The Influence Of Faithful Parents

They have lived it in the home life,
They have followed God's true way,
They have kept a humble spirit,
As they've walked from day to day.

Their small home was consecrated,
They both guarded all within;
Nothing entered to defile it,
God's approval thus to win.

God opened up that little home,
For the gathering of His people.
Not like a worldly church at all.
With stained glass or a steeple.

Just a simple little meeting,
Where the love of God was shared,
By a humble little gathering,
In a home God has prepared.

They upheld the life of Jesus,
Every deed and thought and Word
And it brought into their home life,
All the blessings of the Lord.

God's own servants often come there,
And they spoke of things above,
As the peace of God was ruling,
Filling both their hearts with love.

Both heads bowed at every meal,
Thanks was given from the heart,
For provisions from the Master,
That gave strength to do their part.

Little hearts were learning quickly,
All that comes from God's own hand,
Seeing two lives gladly yielded...
Pilgrims in a stranger's land.

Knowing that their lives were temporal,
Knowing brief life's longest span;
Seeking for a better country,
They had learned of God's great plan.

Faithful in the place of prayer,
Kneeling often by their bed.
Two heads bowed before the Lord;
(Little lives were being led).

Little ears were also listening,
Eyes were watching all they'd do,
Little hearts were being softened,
By the faithfulness of two.

Little wills were being broken,
They were taught how to obey,
By those two lives that were dying,
To themselves along the way.

Oh the privilege in knowing,
Such a godly home as this;
The blessings of that influence,
That so many children miss.

May God bless and keep the parents,
In whose lives God's plan was shown,
And by this into those young hearts,
The seed of Truth was sown.

Now these lives have yielded also,
Have a heritage to gain;
From the influence of two people,
Worshipping in Jesus name.

Author Unknown

The Old Wooden Log

Once a true story was told to us
Of a wooden log that lay in the dust -
All weather-beaten, and ugly and scarred
Pounded and pitted and even charred.
It lay in front of a blacksmith shop
Many passed by it, but none did stop -
For all they could see was the outer crust
Of an old wooden log that lay in the dust.
How long it had lain there, now no one could say
But all had agreed it was just in the way.
Now one day a carpenter chanced to pass by
He gave it a keen professional eye -
“Say Mr. Blacksmith, could I take this log?”
“Take it and welcome, be glad when it's gone....”
So off went the rescuer, all burdened down
With a dusty old log that had lain on the ground -
All pitted and scarred, and soiled at the start
Yet the carpenter smiled as he tested the heart.
His saw with its edge as sharp as could be
Found that his log was mahogany -
Oh, he was so proud of his prize from the dust
He made six lovely chairs and showed them to us.
Chairs that would fit into any fine home,
Give rest to the weary, a treasure to own.
Now didn't our Father find us much the same?
All battered and burdened and scarred from the flame?
Of this worlds disillusions, and lost in pain
Just a dusty old body that needed the sword.
To cut away all that had darkened our lives
To shape and to carve out a form from the strife -
Just to show others what God's love can do
When nobody cares, not even you......
When death looked far better than life ever could
God took us and carved us, our mahogany wood -
That His power and discernment as others passed by
Would show His kind mercy, and heavenly eye.
How can we thank Thee, dear Father up there?
Words fail us to give Thee true worship in prayer -
Forgive when we falter and long for release
For we love Thee forever and just long to please.

-unknown

The Little House Out Back

Growing up we had a good life, one that was filled with chores and family gatherings. We never complained about the work that we had to do because all of our friends were doing some of the same things that we were doing.

We had a little house out back that was about six foot long and three foot deep and it had a hole under it about six foot deep. It was called The Outhouse. Whenever we had to go to the restroom this was where we went morning and even at night. We did have a bed chamber in the house that you could use the restroom in and then take it out to the Outhouse in the morning to empty.

We had used catalogs or paper bags to use to clean up after each use. We continued to use the Outhouse until I was about four and then we got indoor plumbing and the restroom came into the house. We enclosed part of our back porch to make our restroom and we also made another room for the wash house where we put the wringer washer and and a dryer area for the indoors whenever we couldn't put clothes out on the clothesline.

A lot had changed since I was a young lad growing up in the South.

Commerce, GA,

Cheyenne

 

"Watch out! You nearly broad-sided that car!" My father yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?"

 

Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.

 

"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving."

 

My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.

 

Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts.... dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?

 

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon .  He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.

 

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.

 

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.

 

At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived But something inside Dad died.. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

 

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust.

 

Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick We began to bicker and argue.

 

Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind.

 

But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

 

The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered in vain.

 

Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article....."

 

I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

 

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me.

 

I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons: too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed.

 

Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hip bones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.

 

I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.

 

As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"

 

"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog."

 

I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said. I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.

 

Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.

 

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!"

 

Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw...

 

Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.

 

It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne . Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at is feet.

 

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends.. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne 's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.

 

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.

 

The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life.

 

And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it."

 

"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.

 

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article... Cheyenne 's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter... his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father.... and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.

 

Life is too short for drama or petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly. Live while you are alive. Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second chance.

 

And if you don't send this to anyone -- no one will know. But do share this with someone. Lost time can never be found.

 

God answers our prayers in His time... not ours...      AMEN…..

All About Gifts

It isn't the size of the gift that matters,
but the size of the heart that gives it. 

Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. 

To perceive Christmas through its wrappings becomes more difficult with every year. 

Each day comes bearing its own gifts. 

Untie the ribbons. 

The Christmas season has come to mean  the period when the public plays
Santa Claus to the merchants. 

The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree:  

The presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other. 

Nothing's as mean as giving a little child something useful for Christmas. 

Yesterday is history.  Tomorrow is a mystery.  

And today?  Today is a gift.  

That's why we call it the present. 

God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame. 

The manner of giving is worth more than the gift. 

Christmas is the season when you buy this year's gifts with next year's money. 

A hug is a great gift - one size fits all, and it's easy to exchange. 

The Lord loveth a cheerful giver. 

He also accepteth from a grouch. 

Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. 
 

May Peace be your gift at Christmas 

and your blessing all year through! 

Christmas Gift Suggestions:

To your enemy, forgiveness.

To your friend, your heart.

To all, charity.

To every child, a good example,

To yourself, respect.

Oh There's No Place Like Home

Oh, there's no place like
home for the holidays
'Cause no matter how far away you roam
When you pine for the sunshine
Of a friendly face
For the holidays, you can't beat
Home, sweet home

 
I met a man who lives in Tennessee 
And he was headin' for Pennsylvania 
And some home made pumpkin pie 
From Pennsylvania folks a travelin' down 
To Dixie'’s sunny shore 
From Atlantic to Pacific, gee 
The traffic is terrific

Oh there's no place like home
For the holidays, 'cause no matter
How far away you roam
If you want to be happy in a million ways
For the holidays, you can't beat
Home, sweet home 

Source: mamarocks.com