Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
August 19, 2000

It was probably her giggling that drew my attention. Sentence diagramming really wasn’t all that funny as far as I knew.

It was early May and I was facing a class of sixteen inner-city kids in South Central Los Angeles. Though I had almost three years of teaching under my belt, this particular sixth grade class had pushed me to the limits of my patience far too many times, and I was more than ready to wave goodbye to them for the summer.

I had come a long way from the idealism of my first year of teaching and living in the inner city. That first year I’d covered up the bullet hole in the window with an inspirational poster. I’d plastered the walls with pictures of places worlds removed from the industrial buildings across the street. I told the kids daily that they had something worth saying and that I could help them say it. Together we would work hard and make something of their lives.

The problem, of course, was that my ideals kept crashing up against reality. Not just the spirit-deadening reality of the inner city — gang pressures, poverty, drug-destroyed families. I was also up against the basic, universal reality of the twelve- and thirteen-year-old mind. A mind with the switch tuned in almost permanently to the channel called “You can’t make me!”

And now I was faced with a giggle when I should have had only rapt attention. Walking over to the young offender, I asked for the note she had in her hands. Frozen, she refused to give it to me. I waited, all attention in the room on the quiet battle between teacher and student. When she finally handed it over she mumbled, “Okay, but I didn’t draw it,” the first clue that this wasn’t just an ordinary note being passed.

After getting the class going on a sentence diagramming competition, I finally had a chance to sneak a peek. It was a hand-drawn picture of me, dress details down to perfection, teeth blackened, nostrils flaring, and the words “I’m stupid” coming out of my mouth. The artist had done an amazing job and there was no doubt about who it was supposed to be.

I managed to fold up the picture calmly and return to directing the competition. My mind, however, was working furiously as I wavered between wanting to cry and wanting to ream a certain few students up one side and down the next. I figured I knew the two most likely candidates for drawing the picture. It would do them some good to get taken down a notch or two, and maybe it was high time that I did it!

Thankfully, that’s when Grace intervened.

Somehow, in those moments of very real hurt and fury, God was able to save me (and my students) from myself, by asking me very softly, “You want to do it your way, or My Way?”

I’d had almost three years of mostly trying to do it my way, and my head and my heart were really beginning to hurt from pounding against so many little twelve- and thirteen-year-old walls of resistance.

“Okay, Lord,” I silently prayed, “what should I do? How can you ever bring good out of this?”

With loving faithfulness, God showed me.

When there were about six minutes of class remaining I had the kids stop what they were doing and get out a piece of paper. Then, suppressing my pride, I showed them the picture. The whole class was silent as I told them how hurtful this was for me. Struggling not to cry, I told them there must be a reason behind why someone would draw such a picture and that now was their chance to tell me anything they needed to tell me. Then I let them write silently while I sniffled in the back of the classroom.

As I looked over the notes later, many of them said something like, “I’ve got nothing against you,” or “I’m sorry your feelings were hurt.” A number of them said, “You give us too much homework.” One student said, “We’re afraid of you.” And two notes, from the girls I figured were behind the picture, had a list of issues. I was too mean, too strict, and I picked on certain people too much.

Reading those notes, I realized that over the course of this year of slipshod work and incomplete assignments I had moved from being disappointed to being downright angry. Instead of encouraging my students, I had begun commanding them to achieve. I’d set high expectations without allowing for grace. Where I thought I was driving them to success I was actually driving them away.

I had some apologizing to do.

When the kids walked into my classroom the next day one boy and one girl each handed me a card. The one signed by all the boys expressed sincere regret for the ugly joke. The one from the girls asked for forgiveness.

I was dumbfounded. And more than a little humbled. I had my little speech all ready to give to the kids, but they’d beaten me to the punch. God had not only been busy softening my heart but also the hearts of my students.

If only I had let Him lead more often before this. If only this was the only time I would need to be taught this lesson.

It wasn’t. And with the help of this recalcitrant class, who I would also have as seventh and eighth graders, God gave me many more chances to learn just Who was better at teaching (and loving) inner-city kids.

