Post by TheStoryTeller on Oct 20, 2006 5:16:20 GMT -5
The Church
There is a small church that sits in my house. Crocheted from delicate white yarn, and starched stiff, it sits in a prominent place on the fireplace mantle as a quiet reminder...
It was given as a Christmas gift to me this year. I chose to break with tradition by not placing it back into a box, labeled and stacked with the multiple sparkly things for the following holiday season.
God brought the giver of this gift and I together, each with stories of God's promises whispered through the darkest of nights. Our stories shared, wove together through tears-and I stand in awe and wonder over the strength given...
Abandoned by her abusive husband, and left with two young children, my friend found herself facing a real, hard choice of dropping out of school before finishing her education, or going back to work.
Moving to a small-dilapidated apartment in a gang infested poor area of the city, her spirits sank. She had little money to meet the demands of food, utilities and rent. She had her car repossessed, her house broken into twice, and whatever was left outside, stolen.
Working as a sales clerk, her older sister volunteered to watch over both children, driving the kindergartner to school, and caring for her toddler son.
She was at work, when rumors spread through the store like an out of control wildfire: there was a shooting at the fast food restaurant down the block.
With her heart in her throat, she knew- does not remember leaving the store, nor running through the parking lot. Police, barricading all for protection, blocked both her way forward towards the restaurant, and her view. She flew down the block, to the other side where her apartment building was. Did not see her sister's car, but knew that she had gone to pick up her daughter from school.
Her neighbor was in her apartment, watching her napping son.
Grimly, with voice shaking, the neighbor friend informed her that her sister was going to stop off and buy lunch for them all as a special treat.
Yanking the thin plywood front door open, she propelled herself to the crumbling graffiti marked fence that stood to the back of the restaurant, willing what she saw far from her mind: her sister's old green Pontiac parked in the now crowded lot.
Scrambling to climb over the brick fence, she screamed as someone grabbed her arm, yanking her backwards. She was caught in midair, and dragged down and away by two officers. Heard, but did not comprehend the many static releases of muted gunfire.
Less than two hours later, she found herself pacing the floor of the emergency room. Out of 15 people shot, her daughter was one of three survivors-excluding her sister.
Her daughter was shot 9 times-was in shock, lost a great deal of blood, and was not expected to live. As the Doctors worked with this small child, they were amazed to discover that although the injuries were substantial, none damaged any vital organs, nor bone. She was shot three times above the neck alone, two of them grazed across her face, the third removed part of her right ear. One bullet landed in her right shoulder, one in her upper right arm, two in her torso, and the last two in her right leg.
Once her daughter was stabilized and out of danger, my friend faced the pkmtyolmive task of trying to figure out how to pay for her care.
No insurance, no money, and wanting only to do what she could to provide the best of medical care facing her child, she was terrified. Afraid to leave her daughter’s side, she stayed in the hospital with her child for three days until the danger pkmtyolped.
Dejected, she waited until late night. Hoping to avoid media, a friend convinced her to allow her to drive her home for a few hours rest.
This friend tried to offer words of comfort, but the words bounced and fell the street as she opened the car's door in front of her apartment building. Sighing, she slid out, and stood, eyes downcast, vision blurred with tears. Chest heavy, she attempted to draw breathe and walk forward, shuffling past the cracked uneven sidewalk to her door. As she walked forward in the deep silence of the night, her vision lifted, following the path to the well-lit soft glow of the tiny front porch light.
There was something blocking the door. As she drew nearer, her vision sharpened. What was blocking the door was four neatly stacked boxes.
Leaning against the boxes were stuffed animals of various sizes, decorated with shiny bows.
Watching from the car, her friend was quickly at her side, and helped pick up the boxes and toys to bring them inside. As she picked up the last box, she gasped, watching as cash fluttered free.
Grasping all before they were freed by the night's breeze, she stumbled inside and slammed the door closed. Leaned against the door, and slid down to the floor.
Watching her dear friend unpack the boxes, she was speechless, as groceries, left in love, were lined up across the tiny dining room table.
The forgotten cash crunched against her palms, drawing her attention from the boxes. Dropping the money into her lap, she slowly counted.
Over eight hundred dollars-no denomination over $10.00. Most in fact were ones.
Every single day she was at the hospital-for nearly a month, she would come home under the cover of dark to find more of the same thing-boxes of items needed for physical substance, toys with bows, and notes of encouragement. And, money under all. Nothing disturbed. Nothing, taken.
On the inside of each box was a tiny slip of paper, with these words written:
YOU ARE IN OUR PRAYERS.
Slowly her daughter recovered.
The unknown angels picked up the bill for a series of plastic surgeries needed, and paid for psychological help.
This child, grown now, is finishing her education to teach other children whom have gone through difficult circumstances-offering healings in Jesus' name.
My friend? Learned the value of true friendship when it is built on the foundation of Christ's pure love and promises.
As a real church, it moves, grows, opens doors when obstacles threaten to block, transforming all to opportunities.
And me? Learned that the real church can never be boxed up and brought out at convenient times for show, but lives in the very heart of my home, my life. It is what I am honored and bound to carry with me through every moment.
It is a gift given: look, see, touch, enter.
Live.
