Children’s Story

Children Story – Christ Our Refuge

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There were six cities in the land of Canaan which were set apart as places of refuge, to which a man might flee if he had, either by accident or design, killed another. These cities were easy of access. Three were on the west side of the river Jordan, and three on the east side. Every year the roads leading to them were examined, to see that they were in good condition, and that there was nothing in the way to stop the man-slayer as he was running from his pursuer. At different points there were guide-boards, and on them were written, REFUGE! REFUGE!

If any man by accident killed another, and reached one of these cities before his pursuer, he was allowed to stay there until the death of the high-priest who was then living. But if in anger a man had purposely killed another, then, although he sought refuge in one of these cities, he was given up to the avenger of blood to be slain. You will find more about these cities and their names if you will read the thirty-fifth chapter of Numbers, the nineteenth chapter of Deuteronomy, and the twentieth chapter of Joshua.

But what interest can boys and girls and all older persons have in these cities?

I will try to tell you. God has different ways of teaching. A great many things about which we read in the Old Testament are what is called types. A type, in scripture language, means a pattern or a likeness to a person who is to come, or to an event which is to take place. It is supposed to point forward to something more valuable than itself. Thus, for example, the blood of the lamb which was slain on the Jewish altar was type or a foreshadowing of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ for our salvation. Hence John the Baptist pointing to the Saviour, said to His disciples, “Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world” (John 1:29). The paschal lamb, which was slain to commemorate the deliverance of the Jews from the bondage of Egypt, and the lamb which was offered daily, both morning and evening, in the service of the temple, were representations of the greater sacrifice which Christ came from heaven to make for our salvation.

So the land of Canaan was a type of heaven. The lifting up of the brazen serpent on a pole was a type of our Saviour’s crucifixion; and the cities of refuge were a beautiful type of Jesus Christ, who is the sinner’s refuge.

You know, my dear children, that we have all sinned, and that we all need a place of safety. The avenger says, “Thou shalt surely die.” Escape for thy life. But that we may not die eternally, God has given us the Bible as our guide-board; and the Bible is constantly pointing to Jesus Christ as the sinner’s refuge. He is our hiding-place. It is to Him Isaiah refers when he says, “And a man shall be as a hiding-place from the wind, and a cover from the tempest; as rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land” (Isaiah 32:2).

The way to our city of refuge is plain. “I am the way” (John 14:6), is the Saviour’s own direction. The gate is always open, and the assurance is, “Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out” (John 6:37).

I want you to remember, dear children, that it is a great deal easier to run to this city of refuge when you are young, than it will be if you put it off until you are older. The promise of the Saviour is, “Those that seek Me early shall find Me” (Proverbs 8:17). Will you not flee to Jesus as your hiding-place? Will you not seek Him when He may be found? How sad it will be if you neglect to do so. You will need a refuge when the tempest of God’s judgments shall burst upon the wicked. Oh, then how glad you will be if you can say, as David said of his trust in God, “Thou art my hiding-place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance” (Psalm 32:7).

Sabbath Readings for the Home Circle, vol. 1, 148–151.

Children’s Story – Hands Across the Wheat Field

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The wheat stood bright and golden in the big field, and Peter liked to watch as puffs of wind blew across it. “It waves, Father, just like water!” he exclaimed.

Peter’s father smiled and put his rough hand on the boy’s fair head. “Yes, it does, son. And tomorrow the machines will start rolling through it.”

Peter knew what machines his father meant. They were the big combines that went around and around the field. They harvested the grain from the growing stalks of wheat and dumped it in trucks to be hauled to the market in town.

The wheat crop had been good this year in Argentina, the country where Peter and his family lived, and Peter had had lots of fun playing in the field. Now, in a way, he was a little sad to think that he wouldn’t be able to see the grain waving in the wind much longer. If the combines started in the morning, most likely by evening the whole field would be harvested.

“I’ll miss the wheat, Father,” Peter mourned.

