work at all. There may be some flaw in the iron or an imperfection in some part of the workmanship, which will prevent the motion of her wheels. Or if this is not the case, the power of the machinery may not be sufficient to propel her through the water, with such force as to overcome the current. Or she may, when brought to encounter the rapids at some narrow passage in the stream, not be able to force her way against their resistance.

The engineer, therefore, resolves to try her in all these respects, that her security and her power may be properly proved before she is entrusted with her valuable cargo of human lives. He cautiously builds a fire under her boiler; he watches with eager interest the rising of the steam-gauge and scrutinizes every part of the machinery as it gradually comes under the control of the tremendous power, which he is apprehensively applying.

With what interest does he observe the first stroke of the ponderous piston! And when at length the fastenings of the boat are let go, and the motion is communicated to the wheels, and the mighty mass slowly moves away from the wharf, how deep and eager an interest does he feel in all her movements and in every indication he can discover of her future success!

The engine, however, works imperfectly, as everyone must on its first trial. And the object in this experiment is not to gratify idle curiosity by seeing that she will move, but to discover and remedy every little imperfection and to remove every obstacle which prevents more entire success. For this purpose, you will see our engineer examining, most minutely and most attentively, every part of her complicated machinery. The crowd on the wharf may be simply gazing on her majestic progress as she moves off from the shore, but the engineer is within, looking with faithful examination into all the minutia of the motion.

He scrutinizes the action of every lever and the friction of every joint. Here, he oils a bearing, there, he tightens a nut. One part of the machinery has too much play, and he confines it; another, too much friction, and he loosens it. Now, he stops the engine, now, reverses her motion, and again, sends the boat forward in her course. He discovers, perhaps, some great improvement of which she is susceptible, and when he returns to the wharf and has extinguished her fire, he orders from the machine shop the necessary alteration.

The next day he puts his boat to the trial again, and she glides over the water more smoothly and swiftly than before. The jar which he had noticed is gone and the friction reduced; the beams play more smoothly, and the alteration which he has made produces a more equable motion in the shaft, or gives greater effect to the stroke of the paddles upon the water.

When at length her motion is such as to satisfy him upon the smooth surface of the river, he turns her course toward the rapids to see how she will sustain a greater trial. As he increases her steam to give her power to overcome the new force with which she has to contend, he watches with eager interest her boiler, inspects the gauges and the safety valves, and, from her movements under the increased pressure of her steam, he receives suggestions for further improvements or for precautions which will insure greater safety.

These he executes, and thus he perhaps goes on for many days, or even weeks, trying and examining, for the purpose of improvement, every working of that mighty power, to which he knows hundreds of lives are soon to be entrusted. This now is probation—trial for the sake of improvement. And what are its results? Why, after this course has been thoroughly and faithfully pursued, this floating palace receives upon her broad deck and in her carpeted and curtained cabin, her 400-500 passengers, who pour along in one long procession of happy groups, over the bridge of planks—father and son, mother and children, young husband and wife, all with implicit confidence, trusting themselves and their dearest interests to her power.

See her as she sails away! How beautiful and yet how powerful are all her motions! That beam glides up and down gently and smoothly in its grooves, and yet gentle as it seems, hundreds of horses could not hold it still. There is no apparent violence, but every movement is with irresistible power. How graceful is her form, and yet how mighty is the momentum with which she presses on her way!

Loaded with life, and herself the very symbol of life and power, she seems something ethereal, unreal, which, ere we look again, will have vanished away. And though she has within her bosom a furnace glowing with furious fires and a reservoir of death, the elements of most dreadful ruin and conflagration, of destruction the most complete, and agony the most unutterable, and though her strength is equal to the united energy of two thousand men, she restrains it all.

She was constructed by genius and has been tried and improved by fidelity and skill. One man governs and controls her, stops her and sets her in motion, turns her this way and that, as easily and certainly as the child guides the gentle lamb. She walks over the 160 miles of her route without rest and without fatigue. And the passengers, who have slept in safety in their berths, with destruction by water without and by fire within, defended only by a plank from the one and by a sheet of copper from the other, land at the appointed time in safety.