Amy Morrison
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teacher Tales
http://www.chickensoup.com/   Changing Lives One Story At A Time
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
August 19, 1999

When I arrived at 6 a.m. in the large hospital kitchen, Rose was already checking name tags on the trays against the patient roster. Stainless steel shelves held rows of breakfast trays, which we would soon be serving.

“Hi, I’m Janet.” I tried to sound cheerful, although I already knew Rose’s reputation for being impossible to work with. “I’m scheduled to work with you this week.”

Rose, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, stopped what she was doing and peered over her reading glasses. I could tell from her expression she wasn’t pleased to see a student worker.

“What do you want me to do? Start the coffee?” I asked.

Rose sullenly nodded and went back to checking name tags.

I filled the 40-cup pot with cold water and began making the coffee when Rose gruffly snapped, “That’s not the way to make coffee.” She stepped in and took over.

“I was just doing it the way our supervisor showed us to do it,” I said in astonishment.

“The patients like the coffee better the way I do it,” she replied curtly.

Nothing I did pleased her. All morning, her eagle eyes missed nothing and her sharp words stung. She literally trailed me around the kitchen.

Later, after breakfast had been served and the dishes had been washed, I set up my share of trays for the next meal. Then I busied myself cleaning the sink. Certainly Rose couldn’t criticize the way I did that.

When I turned around, there stood Rose, rearranging all of the trays I had just set up!

Totally exhausted, I trudged the six blocks home from the University of Minnesota Hospital late that June afternoon. As a third year university student working my way through school, I had never before encountered anyone like Rose.

Fighting back tears, I wrestled with my dilemma alone in my room. “Lord, what do you want me to do? I can’t take much more of Rose.”

I turned the possibilities over in my mind. Should I see if my supervisor would switch me to work with someone else? Scheduling was fairly flexible. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be a quitter. I knew my older co-workers were watching to see if my actions matched my words.

The answer to my prayer caught me completely by surprise. I needed to love Rose.

Love her? No way! Tolerate, maybe.. but loving her seemed impossible.

“Lord, I can’t love Rose. You’ll have to do it through me.”

Working with Rose the next morning, I ignored the barbs thrown in my direction and did things Rose’s way as much as possible to avoid friction. As I worked, I silently began to surround Rose with a warm blanket of prayers. “Lord, help me love Rose. Lord, bless Rose.” “Father, come to her rescue.”

Over the next few days, an amazing thing began to happen. As I prayed for this irritating woman, my focus shifted from what she was doing to me and I started seeing Rose as the hurting person she was. Then, slowly, her icy tension began to melt away.

Throughout the rest of the summer, we had numerous opportunities to work together. Each time, she seemed genuinely happy to see me. Her bitterness gave way as she started opening up. As I worked with this lonely woman, I listened to her, something no one else had done.

I learned that she was burdened by elderly parents who needed her care, her own health problems and an alcoholic husband she was thinking of leaving. I silently interceded for her day by day before the Throne of Grace.

The days slipped by quickly as I finished the last several weeks of my summer job. Leaves were starting to turn yellow and red and there was a cool crispness in the air. I soon would be returning as a full-time university student.

One day, while I was working alone in one of the hospital kitchens, Rose entered the room. Instead of her blue uniform, she was wearing street clothes.

I looked at her in surprise. “Aren’t you working today?”

“I got another job and won’t be working here any more,” she said as she walked over and gave me a quick hug. “I just came to say goodbye. You are the one person I will truly miss. You are the one person I wish I could take with me.” Then she turned abruptly and walked out the door. [She did take me with her. I still pray for her today.]

Although I never saw Rose again, I still remember her vividly. That summer, I learned a lesson I’ve never forgotten. The world is full of people like Rose: irritating, demanding, unlovable on the outside, yet hurting inside. I’ve found that love and prayer is the best way to turn an enemy into a friend. Try it; it works.

A Lesson of a Lifetime by Janet Seever
Chickensoup For The Soul
http://www.chickensoup.com/   Changing Lives One Story At A Time
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
August 17, 1998

Standing in the middle of the gymnasium, I faced the Special Olympics athletes, wall-to-wall bleachers filled with energy and excitement. The incessant chatter and constant movement was interrupted only occasionally when an athlete would break loose and dash across the room. Their enthusiasm could not be stifled – this was their special day.