Father smiled and nodded his head. “I guess I will too. But it is harvesttime. You know the Bible tells us that there is a time to sow and a time to harvest. We sowed the wheat at the right time, and it grew green and tall. After many weeks the wind and rain made it ripen. Now it is ready to be harvested. If it stands too long, the wheat stems will weaken and fall. Then we will lose the grain.”

Quietly Peter listened to his father, then he smiled too. He knew that his parents needed the money the wheat would bring to help them live through the coming winter. Slowly Peter reached out and took his father’s hand. “I’m glad it is harvest time,” he said.

Father squeezed Peter’s hand tightly in his. “I’m glad it is too.”

Early the next morning Peter and his small sister, Rosita, went outside to watch for the big combines to come down the road from town. The sky was clear and bright and the sun rose higher and higher. A long time passed, but the combines did not come.

Rosita grew restless. “Let’s do something else,” she begged. “I’m tired of watching for the ‘bines.”

Peter laughed. “All right. Why don’t we chase butterflies for a change? I just saw one fly into the wheat field.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Rosita happily. “I see one right now.”

Away she ran toward the house as fast as her chubby little legs would carry her, following the pretty butterfly. For a few seconds Peter watched her. Then he saw a big beautiful butterfly of many colors flitting past and began a chase of his own.

Just how long Peter chased butterflies he didn’t know. He soon lost the big butterfly, but he saw others of all colors and sizes. He forgot about Rosita. And he forgot about the combines, too, until he heard them coming down the road.

“Rosita!” he shouted at his little sister, starting back toward the house. “Here comes the combines!”

But Rosita didn’t answer. Mother heard Peter and came out on the porch.

“Rosita isn’t with me,” Mother said. “I thought she went out with you to watch for the combines.”

“She did,” Peter explained, “but we began chasing butterflies. I saw her chase one toward the house.”

Peter saw his father coming from the barn, and he ran to meet him. “Father, is Rosita at the barn?” he called.

“No,” Father answered in a puzzled voice. “I thought she was with you.”

Peter wanted to cry. “She was,” he explained again, “but we began chasing butterflies, and now I don’t know where she is.”

Father looked worried, but he patted Peter’s shoulder. “We’ll find her,” he comforted. “I’ll tell the men not to start the combines. Rosita may be in the wheat field.”

With a sinking heart Peter stared across the acres and acres of waving grain. How would they ever find his little sister in such a big field?

But Father had a plan. Mother and Peter would join hands and walk across the field. “We will walk and call until we reach the back side,” Father explained. “Then we will turn and walk back again. That way we won’t miss any ground. Rosita may have sat down somewhere to rest and fallen asleep. If she had, she won’t hear us call. If we don’t join hands, in this tall wheat we may miss her.”

The men thought the plan was a good one. As they all lined up and joined hands, Father prayed and asked for Jesus’ help.

When the prayer was over, Peter took Father’s hand and looked around for someone else’s hand. But there was no one else. He was on the end of the line.

Father looked down at Peter and said softly, “Just take hold of Jesus’ hand, son. He will help us find Rosita.”

As they began moving across the field Peter almost felt that Jesus was holding his hand. The wheat was very tall. It was over his head in places, but somehow it wasn’t hard to walk through.

All up and down the line Peter could hear the men calling Rosita’s name. Mother and Father called too. Peter didn’t call. He had to keep up with his father, who could take long steps.

All at once Peter pulled his hand from Father’s and began to run through the wheat field. When he was a little way ahead of the others, he stopped and knelt down and prayed. He could hear Father calling him to come back before he got lost too. But when he had finished praying, he got up and ran in another direction. Something seemed to tell him to keep going. On and on he ran.

Then suddenly he stopped and stood still. Right in front of him was Rosita. She was fast asleep, her head pillowed on a little pile of wheat stalks.

“Father!” Peter shouted as loudly as he could. “Father, here’s Rosita. I’ve found her!”