Reader, you have within you susceptibilities and powers, of which you have little present conception—energies, which are hereafter to operate in producing fullness of enjoyment or horrors of suffering, of which you now can form scarcely a conjecture. You are now on trial. God wishes you to prepare yourself for safe and happy action. He wishes you to look within, to examine the complicated movements of your hearts, to detect what is wrong, to modify what needs change, and to rectify every irregular motion.

You go out to try your moral powers upon the stream of active life, and then return to retirement to improve what is right and remedy what is wrong. Renewed opportunities of moral practice are given you, that you may go on from strength to strength, and every part of that complicated moral machinery, of which the human heart consists, will work as it ought to work, and is prepared to accomplish the mighty purpose for which your powers are designed. You are on trial, on probation now. You will enter upon active service in another world.—Abbott

The Moore McGuffey Readers, Fourth Reader, ©1983, 109–113

Story – A 1940 Miracle

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Mrs. Fuller was standing by the telephone in her sunny kitchen, listening intently to the news that was being conveyed over the wire. Her kind, weather-beaten face registered deep concern.

“I’m glad you told me about that poor family, Mrs. Higgins,” she commented after her friend had paused for breath. “I’ll run right over to Aunt Liza’s, and she’ll help me get some clothes and food together for them. You know, every year she cans hundreds of quarts of fruit and vegetables, just so she can have plenty to give away whenever she hears of someone in need. Tell them not to worry; we’ll bring food and clothing.”

Hastily she removed an old sweater from a hook on the wall, slipped it on, tied a scarf over her head, and walked quickly in the direction of her nearest neighbor, Aunt Liza, who lived alone on a five-acre farm. As she neared the modest white cottage, surrounded by colorful flowers, she quickened her steps. She knocked vigorously on the back door, for Aunt Liza was very deaf. After repeated knockings, the door was opened, and there was Aunt Liza’s cheerful face wreathed in smiles, her brown eyes snapping and twinkling.

“Why, Mary Fuller, I’m glad to see you,” she shouted with enthusiasm. “How could you leave your chores so early in the morning?”

By this time, Mrs. Fuller was able to catch her breath.

“I felt I just must run over and tell you about the poor family around the next bend—you know, the ones who live in the auto camp. The father is out of work, and the mother is sick, and they need food and clothing. I knew you would want to know about it.”

Aunt Liza started for the cellar, where she kept her canned food. “Come down and help me put up a box for them right now. I can everything that I don’t sell from this place, and then my son-in-law, who is a manager of a market in the city, brings me all the leftover fruits and vegetables that aren’t sold, and I put them up too, so I can give them to those who need food. I always say it is a sin to let anything go to waste.”

“I don’t see how you do so much, Aunt Liza, when you attend to practically all your farm work.”

“I always say the Lord fits the back to the burden, my dear,” replied Aunt Liza, “and I praise Him daily for giving me strength. I’ll go over to the camp with you and see if I can give the poor woman some treatment. You know, I often get people interested in the Lord.”

This instance is typical of Aunt Liza—always energetic, cheerful, praising God, and thinking of others more than of herself. The fact that she shouts because of her deafness only serves to give her a hearty, enthusiastic manner. She is truly one of God’s saints, a real missionary in her community. She regards God as a friend and takes all her troubles to Him. He rewards her trusting faith and hears her prayers.

One morning Aunt Liza rose early to irrigate her berries, which were soon to be ready for market and which would account for a large part of her income for the year. The water was supplied for her farm by a very fine artesian well. Each farm in this community had its own well, and the farmers were justly proud of the water.

This morning Aunt Liza was happily humming a hymn as she turned the switch of the pump and then went to put on her heavy boots before going into the berry patch. Imagine her surprise and dismay when she returned and found that although the pump was working, no water was coming out of the well. She hastened over to the Fullers’ farm to see if Mr. Fuller could help her, for Aunt Liza had no money to pay a repairman. When she arrived at her neighbor’s farm, she found great excitement there.

“Aunt Liza, do you have water?” inquired Mr. Fuller. “Our well seems to have gone dry.”

“That’s just exactly why I came over to see you,” exclaimed Aunt Liza. “Something has gone wrong with my well, too.”

Inquiry around the neighborhood revealed the fact that all the wells had gone dry, so an expert was called in to investigate the cause. They anxiously awaited his report.

