Children’s Story

Children’s Corner — Trapped

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When I was eight years old I lived with my family on a farm in Nebraska. My favorite time of the year was harvesttime. At harvesttime, the leaves on the trees were yellow, and the air was fresh and chilly and scented with the smell of freshly harvested grain. My brother Nathan and I loved to ride with our Dad in the big combine as he went back and forth, down the rows in the field, harvesting the corn. The golden pile of corn grew as more corn streamed into the combine’s holding bin. When that was full Dad would empty the load into a grain cart that was pulled by a tractor. From there it was moved into a large grain trailer and finally into the huge grain bin.

 

Most fun of all was when Dad would let Nathan and me play in the grain trailer full of corn. We would jump from the sides, and slide down into the corn. What fun!

 

One day, when Dad was out in the field, Nathan and I decided we were going to play in the grain trailer. This time though, the corn in the grain trailer was being augured into the grain bin, where it would be stored for the winter. That means that the corn flowed through a trap door at the bottom of the grain trailer, and was then carried up to the grain bin by a piece of equipment called an auger.

 

We were having a wonderful time, jumping into the corn, and then climbing out before the corn pulled us down very far. In and out we went for a while until we were ready for something new. My brother decided that it would be fun if, when I jumped into the corn, he would hold me there for just a minute and then pull me out. And that is what he did.

 

Unfortunately, the pull of the corn was much stronger than he had imagined. It pulled me down, and down. When he tried to pull me out, I just sunk down deeper. Very quickly I was being buried in the corn. In seconds the corn was over my waist, then it was up around my shoulders. Both of us were really scared by now. Nathan tried as hard as he could to dig me out, but the pull of the corn was too strong. I felt the corn coming up—it was right around my face. Nathan shoveled with his hands as fast as he could to keep the corn from covering up my head so that I could breathe.

 

He started calling to my Grandfather, to stop the auger, but the machines were so loud that he could not hear. We screamed as loudly as we could, and finally, after what seemed like a very long time, the auger stopped. My Grandfather quickly climbed up the ladder of the grain trailer to see what was the matter.

 

I can still remember his look of fear at that moment. He and my brother started digging me out of the corn. Now that the corn was not pulling me down anymore it was not difficult, and soon I was out, safe and sound.

 

You know, our sins are like the corn in that grain cart. The devil tempts us to do wrong, and if we sin we start sinking. We might think that a sin is so small that it will not hurt us, but each time we sin we sink a little deeper. We become trapped in a pit of sin.

 

Jesus is like my Grandfather was for me. If we accept Jesus as our Savior, and give our lives to Him, He will dig us out of the pit of sin. Not only that, He will help us to overcome, so that the devil can not drag us down anymore with sinful habits.

 

I hope that you have chosen to give your life to Jesus completely. Every morning pray to Him and ask Him to take care of you that day, and help you to say NO when the devil tempts you to do wrong. Remember this verse found in Philippians 4:13, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

 

Story Time – The Righteous Never Forsaken

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It was Saturday night, and the widow of the Pine Cottage sat by her blazing bundle of sticks, with her five tattered children by her side, endeavoring by listening to the artlessness of their prattle, to dissipate the heavy gloom that pressed upon her mind. For a year her own feeble hand had provided for her helpless family, for she had no supporter: she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world around.

But that mysterious Providence, the wisdom of whose ways is above human comprehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and her little means had become exhausted. It was now, too, mid-winter, and the snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while storms still seemed gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared amid the neighboring pines and rocked her puny mansion.

The last herring smoked upon the coals before her; it was the only article of food she possessed, and no wonder her forlorn, desolate state brought up in her lone bosom all the anxieties of a mother, when she looked upon her children. And no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she permitted the heart swellings of despair to rise, even though she knew that He whose promise is to the widow and to the orphan, cannot forget His word.

Providence had, many years before, taken from her her eldest son, who went from his forest home to try his fortune on the high seas, since which she had heard no tidings of him; and, in her latter time, had by the hand of death, deprived her of the companion and staff of her earthly pilgrimage, in the person of her husband. Yet to this hour she had been upborne; she had not only been able to provide for her little flock, but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the wants of the miserable and destitute.

The indolent may well bear with poverty, while the ability to gain sustenance remains. The individual who has but his own wants to supply, may suffer with fortitude the winter of want; his affections are not wounded, his heart not wrung. The most desolate in populous cities may hope, for charity has not quite closed her hand and heart, and shut her eyes on misery.

But the industrious mother of helpless and depending children, far from the reach of human charity, has none of these to console her. And such a one was the widow of the Pine Cottage. But as she bent over the fire and took up the last scanty remnant of food, to spread before her children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some sudden and mysterious impulse, and Cowper’s beautiful lines came uncalled across her mind:

 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust Him for His grace;

Behind a frowning Providence

He hides a smiling face.

 

The smoked herring was scarcely laid upon the table, when a gentle rap at the door and loud barking of a dog, attracted the attention of the family. The children flew to open it, and a weary traveler in tattered garments and apparently indifferent health, entered and begged a lodging and a mouthful of food. Said he, “It is now twenty-four hours since I tasted bread.” The widow’s heart bled anew as under a fresh complication of distresses, for her sympathies lingered not around her fireside. She hesitated not even now. Rest and a share of all she had she proffered to the stranger. “We shall not be forsaken,” said she, “or suffer deeper for an act of charity.”

The traveler drew near the board, but when he saw the scanty fare, he raised his eyes toward heaven with astonishment: “And is this all your store?” said he, “and a share of this do you offer to one you know not? Then never saw I charity before! But madam,” said he, continuing, “do you not wrong your children by giving a part of your last mouthful to a stranger?”

“Ah,” said the poor widow, and the teardrops gushed into her eyes as she said it, “I have a boy, a darling son, somewhere on the face of the wide world, unless heaven has taken him away, and I only act toward you, as I would that others should act toward him. God, who sent manna from heaven, can provide for us as He did for Israel. And how should I this night offend Him, if my son should be a wanderer, destitute as you, and he should have provided for him a home, even as poor as this, were I to turn you unrelieved away.”

The widow ended, and the stranger springing from his seat, clasped her in his arms: “God indeed has provided your son a home and has given him wealth to reward the goodness of his benefactress: my mother! oh my mother!” It was her long lost son, returned to her bosom from the Indies. He had chosen that disguise that he might the more completely surprise his family; and never was surprise more perfect or followed by a sweeter cup of joy.

That humble residence in the forest was exchanged for one comfortable, and indeed beautiful, in the valley. The widow lived long with her dutiful son, in the enjoyment of plenty, and in the delightful employments of virtue. And at this day the passer-by is pointed to the willow that spreads its branches above her grave.

The Moore McGuffey Readers, Book 4, 114–117.

Children’s Story – The Best Mother

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He was pruning the plants in the posh gardens of an international school. Heat and dust didn’t seem to affect him.