I was an inexperienced high-school junior. When I signed up to volunteer as a team leader, I had no idea what it would entail. Standing there completely baffled, I surveyed the chaos, wondering how the Games could ever be organized.

As I waited anxiously for my team of girls to be called, a small mob of schoolgirls, wearing matching Special Olympics T-shirts, closed in on me. Each girl had a distinctive gait. Some moved as if they were going to attack me, while others had difficulty putting one foot in front of the other.

One young woman bounced clumsily toward me with such liveliness, gravity seemed to have no effect. Strands of brown hair swayed back and forth in front of her blue eyes with every step, and a huge smile warmed her full, freckled face.

I felt paralyzed as I realized she was headed directly toward me. She stood next to me, placed her arm on my shoulder, and said, “Hi, I’m Jane.”

“Hi, I’m Sandy.”

Then, moving even closer, she said, “Hi, Sandy. I’m Jane.”

Smiling, I asked, “How are you, Jane?”

“Fine,” she said, her gaze focused on my face.

Just then the whistle announced the first event – a basketball – dribbling relay. The girls lined up behind the starting line, ready to dribble the ball to the cone at the other end of the court, and back again.

At the sound of the bell, my first team member picked up the ball and put as much energy as she could into her task. Bounce . . . Catch . . . Step. Bounce . . . Catch . . . Step.
“Come on! You can do it!” I yelled. Bounce . . . Catch . . . Step . . . Smile. Crossing the finish line, she passed the ball to the next girl, who took off. “Go! Go!” I screamed.

Handling the basketball with confidence as she zigzagged down the court and back, she passed the ball to Jane.

“Watch, Sandy. I can do this.” As Jane attempted to dribble, her bouncing gait kept her from controlling the ball. With almost every step, Jane’s foot would kick the ball, sending it flying across the gymnasium.

“You can do it, Jane!” I yelled.

Her smile never faded as she happily retrieved the ball and resumed where she had left off. As if the ball had a mind of its own, it took two more trips across the gymnasium before Jane was back at my side.

“I did good, didn’t I, Sandy?” Jane asked proudly. “Yes, you did fine.”

Then, as if she needed reminding or felt I did, Jane once again placed her arm on my shoulder and declared, “Hi Sandy, I’m Jane.”

“Yes, you are Jane, a wonderful young lady.” I responded, with a reassuring smile. This game continued throughout the other events.

I admired Jane’s zeal and her extraordinary attitude. She faced each challenge optimistically. Nothing fazed her. Nothing could erase the beautiful smile from her face. Each setback seemed to fuel her exuberant joy.

At the end of the day, each athlete received a ribbon. No one on my team came in first – it wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered was a job well-done and contented hearts. These girls were no different than any Olympian in Barcelona or Sydney; they had given their all, and now they looked at their ribbons with as much pride as a gold medalist.

“See! I did good!” Jane announced as she proudly showed me her ribbons.

It was time to go. Jane stood by my side and propped her arm on my shoulder. “Bye, Sandy. I had fun. I did good, didn’t I?”

“You did your best. I am so proud of you,” I answered, looking into her distant eyes.

Digging a piece of folded paper and small pencil from the pocket of her shorts, Jane handed it to me. “Can I have your address, Sandy?” she asked graciously.

“Sure,” I said, jotting it down.

“I could write you and then you could write me, huh? That would be good.”

“Yes, I would like that.”

All but one of the girls walked out of my life. Jane and I continued to communicate through letters and phone calls. We talked about comic books and baby dolls – trivial things to me, but to her, prized possessions.

A year later, as the Special Olympics approached, Jane wrote, “Can you come watch me in the Special Olympics?”

That year, I went as an observer. I stood next to Jane’s mother during the floor-hockey competition. Occasionally I shouted, “Good, Jane, good!”

“I’m glad you came,” her mother said. “You mean so much to my daughter. She talks about you all the time. When she asked if she could invite you, I said yes, but I also told her I didn’t think you would come.”

Looking at her in disbelief, I thought, Why would you assume such a thing? I replied, “Jane and I have developed a close relationship this year. She is my friend, and I’m happy to come.” Pausing for a moment, I smiled and added, “Besides, I love Jane.”

“I know you do, dear,” her mother said. “It’s just that . . . she’s been disappointed so many times before.”