When he inspected Aunt Liza’s well, he said, “Yes, yours is just like the others. The water level in this neighborhood has dropped down much lower than it was formerly, and the only way to get water is to dig your well deeper. Do you wish me to have someone come out to dig yours?”

Aunt Liza’s heart sank. There was no money for this emergency, and her berries needed irrigating immediately. A few days’ delay might seriously injure the crop.

“No,” she replied, “I have no money for that.”

“But what are you going to do for water?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Aunt Liza, “except to do what I always do in cases of emergency. I shall pray to my God about it. I know that He can help me out of this trouble, even as He has helped me in times of trouble in the past.”

The engineer laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll need to do more than pray in this case,” he said skeptically, “for the water just isn’t there anymore. I’m afraid that you don’t understand the gravity of the situation.” He then disconnected the pump at the well, and as he turned to leave, he said, “Well, call me up when you decide what you’re going to do.”

Aunt Liza took her trouble to her Friend, who had never failed her in any crisis. She talked to Him as she would to an earthly friend, whom she could see face to face, and laid the whole burden on Him. That night in a dream she saw an angel standing by her bed. The angel said, “There is water in your well now.”

She awakened immediately after this dream and began to praise and thank God, for Aunt Liza’s faith knew no doubt, and she was confident that the water was now in her well.

The next morning, she called the engineer out to see her. He came, thinking that she was at last ready to make arrangements to have her well dug deeper. However, her first words disillusioned him. She said, “Mr. Nelson, I want you to start my pump.”

Mr. Nelson was alarmed, as he feared that too much worry might have affected his elderly client’s reason. Gently he began to explain the situation again. He said, “There is no use in turning the pump on, madam, as there is no water in the well.”

However, no words of his could change Aunt Liza’s mind, and when she persisted in her request, he decided to turn on the pump to prove that she was wrong. He went out to the well, connected the pump again, and turned it on. Out gushed an abundant stream of water, clear and sparkling.

Thanking the Lord, she exclaimed, “I knew He had answered my prayer!”

The well expert could not speak. Never had he witnessed such a phenomenon. After Aunt Liza had told him of her dream, he replied, “God must have answered your prayer, for this is a miracle. No other well in the neighborhood has water.”

Aunt Liza’s gratitude to her heavenly Father knew no bounds, and she told the story of God’s kindness to all the community. The engineer carried the news to the city hall, and some of the officials came out to investigate. Aunt Liza told each one about her God and how He hears and answers prayer.

Many times, when we read of answered prayer, we think that such experiences came to people long ago or in a mission field far away, but this modern miracle happened in the year 1940, in the western part of the United States.

My Favorite Prayer Stories, Joe L. Wheeler, ©2015, by Phyllis Prout, 77–79

Story – A Special Birthday

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Laura had saved a very special present to open last. It was a birthday present from Grandma and Grandpa. They almost always got her a doll, but she had no idea what was in this tiny box. She sat down with her two favorite dolls and opened her last present.

It was a beautiful music box! Laura lifted the top and giggled when she heard the little song.

“What is this?” she asked, as she took a little card out of the box. Two ten-dollar bills fell out! There was also a little note that said:

Dear Laura,

We wanted to buy you a doll, but we didn’t know which one you would like. So this birthday we want you to get a very special doll, one that you can keep for your own little girl.

Love, Grandma and Grandpa

Laura was excited. She knew just which doll she wanted. There was one little girl doll at the toy store that she liked so very much. She looked at the money again and said, “Mom, with this money I can buy two dolls—one for me and one for my best friend Becky.”

“Maybe you should think about that a little more, Laura. Grandma and Grandpa want you to have a very special doll. Maybe you’ll find one.”

“But Mom, if I buy two of them, both Becky and I will have a special doll. She would like to have a new doll, too. The only one she has is one her sister played with.”

“Hi Laura!” called Becky. “May I see your presents?”

Becky and Laura looked at the music box and the other nice gifts.

“Becky, I’m so excited! With my birthday money I can buy two dolls, one for you and one for me. Just think of how special that will be.”

“Well, Laura, I think you should get just one doll, the prettiest one you can find. That’s your birthday money and you should use it for yourself,” said Becky. “We can take turns playing with her. I know you have a favorite doll picked out at the toy store.”

“Come on!” said Laura. “Let’s ask my mom if we can go to the store now.”