“Ganga Das, Principal Ma’am wants to see you–right now!”

The last two words to the peon had lots of emphasis on them, trying to make it sound like an urgency.

He quickly got up, washed and wiped his hands and headed towards the principal’s chamber.

The walk from the garden to the office seemed never ending. His heart was almost jumping out of his chest. He was trying all the permutation and combination, figuring out as to what has gone wrong that she wants to see him urgently.

He was a sincere worker and never shirked from his duties. Knock, knock!

“Madam, you called me?”

“Come inside…” uttered an authoritative voice laced with crispness which made him further nervous.

She had salt and pepper hair, tied neatly in a french knot, a designer sari-sober and very classic, glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. She pointed out towards a paper kept on the table. “Read this.”

“B…but Ma’am, I am an illiterate person. I cannot read English. Ma’am please forgive me if I have done anything wrong. Give me another chance. I am forever indebted to you for allowing my daughter to study in this school, free of cost. I could have never ever dreamt of such a life for my child.” And he broke down almost trembling.

“Hold on, you assume a lot. We allowed your daughter because she is very bright and you have been our sincere worker. Let me call a teacher in, she will read it out and translate it to you. This is written by your daughter and I want you to read this.”

Soon enough the teacher was called and she started reading it, translating each line in Hindi.

It read: “Today we are asked to write about Mother’s Day.

“I belong to a village in Bihar, a tiny village where medical and education still seem like a far fetched dream. Many women die every now and then while giving birth. My mother was one of them too, she could not even hold me in her arms. My father was the first person to hold me, or perhaps the only person.

“Everyone was sad as I was a girl and I had ‘eaten up’ my own mother. My dad was instantly asked to remarry but he refused. My grandparents forced him by giving all logical, illogical and emotional reasons but he didn’t budge.

“My grandparents wanted a grandson, they threatened him to remarry else he will be disowned. He didn’t think twice. He left everything, his acres of land, a good living, comfortable house, cattles and everything that counts for a good lifestyle in a village.

“He came to this huge city with absolutely nothing – but me in his arms. Life was tough. He worked hard day and night and raised me with tender love and utmost care.

“Now I understand why suddenly he developed a dislike for things that I would love to eat when there was only one piece left in the platter. He would say that he hates eating it and I would finish it considering that he does not like it, but as I grew older I realised the reason and what sacrifice is all about. He gave me the best possible comforts beyond his capacity.

“This school gave him a shelter, respect and the biggest gift—an admission to his daughter.

“If love and care defines a mother, then my father fits in there.

“If compassion defines a mother, my father fits in well in that category too.

“If sacrifice defines a mother, my father dominates that category.

“So, in nut shell, if a mother is made of love, care, sacrifice, and compassion,

My Father is the best mother on earth then.

“On Mother’s Day, I would like to thank my father for being the best parent on earth. I salute him and say it with pride that the hardworking gardener working in this school is my father.

“I know I may fail this test after my teacher reads this – but this would be a very small price one would pay towards an ode to the selfless love of my father. Thanks.”

There was a deafening silence in the room. One could only hear soft sobbing of Ganga Das. The harsh sun could not wet his clothes with sweat, but soft words of his daughter had soaked his chest with tears. He was standing there with hands folded. He took the paper from teacher’s hands, held it close to his heart and sobbed.

Principal got up, offered him a chair, glass of water and said something, but strangely, the crispness of her voice was taken over by a surprising warmth and sweetness.

“Ganga Das, your daughter is given 10/10 marks for this essay. This is the best essay ever written about Mother’s Day in the history of this school. We are having the Mother’s Day gala event tomorrow and the entire School Management has decided to invite you as the Chief Guest for the event.

“This is to honour all the love and sacrifice a man can do to raise his children, to show that you do not have to be a woman to be the perfect parent. And most importantly, this is to reinforce, appreciate, acknowledge the strong belief of your daughter in you to make her feel proud and to make the entire school feel proud that we have the best parent on earth, as stated by your daughter.

“You are a ‘true gardener,’ who is not only looking after the gardens, but also nurturing the most precious flower of your life in such a beautiful way. So, Ganga Das, will you be our Chief Guest for the event?”

Children’s Corner — Wigton Martyrs

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The story of the Wigton martyrs reveals so much of fiendish cruelty, that every effort has been made to throw discredit upon the story. The more it has been investigated, however, the more apparent is the fiendish cruelty. The most ardent supporter of the Covenanters today would be intensely glad if it could be proved that the Wigton martyrs were not historical. The shameful picture of human degradation presented is an everlasting disgrace to humanity.

The chief figure of the martyrdom was Margaret Wilson, a young woman of eighteen years of age, famed for her nobleness of life, kindness of heart, and sympathetic generosity all in distress.
Very early in life she became a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, and by her influence her brother and sister also became Christians.

Her father and mother attended the Episcopal Church, as by law they were compelled to do, under the death penalty, but the three children attended the field meetings held by the Covenanters.
Their youth protected them for a time from the fury of the oppressors, and their absence from the parish church was winked at. Whether it was because Mr. Wilson had a little property, or because there were few people to persecute, we cannot say, but one morning Margaret Wilson, aged eighteen, Thomas, aged sixteen, and Agnes, aged thirteen were reported by the curate as defaulters in church attendance.

“Send the dragoons after them,” said the cruel Grierson of Lagg, “and we’ll teach them their duty.”

A friendly hint was given to the Wilsons that the children were to be arrested, and a family council was held. It will surprise us to find the intelligent grasp the children had, not only of the Bible, but of the aims and objects of the Covenanters.

“We judge you not, mother, but were we to attend the curate’s church, it would be sinning against our Lord. He neither teaches the Word of God, nor does he endeavor to live it, as his drunken habits declare. To sit in his church means acknowledging all the King has done, which we cannot do. It sanctions the persecution of the poor Covenanters, whose only fault is they will worship God in as pure a manner as they possibly can. Our hearts are with these hunted men, and we will share willingly in their sufferings.”

And that night, after an affectionate farewell, the three wandered out to the moss hags in search of a hiding place from the dragoons.

When the soldiers arrived at Wilson’s house they were greatly surprised to find the children were not at home.

“Then, if you ever allow them to enter your house, or if you ever send them food, we will take you outside your own door and shoot you,” said the sergeant to the mother. “Tell me where they are hiding.”

“We know not where they are. They left here last night, preferring to endure suffering sooner than agree to the demand they felt certain you would make upon them.”

“We’ll make greater demands than ever when we find them. Let’s be after them, men.”

The dragoons searched all the caves they know, and pierced every thick bush with their sword, and traveled over the moss, but the Wilsons were safe. About a hundred soldiers in all were quartered at Mr. Wilson’s house, at great expense to him. He bore it patiently, even when they fined him. In all he lost 5000 merks.