The game ended, and Jane ran over to me. “I did good, didn’t I, Sandy?”

Hugging her, I said, “Yes you did, Jane!” We walked to lunch, arm in arm, and then said our good-byes. That was the last time I saw her. Although we corresponded during most of my college years, the letters eventually stopped.

A few years later, I sent a letter to my special friend. I wanted her to come to my wedding. I pictured her saying, “You did good, Sandy,” cheering me on like I had done for her. Unfortunately, the letter was returned – “No such person at this address.” I felt heartbroken.

Because of Jane, I now find joy in the little things. I know that winning isn’t the only thing that matters. When life sends me in an unexpected direction, I now get right back on course and start again, as I try to wear Jane’s smile.

Every once in a while, I can feel her arm rest on my shoulder as she says, “Hi Sandy, I’m Jane. You did good.”

Sandra J. Bunch
http://www.chickensoup.com 

Originally posted on Morning Story and Dilbert:

dilbert

Father John Powell, a professor at Loyola University in Chicago, writes about a student in his Theology of Faith class named Tommy:

Some twelve years ago, I stood watching my university students file into the classroom for our first session in the Theology of Faith. That was the day I first saw Tommy. He was combing his long flaxen hair, which hung six inches below his shoulders.

It was the first time I had ever seen a boy with hair that long.

I guess it was just coming into fashion then. I know in my mind that it isn’t what’s on your head but what’s in it that counts; but on that day. I was unprepared and my emotions flipped.

I immediately filed Tommy under “S” for strange… Very strange.

Tommy turned out to be the “atheist in residence” in my Theology of Faith course.

He constantly objected to, smirked…

View original 1,380 more words

Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
August 14, 2004

It was late morning and I hadn’t been able to concentrate on my work. Call it brain freeze, writer’s block or just plain laziness. But I knew I needed to change my environment. So I headed off to the state park that is only about a ten minute ride from here.

Oh, I guess there must be regulars who make this a daily stop. But I’m one of those “every-once-in-a-while” people who come storming in like a freight train and then come to a screeching halt. I can feel all of the residents and visitors collectively turn their heads toward me when they hear this grand sigh
of relief upon my arrival.

It’s like sticking your toes into the cool lake on a hot summer day. My soul said, “Ah!”

I settled down and decided to take a walk along the path. Up the hill and across through the great pines following along like the Native American Indians whose spirit can still be felt. Down the other side to the edge of the lake and there I sit upon the big rock…except for today.

Joe was there. He was waiting for a train.

“Hello, my friend! It’s a beautiful day,” I said with enthusiasm.

“Sure. Easy for you to say. Your train isn’t late!” he growled.

Joe appeared to be in his late 70’s. He had on an old blue sport coat and a pair of blue jeans. His shirt was white, and his shoes were old high top boots that appeared to be military issue.

“Sitting by the water I thought maybe you were waiting for your ship to come in,” I said jokingly.

“Son, there haven’t been ships on this water in decades,” he said smugly.

“But trains? Trains still run here?”

“Yes, sir! Right along these tracks,” he said pointing to the pathway I had just walked.

Now, there aren’t any tracks here and there never was. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I was concerned for him. He seemed lost and a bit confused.

“Well, since the train is late would you like to walk with me over to the station?” I asked. I really wanted to get him back to the parking area. I hoped that someone was looking for him.

He agreed to go with me because another train wasn’t due for hours.

“I’ve been coming here every day,” he said. “She told me to catch the next train. But every time I get here the train is late. This schedule says it should be here by now.”

He was frantically waving this paper he held tightly in his hand as he expressed his frustration.

“Where is it coming from?” I asked.

“Where ever I am to go.”

“Great. I hope it’s some place special.”

I realize that I was having a conversation not based at all on reality. But this old man seemed to need this. In fact, I would guess it just might be his reason to live.

“What is her name? You know the woman who told you to catch the train.”

“Jane. Joe and Jane, waiting for a train. Something about that sounds perfect,” he said as he stared out toward the lake.

“When was the last time you saw a train go through here?” I asked.