Mother agreed.

The best friends skipped along, happy to be together. They looked in the window of the toy store and saw so many wonderful toys—stuffed animals, blocks, puzzles. In one corner of the window was a beautiful baby doll just waiting for a new mother.

“Isn’t she pretty?” gasped Laura. “She must have just come in.”

“She’s adorable!” agreed Becky. “Let’s go in and see if we can hold her.”

Laura picked up the doll and cuddled her. “I’d like to take you home. I’ll call you Baby Sue.”

Laura and Becky took turns carrying Baby Sue around as the two friends looked at all the other dolls in the store. Both agreed that Baby Sue was the most special of all.

“It looks like Baby Sue is the one for you,” said Becky.

Laura smiled at the doll. “I’m going to put you back in your corner, Baby Sue. But maybe I’ll come back for you.”

“Why didn’t you buy Baby Sue, Laura?” asked Becky.

“I want to talk to my mom first,” said Laura, with a twinkle in her eye. “Come on, let’s run home.”

That night Laura and her mother talked a long time about Baby Sue and Becky.

“Mom, Becky is too kind to say she’d like a Baby Sue of her own. But I saw the look in her eye as she held her. Becky has only one worn-out doll. I just wouldn’t be happy playing with Baby Sue, even if I shared her with Becky, because I know Becky would love to have a doll of her own. I wish I could give Becky a Baby Sue … but I would like a Baby Sue, too.”

“Maybe there is a way to solve the problem,” said Mother. “I want to think about it tonight. Let’s pray about it. Now it’s time for sleep. Sweet dreams.”

Laura could see that Mother had a special surprise sparkle in her eyes the next morning but Mother wouldn’t tell her the happy secret.

“Let’s check the toy store today,” said Laura when Becky came over to play that afternoon.

Together the friends skipped to the store. They looked for Baby Sue’s corner in the window and … she wasn’t there!

“Maybe they moved her,” said Becky. “We could look inside.”

Whoosh. They opened the door and ran to the doll section. No Baby Sue!

“She’s gone! I wonder if someone bought her! What will we do now?”

Slowly the two friends walked back to Laura’s house, trying to hold back the tears.

Mother was waiting for the two friends, her eyes sparkling.

“Come in, girls. There’s a surprise in the den,” she said smiling.

“Mother, Baby Sue is gone! She’s not at the toy store!” cried Laura.

“Hmmm,” said Mother, who didn’t sound at all surprised to hear that news.

There were two packages in the corner of the den. They were exactly alike, except one said, “To Becky.” The other one said, “To Laura.”

“Unwrap them together,” Mother said.

Rustle, rustle, rustle. Then no sound at all, not even a breathing sound. Laura lifted a baby doll out of her box. Becky lifted a baby doll out of her box.

“Baby Sue!” said Laura.

“I have a Baby Sue, too!” cried Becky.

Both of the girls giggled with delight.

Now it was Mother’s turn to wipe a tear off her cheek. But it was a happy tear.

Precious Moments Bedtime Stories, Samuel J. and Jon David Butcher, Debbie Ann and Steven Craig Wiersma, ©1979, 15–25

“Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, that He said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’ ” Acts 20:35

“Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full—pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap.” Luke 6:38

Story – A Place in Your Heart

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Miss Ames, Becky’s Sabbath school teacher, had told the children in her class about Jesus. She showed them a picture of Jesus knocking at a door. The door didn’t have a latch or doorknob on the outside. That meant it had to be opened from the inside by the people who lived in the house.

Miss Ames told the children Jesus knocks at their heart’s door in the same way. Then she said that no matter how young they were, they could invite Jesus to come and live in their hearts.

Many of the boys and girls did this. Becky asked Jesus to come into her heart, too.

Yet, because she was so very young, she didn’t quite understand how this could be.

She decided she would ask Daddy. He always explained things so well.

“So that’s what has been troubling you,” Daddy said as he lifted Becky into his lap. “Well, let’s think of it this way. Do you remember when Aunt Grace and Uncle Tom adopted little Tommy?”

Becky nodded.

“Do you remember when we visited them a few months later?”

Becky nodded again.