The cave in which these noble children hid may be seen today by the curious. It has slightly altered its form through frost and rain. It has been formed been formed by two large slabs of stone, like the legs of an A, resting against each other. A small stone covers the mouth of it, and this was covered by some wild brambles and tufts of heather. It was small, wet, and necessarily uncomfortable, but here they spent the whole day, and at night searched for food.

On the death of Charles II, when the country was filled with hopes of a more lenient policy, the young Wilsons were advised by some of their Covenanting friends that they could now go safely home. They were a little timid about going to their parents’ house, and went rather to the house of a widow, about seventy years of age, named Margaret M‘Lauchlan. This woman was the other victim that sealed her testimony with her life.

Whilst at the widow’s house, Margaret Wilson met a man named Patrick Stuart, whom she know well, and who had received much kindness from her father. She inquired about her parents and others, and he gladly gave her all the news he knew. He was exceedingly attentive to her, and when he heard the story of their sufferings in the cave, he invited them to come next evening and partake of refreshments at his house. This they consented to do, trusting him, as to offer hospitality to Covenanters was a crime heavily punished.

There is a tradition to the effect that Patrick had been a suitor for the hand of Margaret, but that she gave him little encouragement. When they came to his home next evening, he renewed his offer of marriage, which she declined. He then asked her to drink to the King’s health, which she promptly refused to do. Without a word of warning or farewell he left the room, went straight to the Wigton authorities, and informed them where the Wilson children were.

Soon a company of dragoons sought them out, and the two girls were arrested and thrown into a horrible place called “The Thieves’ Hole.”

When Patrick informed on the Wilsons, partly through spite, and partly for the reward he recieved, he also informed upon the aged Margaret M‘Launchan, for entertaining the Wilsons. She was arrested soon after the two Wilsons, and thrust into prison.

Their sufferings in prison are part of the horribleness of their persecution. They were only supplied with food once a day, and that was of poor quality and quantity. They had no beds to lie upon, and lay down on the damp cell at nights. No complaint ever came from their lips, however, for they accepted all that came to them as part of the price they had to pay for their witnessing for God.

Now that they had been taken prisoners, it was found rather difficult to get a reasonable charge against them. It required little in those days, however, to be sentenced to death.

They were brought before the infamous Sir Robert Grierson, of Lagg, and charged with being at the battle of Bothwell Bridge, Ayr’s Moss, at twenty field conventicles, and a like number of house conventicles.

“We were never near Bothwell Bridge in our life,” said Margaret Wilson, “and even if we had, we were only twelve and seven years of age when that took place. We were never at Ayr’s Moss either.”

“Then you were at conventicles,” thundered Grierson.

“Yea, we have, and prefer them much to the dead preaching of the curates, whose hearts are blind. But there is nothing worthy of death in worshipping God in a pure manner on the hillside.” “Give them the abjuration oath,” shouted Grierson to an officer in Court.

By this oath the Covenanters were made to abjure a manifesto issued by the Cameronians, in which they renounced the authority of Charles Stuart, condemned the killing of those who differed in judgment, and in which they declared they would stand up for their rights as religious men and women.

All the three women refused to take this oath, as the Court expected.

“To death then, to death,” shouted that monster of iniquity, Grierson, and he then passed sentence.

“Upon the 11th of May ye shall stand to be tied to stakes fixed within the flood mark in the water of Blednock, near Wigton, where the sea flows at high water, there to be drowned.”

In the wildest moments of fear they had never expected such an inhuman sentence. The whole of Wigton was filled with excitement, and Mr. Wilson at once hurried to Edinburgh to intercede with the Privy Council on behalf of his daughters. He managed to get the youngest daughter liberated on paying a fine of 100 merks, the last of the poor man’s money.

Margaret Wilson was besieged in prison by her friends, who used all their powers to get her to take the abjuration oath. The terrible grief of her mother tried her sore, especially when the mother upbraided her for lack of obedience to her parents.

“If my father and my mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up,” she said, with tears in her eyes.

“I did not mean that,” said the mother hysterically, “but the sword hath pierced my soul. Could you not relent so far as to promise to listen to the curate, Sunday by Sunday.”

“That were to acknowledge Prelacy as right, and deny that the hill folk are right.” She was unmovable.

The widow made an appeal to the Privy Council, in which she offered to take the oath of abjuration. She appealed to her age as another reason why she should be left alone.

The Secretaries of State granted a reprieve to the two women, as the Register of the Acts of the Privy council attest, but the reprieve was never put into force. Why this was so has never been satisfactorily explained—save it be that Lagg had no wish to be cheated out of the sport it would be to him to see two women put to death in this novel and barbarous manner.

On the 11th of May, Major Windram with a troop of soldiers came to the Tolbooth of Wigton and demanded the two prisoners.

It was a beautiful May morning, and the crowds of people dressed in their best attire made it look more like a gala than a procession of death.

The sight of the two large stakes erected in the sand, one thirty yards further out than the other, took the colour from the cheeks of more than the prisoners. Women began to weep, and men began to clench their fists and grind their teeth. It required but one man to lead, and they would have torn the soldiers to pieces; but the leader was not there.

“We are called upon this day to give a worthy testimony for our Lord. He hath done us much good and no ill these years we have served Him. This day shall we behold Him in the glory of His risen power, and I do rejoice the end is so near at hand,” said Margaret to the widow, who had now become courageous. The widow was marched out to the stake nearest the sea and there tied securely. It was hoped to break the spirit of the young woman by the sight of the widow’s death. Possibly they were afraid that unless the widow was drowned speedily she would recant, and so spoil their fiendish sport.

Slowly the sea in golden crests crept along the sand and lapped the widow’s feet, as though hungering to devour her.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me,” she said quietly, and her face had a new light in it, as though the sea, gilded with the golden sun, had reminded her of the city of God.

Higher and higher came the water, and the women on the beach turned their heads away as it reached her waist, and at the same time touched the feet of Margaret Wilson.
“The Lord will this day cleave the waters of death asunder for me, and I shall behold the Lamb in his beauty,” she cried out to the weeping mob.

The water had now reached the widows neck, and Lagg and others began to make sport of her as they saw her strain her neck to keep out of the water. A wave passed over her, and the struggle of death began. Margaret Wilson saw the struggles of the widow, and her voice was raised in prayer that God would take Margaret M‘Lauchlan to Himself.

“What thinkest thou of that?” said a soldier to Wilson, pointing to the death struggles of the widow.

“What do I think! I see Christ in one of His members wrestling there. Think you that we are the sufferers? No, it is Christ in us, for He sends none a warfare upon their own charges.”
She then began to sing the 25th Psalm, and those on the beach who had lost their timidity joined her in some of the lines:

“The Lord is good and gracious,

He upright is also;

He therefore sinners will instruct

In ways that they should go.”

The sharp turning of the soldiers smartly silenced them, however.

