A Disturbing Story Becomes a Favourite

 You've got to picture the background to understand what this woman was up against.  The Jews were God's Chosen People and they knew it. Most likely the neighbouring 'gentiles' were quite aware of this opinion also. But mother-love surpasses even racial barriers if the mother is desperate enough. This mom sure was. This Canaanite Woman knew Jesus was a teacher and a healer, she probably assumed He was in their country to preach to the Jews living among them but she didn't care. Her daughter was sick, really sick because of a demon that was causing terrific suffering. Jesus could deliver her, she knew it, so she pleads with Him to do so. www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com
Now here comes the puzzling part, not only did Jesus not do it, but He ignored her and later implied that she was a dog. (Probably a common racial slur at the time.)

Why did she persist? Because she saw something the disciples didn't. She saw the love in His eyes, and He saw her faith. He saw a tremendous opportunity to teach those hoity-toity Jews that God loved everyone. So why did she run off to beg the disciples to do something? Maybe she figured Jesus thought it would jeopardize His position if He healed her daughter so out of respect tried to give Him a break. But they weren't helpful so Jesus honoured her request--and her faith. I love it!

Mother

Do the Twins Miss Each Other?

Excerpt from the Upcoming book Emily and Alice Margaret lifted anxious eyes to the sky. Lord, what am I supposed to do, she cried inwardly. The sky looked innocent enough, a few cottony clouds floating by; they weren’t the cause of her turmoil. She wrung her hands in anguish then realized they were still stuck into her slightly shabby gardening gloves. With a sigh, Margaret dropped to her knees in the handkerchief-sized garden behind the tall Victorian style apartment and dug out a thistle. Her mind wasn’t on what she was doing. Soon the children would be home from school and she must be composed before then. But how could she be? She had been having a peaceful morning with her -turned-six year old but all changed. Alice had been chattering away about what they would do when David and Sally came home from school ‘for good’ and the holidays began in a few days. Margaret knew most of it was fanciful thinking but she liked listening to the lively little girl’s chatter, who wasn’t really her daughter but fostered. The happy mood continued over the noon hour. Alice didn’t protest being told to rest for a little while since they had walked earlier to the shops in downtown Halifax. It was after her nap the trouble started. “Mommy,” she called, “I had a dream.” A dream? a dream? Not one was funny or interesting or scary? Margaret went into the storage area, turned bedroom and pulled the shade up. The sunlight streamed across the rumpled bunk, single at the top and twinned at the bottom. Alice’s beautiful blue eyes drifted shut then she opened them again. “I dreamed I had a twin,” She stifled a yawn then sat up. Margaret’s heart clenched and she sat down beside the precious girl, reaching for her hand. “Care to tell me about it?” Alice leaned her head against her shoulder. “She was small, like me, and had red hair like me, but it wasn’t in curls like mine. She had two long braids. They f’opped over her shoulders an’ she got no bangs.” “You mean she didn’t get hurt?” Alice shook her head and touched her forehead. “No bangs like me,” she explained. Margaret felt the colour drain from her face. “Anything else?” “I was looking in a store window and she looked back at me.” Margaret was about to say it was her reflection but Alice wasn’t done. “She looked like me. She looked sad, we both did.” “ Why do you think you were sad?” Alice shrugged. “ I guess ‘cuz we didn’t know we were so close. Even our dresses were the same, “ Alice continued. “They were like my first day of school dress.” She bit her lip. “I think you called it a gingham. The green one.” Margaret swallowed but made herself respond. “’That’s interesting. Did you like dream?” Alice shrugged her shoulders. “Kinda. But kinda not.” “Why not?” Alice gazed into her mother’s warm brown eyes. “When I waked up I felt like crying. ” She flung her arms around her mother. “Mummy, I wish I had a twin!” Margaret stroked her daughters’ long, curly hair. “I think a lot of little girls dream of having a twin. I wanted a sister, badly, when I was a little tyke.” “But dream Mummy,” she looked up at her Mother again, “Like in sleep-time dream?” “That is strange, “ Margaret murmured, “Very strange.” As she twisted one of Alice’s shiny curls around her finger, there was a faraway look in her eyes, her cheeks were pale. Alice lay her head back on the pillow murmuring “I’m still sleepy, Mommy,” so Margaret tucked a light throw over her and said she would be in the garden. That was fifteen minutes ago and Margaret still wasn’t in control of her emotions. Deep down she knew why. With every passing month, no, week even, she felt condemned for not encouraging Marita to break the wall of silence between herself and Randall. Many times she had taken out paper and pen to write 'you must tell your husband Emily is a twin, you must get your daughter back,' but it was too hard, she couldn’t bear to let Alice go, and she knew the rest of the family would be devastated also. Davy had been tossing the ball up in the air on the way home from school and catching it with his gloved hand until he caught sight of Margaret with a watering can. She was sprinkling their elderly landlady’s petunia-lined walk. “Hi,

Mom.” “Hi Davy, how’s my boy?” “Fine.” I guess.” Oh, no, Mom’s been crying. I wonder what happened. “Can I have a peanut butter sandwich?” “Of course, son. “I meant to make some peanut butter cookies since I know you love them so much but it didn’t get done.” “’That's okay,” Davy muffled so low he doubted Margaret heard him. He kicked at a pebble on the cement sidewalk then glanced once more at his mother before turning the corner of the house and pounding up the stairs. “Davy, you scared me!” Alice’s giggle floated through the open kitchen window as Margaret put the trowel and watering can away. She was about to join her children in their hot, stuffy apartment but old Mrs Bentley poked her head out the back door and invited her in for a cup of tea, she couldn’t say no.