When Father came, Rosita woke up and rubbed her eyes. “I got losted,” she sniffled. “I called and called, but no one knew where I was.”

Peter reached out and took her hand. “Jesus knew where you were,” he told her. “He helped me find you. Father told me to take Jesus’ hand when we joined hands to look for you, and Jesus told me what to do.”

By this time the others who had been looking for Rosita came up to where she was. They heard what Peter said. One of the men smiled at him and said, “Son, I think Jesus really did take your hand. I think He led you right to your little sister.”

Peter smiled back at the man. He thought that Jesus had too. In fact, he was certain that Jesus had stretched His hand across the whole wheat field!

Heaven, Please! Helena Welch, 10–15.

Children’s Story – Mr. Rui’s Sabbath

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Down in Brazil there lived a poor man named Rui. He was a humble water carrier, and he was so poor that he even had to borrow the can in which he carried water. Then he heard about the Seventh-day Sabbath and decided to keep it. Although he was earning hardly enough money to buy food for his family, Rui decided to pay tithe. His faithfulness to God made him faithful and honest and happy in his work. Soon he had so many customers that he bought his own water can and began to save a little each week in a small bank on the kitchen shelf. Soon it was full, and he bought a little donkey. Soon the bank was full again, and he bought another donkey. He taught his older son to help him in the water business. Soon the bank was full again, and Rui bought a store, and turned the water business over to his son.

After the sun sets on the evening after Sabbath, he puts up a sign that says, “First day of the market.” Sunday evening he puts up another sign: “Second day of the market”; and so on till Friday evening when he puts up the sign “Sabbath.” Then he closes his store, and as the sun sets he gathers his family and they all sing as the Sabbath begins. Since there are mother and father and thirteen children in the family, the whole village knows when Sabbath begins. Pastor Baerg was spending the weekend with Mr. Rui’s family not long ago, and since they were all ready, Pastor Baerg suggested they begin to sing. “No, no, Pastor,” said Mr. Rui, “if we sing now, it will throw the village folks out of time, for we always sing at a certain time, and the village folks set their clocks and watches by our Sabbath songs.” No wonder God blessed Mr. Rui and his family! No wonder Isaiah says, “Blessed is the man that doeth this, … that keepeth the Sabbath from polluting it, and keepeth his hand from doing any evil” (Isaiah 56:2).

“The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath” (Mark 2:27).

Make God First, Mrs. John Baerg/Eric B. Hare, 267.

Children’s Story – The Worth of a Smile

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How much is a smile worth? A penny? A quarter? A hundred dollars?

Well, it’s worth something, isn’t it?

It surely is, but somehow you could never fix a price for a smile, could you? To do so would spoil its value at once.

Yet sometimes a smile is very valuable. What gives a smile its value? Its beauty? Its friendliness? Its sincerity? Or is it the effect it has upon another?

Many years ago there lived on one of the very poor streets of New York a little girl called Hannah. She was 11 years old and her cheerful little face often brought gladness to sad people who saw her on the street.

One day Hannah went to a children’s program at a nearby church. She had been there many times before to attend meetings of various kinds; but this time she was to take part in a program herself. You can imagine how pleased she was about it.

Now, it so happened that in the audience that afternoon was a well-known doctor, one of the supporters of that church. Whether or not he was feeling lonely or sad that day will never be known, but somehow as he looked at Hannah’s dear little face, his heart was touched. Then she turned and looked straight at him and smiled! He thought he had never seen anything so lovely before. He left the hall a happier and better man.

And he never forgot that smile. It lived with him every day until he died.

When his will was read, his executors were astonished to learn that he had left all his money—and he was a very rich man—not to any relatives, for he had none; not to any hospital, as he might have done, but, using his own words, “to those who have given me happiness during my lifetime.”

On the list was Hannah’s name, the little girl who had smiled at him in the church program twenty years before. He left her $150,000!

Think of that—$150,000 for a smile!

I can almost hear you saying, “I wish my smiles were worth as much as that.” They are! But not in money.