As the water crept on towards her shoulders, she closed her eyes in prayer. Her mother rushed to the edge of the water, and besought her with tears to say, “God save the King.”
“Pray with me mother that I may not fail at the last moment,” was her reply. And her eyes closed again, and her lips moved. A great hush came over the crowd, which was only broken by the jeers of Grierson.

“God receive my spirit,” said Margaret, as the water once or twice lapped her face. There was the gasping of drowning, and, to the joy of all, a soldier rushed into the water, cut Margaret’s bonds, and brought her to the shore. The people shouted with glee, and the mother wept for joy. It was unheard of mercy, and though Margaret seemed more dead than alive, the remedies they used soon restored her to consciousness.

It was then seen that the mercy was the work of a fiend, and not of a human heart. Lagg’s sport was too soon coming to and end, and he had restored her life to torture her again. Major Windram went forward and began to test her.

“Will you pray for the King?”

I wish the salvation of all men and the damnation of none,” she answered meekly.

“Oh, Margaret, why will you throw away your life,” said her mother in terrible agony.

“Say ‘God save the King, God save the King.’”

“God save him if He will; for it is what I often have prayed for, and do pray for now.

But, mother, you do not understand these monsters.”

“Sir, my daughter hath said it, she hath said it, let her go free,” said the mother, frantically,throwing herself at the Major’s feet.

Margaret had meanwhile closed her eyes in prayer. She knew, instinctively, that they had determined on her death.

“See, my daughter is praying for the King,” said Mrs. Wilson, pointing to her daughter.

“We want none of her prayers,” said the brutal Lagg. “Tender her the abjuration oath, and, if she refuse, let her drink some more of the sea.”

“I am ready for death; I will not take the oath. I trust God may forgive you this murder before your hour of death comes. I am one of Christ’s children, and have done naught worthy of death.”

“Back to the sea, back to the sea with the hag,” cried Lagg, and two soldiers lifted her in their arms, waded in as far as they could, and then flung her headlong into the sea. They then pushed her head under the water with the butt end of their guns.

In this fiendishly cruel manner died two innocent, noble women. This crime has caused several names to stink in the nostrils of the world. Grierson of Lagg will ever be looked upon as a monster more that a man.

The story of the Wigton martyrs spread like fire over the length and breadth of Scotland, and inspired the Covenanters with joy that two of their number had been so faithful. It caused many Royalists to become friends of the Covenanters, afterwards. Three of the children of Major Windram from that hour were Covenanters in heart, and died as such.

If there was a sharpening of weapons amongst the covenaters after this, who can blame them? To defend oneself from such barbarity surely needs no excuse.

Two stones have been erected over the graves of these two women, whose bodies lie in Wigton Churchyard. The memorial in Stirling churchyard will be familiar to many of our readers. A transcription of the Wigton stones may be of interest:

“Here lies Margaret M‘Lauchlan Who was by unjust law sentenced to die by Lagg, Strachan, Windram, And Grahame, and tied to a stake for her Adherence to Scotland’s Reformation,Covenants, National, and Solemn League.”

The other one reads as follows:

“Let earth and stone still witness bear There lies a virgin–martyr here, Murdered for owning Christ supreme Head of His Church, and no more crime But not abjuring Presbytery, And her not owning Prelacy. They her condemned by unjust law; Of heaven nor hell they stood in awe. Within the sea, tied to a stake, She suffered for Christ Jesus’ sake. The actors of this cruel crime Were Lagg, Strachan, Windram, and Grahame.

Neither young years nor yet old age could stop the fury of their rage.”

Children’s Corner — From Persecutor to Persecuted, part 3

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The story up to this point: Until his teens, Philip was like many millions of children growing up in southern India. Then one day he was recruited by a radical political faction, the RSS, dedicated to eradicating all western influences from India. He became active in persecuting the local Christians when, shortly, he fell ill and developed crippling contractions of all his extremities. Every effort at finding the cure proved futile. Philip was devastated. A virtual beggar for six years, he contemplated suicide, but, at the last moment, backed out of drinking a bottle of poison. He turned to the gods of the Hindus, but they were unavailing, as was Allah of the Muslims. Finally, swallowing his pride, he went to the local Pentecostal church where the congregation prayed for him. Nothing happened then, but three months later, while praying alone in great agony of spirit, he heard a “divine” voice instructing him to “untie” his hands and let them down. Tremblingly he obeyed and was instantly cured. Shouting with joy, he jumped on a bicycle and rode home, then on to twenty-five surrounding villages, triumphantly proclaiming Jesus of the Christians, This caused a sensation and many Hindus acknowledged the true God. But his former political friends were enraged. Moved by a spirit from below, they served him an ultimatum to stop preaching Jesus or face death. Philip launched into an earnest appeal which touched the hearts of his enemies. They left him unhurt and rejoicing. The Devil retreated for awhile, but was not about to give up. His next strategy was to work through Philip’s parents. But the God of Heaven was looking after His own. The enemy of souls was about to suffer another crushing defeat.

Their attempt to kill Philip thwarted, the RSS leadership realized that another method to stop Philip from spreading Christianity had to be devised. They now turned to his parents, and with barely veiled threats coerced them into cooperation.

The elder Mr. Jagadeesan was a man of standing in the community. He was fairly wealthy by local standards and commanded much respect in the village. A staunch Hindu, he was an exemplary patron of the village temple, but his son’s conversion to Christianity was an acute embarrassment. Much as he rejoiced in the healing Philip experienced, he was nonplused by his determination to spread his new-found faith. Secretly, he wished he could learn more about his Jesus whom Philip was so enamored with, but his pride stood in the way. It would never do to let the world know he had leanings toward the foreign religion, so he covered it up with an outward bravado. He would protect his dignity at all costs. Thus when the RSS leadership strongly recommended that he rein Philip in, he was easily persuaded to comply. But he wanted to avoid offending Philip too, and decided to exercise great tact and wisdom.

“My son,” he called gently to Philip one day, “You say Jesus has healed you. I really don’t see anything wrong with that, but we’re facing a serious problem as a family. The RSS leadership is very upset that you’re preaching this Jesus to all the villages about. They have threatened to destroy us all if you don’t stop this activity. My own dignity and standing among the people are at stake. Let me suggest something. Why don’t you simply read your Bible at home, for my sake, don’t go to the different villages.”

Philip listened with head bowed respectfully. He felt a lump rising in his throat as the significance of his father’s words hit home. A titanic struggle was raging within his breast. He loved his family dearly. They were all so closely knit. It would be the greatest tragedy if anybody was hurt on account of what he was doing. He wanted so desperately to say, “Okay, Dad, I’ll do as you say.” And yet, how could he say it? Hadn’t he promised solemnly that he would proclaim the God who had healed him? But again, maybe Jesus would understand if he reneged this time. After all, it was too dangerous—not for himself, but for his beloved family. He would gladly suffer for the sake of Jesus, but why should his family face harm on his account?