“One of the first things Aunt Grace said was, ‘We don’t know what we would do without him. He has certainly made a big place for himself in our hearts.’ Now that didn’t mean that Timmy had crawled inside of Aunt Grace’s heart, did it?”

Becky shook her head. She was beginning to understand.

“Then what do you think it meant?”

Becky thought for a while. Then she said, “I think it meant that they loved him a whole lot.”

“That’s right,” Daddy said. “Now this question, do I have a place in your heart, Becky?”

Becky snuggled close to her Daddy.

“You know you do,” she said. Then looking at him slyly, she asked, “And do I have a place in your heart, Daddy?”

“You know you do,” Daddy told her. “You and the Lord Jesus, too.”

Have you ever wondered what it meant to give your heart to Jesus? Have you wondered what it meant to have Him come into your heart? Now you know it really means that you love Him very much.

When Jesus comes into your life, He has an important place in your heart.

“That Christ may live in your hearts by faith [believing love].” Ephesians 3:17

“God has sent the Spirit of His Son into your hearts.” Galatians 4:6

Dear Father above, once again we thank You for sending Your Son to live in our hearts. Keep our hearts clean and pure for Him. In His name we pray. Amen.

Happy Moments With God, Margaret J. Anderson, ©1962, 13, 14

Story – Ask in Faith, Nothing Wavering

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“Welcome” was the simple message read by friend or stranger when he climbed the stone steps that led to the trim cottage on Evans Lane. Everyone who knew those who lived within was aware that it wasn’t just an empty word used to grace the doormat, for many a tired, hungry wayfarer had found the hospitality of this friendly home awaiting them.

It was the bright smile of Myra Davis that most adorned the place. But the mere adornment was not its intent, for she found real joy in sharing her happiness with others. Perhaps the constant care her mother required in her illness had intensified her willingness to brighten life’s drabness in ways that only Myra could.

She it was who washed and starched the fluffy yellow curtains at the kitchen window and baked the flaky apple pies that filled the house with their aroma, which drifted down the lane each Friday morning.

She too had trimmed the shrubbery that lined the walk and trained the scarlet rambler to bend its beauty over the porch near Mother’s window.

Poor Mother, Myra thought, and she sighed as she bent to cut the grass choking the pansies. Her mother’s heart condition had been critically worse of late, but she was extremely patient when her bad spells came. If only she didn’t suffer so! Myra prayed constantly that the Lord would spare Mother pain and not take her suddenly when Myra wasn’t near to bring the relief that Dr. Thomas had provided. With good care Mother would live for years, he had told them; it was only these sudden attacks that were dangerous.

She glanced through the open window to where Mother lay, her ashen face turned toward the light. Her lips were moving, “Myra,” she was whispering, “hurry!”

Dropping the grass shears, Myra ran quickly up the steps, through the kitchen and into the adjoining room. Despite the fact that her mother’s calls had been frequent of late, she felt alarmed as she saw how unusually pale she looked now.

Without hesitation Myra began the routine to which she had become accustomed. She wheeled the oxygen tank from the closet to the bedside, and she carefully adjusted the valve after hurriedly placing the tent over the pale, gasping patient.

In a few moments she sighed in relief, for her mother’s white face had flushed slightly and she was breathing normally. Within an hour Mother had fallen asleep. The tent was removed and the tank returned to the closet.

Later, at sundown, Myra sat by the open window watching the twilight steal across the valley and listening to the woodland concert in the nearby grove of evergreens. A nightingale’s lusty notes all but drowned out the call of a whippoorwill and a brown thrush. From the distance, a great horned owl called gloomily. When the moon rose behind the hill she was still sitting there, watching its silvery beams until they found the brook below the house.

Myra’s reverie was broken by a sudden choking sound. Turning, she switched on the light. Mother was breathing with difficulty again. Quickly, Myra prepared to administer the oxygen again. Turning the handle, she waited for the familiar sound. The silence was ominous. There was no more oxygen!

Myra was terrified. What could she do? The tank had scarcely been used since it had been delivered. Surely it couldn’t have been emptied already.

She tried again. Could it be possible that by mistake the hospital had sent out a tank that was almost empty? The sufferer’s eyes sought hers.

“Just a minute, Mother,” Myra said quietly and then she turned and fled from the bedside.