Sharing the Good News

Are you the kind that enjoys handing out tracts? Some don’t. I suppose there are various reasons for objecting, and I’m not inclined to hand them out indiscriminately. That’s just not me. I far prefer the personal touch. Like tonight, for instance, we were sitting in a restaurant when my husband got to chatting with the waitress about the cross on her necklace. Good enough place to start, right? Fleetingly a troubled looked crossed her face when Stephen asked if she was a Christian. From what she told us it sounded like she had tried to be one, once, but her family wasn’t at all ‘into that sort of thing’.

Well, what do you tell a young girl in the few minutes of time allotted to you? I told her that Jesus was not only a Saviour but a Friend who wants to guide her through life. But how much did she know? In the busyness of life that brief thought could be like a leaf caught in an eddy and soon lodged far away in the back of her mind. That’s when I looked into my purse and lo and behold I found one tract in there. Search For God, How Can I Find Him. Perfect! And the perfect opportunity to give it to her also came up. Did she turn up her nose and act insulted when I offered it to her? No way! She snatched it eagerly and carefully put it in a safe place. This isn’t a one- time type of experience for me—for us. We have often found that people are happy to receive one of those little messages from God if we chat with them first. We are so fortunate—so blessed, and long to share the wonderful gift of salvation. I’m sure you do too. Try handing out a tract next time you have a nice, little visit with a stranger. It is so heartwarming. But don’t forget to pray for them, also. P.S. Do YOU know what the Good News Is?

A New Kind of Puppy Love

Because we as adults are so prone

What's Wrong With Mommy?

Emily had no way of knowing what was making her mother so unhappy but she was worried. As the six-year-old

girl trotted along the empty tracks beside her Grandpa she wasn’t prattling in her usual happy way and Ben’s brow furrowed. How can I get her to not think about the tension in the home?

He had never seen Marita so close to hysteria before. Something was definitely on her mind and Randall, his son and Marita’s husband was determined to get it out of her. Ben’s frown deepened. Could any good come out of the confrontation?

Ben had whisked the little girl out of the house before the showdown occurred but not soon enough to avert his granddaughter’s puzzling questions.

“There’s nothing to worry about, “ he said taking her hand. “Look! There’s a little bird. What do you think it is?”

“A robin,” she responded, barely glancing at it. She picked up a lump of coal had fallen out of a train car and rolled it between her hands.

As they trudged along, Ben racked his brains for a way to cheer the youngster. He wondered how far they would have to go before daring to turn back.

Emily’s face lighted as she skipped over to the shining rail, and teetered on top of it.

“Hold my hand, Gran’pa. I want to walk on it.”

Ben inwardly groaned. That’s a job for her mother to do.

Evidently, she doesn’t think I’m doing a good enough job, he thought a moment later, as she hopped off to gather some black-eyed Susan’s and purple asters.

“Let’s give these to Mommy.  That’ll make her happy.” Soon an eagle high in the sky saw two small figures trudging down a long railway.

Nothing Could Go Wrong...Right?

Babysitting for a few hours, why that's a piece of cake, I've done it lots of times. Nothing could go wrong...unless you have a two-year-old who tries to (fortunately) ineffectively cut everything in sight. Or maybe the same little gal wants to use the seam ripper to pierce the clear table liner. No big deal, right? Or what if she and her brother get hold of the pepper grinder, pry the lid off and shake pepper on the floor and on their tongues. (Yes, that's why they were fanning their mouths and begging 'Grandma Lynn' for a drink.

Nothing too hysterical, yet, right, but what about the little guy who manages to burn his finger on the sewing machine light bulb while the babysitter, that's me! is preparing to fix his pants. He will not stop whimpering even with the tenderest of care. Little sister was patting the chair and begging him to sit down beside her, and 'Grandma' was trying her own doctoring skills but with the same success. So what was the problem? Why the tears over a tiny burn? He wanted me to 'kill' the blister

Yes, today was a piece of cake, and it didn't even crumble much.

Based on a True Story

“What do I care if they are hungry?” Comrade Snezhana scoffed.  “We’ve put up with them all day long, and are taking a well-deserved break.”
Lyosha could hear whimpering down the long halls in the orphanage and it made her feel uncomfortable. She knew how little the children had to eat today, and it wasn’t any better yesterday, or last week either.

A half-hour later Comrade Roksana handed her a glass of wine to go with the expensive white chocolates that were topping off the meal but she felt too full or was it sick, to take another bite.
A toddler’s fretful whimpers were turning into lusty wails. Lyosha knew she should go comfort Klava before Comrade Snezhana strode over there and started slapping her around. But Lyosha didn’t dare. She knew she had the reputation of spoiling the ‘brats’ and didn’t have the nerve to make a scene in front of the other comrades including hardened officers who were partying with them.

I suppose you are horrified that something like this really did happen in Russia during the war. Why is it that we can sympathize with physical needs and want to do something, yet hardly hear the hidden cry of our or their hearts?
How many children, young people, and others are starving spiritually while those of us that should be helping are feasting on what the world has to offer and barely take enough spiritual manna to keep our own souls alive?
When’s the last time we have had a truly satisfying hour of studying the Bible? When is the last time we fasted, not to be seen of men, but because we had such a deep longing to pray, that food or earthly pleasures just didn’t seem important? I fall so far short but pray that I can do better!