Drawing aside the cosmic curtain, unseen and unsuspected by Philip and his father, one might have beheld a gripping scene, such as has been enacted innumerable times since Father Adam brought sin into the world, and arrested the attention of the unfallen universe. For a battle, as grim and terrible as any fought in the history of humankind, was in progress between the hosts of darkness and the legions of heaven. Back and forth the deadly conflict raged, depending on which direction Philip was leaning. Now the demonic forces under their evil commander appeared to succeed in engulfing him in doubt and despair. Now the white-clad angels of heaven thrust them back and restored peace and joy to his heart. Until at long last Philip made his final decision: He loved and respected his father, but he loved Jesus more. He would not disappoint his Saviour. Behind the invisible curtain one would now have seen the bright angels succeed in completely linking their arms about Philip, and heard a hallelujah song as the news of victory was transmitted across the expanse of the heavens from world to world.

Not wishing to hurt his father and appear rebellious, Philip made a noncommittal reply to the standoff. He knew deep in his heart that no human ties could ever stop him from carrying out the commission he had received form heaven. And in the days following he continued to slip out to the villages. Soon, however, the RSS got wind of his defiance and returned to ratchet up the pressure on is father.

The elder Jagadeesan was beside himself. What was he to do with Philip? He could not wish for a nicer son, but his activities were landing him in a heap of trouble. As he mused on what course to follow, a plan began to formulate in his mind. He would try one more time to appeal to Philip, and if he succeeded in stopping him from preaching, well, but if not, he would resort to a foolproof measure. This measure-of-last-resort, however, he could not divulge immediately.

The next time Philip was at home, his father again called him to himself. Then he did a most unbelievable, extraordinary thing—something in fact so rare in an Eastern patriarchal society as to be almost unheard of and probably to warrant newspaper headlines! He actually fell down on his knees and grasped Philip’s feet. “My beloved son,” He pleaded, “Have pity on your mother and me. Keep your religion to yourself, but please don’t go about preaching it. We will all perish at the hands of the RSS if you don’t listen.”

If Philip had a gargantuan struggle the first time, it was infinitely worse now. To see his dignified father humbling himself on the floor in such abject fashion was almost too much for him. He felt the lump rising in his throat again, his eyes misted over. He longed to relieve his father’s distress, but how could he do it without offending his God? If he could have looked with supernatural vision he would have noted the spiraling escalation in the conflict between the forces of good and evil over his soul. Reinforcements from both camps would have been seen rushing to aid their own sides. But Philip was riveted to the Rock, and nothing, not even his father’s agonized pleas, could shake him loose. The holy angels rejoiced at another victory.

Choked, but fighting to hold back his emotion, Philip bent over and picked his father off the floor. His hands were trembling. He tried to reassure his father that he would do all he could to preserve his honor and dignity, and to protect the family from harm. But he could not refrain from telling about his Savior who had showed such mercy to him.

The ensuing days were difficult for Philip, but his resolve was strong. Relying on divine help, he continued the preaching rounds of the villages. It was now that Father Jagadeesan decided the time had come to implement his measure-of-last-resort. He wished he didn’t have to do it, but his hand was being forced. More than mere human help was needed to change Philip’s mind. The cosmic contest was taking a decidedly more ominous turn.

A few days later, under the pretext of making a business trip, Mr. Jagadeesan left to visit the neighboring state of Kerala. He had heard of the mighty powers of the shamans (witch doctors) of that region. He intended enrolling the services of one of them to convince Philip of the error of his ways. After some haggling a price was agreed upon and Mr. Jagadeesan, with the shaman in tow, returned home. He chuckled to think of the surprised, perhaps frightened, look on Philip’s face when he would see their “guest.”

It was close to midday when the unlikely duo reached the village. The shaman lost no time in beckoning Philip to himself. The sooner he finished his job, the sooner he could collect his fees! Unloading his sack from his back, he proceeded to open it. The eyes of the onlookers nearly popped out of their heads as the articles of his trade were exposed. A human skull with empty eye sockets stared at them, grinning a hideous, toothy grin. An assortment of other human bones came to view too, as did a variety of animal horns, teeth, hair and nondescript body parts. A bottle containing a mysterious liquid added to the interesting mix. But the thing that caught the singular attention of Philip was a figurine approximately six inches tall. He could not recall ever seeing anything with such a horrible, malicious look on its face. He didn’t have to guess, he knew at once it was a representation of the Devil himself.

Drawing a circle about three feet in diameter, the shaman instructed Philip to sit cross-legged inside it near the top, while he arranged his charms in front. This done, he looked at Philip. “You have one last chance to decide that you will no longer preach Christianity,” he growled menacingly. “If you refuse, I will cast a spell on you and return you to your former crippled condition. Now make up your mind quickly.”

It was with some foreboding that Philip had watched his father come home in the company of the shaman. He felt his mouth go dry and his heart begin to race, but he gave no outward indication that he was afraid. He remembered his previous deliverances by One who was mightier than all the gods of the Hindus. Now sitting inside the sinister circle, facing the angry medicine man and his frightful charms, his response was to close his eyes. “O God,” he prayed silently, “You are the only true, living God. I am Your humble servant. This man is a fraud, a false prophet. He doesn’t know anything. Please come down and place Yourself between him and me.”

The shaman noted Philip’s response with scorn. But half afraid that he might cave in without the aid of his antics, he feigned impatience. He was anxious to demonstrate his invincible power so he could claim his reward. So without further ado, assuming correctly, that Philip’s silence was a refusal, he launched quickly into his carefully rehearsed routine. Renting the air with unintelligible incantations, he waved his arms in bizarre patterns with different objects in his hands by turn. The mysterious liquid he sprinkled over Philip and the charm on the floor. The family stood quietly around, keenly observing every detail of the proceedings, expecting any moment to see Philip’s hands and feet shrivel back into their previous withered condition. Philip remained statuesque.

For an hour the rigmarole continued unabated. But it was becoming apparent that something was not quite right. The shaman’s face was growing grimmer by the minute. Notwithstanding beads of sweat on his brow and running down his scraggly beard, his movements were becoming more energetic, the pitch of his voice more frenzied. It was clear he was doing his very best.

Another couple of hours dragged by with no hint that the gods were listening, much less acting. Now the shaman was beginning to show signs of tiring. He was not waving his arms as vigorously anymore. His voice was hoarse, body drenched in perspiration. The onlookers were growing restless. How long would this drama go on? Soon a new phenomenon became evident. The poor man began to break off in the middle of his chant to slap himself and scratch vigorously. Now it was his arms, now his belly, now his back and chest. A puzzled look came over him. Intermittently he began glancing around as if to make sure an escape route was still open. And now a nameless terror overwhelmed him. He stopped altogether.

“What’s the matter?” Mr. Jagadeesan was anxious. He wasn’t going to pay him for nothing.

