Children’s Story

Children’s Story – Who Will be in Heaven?

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“Mother, who will be in heaven?” Scott asked one bright sunny day as he watched her weed the garden.

Mother looked up from her weeding.

“Who will be in heaven?” Mother repeated the question. “Hmmm, let’s see.” Scott knew this meant she was thinking what to tell him.

“You know, I believe this garden has the answer for you,” Mother told him after awhile. “Let’s look at it.” She pointed to the plants she had been weeding.

“What plants are these?” she asked.

“Carrots,” Scott answered. He knew because he had eaten them.

“And these?” she asked, pointing to a different row.

“Onions.”

“And these?” Mother asked again.

“Corn,” Scott answered quickly.

“Why do carrots grow in one place, onions in another, and corn over there?” Mother asked.

Scott grinned. He thought that everyone should know the answer to that question. “Because that’s what was planted,” Scott said.

“True,” Mother told him. “And this is the thing you should remember. Like seeds, people die and are buried in the ground. If they belong to Jesus when they die, they will belong to Him when they are raised from the dead. God has said this is so. So, the people who go to heaven will be the ones who love Jesus here on earth.”

Just as the old seed dies in the ground, our bodies will disappear and we will get new bodies for heaven. We will be with Jesus forever if we loved and served Him when we lived on earth.

“Not everyone who says, Lord, Lord, shall enter into heaven, just those who do the will of their Father in heaven” (Matthew 7:21).

Dear Jesus, we thank You because You are the Resurrection and Life. We know no one will come to the Father but by You. Help us to love You always so that when You come to get us we will be ready to go to heaven. In Thy dear name, Amen.

Happy Moments With God, Margaret Anderson, ©1962, 141, 142.

Children’s Story – Something Better

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Miss S. was in need of a strong man to draw her jinrikisha as she made her daily rounds visiting and superintending the work of the daily schools under her care. Our faithful cook, who had become an earnest Christian since coming to work for us, had undertaken to find a suitable man.

“Sensei,” (name for a teacher) he said, returning one day from a tour of investigation, “I have found a young man who would be just the one for the place, I think, but one thing makes him hesitate.”

“And what is that?” asked the missionary.

“Well,” he replied, “he is only just married, and he and his wife would be glad to come here to work; but his mother, who is old and dependent upon him for support, is very faithful in the worship of her gods, and especially of her husband’s spirit. And as her worship is her only satisfaction in life now, her son is afraid to go and live at a Christian place, for fear she would not be allowed liberty in her religious worship. As for himself and his wife, he said they were not particular about such things; but it was different with his old mother, and he could never consent to anything that would interfere with the happiness of her last days. I told him,” continued our cook, “that if they came to live here, he and his wife, being servants in the household, would be expected to attend morning worship daily, but that I was sure his old mother would be allowed perfect freedom to worship as she pleased in her own room.”

“You are right,” replied the missionary. “See the man again, and tell him that as we are not engaging his mother to work for us, she will be entirely at liberty to worship as she pleases, and never obliged to attend our Christian services. Only we can not permit the display of the emblems of her religion outside her own room or on our gateposts, of course.”

So they came, and took up their abode in the gatehouse. The tiny, wrinkled old lady who claimed the dutiful Cho as her son, evidently shrank in awe from the big, fearsome, “foreign teachers”-specimens, to her, from a strange and unknown world, utterly foreign, truly, to everything she had ever known.

At a stated hour each morning the servants of the household were gathered together for instruction in the things of God. Miss S. was the faithful and efficient teacher of this daily class, carefully explaining the word of God and the way of salvation, and leading these darkened souls into the light. Cho and his wife were regular attendants at the morning service, and after we had smiled a cherry “Good morning, O Baa San!” (title by which old ladies are addressed) often enough to the dear, wee little woman sitting on the mats in her room by the gate, so that she was accustomed to the sight of us, as we daily passed by, and was losing her fear of us, an invitation was sent to her to come with Cho and listen to the teaching. However, invitation after invitation was declined and the missionaries quietly waited for the Spirit of the Lord to woo and win her.

Meanwhile, Cho’s interest was awakened, and developed until at last he took Jesus to be his own Savior and erelong sought and received baptism.

