A Different Type of Prayer

Heavenly Father, Help us remember that the jerk who cut us off in traffic last night is a single mother who worked nine hours that day and was rushing home to cook dinner, help with homework, do the laundry and spend a few precious moments with her children.


Help us to remember that the pierced, tattooed, disinterested young man who can't make change correctly is a worried 19-year-old college student, balancing his apprehension over final exams with his fear of not getting his student loans for next semester.


Remind us, Lord, that the scary looking bum, begging for money in the same spot every day (who really ought to get a job)! is a slave to addictions that we can only imagine in our worst nightmares.

Help us to remember that the old couple walking annoyingly slow through the store aisles and blocking our shopping progress are savoring this moment, knowing that, based on the biopsy report she got back last week, this will be the last year that they go shopping together.

Heavenly Father, remind us each day that, of all the gifts you give us, the greatest gift is love. It is not enough to share that love with those we hold dear. Open our hearts not just to those who are close to us but to all humanity. Let us be slow to judgment and quick to forgiveness and patience and empathy and love.

God Bless each and everyone who comes to this blog today......have a wonderful weekend in HIM.

Sunday Drive

>Sitting on the side of the highway waiting to catch
>speeding drivers, a State Police Officer sees a car
>puttering along at 22 MPH.
>
>He thinks to himself, "This driver is just as dangerous
>as a speeder!" So he turns on his lights and pulls the
>driver over.
>
>Approaching the car, he notices that there are five little
old ladies-two in the front seat and three in the back. They
-are wide eyed and white as ghosts. The driver, obviously
>confused, says to him, "Officer, I don't understand, I
>was doing exactly the speed limit! What seems to be the
>problem?"
>
>"Ma'am," the officer replies, "you weren't speeding,
>but you should know that driving slower than the speed
>limit can also be a danger to other drivers."
>
>"Slower than the speed limit? No sir, I was doing the
>speed limit exactly...Twenty- two miles an hour!" the
>old woman says a bit proudly.
>
>The State Police officer, trying to contain a chuckle
>explains to her that "22" was the route number, not the
>speed limit.
>A bit embarrassed, the woman grinned and thanked the
>officer for pointing out her error.
>
>"But before I let you go, Ma'am, I have to ask... Is
>everyone in this car OK? These women seem awfully
>shaken and they haven't muttered a single peep this
>whole time," the officer asks with concern.
>
>"Oh, they'll be all right in a minute officer. We just
>got off Route 119."

When I got all of Jesus back where He belonged.

A father wanted to read a magazine but was being bothered by his
little girl, Shelby. She wanted to know what the United States looked
like. Finally, he tore a sheet out of his new magazine on which was
printed the map of the country. Tearing it into small pieces, he gave it
to Shelby, and said, "Go into the other room and see if you can put this
together. This will show you our whole country today."

After a few minutes, Shelby returned and handed him the map correctly
fitted together. The father was surprised and asked how she had
finished so quickly. "Oh," she said, "on the other side of the paper is
a picture of Jesus. When I got all of Jesus back where He belonged, then
our country just came together."

AMEN.

Grandpa's Hands

Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. He didn't move, just sat with his head down staring at his hands. When I sat down beside him he didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if he was OK. Finally, not really wanting to disturb him but wanting to check on him at the same time, I asked him if he was OK.

He raised his head and looked at me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," he said in a clear strong voice.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, Grandpa, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK," I explained to him.

"Have you ever looked at your hands," he asked. "I mean really looked at your hands?"

I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point he was making. Grandpa smiled and related this story:

"Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life.

They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor.

They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back.

As a child my Mother taught me to fold them in prayer.

They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.

They held my rifle and wiped my tears when I went off to war.

They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.

They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son.

They wrote the letters home and trembled and shook when I buried my Parents and Spouse and walked my Daughter down the aisle.

Yet, they were strong and sure when I dug my buddy out of a foxhole and lifted a plow off of my best friend's foot.

They have held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand.

They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body.

They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw.

And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer.

These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of my life.

But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home.

And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of Christ ."

I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my Grandpa's hands and led him home.

When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and wife I think of Grandpa. I know he has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.

Thank you Lord, for giving me these hands, to Praise you, to comfort others, to steady my aging mother, to hold my doggies and caress my horses, to shake another hand. I love you Lord, and I know whatever lays ahead, I am in your hands.

Who Packed Your Parachute?

Charles Plumb was a U.S. Navy jet pilot in Vietnam.
> After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed
> by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and
> parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured
> and spent 6 years in a communist Vietnamese prison.
> He survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons
> learned from that experience.
>
> One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting
> in a restaurant, a man at another table came up
> and said, "You're Plumb! You flew jet fighters in
> Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk.
> You were shot down!"
>
> "How in the world did you know that?" asked Plumb.
> "I packed your parachute," the man replied.
> Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude.
>
> The man pumped his hand and said, "I guess it worked!"
> Plumb assured him, "It sure did. If your chute hadn't
> worked, I wouldn't be here today."
>
> Plumb couldn't sleep that night, thinking about that man.
> Plumb says, "I kept wondering what he might have looked
> like in a Navy uniform: a white hat, a bib in the back,
> and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I
> might have seen him and not even said 'Good morning,
> how are you?' or anything because, you see, I was a
> fighter pilot and he was just a sailor."
>
> Plumb thought of the many hours the sailor had spent
> on a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship,
> carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silks
> of each chute, holding in his hands each time
> the fate of someone he didn't know.
>
> Now, Plumb asks his audience, "Who's packing
> your parachute?" Everyone has someone who provides
> what they need to make it through the day. Plumb
> also points out that he needed many kinds of
> parachutes when his plane was shot down over enemy
> territory-he needed his physical parachute, his mental
> parachute, his emotional parachute, and his
> spiritual parachute. He called on all these
> supports before reaching safety.
>
> Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us,
> we miss what is really important. We may fail to
> say hello, please, or thank you, congratulate
> someone on something wonderful that has happened
> to them, give a compliment, or just do something
> nice for no reason.
>
> As you go through this week, this month, this year,
> recognize the people who packed your parachute.
Then Thank the Lord, that HE cares for you and that
HE is the one that ultimately packed your parachute!

Convention

What a blessing convention was this weekend. I so needed to hear all that was said. Messages on Restitution were great. We had approach 134 in attendance. Sis Rosemary from Caldwell Spanish delivered an outstanding message on "making things right, God's way". Bro Grant also had a great message on Restitution. We are in a time where the battle is fierce, souls are at stake...How do we win this spiritual battle? On our Knees.....I love you each and everyone. I look forward to someday hugging each and everyone's neck. God is so very good to us. I am so very appreciative that HE loves me enough to discipline me. Keep on the firing lines, dear Brothers and Sisters. BE encouraged....BE of good cheer. God is STILL in control...Much love and prayers to all.....WAHOO....GLORY to GOD!

Good Morning Bloggers, wishing you all a very blessed day today and remainder of week...love and prayers, sis katie.