“I don’t know,” the man replied in shocked disbelief. “There’s something wrong here. This fellow has a superior power. My charms are all dead, and I can’t explain this itch. I think it’s time to quit. Don’t worry about paying me, just please don’t tell anybody what happened here. I need to save my business.” So saying, he hurriedly gathered up his paraphernalia, slung the bundle onto his back and unceremoniously bolted out the door. The angels had battled mightily for four hours.

Once again Father Jagadeesan fell on his knees. “O my son,” he spoke with emotion. ‘Your God is the true God. Please pray for us. We want to follow Him too.”

This dramatic story of the Christian God was noised far and wide, bringing him praise and glory.

And Philip’s standing as His especially favored one was confirmed in the minds of the populace. Many former Hindus today can trace the beginnings of their conversion to this time when the God of heaven signally honored the faith of His humble servant. Amen.

Children’s Story – A Home for Harry

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“Home” was a strange word to little Harry; he had never known what a home was. He had lost both his parents at a very young age and had been alone in the world ever since. His whole life he had been lonely, wandering about the big city all day and sleeping at night under some bridge or archway, with no one to think about him or to care for him. He never knew about Jesus either, because there was nobody to teach him. He learned how to speak in a rough, hard way using nasty language because he had nobody to show him love or kindness. He knew only the coldness of the street, a cold which was reflected in his heart.

One day a kind old man found Harry on the street and took him home to live with his family. It felt strange for Harry to leave behind the well-known city streets and go on a long journey with this man. The old man told Harry to call him “Grandfather.” Soon the houses were left behind and Harry’s eyes began to take in all the new things he could see. There were high hills, trees, and beautiful green fields. He had never seen anything like it before and it all seemed strange and funny to him. He felt like laughing and talking, but he felt slightly afraid of the white-headed, grave old man by his side.

The daylight was already disappearing and Harry felt quite sleepy when they finally arrived at Grandfather’s little house. As he walked into his new home, he looked around and felt at once that there was something home-like and pleasant about this house. He had never known this feeling before and it felt nice.

The next morning Harry awoke in his real bed feeling refreshed, but very strange. He hardly remembered having slept in a real bed before. He heard the sound of children playing outside the window, and jumping into his few ragged clothes he was soon outside playing among them. He met a boy named Hugh who was kneeling by the well. Hugh was holding something in his hands and all the other children were looking at it. Harry moved closer to the children and saw that in Hugh’s hand was a baby swallow that appeared to have fallen out of the nest under the roof.

As Harry approached he heard a girl called Hannah say, “Grandfather says it’s a good sign that the swallows are coming back to our house. I think it shows that they know what’s good, that’s all.” Hugh laughed, saying, “So you think everybody that comes to our house must feel at home? What do you say to that Harry? Do you feel at home?”

Harry had no time to answer before a girl named Hatty interrupted clapping her hands, “Yes, yes! Jesus brought both Harry and the little swallow to us and we’ll take care of them both, won’t we, Grandfather, and make them both so happy they will always want to come back here!” Little Hatty jumped up and ran indoors very pleased at her bright idea. Harry followed slowly, dragging his feet behind the other children and feeling hot and red all over. He did not like the idea of being compared to a little outcast bird. He doubled up his fists and wanted to shout out loud that he wouldn’t stay here, that he hated them all, but suddenly he caught the sound of some words which soothed him. “Hannah,” said little Hatty under her breath, “Harry isn’t much like our little pet swallow, is he? He is so rough and untidy. But, Hannah, what pretty eyes he’s got. Do you know, I think I will like him if he likes me.”

Harry felt surprised and pleased by Hatty’s kind words. Nobody had ever told Harry that his eyes were pretty, and certainly nobody had ever offered to like him. It was a completely new idea, and a rather nice one, thought Harry. He decided that he liked Hatty, and from that day on they were great friends.

By this time Harry had begun to feel quite at home and he was as happy as could be. To his delight his cheeks became rosy and round and nobody would ever have guessed that he was not a country boy.

“The mother,” as Harry called her, took a great interest in little Harry. She taught him about Jesus. She corrected him when he said nasty words and with her help he learned to speak gently and with love. She taught him that “a soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.” Proverbs 15:1. She helped him fight to break off all of the bad habits his homeless life had taught him. He always listened to the wise words of “the mother” because he was learning about Jesus through her. As Harry grew bigger, it was a great pleasure for him to be a help to “the mother,” and sometimes her own children teased her saying that she spent more time with him than anyone else. However, the children understood that she spent more time with Harry to give him the love and guidance he needed to forget the old ways he had learned on the streets. In this way, Harry lived happily among this family until he went off to make his way in the world.

The years passed by and many changes had taken place. The old house where Harry grew up, however, looked much the same, and the swallows twittered about, building their nests under the thatch as they used to do. Hatty had grown into a beautiful young woman and she loved to be outside in the garden listening to the sound of the birds. One day as she watched the swallows building their nest, she caught sight of a tall, handsome soldier walking up the hill to the house. He seemed familiar, and straining her eyes against the sun, she recognized the grown-up face of little Harry. He had come back from the war! How they all welcomed him with open arms and smiling faces. Everyone was so happy to see him. Harry had never forgotten the love they had given him when he needed it most and he remembered where his “home” was. He was so happy that Jesus had given him a home with a family that loved him.

Harry and the family had a lot of time to catch up on, and they spent a long night sitting together and reminiscing on old times. Harry reminded Hatty of the spring evening many years before when she had offered him her friendship, saying that they would make the swallows and a certain little homeless boy happy in their home and always welcome them home when they wanted to come back. Now Harry was back.

Harry grew up to be a nice young man because somebody had cared enough to bring him to their home, show him the love of a family and teach him about Jesus. It changed his life and made a difference in the lives of that little family also. When we offer a kind hand to somebody in need, we are doing what Jesus would do. “Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? When thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?” Isaiah 58:7. Little Harry found a loving home and learned the meaning of kindness because someone followed the words of Jesus.

Unknown Author

Children’s Story – The Waterlogged Canoe

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Jason lived on a farm near a lake. He loved the water and the green corn fields that grew right up to its very edge. He loved to hear the stories his dad told about the country where the farm was located. He learned that long before his grandfather and grandmother had settled on the farm, Indians had camped along the lake shore. Jason knew that was true because he had found many Indian relics on the farm. He had found sharp pointed arrowheads. He had found what was left of stone tomahawks. He had also found beads and broken pieces of Indian dishes.

Many people weren’t able to find Indian beads and pieces of pottery. But Jason had trained his eyes so that when he walked along a corn row his eyes would spot them right away. When he walked along the lake shore he could tell when the sun shone on a stone whether it was an arrow tip or just a flat piece of stone.

One day as Jason walked along the side of the lake he made a strange discovery. The lake was crystal clear. Jason could see the bottom without any trouble at all. He saw the reeds that grew among the stones. He saw minnows dart back and forth between the reeds. Suddenly he stopped. What was that? he asked himself. It couldn’t be, but it surely looked like a canoe. It was—a dugout canoe like those used by Indians long ago.