One morning, just as the morning service was beginning, in slipped the little old mother, quiet as a mouse, and dropped on the mats beside her son. No notice was taken of her, and the service went quietly on to the close, and then, as the members of the class bowed low with their heads to the floor-as is Japanese custom before taking one’s departure-the missionary said, quietly but cordially: “We are glad to see you here this morning, O Baa San.” Thereafter she came regularly to hear the “Jesus doctrine,” always quietly dropping in, the last one, at the little gathering, silently listening, and as silently slipping away again at the close. Whether or not any impression was being made upon the heart so long shrouded in the darkness of heathendom, we had no means of knowing. But we prayed on.

Cho’s wife was getting supper ready for the little family in the gatehouse one evening. A baby daughter had come to cheer their home, and had been the unconscious means of drawing the delighted grandmother and the sympathetic “foreign teacher” near together. Just now, however, the wee treasure was tucked away in her quilts in a corner of the room, fast asleep, while Kinu, the young mother, was boiling the rice for the evening meal. A diminutive oil lamp dimly lighted the small apartment. It was early autumn, and the night was cool and clear, and the stars shone brightly down upon the quiet, temporary home of the Bible Training School, their light filtering down through the branches of the weeping willow that stood by the well, and resting tenderly upon the figure of a dear little woman, so small and so frail standing there in the shadows, with clasped hands and upturned face. “O God!” she pleaded, “if there be one true God, who has done so much for my son Cho, reveal Thyself to me also.”

Presently one of the sliding doors of the gatehouse was quietly pushed aside from without and Kinu looked up inquiringly: “Where have you been, mother? I have noticed of late that you frequently slip outdoors in the evening. Is it not cold?” And to the amazement of the daughter-in-law came the quiet earnest reply: “I have been praying to Cho’s God.” In the old lady’s face there was a new light and in her heart a strange, deep, sweet peace-the answer from the unseen Lord.

We heard with great joy that this precious soul, so near the end of a weary lifetime, had at last found rest and peace, and we watched quietly to see the Spirit of the living God still further teach and lead on the soul so newly awakened. Nothing was said about the old idol worship, but daily Miss S. expounded the word of the Lord, and all unseen to human sight the good seed took root and grew up and bore fruit.

One day we were both sitting at our desks in the one room that served us then as office, dining and reception room, when there came a knock at the door. In answer to our “Come in” the door opened, and in came our wee O Baa San. Approaching the table, she placed upon it a small wooden shrine. “Sensei,” she said, turning to Miss S., “you may have this shrine. I don’t need it any more. I have something better.”

Written by Mary Bell Griffiths. Taken from The Youth’s Instructor, November 21, 1901.

Children’s Story – How Much Does a Prayer Weigh

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So he said, “Write it on a paper,” and turned about his business.

To his surprise, the women plucked a piece of paper out of her bosom and handed it to him over the counter and said, “I did that during the night watching over my sick baby.”

The grocer took the paper before he could recover his surprise, and then regretted having done so! For what would he do with it; what could he say?

Then an idea suddenly came to him. He placed the paper, without even reading the prayer upon it, on the weight side of his old-fashioned scales. Picking up a loaf of bread nearby, he said, “We shall see how much this food is worth.”

To his astonishment the scale would not go down when he laid the loaf on the other side. To his confusion and embarrassment, it would not go down though he kept on adding more food, anything he could lay his hands on quickly, for people were watching him.

He tried to be gruff and he was making a bad job of it. His face got red and he felt flustered. So finally he said, “Well, that’s all the scales will hold anyway. Here’s a bag. You’ll have to put it in yourself. I’m busy.”

With what sounded like a gasp or a little sob, she took the bag and started packing the food, wiping her eyes on her sleeves every time her arm was free to do so. He tried not to look, but he could not help seeing that he had given her a pretty big bag and that it was not full when she had finished. So without saying anything, he tossed down the counter to her several expensive items. Trying not to notice, he saw a timid smile of grateful understanding glistening in her eyes.

When the woman was gone, he went to look at the scales, scratching his head and shaking the scales in puzzlement. Then he found the solution. When the paper had been placed on it, the scales had been broken.