Think of the happiness they bring to Mother and Father. Your smiles help them bear their burdens more easily, and make them live longer, too. Isn’t that worth something?

Smiles make the wheels of a home move so much more smoothly, while frowns and scowls and pouts are like sand and gravel thrown into the works.

Who does not love the boy or girl who smiles when things go wrong—when other children annoy them or they are hurt while playing games? Such smiles are worth much more than money.

Suppose you smile someday at someone who is very sad and discouraged, and make him smile, too; what is that worth? You may never know, but it may mean everything to him—the turning of a corner on life’s dark and lonely road. And there are lots of people today like this, people who have given up hope that anybody will smile at them again.

As the familiar hymn says–

“There are hearts that are drooping in sorrow today,
There are souls under shadow the while;
Oh, the comfort from God you can gently convey,
And brighten the way with a smile!
O brighten the way with a smile,
Yes, brighten the way with a smile;
Someone’s dreariest day you can gently beguile,
And brighten the way with a smile!”
   William C. Martin, 1904.

Won’t you try to see how much good you can do with your smiles? You will be repaid in happiness untold.

The Storybook, Character Building Stories for Children, 68–71.

Children’s Story – Pansy Faces

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What I liked most about living in our little brown house was that we were near my Grandpa Willie’s family and near my great-grandma Ellen White. If I walked out our front gate and turned to the right, it took about five minutes to walk up the hill to Grandpa Willie’s big white house. But if I went out the gate and turned left, I could walk across the wooden bridge over the creek, past the big barn, and in only three or four minutes, I could be at Grandma Ellen’s house. She named it Elmshaven.

One morning, my mother helped me pick a handful of our prettiest pansies from our flower garden. Then she let me take them to Grandma Ellen and visit her all by myself. I felt very grown up. Auntie Sara, who lived with Grandma Ellen and helped take care of her, opened the door for me. Sara McEnterfer wasn’t really our aunt, but that’s what we all called her. She let me go through the front room and up the beautiful red-carpeted stairs. At the top of the stairs, I ran down the long hall and into Grandma’s writing room.

When Grandma Ellen saw me, her face turned into one big smile. She pushed her flat writing board to the side of her chair and held out her arms. I ran straight into them.

Grandma Ellen spent time every day writing down the things God showed her and told her. She was a messenger for God. He gave her wonderful dreams called visions. Sometimes, angels came and spoke to her.

This morning, she hugged me tightly and thanked me as she took the flowers from my grimy little hand. She smiled like I had given her the biggest bouquet of flowers from a real flower shop!

“Look at all these smiling pansy faces!” Grandma Ellen said with a laugh. “That’s why pansies are one of my favorite flowers. They make me happy. Look, Mabel! Every pansy is smiling at you.”

I had never thought of pansies having faces. Suddenly, I could see their faces too!

“Mabel,” Grandma Ellen said, “point to a pansy face that looks sad or mean.”

I looked carefully at each flower. “Grandma, there are no sad faces. Every pansy is smiling.”

Grandma Ellen smiled. “That’s why I like pansies. They make me happy, because they are happy.” She pulled me closer. “Jesus wants us to be like pansies. He wants us to bring happiness to everyone around us.”

I liked talking with my Grandma Ellen. “Mabel,” she asked, “do you know what pansies do the very first thing in the morning?”

I shook my head. “No. What do they do?”

“The first thing a pansy does in the morning is turn its face toward the sun,” she said. “It needs light and warmth to make it grow. All day long, that pansy keeps its face toward the sun as the sun slowly crosses the sky. Then when the sun sets and it gets dark, the pansy rests all night, trusting that the sun will wake it up again the next morning.”