Jason ran to tell his dad. Dad called neighbor Browne to come along.

After a lot of tugging and prying the canoe was loosened so it could be pulled to shore. It wasn’t at all like the canoes we see today. It was really a log that had been scooped out to make a boat.

“Do you think it will float?” Jason wanted to know.

“I’m afraid not,” Dad answered. “You see it’s been soaked with water so long its wood is soft and spongy. I don’t think it would ever dry out enough so it could float. When something gets soaked like that we say it is waterlogged. But I believe the state museum would be interested in seeing it.”

That’s where the canoe finally landed. And Jason was glad because then many people could see how the Indians made their canoes.

And he’d almost forgotten he had ever found it until one day he heard his minister say that some Christians didn’t do much for the Lord because they were waterlogged with things of this world. Then Jason thought about the canoe. It sank because it was waterlogged. No doubt people would sink, too, if they were waterlogged with sin.

How can a person be waterlogged with things of the world? A canoe is meant to ride on top of the water. It is not meant to be filled with water. In the same way Christians are meant to live in the world but not to let the world fill them. What are the things you must be careful not to let become a part of your life?

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8).

We thank You, dear God, because You have taught us to walk in the world without being a part of it. Show us the dangers we face as we go through life. Help us to keep our hearts and minds pure and clean that we might serve You as we should. Help us to choose which things to watch, which friends to make, which books to read. Don’t let us become waterlogged by sin. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

Happy Moments With God, Copyright 1962, Margaret Anderson, 166, 167.

Children’s Story – A Companion in Trouble

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John Jones, a minister, was traveling on horseback through a desolate region in northern Wales. He happened to see a rough looking man, armed with a big hook-type weapon, following him on the other side of a hedge. John was a little concerned because he was carrying a bag of money which he had collected for a church building. He knew the gate was coming up. He also knew that he had to get off his horse to open that gate. It looked like that rough looking man was planning to get to the gate at the same time he did. This was a very dangerous situation. He was not only concerned for the church’s money but also for his life.

John knew there was only One who could help him at a time like this. John stopped his horse, and bowed his head to pray for special help and protection. While his head was bowed and he was praying, the horse all of a sudden became very stubborn and refused to go on. John looked up after a moment of silent prayer to see what was wrong with his horse. At that very moment there was another horseman beside him on a white horse. John was surprised but very happy to have a companion at this time of life-threatening trouble. Here is how John described what happened:

“I told the stranger the dangerous position in which I had been placed, and how relieved I felt by his sudden appearance. He made no reply; and on looking at his face, I saw that he was intently gazing in the direction of the gate. I followed his gaze and saw the rough looking man emerge from his hiding place, and run across a field to our left. He had evidently seen that I was no longer alone, and had given up his intended plan to rob me.

“Now that all the danger was gone, I tried to talk with my new companion, but again he would not reply. Not a word did he say. I continued talking, however, as we rode toward the gate, though I utterly failed to see any reason why he did not answer me, and indeed felt rather hurt at his silence. Only once did I hear his voice. Having watched the thief disappear over the brow of a neighboring hill, I turned to my companion, and said, ‘I cannot doubt for a moment that my prayer was heard, and that you were sent for my deliverance by the Lord.’ Then the horseman uttered the single word, ‘Amen.’ Not another word did he speak, though I continued trying to get from him replies to my questions.

“We were now approaching the gate. I hurried off my horse for the purpose of opening the gate, and having done so, I waited for my companion to pass through. He came not. I turned my head to look for him—he was gone! I was dumbfounded. I looked back in the direction from which we had just been riding. He was not there. He could not have gone through the gate, nor have made his horse leap the high hedges which on both sides shut in the road. Where was he? Could it be possible that I had seen no man or horse at all, and the vision was from my imagination? I tried hard to convince myself that this was the case, but in vain; for unless someone had been with me, why had the evil man, with his murderous looking sickle, hurried away? I wondered, who could my companion have been?

“Then a feeling of profound awe came over me. I suddenly remembered how he had suddenly appeared. I remembered his silence except for the single word he spoke when I spoke of the Lord. He said ‘Amen.’ I then knew that my prayer had been heard and that God had sent to me a helper in my time of trouble. At that moment, I got off my horse and knelt on the side of the road and offered up a prayer of thankfulness to God who had sent to me a companion and had preserved me from danger.”

“The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.” Psalm 34:7.

Children’s Story – Do You Trust Jesus?

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John and Charles Wesley were brothers and both, after being ordained to the ministry, were sent on a mission to America. On board the ship was a company of Moravians. A violent storm was encountered on the passage one day which threatened the ship. Worship was being conducted at the time and John Wesley was brought face to face with death. He was afraid, and felt that he had not the assurance of peace with God. The Germans, on the contrary, manifested a calmness and trust to which he was a stranger.

“ ‘I had long before,’ he says, ‘observed the great seriousness of their behavior. Of their humility they had given continual proof, by performing those servile offices for the other passengers which none of the English would undertake; for which they desired and would receive no pay, saying, it was good for their proud hearts, and their loving Saviour had done more for them. And every day had given them occasion of showing a meekness which no injury could move. If they were pushed, struck, or thrown down, they rose again and went away; but no complaint was found in their mouth. There was now an opportunity of trying whether they were delivered from the spirit of fear, as well as from that of pride, anger, and revenge. In the midst of the psalm wherewith their service began, the sea broke over, split the mainsail in pieces, covered the ship, and poured in between the deck as if the great deep had already swallowed us up. A terrible screaming began among the English. The Germans calmly sung on. I asked one of them afterward, ‘Were you not afraid?’ He answered, ‘I thank God, no.’ I asked, ‘But were not your women and children afraid?’ He replied mildly, ‘No; our women and children are not afraid to die.’ ” The Great Controversy, 255.

The Moravian pastor asked John Wesley, “Do you know Jesus Christ?” John replied, “I know that He is the Saviour of the world.” At that time Wesley did not have as strong a faith in Jesus as the Moravians did. They stayed calm, trusting in Jesus through the storm. John Wesley wanted this same kind of faith that kept the Moravians calm through the storm so he decided to spend a short time with them and was deeply impressed with their Christlike behavior.

Mark 4:37–40 tells the story of Jesus and His disciples while in a boat on the Sea of Galilee. Jesus was so tired that he fell asleep on a pillow. A great storm came up and the terrified disciples, forgetting Jesus was asleep in the back of the boat, were afraid. They feared they would sink because of the water overflowing the sides of the boat. In their distress they woke Him and asked if He really cared whether or not they perished, a question reflecting their lack of faith at that time. Jesus was not afraid. He trusted in His Father for the outcome. Jesus told the storm to “be still,” and the sea became very still. He then asked the disciples why they had no faith, why they did not trust Him.