That grocer is an old man now. His hair is white. But he has never forgotten the incident. He never saw the woman again. And, come to think of it, he had never seen her before either. Yet, for the rest of his life, he remembered her better than any other customer he ever had.

And he knew it had not been just his imagination, for he still had the slip of paper upon which the woman’s prayer had been written, “Please, Lord, give us this day our daily bread.”

Used by permission. Taken from the book Shelter in the Storm. Available from Harvestime Books, Altamont, TN 37301.

Children’s Story – Andy’s Hands

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Andy had never had much in life, but he did have his two children and the little cabin in which they lived. Several years before, his wife had left the family one day, and later he learned that she had remarried, and then in an accident had been killed.

How Andy did love those children! And how he cared for them! They worked together on their little mountain farm, when the children were not at the little one-room schoolhouse down the road.

But then one day it happened.

Andy was out in the fields working when the fire started. But that morning both girls were in the house!

As soon as he saw the smoke he ran. His precious Suzy and Cindy! He prayed as he raced across the field and through a wooded area, for he had already learned by experience that God could answer prayer.

When he arrived, the little cabin was in flames. Smashing the door down with his powerful shoulder, he rushed in and found a blazing beam blocking a second door. Hurling it aside with his bare hands, he entered and found his little girls on the floor. Trying to put out the fire, they had both been overcome by the smoke. Reaching down with his strong arms, he picked them up and hurried from the blazing cabin. Just as he set foot on the outside porch, the building rafters collapsed behind him in to the building. Even yet, sparks and smoke and flames seemed everywhere, but somehow he struggled out into the yard.

They were safe.

Hearing about it, the local magistrate said that Andy’s children must be taken from him and given to people who would give them a better home. This put the whole town in an uproar, and on the day of the custody trial, the courtroom was packed.

First, the county attorney stood and told why he thought the children should be taken from Andy. The people respected him because he was influential and had lots of learning. But then Andy got up. Too poor to afford a lawyer, he spoke for himself. With strong tears he told of his love and care for his little ones down through the years. No matter how bad the troubles got, he had given them his whole life—his all.

As he closed, he raised his hands and pled that the children might be restored to him. Reddened, ugly scars disfigured both hands, for in rescuing his beloved, the two hands had been severely burned.

At this, total silence came over the entire room, and the judge tried to speak, but had a hard time getting the words out. Then he said this: “Andy was willing to give his life for his children, and he will carry the scars of his sacrifice in his hands for the remainder of his life. There is no one in this county better qualified to have them. This court rules that the children shall be given back to Andy.”

The whole building erupted in a burst of cheers, for Andy, who loved his own more than the whole world, and had proved himself willing to die to save them—was now to receive his own back again.

Friend, just now, God wants to receive you back again also. On Calvary, Christ paid the price.

This story was taken from the book Shelter in the Storm and used by permission. The entire book may be purchased by calling Steps to Life or writing to the publishers at Harvestime Books, Altamont, TN 37301.

Children’s Story – The Faith of a Little Child

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Every one smiled when his father carried him into the car—this little lad of three, who taught me so sweet a lesson in faith. The car was crowded, but there was a corner between the door and window where the child could stand, and there his father put him down.

“You stay still there, Herbie; Papa is going to stand near you. You won’t be afraid?”

The wee man shook his head very decidedly, and catching hold of a brass rail with his chubby fist, stood contentedly watching his father with trustful, happy eyes. At every corner new passengers came on, and crowded between father and child. Herbie was much more comfortable in the sheltered nook where his father had put him than he would have been even in his father’s arms on the crowded, jolting platform. Little by little, the newcomers hid the father from Herbie’s sight. He did not look like a child who was accustomed to being alone, and I watched him closely, ready to comfort if need be. I saw his lips moving, and bent toward him. This is what he said: “I can see my papa’s foot, and I can see my papa’s hand.”

Precious little heart, comforting itself!

The crowd jostled back and forth. I heard another whisper: “I can see my papa’s foot. I—can—see—my—papa’s—foot!”

Then the foot was no longer visible to the patient watcher. Trouble clouded his serious eyes for a minute, followed by a happy smile.