“Mabel, Jesus wants us to be like pansies,” she said. “He keeps us safe all night and wakes us up in the morning. Jesus is our bright, warm, loving Sun. ‘Thank You, dear Jesus,’ we say when we wake up and think about Him. ‘Thank You for Your love and care. I give myself to You this morning. Help me be happy and obedient all day.’ ”

Grandma squeezed my hand. “All your life, Mabel, remember to talk with Jesus the moment you wake up and start a new day. Ask Jesus to be with you all that day. He loves you so much that He will never leave you. If you’re tempted to do something wrong, remember that He is only a whisper away. You can say, ‘Dear Jesus, please help me to be true and loyal to You.’ Never forget, Mabel, that He can even hear the prayers you whisper in your own mind.”

And I have remembered what my Grandma Ellen told me that day. It was more than eighty years ago now, but whenever I see a pansy, I remember to smile. And I have learned that during the years of my life what Grandma Ellen said is true. If I talk to my Heavenly Father when I first wake up, and ask Him to help me do the right things through the day, He always does. He helps me grow more and more like Jesus.

Grandma Ellen and Me, Mabel R. Miller, 13–17.

Children’s Story – Saved from a Panther

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Did you know that some wild beasts will not attack a person who is singing? That is really a fact, as you will find by reading this true story. The story tells how God heard the prayer of two little girls, and protected them from a panther when they were walking home through the woods one evening in Pennsylvania.

Near the summit of a mountain in Pennsylvania was a small place called Honeyville. It consisted of two log houses, two shanties, a rickety old barn, and a small shed, surrounded by a few acres of cleared land. In one of these houses lived a family of seven—father, mother, three boys, and two girls. The mother and her two little girls, Nina and Dot, were Christians, and their voices were often lifted in praise to God as they sang from an old hymn book which they dearly loved.

One morning in the late autumn, the mother sent Nina and Dot on an errand to their sister’s home three and one-half miles away. The first two miles took them through dense woods, while the rest of the way led past houses and through small clearings. She told them to start on their return home in time to arrive before dark, as many wild beasts—bears, catamounts [mountain lions/cougars], and sometimes even panthers—were prowling around. These animals were hungry at this time of the year, for they were getting ready to “hole up,” or lie down in some cozy cave or hole for their long winter’s nap.

The girls started off, merrily chasing each other along the way. They arrived at their sister’s in good time, and had a jolly romp with the baby. After dinner, the sister was so busy and the children were so happy in their play that the time passed unheeded until the clock struck four. Then the girls hurriedly started for home, in the hope that they might arrive there before it became very dark. The older sister watched until they disappeared up the road, anxiously wishing someone were there to go with them.

The girls made good time until they entered the long stretch of woods.

“Oh, I know where there is such a large patch of wintergreen berries, right by the road!” said Nina. “Let’s pick some for mamma.” So they climbed over a few stones and logs, and, sure enough, the berries were plentiful. They picked and talked, sometimes playing hide and seek among the bushes.

When they started on again, the sun was sinking low in the west, and the trees were casting long, heavy shadows over the road. When about half the distance was covered, Dot began to feel tired and afraid. Nina tried to cheer her.

“Over one more long hill, and we shall be home,” she said.

But now they could see the sun shining only on the tops of the trees on the hill, and in the woods it was already twilight. …

Suddenly a large panther stepped out of the bushes. He turned his head first one way and then another. Then, as if seeing the girls for the first time, he crouched down, and, crawling, sneaking along, like a cat after a bird, he moved toward them. The girls stopped and looked at each other. Then Dot began to cry.

“O Nina! Let’s run!” she said, in a half-smothered whisper.

But Nina thought of the long, dark, lonely road behind, and knew that running was useless. Then she thought of what she had heard her father say about showing fear.

“No, let’s pass it,” she said as she seized her little sister’s hand, “God will help us.” And she started up the road toward the panther.

When the children moved, the panther stopped, straightened himself up, then crouching again, he moved slowly, uneasily, toward them. When they had nearly reached him, and Nina, who was nearer, saw his body almost rising for the spring, there flashed through her mind the memory of hearing it said that a wild beast would not attack anyone who was singing. What should she sing? In vain she tried to recall some song. Her mind seemed a blank. In despair, she looked up and breathed a little prayer for help. Then she caught a glimpse of the last rays of the setting sun touching the tops of the trees on the hill, and she began to sing:

“There is sunlight on the hilltop,
There is sunlight on the sea.”