SEE IF I WILL NOT...POUR OUT SO MUCH BLESSING THAT YOU WILL NOT HAVE ROOM ENOUGH FOR IT. -Malachi 3:20
By-karen
Submitted by Richard
There is a small church that sits in my house. Crocheted from delicate white yarn, and starched stiff, it sits in a prominent place on the fireplace mantle as a quiet reminder...
It was given as a Christmas gift to me this year. I chose to break with tradition by not placing it back into a box, labeled and stacked with the multiple sparkly things for the following holiday season.
God brought the giver of this gift and I together, each with stories of God's promises whispered through the darkest of nights. Our stories shared, wove together through tears-and I stand in awe and wonder over the strength given...
Abandoned by her abusive husband, and left with two young children, my friend found herself facing a real, hard choice of dropping out of school before finishing her education, or going back to work.
Moving to a small-dilapidated apartment in a gang infested poor area of the city, her spirits sank. She had little money to meet the demands of food, utilities and rent. She had her car repossessed, her house broken into twice, and whatever was left outside, stolen.
Working as a sales clerk, her older sister volunteered to watch over both children, driving the kindergartner to school, and caring for her toddler son.
She was at work, when rumors spread through the store like an out of control wildfire: there was a shooting at the fast food restaurant down the block.
With her heart in her throat, she knew- does not remember leaving the store, nor running through the parking lot. Police, barricading all for protection, blocked both her way forward towards the restaurant, and her view. She flew down the block, to the other side where her apartment building was. Did not see her sister's car, but knew that she had gone to pick up her daughter from school.
Her neighbor was in her apartment, watching her napping son.
Grimly, with voice shaking, the neighbor friend informed her that her sister was going to stop off and buy lunch for them all as a special treat.
Yanking the thin plywood front door open, she propelled herself to the crumbling graffiti marked fence that stood to the back of the restaurant, willing what she saw far from her mind: her sister's old green Pontiac parked in the now crowded lot.
Scrambling to climb over the brick fence, she screamed as someone grabbed her arm, yanking her backwards. She was caught in midair, and dragged down and away by two officers. Heard, but did not comprehend the many static releases of muted gunfire.
Less than two hours later, she found herself pacing the floor of the emergency room. Out of 15 people shot, her daughter was one of three survivors-excluding her sister.
Her daughter was shot 9 times-was in shock, lost a great deal of blood, and was not expected to live. As the Doctors worked with this small child, they were amazed to discover that although the injuries were substantial, none damaged any vital organs, nor bone. She was shot three times above the neck alone, two of them grazed across her face, the third removed part of her right ear. One bullet landed in her right shoulder, one in her upper right arm, two in her torso, and the last two in her right leg.
Once her daughter was stabilized and out of danger, my friend faced the pkmtyolmive task of trying to figure out how to pay for her care.
No insurance, no money, and wanting only to do what she could to provide the best of medical care facing her child, she was terrified. Afraid to leave her daughter’s side, she stayed in the hospital with her child for three days until the danger pkmtyolped.
Dejected, she waited until late night. Hoping to avoid media, a friend convinced her to allow her to drive her home for a few hours rest.
This friend tried to offer words of comfort, but the words bounced and fell the street as she opened the car's door in front of her apartment building. Sighing, she slid out, and stood, eyes downcast, vision blurred with tears. Chest heavy, she attempted to draw breathe and walk forward, shuffling past the cracked uneven sidewalk to her door. As she walked forward in the deep silence of the night, her vision lifted, following the path to the well-lit soft glow of the tiny front porch light.
There was something blocking the door. As she drew nearer, her vision sharpened. What was blocking the door was four neatly stacked boxes.
Leaning against the boxes were stuffed animals of various sizes, decorated with shiny bows.
Watching from the car, her friend was quickly at her side, and helped pick up the boxes and toys to bring them inside. As she picked up the last box, she gasped, watching as cash fluttered free.
Grasping all before they were freed by the night's breeze, she stumbled inside and slammed the door closed. Leaned against the door, and slid down to the floor.
Watching her dear friend unpack the boxes, she was speechless, as groceries, left in love, were lined up across the tiny dining room table.
The forgotten cash crunched against her palms, drawing her attention from the boxes. Dropping the money into her lap, she slowly counted.
Over eight hundred dollars-no denomination over $10.00. Most in fact were ones.
Every single day she was at the hospital-for nearly a month, she would come home under the cover of dark to find more of the same thing-boxes of items needed for physical substance, toys with bows, and notes of encouragement. And, money under all. Nothing disturbed. Nothing, taken.
On the inside of each box was a tiny slip of paper, with these words written:
YOU ARE IN OUR PRAYERS.
Slowly her daughter recovered.
The unknown angels picked up the bill for a series of plastic surgeries needed, and paid for psychological help.
This child, grown now, is finishing her education to teach other children whom have gone through difficult circumstances-offering healings in Jesus' name.
My friend? Learned the value of true friendship when it is built on the foundation of Christ's pure love and promises.
As a real church, it moves, grows, opens doors when obstacles threaten to block, transforming all to opportunities.
And me? Learned that the real church can never be boxed up and brought out at convenient times for show, but lives in the very heart of my home, my life. It is what I am honored and bound to carry with me through every moment.
It is a gift given: look, see, touch, enter.
Live.
SEE IF I WILL NOT...POUR OUT SO MUCH BLESSING THAT YOU WILL NOT HAVE ROOM ENOUGH FOR IT. -Malachi 3:20
By-karen
Submitted by Richard