“I can hear my papa talk.”

Sure enough, the father was talking to someone. But the conversation was not long. The blue eyes were growing shadowy again.

“Herbie,” I whispered, “I can see your papa. I am taller than you. I can see your papa’s face, dear.”

For a brief space my face was subjected to a searching glance. Then the content came back to the boy’s face. He watched me, and I watched that other face, nodding assurance to my little friend. In a few moments the passengers began to leave the car, and the father sat down, and took his child on his knee.

“Were you afraid, Herbie?”

“No, I knew you were there all the whole time!”

Oh, for the faith of a little child, that whatever comes, the heart may say, “I was not afraid; for I knew that, all the time, Thou wert there!”—Selected.

The Youth’s Instructor, September 21, 1899.

Children’s Story – Light in the Darkness

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For many years Eva Tavor had been unable to see. Doctors offered no hope. All the brightness of life seemed blotted out, but in the darkness she learned to love and trust in a Savior that she had so often ignored when she earlier had sight.

She found that verse that says, “Yea, the darkness hideth not from Thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to Thee.” Psalm 139:12. And, with it, another: “The day is Thine, and the night also.” Psalm 74:16.

And so, day by day, she sang songs in the night (Psalm 42:8) and through it all, she learned that God is an ever-present Help, and that the more she praised Him for the blessing she had, the more she received.

And then, one bright August morning, she learned that a new operation had been developed that might offer hope. Gone now were the old days, when in full sight she walked blindly. Now, she praised her heavenly Father at each step—and submitted all her life and future to His keeping. If the operation would bring healing, then that would be well: but if not, she would continue, unfaltering, in her trust in God.

And then the operation was performed. And it restored her sight.

Now it was an October morn, and Eva stood by the kitchen sink. She could see the sparkle of the sunlight in the water, and the brightness of the room shone all about. Before her, through the open window, she could see the bright colors of fall on the trees in the woods outside. Quietly splitting the early morning mists, rays of sunlight were falling in slanted streaks through the leafy bowers of foliage, and lightening patches of grass and ground below.

It was all a delight to Eva, and she thanked God for it all. Then, swirling her hand through the dish water, she picked up a large soap bubble and held it to the sunlight. Through it could be seen all the colors of the spectrum in an intermingling of blues and reds, greens, yellows and violets. And she remembered the words of the old song:

When thou hast truly thanked thy God

For every blessing sent,

But little time will then remain

For murmur or lament.

Are you and I thanking God for all our blessings? Do we realize that the more we thank Him for all that we have, the more we shall have to thank Him for?

Taken from Shelter in the Storm. This compilation of Steps to Christ and chapters from The Great Controversy is available through Steps to Life or by writing Harvestime Books, Altamont, TN, 37301.

Children’s Story – Working With Him

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C.T. Studd had been a very wealthy man, but when he found Christ as his Saviour from sin, he totally dedicated his life to the One who had died that he might have eternal life. Leaving his native England, he went by ship to China. There he worked, year after year, to bring lost souls to a knowledge of Jesus. Finally, he became sick—so ill that the doctors called him a “museum of tropical diseases.” So he returned to England; his life seemingly near its end. But he was thankful for what God had used him to do in leading others to Jesus.

Then, while walking the streets one day after his return, he saw an announcement of a missionary rally to be held that evening. In large print, at the top, it said, “Cannibals Need Missionaries.” He laughed at the wording, but went to the meeting that night. There the conviction came to him that he must go as a missionary to Africa.

His friends thought he was beside himself. Aged, a grandfather, still a sick man,—and he was planning to go to Africa!

And to Africa Studd went; there to work in areas where no white man had ever been. He worked day and night to give the native people the gospel of what Jesus could do for their lives.

For seventeen pain-racked years he worked in Africa, without once going home on furlough. As he worked, he trained others to work with him. He had given everything for Christ, and others came to share in his sacrifice and his labors.

Finally, he was in so much pain that his personal attendant, Jimmy Taylor, thought that Studd was definitely dying. Getting up at 11:00pm, he went over to give him a pain-killing injection so that he could get some sleep.