“Oh heavenly Father,” Myra prayed from the corner of her room, “please help me to know what to do. Send help, Lord, for I cannot leave Mother while she is this way.”

“Mother,” she began, scarcely knowing just what she would say, and surprising herself when she finished the sentence, “you must try to manage without the oxygen for a few minutes. Try to breathe as normally as you can for a while to see if you can strengthen your respiratory system. Will you try?”

Her mother’s eyes closed, and she attempted to nod in reply.

At that moment there was a knock on the door. When Myra opened it, she found their nearest neighbor, Mrs. Parker, standing there. She was attempting to apologize for her late call when the girl all but swept her off her feet in welcome.

“Oh, Mrs. Parker, I am so glad you came. I’ve been praying that someone would! Surely you are the answer to that prayer,” and she dabbed the corner of her eye with the hem of her apron while she told the older woman what had happened.

Mrs. Parker suggested she call the police emergency squad at once, because the hospital ambulance was usually out on call. The telephone operator supplied the number, and the police promised to send immediate aid.

Myra returned to her mother’s room and knelt by the bed. The gasps were coming more quickly now. The suffering eyes looked imploringly into her own.

“Now,” the woman choked, looking at the gauge.

Calmly, Myra placed the tent in its proper position and turned on the valve. There was no sound.

“Father, all things are in Thy hands,” she prayed silently as she bowed by her mother’s side.

Suddenly a radiant glow seemed to fill the room. Was there a heavenly hand upon her shoulder? A voice whispered, “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee.”

The girl was trembling. Surely she was in the very presence of a divine being. She had done all that she could; now heaven had sent aid that no human being could give. All fear vanished, and she raised her head in grateful adoration.

The light was gone, but her mother lay resting quietly. The oxygen was flowing freely into the tent!

It was nearly half an hour later when the new supply of oxygen was brought from the local hospital and replaced the empty tank that had so miraculously provided life for Mrs. Davis.

Myra stood at the window watching Mrs. Parker disappear down the moonlit lane until she was lost in the shadows of the night.

“Surely,” she said softly, “God does work in mysterious ways His wonders to perform!”

My Favorite Prayer Stories, Joe L. Wheeler, ©2015, 160–163

Story – Being a Friend

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“Time to go!” Mom called up the stairs to the girls. Twelve-year-old Angela sighed and picked up her black and white striped backpack. They were going on a trip to Ohio. Their family was planning to move to Ohio, and they wanted to visit the church that they planned to attend there.

“What are you thinking Angela?” asked her older sister Susanne. They had been driving for a few hours and almost everyone else was sleeping.

“I’m not sure,” admitted Angela. “I think that I’m excited, but I’m also sad about leaving my friends at home.”

“Don’t worry,” said Susanne. “I wrote to one of the girls from the church there and she said there are quite a few girls your age. I’m sure you’ll find friends pretty fast.”

Angela nodded and yawned. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said.

“I think you should take a nap now,” Susanne said.

Angela yawned again. “Maybe I should.” She pulled out her pillow and was soon fast asleep.

She awoke just as Mom was getting sandwiches out of the cooler for lunch.

The afternoon passed slowly as she and her siblings played the ABC game and worked on the scavenger hunt Susanne made for them. A little before supper time, they arrived at the folks’ place where they were planning to stay for the night.

The next morning, they went to church. Angela shyly followed Mom and Susanne into the sanctuary. She saw some girls who looked about her age. After church was over, she stood next to Mom while she talked with the other ladies. As she looked around, she saw a group of girls her age gathered in the back of the sanctuary. They were talking and laughing, but none of them came and talked with her. Every once in a while, she saw them look over at her. Angela felt funny. Why didn’t they come to talk to her, she thought. She felt a little sad, standing there all alone beside Mom.

After a while, Dad was ready to go. Angela picked up her Bible and followed Mom out to the van.

“How did you like this church?” asked Dad.

“I really like it,” said Susanne.

“So do I,” said Angela’s brothers.

“What about you, Angela?” asked Dad.

Angela’s lips quivered. “I didn’t like it. The girls were all standing in the back, talking and laughing and glancing over at me, but no one came to talk to me.”

“Maybe the next time we come, I can help you make some friends,” encouraged Mom. “And always remember, when there’s a new girl in church, go talk to her. If you’re scared to, remember how you felt today.” Mom smiled at Angela.