Her sister joined in. At last their voices were faint and trembling, but by the time the children were opposite the panther, the words of the song rang out sweet and clear on the evening air.

The panther stopped, and straightened himself to his full height. His tail, which had been lashing and switching, became quiet, as he seemed to listen. The girls passed on, hand in hand, never looking behind them.

“Oh, the sunlight! beautiful sunlight!
Oh, the sunlight in the heart!”

How sweet the words sounded as they echoed and reechoed through the woods. As the children neared the top of the hill, the rumbling of a wagon fell upon their ears, so they knew that help was near. But still they sang. When they had reached the top, there was the wagon. Then for the first time they turned and looked back just in time to catch a last glimpse of the panther as he disappeared into the woods.

The mother had looked often and anxiously down the road, and each time was disappointed in not seeing the children coming. Finally she could wait no longer, and started to meet them. When about halfway there, she heard the music:

“Oh, the sunlight! beautiful sunlight!
Oh, the sunlight in the heart!
Jesus’ smile can banish sadness;
It is sunlight in the heart.”

At first, a happy smile of relief passed over her face; but it faded as she listened. There was such an unearthly sweetness in the song, so strong and clear, that it seemed like the music of angels instead of her own little girls. The song stopped, and the children appeared over the hill. She saw their white faces, and hurried toward them. When they saw her, how their little feet flew! But it was some time before they could tell her what had happened.

What a joyful season of worship they had that night! and what a meaning that dear old hymn has had to them ever since!

The memory of that thrilling experience will never fade from the memory of the writer, who was one of the children.

True Education Reader, Fourth Grade, Nina Case Baierle (adapted), 281–286.

Children Story – John Three Sixteen

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One bitter winter’s night a little Irish boy stood in the streets of Dublin, homeless and friendless. Wicked men were making him their tool, and he was even then waiting to help in a crime.

In the darkness, a hand was laid on his shoulder. The face he could not see; but a kind voice said: “Boy, what are you doing here? The hour is late. Go home and go to bed.”

Shivering, he answered, “I have no home and no bed.”

“Poor fellow! Would you go to a home if I sent you?”

“Indeed I would.”

“Well, then, go to such a street and number, ring at the gates, and give them the pass.”

“The pass? What’s that sir?”

“The word that will let you in. Remember, the pass is John 3:16. Don’t forget, or you can’t get within—John 3:16. That’s something that will do you good.”

The boy ran to the place. Timidly he rang the bell at the great iron gates. A gruff porter opened. “Who’s there?”

“Please sir, I’m John Three Sixteen.” His voice trembled with cold and fear.

“All right,” said the porter; “you’ve got the pass.”

Presently he found himself in a warm bed, the best he had ever known. Before going to sleep, he thought: “That’s a lucky name. I’ll stick to it.” In the morning he had a warm breakfast before being sent away.

Crossing a crowded street, he was run over, picked up unconscious, and taken to the hospital. Soon fever and delirium set in. In ringing tones he said, over and over: “John Three Sixteen! It was to do me good, and so it has!”

The words were heard all over the ward. Testaments were pulled out to find what he meant. So it came about that one and another read the words: “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” The Holy Spirit used the words, and souls were saved then and there.

After a while the lad’s senses returned. A voice from the next bed said: “Well, John Three Sixteen, how are you to-day?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know,” the voice went on; “you got it from the blessed Bible.”

“Bible? What’s that?”

The poor little waif drank in the answer, and said: “That’s beautiful; it’s all about love, and not a home for the night, but a home for always.”

He believed the precious truth. Friends were raised up. He received an education, and grew up to a career of great usefulness.

The Youth’s Instructor, October 10, 1895, 223.