Later, at 3:00am, Taylor became concerned and thought he had better check to see that C.T. Studd was still alive. Arriving at his hut, he found it empty! On the table were several pages with writing on them, and a brief note. It read: “Dear Jim, I have translated a couple more chapters of Acts and I am off now on my bicycle to reach another tribe for Jesus.”

To live with Jesus is to work with Jesus. “God is the source of life and light and joy to the universe. Like rays of light from the sun, like the streams of water bursting from a living spring, blessings flow out of Him to all His creatures. And wherever the life of God is in the hearts of men, it will flow out to others in love and blessing.” Steps to Christ, 77.

—Taken from Shelter in the Storm.

Children’s Story – Manna from Heaven

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It was time for dinner, and Mother knew she had to find something for five hungry children to eat. I was the youngest, just turned seven. We never had a lot, but Mother and Daddy always found some way to provide for their family with a bountiful garden, and each one of us had a job to do in that garden. When harvest time came, we all worked, snapping green beans for canning, digging potatoes to be placed in the root cellar, helping Mother can tomatoes, corn, squash, turnips, and many other wonderful vegetables. However, during the winter months our food supply had been used up, and Daddy had not been able to find work for some time. There was little food, and even less money, to go around.

I was hungry, so like a little shadow, I followed Mother into the pantry to see what she would choose for dinner. Only now that I am older, can I realize the heaviness of my Mother’s heart as she stared at shelf after shelf of nothing. There was no food to feed her children.

We turned, Mother and I, and I watched, wide-eyed, as she pulled a chair from the scarred, old, round, oak table in our dining room. She sat down, bowed her head and folded her hands in prayer. Her request was very simple, “Lord, my children are hungry and I have no food. Please help me!”

Then she stood up and turned to go back into the pantry. Again, like a small shadow, I followed her. To my surprise, the pantry was not empty any longer! There, gleaming more brightly than any precious gem, lay a large bag of Navy beans. Imagine, if you can, this child’s “wonderment” as I watched Mother lift that bag of beans from a shelf that I, myself, knew had been empty two minutes before. Imagine, if you can, the joy in a Mother’s heart over a God who ‘inclines Himself’ to hear the cry of our hearts.

Does Jesus answer prayer? Oh, yes, He does! He sent “manna” from heaven in answer to my Mother’s prayer!

Children’s Story – The Open Door

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“Mama! Nellie’s head is on fire!” I screamed in absolute terror. My mother turned and dashed for the kitchen where my beautiful, thirteen-year-old sister was running back and forth, her long, heavy hair now in flames, her screams piercing the air.

Mama grabbed some kitchen towels, threw them over Nellie’s head, and began beating ineffectually at the flames, turning her own fingers into raw meat as the flames licked through the thin towels.

“Get me a blanket!” she screamed, and my fifteen-year-old brother, Bruce, dashed to the nearest bedroom to grab one of Mama’s heavy, homemade comforters, which was thrown over Nellie’s head, finally smothering the deadly fire.

I stood in mute horror as the scene unfolded in front of me. My sister’s screams pierced my consciousness, until she collapsed, moaning and twisting, on the cold linoleum floor.

She was no longer the sister I knew. Her hair was gone, as were her eyebrows and the tops of her ears. The smell of burned flesh rose sickeningly from this heap upon the floor, this heap that was my sister. Her hands and fingers were charred because she had thrown them in front of her face as a shield from the hungry flames licking at her cascading hair. Her dress had been burned from her shoulders and lay in a heap on the floor, exposing her raw, seared shoulders, which were already beginning to blister.

We lived in the Wisconsin hills, and we did not have a phone. Mama instructed Bruce to run to the landlord’s house for help. And run he did, leaping a four-foot chain-link fence that encircled our yard as though it was not there, he streaked for the valley below.

As Bruce ran for the landlord, my older sister, Clairece, ran the other way, up the hill to our nearest neighbor, an old, spinster lady who lived about half a mile away. She had a phone, and surely Clairece could use her phone to call for help.

While we waited at home, the hushed silence broken by Nellie’s sobbing and incoherent moans, another sister, Ruth, told Mama what had happened.