Angela smiled back. “I’ll try,” she said.

Several years later, Angela was sitting in church beside Susanne when she saw a new family walk in and sit down. They had a girl who looked just her age. After church, Angela and her friends gathered in the back of the sanctuary like they usually did. Suddenly, Angela remembered what Mom had told her when they had visited, and no one talked to her.

“I’m going to talk to that new girl,” she told her friends. “It’s not fun to see a group of girls talking together and no one comes to talk to you.” Angela went and talked to her and pretty soon she had a new friend! Angela decided that Mom’s advice was always worth following.

The Heartbeat of the Remnant, by Marian Martin, Vol. 31, Issue 3, 16

“A man who has friends must be a friend, but there is a Friend who stays nearer than a brother.” Proverbs 18:24 NLV. You can be friendly to others so they don’t feel alone. But if you ever feel alone there is a Friend who will always be true and will never leave you, and that Friend is Jesus.

Story – Sin Stinks

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Years ago, my husband and I had two dogs, Dixie and Chuck. Neither of them were purebreds and both were rescue dogs. While Dixie was the smaller dog, she was what we call the alpha dog—the boss. Together those two got into all sorts of adventures.

Both Dixie and Chuck had been trained not to chase or harm any other animal or bird in any way, and they obeyed this directive to a tee, with one exception. For a reason known only to her, Dixie loved skunks. Being the boss, Dixie led the way in their adventures and this included the occasional run-in with the skunks that lived in the pasture around our house.

We lived in the country, about a quarter of a mile north of a section of the Chikaskia River. Dixie and Chuck loved playing in the river, which was only ever about six to eight inches deep except for a handful of times in the five or six years we lived there when it flooded.

Many Sabbath afternoons, we would take the path mowed through the waist-high grasses down to the river to watch the dogs play in the water and fetch the sticks we threw for them.

One such Sabbath, we were headed back to the house when I heard my husband say quietly to me, “Run.” I wasn’t sure that I heard him, so I said, “What?” He repeated, a bit more urgently, “Run.”

I said, “Why?” He was already backing up the path away from me and pointing behind me. I turned just in time to see a skunk emerging from the grass with Dixie headed right for it. I yelled, “Dixie! No!” But Dixie wasn’t listening. She had to meet this new friend and she ran right up to the skunk as it turned around and raised its tail. I yelled for Chuck to come, and turned to run just as Dixie’s nose went right to that skunk’s tail. And with a resounding yelp, Dixie backpedaled away from that skunk very quickly.

When surprised or feeling threatened, skunks defend themselves by spraying a foul-smelling chemical that can cause irritation, temporary blindness, violent sickness, and a runny nose. It is strong enough that it can ward off bears and other potential attackers. But here’s the part about skunk spray that made it not only bad for Dixie, but for all of us. Skunk spray and smell can travel in the air as far as 3.5 miles downwind. While the wind that day wasn’t blowing hard, it was blowing straight toward us. My husband, Chuck and I ran as fast as we could to get inside the house, leaving Dixie to fend for herself.

When things had calmed down, we went out to give Dixie what had become a regular occurrence—a bath with some special, heavy-duty shampoo supplied by our vet to remove the smell.

You know, that experience, and the many others that followed for Dixie (because she never did give up her liking for skunks), is a lot like us and sin. Because of our sinful nature, we are attracted to the devil and seem to think that he is our friend, but, my sweet children, he is not. He tempts us to do wrong and when we give in, he just tempts us again and again. And the more we give in, the more sin fills our lives and covers every part of us until we are enveloped in the stink of sin.

But, there is a remedy. Just like we were able to use that special shampoo to get that horrible smell off Dixie, Jesus can cleanse us and remove the stink of sin.

David once did some very bad things, and all he could sense of himself was the stink of sin. So he prayed, “Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. … Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.” Psalm 51:7, 10

And Revelation 7:14 tells us that God’s people won’t be stinky with sin when He comes to take them to heaven because they will have been washed clean. “These are the ones who come out of great tribulation, and washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”

I have a great many favorite songs and one of them is titled Are You Washed in the Blood? I’m sharing the words on the right.