With similar faith, the Moravians continued their singing through the storm because of their trust. At times we all have storms in our lives. A small boy, struggling with the new experience of his first day at school, called home to talk with his mother. He was angry and afraid and was too upset to speak when his mother answered the call. Not hearing anything from the other end of the line, his mother said, “Hello, who is this?” The little boy burst into tears as he said, “Mom, this is Timmy. Have you forgotten me already?”

As time moved on John Wesley’s faith grew. “Again and again did John Wesley escape death by a miracle of God’s mercy. When the rage of the mob was excited against him, and there seemed no way of escape, an angel in human form came to his side, the mob fell back, and the servant of Christ passed in safety from the place of danger.

“Of his deliverance from the enraged mob upon one of these occasions, Wesley said: ‘Many endeavored to throw me down while we were going downhill on a slippery path to the town; as well judging that if I were once on the ground, I should hardly rise any more. But I made no stumble at all, nor the least slip, till I was entirely out of their hands. Although many strove to lay hold on my collar or clothes, to pull me down, they could not fasten at all; only one got fast hold of the flap of my waistcoat, which was soon left in his hand; the other flap, in the pocket of which was a bank-note, was torn but half off. A lusty man just behind, struck at me several times, with a large oaken stick; with which if he had struck me once on the back part of my head, it would have saved him further trouble. But every time the blow was turned aside, I know not how; for I could not move the right hand nor the left. Another came rushing through the press, and raising his arm to strike, on a sudden let it drop, and only stroked my head, saying, ‘What soft hair he has.’ . . . The very first men whose hearts were turned were the heroes of the town, the captains of the rabble on all occasions, one of them having been a prize fighter at the bear garden.’ ” Ibid., 258, 259.

Timmy’s mother did not forget her little boy, just like Jesus never forgot His disciples during the storm or John Wesley and all of the people on that boat in the middle of the storm. Jesus said, “I am with you always (Matthew 28:20).” Just believe and trust Him.

Children’s Story – Grandmother’s Hands

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“Today I’m giving you an unusual homework assignment,” the teacher said. “Sunday morning you must get up early and write down everything that your mother’s hands do during that day. Then draw a picture of her hands.”

Nicky’s mother had passed away and her grandmother had come to live with her and her father, so she decided to use her grandmother’s hands for her assignment.

Nicky asked her grandmother to put her hands on a sheet of paper so she could draw around them. They were so old and wrinkled and Nicky could not help but notice the comparison when she looked at her own slim, pink fingers. Why didn’t the teacher ask us to draw an artist’s hands, or even our own hands? She thought there was nothing beautiful about grandmother’s hands.

Grandmother spent the whole weekend cooking, washing and ironing and Nicky’s hands got tired of writing everything that grandmother did. Her chores were boring, and Nicky said to her, “Grandmother, sing me a song or play the piano. Remember how you played it on Dad’s birthday?”

“I don’t have time, dear. I still have to clean your shoes and help you get ready for school,” grandmother smiled.

All day Sunday Nicky was busy watching grandmother’s hands. On Monday, the teacher said, “Well done, Nicky. You wrote more than anyone else. Please read us what your grandmother did on Sunday.”

Nicky started to read loud and clear.

“My Grandmother prepared breakfast, ironed my dress and braided some blue hair ribbons. Then she made me a mug of hot chocolate and some pancakes. She washed the dishes and put new covers on my books.”

A few children laughed and someone shouted out: “What class is your grandmother in?” “Does she still wear ribbons in her hair?” said someone else.

Nicky turned red, but she continued to read. “Grandmother made the bed and carefully laid out my dolls on the bedspread. I like all my dolls to sit on the bed during the day.”

“Your grandmother plays with dolls!” the children laughed.

“Be quiet everyone,” the teacher said. “Please go on, Nicky.”

“Grandmother sharpened my coloring pencils because we have drawing class today.”

The children started to laugh again, and the teacher said, “Good, Nicky. Your grandmother must be very busy if she does all your chores as well as her own.”

Nicky went home feeling upset and, as she walked into the house, she announced, “Grandmother, it’s not fair. You do everything for me. Starting today, I’m going to do all my chores myself.”

Grandmother said nothing, and simply sighed sadly. Nicky put down her school bag and decided to sew on the button which had come off her coat. She pricked her finger and the thread got all tangled in the needle, but she did manage to sew on the button. Feeling upset, Nicky tried to cook dinner, but she burnt her patties and then broke her favorite plate as she tried to wash it up afterwards.

For the first time in her life, Nicky went to bed without doing her homework. She was so tired that she couldn’t even begin to write. Before she fell asleep, Nicky looked at grandmother’s hands and said, “Grandmother, your hands are so old, but they do everything so quickly and so well. They must know some sort of secret.” “Of course they do, dear, but they can’t tell you. Let’s swap hands and you can find out what the secret is,” grandmother replied.

“What do you mean, grandmother? That’s impossible!” Nicky said grinning while secretly thinking that she wouldn’t like to swap her delicate pink hands for her grandmother’s dark, wrinkled ones anyway.

Nicky went to bed so tired that she tossed and turned all night dreaming.  She woke up an hour earlier than usual. Instead of lounging around in bed, she jumped up and discovered with horror that she had grandmother’s wrinkled hands. She was about to burst into tears, but then realized that there was no time to cry. She had to wash up and then prepare breakfast for everyone, clean daddy’s coat, finish her homework and then do a million more things.

Before Nicky even had time to think about what she had to do, her hands quickly began to complete one task after another.

But when her hands tried to put some unfinished sewing into her school bag so that they could finish it at break time, Nicky resisted, thinking that break time is for relaxing! But her hands wanted to stay busy at all times. So Nicky was really having a battle with her grandmother’s hands. All of a sudden she heard a familiar voice.

“Time to get up, dear,” said grandmother’s kind voice, and Nicky woke with a start. She was so relieved that having grandmother’s hands had all just been a dream. She climbed out of bed, got dressed and ran to the kitchen.

A delicious breakfast was waiting for her on the table. Her school book was packed up in her bag with her homework completed. Nicky took hold of her grandmother’s hands and squeezed them tight and said, “Grandmother, you have the best hands in the whole wide world. I want mine to be just the same. From now on I’m going to help you in everything you do.”

Nicky was true to her word and from that time forward she helped out wherever she was able. There were times she would rather have played or done something she enjoyed, but she was glad to be of help to her grandmother. She even found that the more she helped, the happier she was and that she always found time for her personal activities. Her respect and love for her grandmother grew day by day.

Draw your grandmother’s, mother’s or father’s hands and write down everything they do in one day. How often have your parents or others shown self-denial and self-forgetfulness in caring and doing for you? Remember to be cheerful and bring some sunshine into your home as a thank you to your parents for all that they do for you. Give them a helping hand and you will find that you will be much happier as was Nicky when she helped each day wherever she could.

There is a good reason why God has told us to “honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” Exodus 20:12.