You would have to understand the time and the place, the hills of Wisconsin in the early 1940s. A child in the little country school we attended had come to school with head lice. She loved my sister’s long, flowing, blond tresses, and had asked if she could comb Nellie’s hair. Of course, Nellie agreed, not knowing that this child had lice. In those days, not only did finances prevent us from seeking medical help for something as common as lice infestation, but also, people just did not go to the doctor unless it was a life-threatening situation. The old-fashioned method for getting rid of lice was to wash your hair in kerosene. It was very effective. Mama had already rinsed my hair with kerosene, then shampooed the kerosene out with our regular shampoo, leaving it clean and fresh smelling—and lice free. It was an old, country remedy, but I am sure it is still used in some areas of the hill country today.

Nellie was preparing to rinse her hair the same way, when Bruce lit a cigarette. As he had done many times in the past, he handed the match to our two-year old nephew, Billy, to blow it out. But this time, instead of blowing the match out, Billy innocently toddled over and dropped the lighted match into the sink containing the pan of kerosene where Nellie was rinsing her hair. Her head exploded into flames.

Mama wrapped her now unconscious daughter in a clean, white sheet and I know in her mind she was calling out to her God for strength and healing.

Arthur, the landlord, and Bruce arrived with a pickup truck, and with Mama’s assistance they lifted Nellie into the truck bed and left for the hospital. The house was quiet; no one dared voice the fears that came rushing in to torture our minds, but we knelt and prayed, placing Nellie in the hands of God.

It was very late when Mama returned home. The news was not good. “If she lived,” the doctors said, “she would be blind, possibly deaf, and she most certainly would never be able to use her hands again.” But those doctors did not know the God that my Mother and Father knew! We did not know it then, but Nellie would spend almost a year in the hospital.

To be Continued…

Children’s Story – The Open Door Part II

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Last month we read how Nellie had been badly burned, The doctors said if she lived, she would be blind, deaf, and unable to use her hands.

The news of our tragedy quickly spread through the little farming valley where we lived, and the following day the true story of God’s miraculous working in our behalf was told.

Arthur had been out working in his fields. It was only mid-morning, but he felt a strong urging to return to his house. It did not make sense to him, so he shrugged it off. He had planned to be out in the field until dark, and had even packed a lunch so he could work straight through the day. But the feeling to return home persisted, so he stopped work, climbed into his pickup and drove home.

“What am I here for?” he mused. Perhaps his old Aunt Kate needed him. So, impressed by this thought, he picked up the phone to call her.

Meanwhile, Clairece had reached his Aunt’s house and knocked on the door. No answer! She knocked again, pounding upon the door. Still no answer, so she reached down and turned the doorknob. Finding that the door was not locked, she walked into the kitchen, picked up the phone to call Arthur at the same instant that Arthur was picking up his phone to call his Aunt. They were connected without either of them ever dialing the phone.

“Please come quickly,” Clairece begged, “my sister has been seriously burned and we have to get her to the hospital.”

“I’m on my way!” he responded, bounding out the door and jumping into his truck. He met Bruce on the way to our house, picked him up, and heard the rest of the story as they drove back.

The following day, Aunt Kate came to call. After hearing the story of Nellie’s accident, she turned to Clairece. “How did you get in my house to use the phone?”

“The door was unlocked, so I just walked in, made my call, and left.” Clairece replied.

“But, that is impossible!” the old lady sputtered, “I locked that door before I left for the fields yesterday, and dropped the key right here,” she said as she patted her apron pocket. “That door was still locked when I got home. I know, because I had to use my key to get in!”

My Mother smiled and softly quoted a verse from the book of Acts, “But the Angel of the Lord—opened the door.”

Although Nellie’s struggle was long and difficult, and though there were times we were not sure she would make it through another operation, God was with her. She was not left blind, however, her eyebrows never grew back and she has had to use a pencil just to create eyebrows. Although the tops of her ears were burned off, she can still hear. And those hands that the doctors thought would never be used again; although badly scarred, still play God’s praises on the piano. She continues to use her beautiful, soprano voice to praise a loving Father who walks beside us, even through the valley of the shadow of death, and leads us into green pastures of safety.