Remember, the devil is not your friend. But if you forget or even purposely give in to his temptations and you start to stink of sin, just go to the fountain flowing with the cleansing blood of Jesus and He will wash you, clean you right up, and make you one of His children.

The next time you smell something really bad, say to yourself, “I don’t want to smell stinky with sin, so I’m going to ask Jesus to always help me to do what is right and to remember that the devil is not my friend and that sin stinks.”

 

Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing pow’r?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

 

Are you walking daily by the Saviour’s side?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

Do you rest each moment in the Crucified?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

 

Lay aside the garments that are stained with sin,

And be washed in the blood of the Lamb;

There’s a fountain flowing for the soul unclean,

O be washed in the blood of the Lamb.

Are you washed in the blood,

In the soul-cleansing blood of the Lamb?

Are your garments spotless?

Are they white as snow?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

Story – The Wrong Way

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Lisa could hardly wait. It seemed like school would never end. The last day before summer vacation always seemed like such a long day, but at last it was over, and as she hurried home from school her eyes were sparkling with excitement.

Summer vacation always meant a trip to the cottage for Lisa and her family, and this year would be no exception. Mother had been working hard all week washing, ironing, and packing for her large family, and tomorrow they would leave on the long drive to their cottage by the lake.

Lisa’s father and mother loved the Lord Jesus, and they often told their children of the love of God in sending His Son, Jesus, to die on the cross to shed His blood for their sins. They also frequently showed their love for Jesus by the kind things they did for others.

This year they had thoughtfully invited Aunt Ellen to go along with them to their cottage. Aunt Ellen had a married daughter who lived near their cottage, and they knew she would enjoy a visit with her daughter. So although Lisa’s family was large, they decided they could make room for one more in their van.

Very early the next morning the van loaded with the family plus Aunt Ellen started out on the long drive. At first everyone was excited, but as hour after hour went by, the children and their parents became drowsy in the warm van. It was then that Aunt Ellen saw a way she could be helpful.

“Let me drive for a while,” she suggested, “while you get some sleep. Then when you’ve had a nap you can drive again.”

They pulled the van over to the side of the road and changed drivers, and soon they were on their way again. Aunt Ellen was a good driver, so it wasn’t long before Lisa’s parents were sound asleep.

Aunt Ellen smiled as she drove along. She was looking forward to seeing her daughter and son-in-law, and she was thankful to have the chance to help out a bit by driving.

Suddenly she frowned. The road signs showed that she would have to make a decision in a mile or two as to which highway she should take, and she just wasn’t sure which was the right road. She glanced at Lisa’s parents; they were both sound asleep. She’d rather not waken them. So she chose what she thought was the right road, and kept on driving.

God tells us in His word, the Bible, that “there is a way which seemeth right unto a man; but the end thereof are the ways of death.” Proverbs 14:12. He also tells us in John 14:6, “Jesus saith … I am the way.” The way to what? The way to heaven. Aunt Ellen needed to know the way to the cottage, but even more importantly, we need to know the way to heaven.

Aunt Ellen kept on driving, glancing anxiously at the highway signs and hoping they were on the right road. On and on she went.

Finally Lisa’s daddy yawned, stretched and said, “Thanks, Ellen. That sleep felt good. Now I’m ready to drive again. By the way, just where are we?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “I think we’re on the right road, but I’m not positive.”

A quick check of the road map showed that not only were they on the wrong road, but they had gone miles and miles in the wrong direction. Now they would have to spend more hours getting back to the right road, and it would be late evening before they would reach the cottage. Poor Aunt Ellen. She had tried to be helpful, but she had delayed everyone by taking the wrong road.

Boys and girls, are you sure you are on the right road to heaven? Maybe you’ve been given the wrong directions. Have you been told to “Be good,” or “Do good,” or “Go to church” to get to heaven? Those roads will never lead you to heaven.

Perhaps you think you know the right way and are trying with no map and no guide to get to heaven on your own. If so, you will only end up like Lisa’s family—on the wrong road.

The Bible, tells us there is only one way to heaven, and that is through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. He said “I am the way,” and His death on the cross and His blood shed there make the way to heaven open to all of us who will accept Him. Will you accept Him and ask forgiveness for your sins today? Then you will know for sure that you are on your way to heaven.

WholesomeWords.org from Messages of God’s Love published by Bible Truth Publishers.