The oddest thing happened. I asked that just as we came to a clearing. He stopped and looked at me. He never said a word. My question seemed to penetrate this fantasy world he created. He looked at me as if to say, “You and I know this whole thing isn’t real. Just play along with me. Don’t ruin it.” He then shook his head and continued walking.

“Daddy! Over here!” A young woman shouted as she headed in our direction.”Daddy, I always ask you to stay close by me when we come here. You were down by the lake again, weren’t you.”

“Yes, my love. Waiting,” he said.

“Oh, Daddy. Why don’t you head over to the picnic table near the van. I have lunch for us.”

“Joe. It was a pleasure meeting you,” I said as I shook his hand. He then headed through the parking area and sat on the bench.

“I hope he wasn’t a bother to you,” she said. Daddy really needs someone with him. He’s not really a problem. He just likes to be by himself once in a while.”

“I know the feeling,” I said smiling. “May I ask about Jane? He said he was waiting for a train here. Were they married?”

“Jane is my Mom. She died 15 years ago. He took it badly. He won’t talk about her being dead. He just remembers when she came here by train. Two weeks later they were married.”

“How wonderful he still waits. Almost like he wants to start all over again,” I said. Then saying our goodbyes, I waved one more time to Joe. He politely waved back and then stared once more off into his private world.

I headed back down the path and returned to my favorite spot. Until today I didn’t think anyone found it as comforting as I. I sat on the rock and listened to the water lap gently upon it. My feet were each resting on separate smaller rocks. There between the two of them I spotted a paper. It had slipped neatly
into a crevice away from the water.

I picked it up and to my amazement the front of this folder read, “Certificate of Death.” Inside was a crumbled piece of paper that appeared to be an official death certificate for Jane. August 31, 1985 was the date printed at the top.
Fifteen years ago today.

Realizing he must have dropped it I ran to the parking lot. His daughter was standing near the car while Joe was seated on a folding chair closer to the lake.

“Excuse me. I think maybe your Father dropped this back there near the rock he was sitting on when we met,” I said as I handed her the paper. I purposely opened it flat so she could see what it was.

“Oh, my Lord,” she said. “He does realize it. He carries that paper with him every where. I never bothered to look at it. He says it’s a train schedule and I just let him go.”

“Miss, maybe your Father isn’t waiting for a train to arrive. Maybe he wants to catch the same one your Mom did. This death certificate was her ticket,” I said.

“That’s why he says it. Every night before he goes to bed….” She paused as she tried to keep her composure.

“Every night he says, ‘Today I missed the train again. Maybe tomorrow I’ll catch the next one.’ Then he looks up and throws a kiss.”

Without saying goodbye she ran quickly to his side. I saw her hand the paper to him. He stood and grabbing her hand pulled her toward him. They embraced and cried… about reality, about getting away from it and waiting for the next train. Love is special.

Author -  Bob Perks
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
August 8, 2015

She was three. Just released from a far-away hospital after life threatening brain surgery, ready to take on the world again. I was happy just to have her back. My little “Mr. Clean” (shaven head and hoop earrings) and I were driving to our local mall for “Daddy’s Day”. I cherished our time together. For a while, I thought I lost her.

I loved my little bundle of energy so much. I was going to protect her from the world. I was going to make life as easy as possible for her. She had already been through so much. I could feel a little of  how a mother must feel as a single father raising a daughter that had started life with two strikes against her. I was determined to be her sunshine coming out of a dark night. But sometimes God has different plans than we do. Her dark night had just begun.

My beautiful little girl would soon embark on a long road of seizures, surgeries, special schools, medications and end up partially paralyzed on her right side. She never learned to ride a bike.

Today, she is almost seventeen. She cannot use her right hand and walks with a noticeable limp. She has had to overcome one obstacle after another. She has always had to struggle in school, both socially and academically. But through it, she has developed a radiance and a charisma with a tenacity that has a combining effect of a Venus fly trap. Spend a moment with her and you are captivated for life.

At first glance, she is a cripple. At second glance, one notices beauty and charm. At third glance, one is left almost stunned at the wit, deep wisdom and determination of one so young.

She is planning a career in early childhood education. With one year still remaining in high school, she and I, one night not too long ago, mapped out all the courses she would need to take in community college to enter the University. She invited me to participate, so “dad” could have a part. But the planning was hers. She volunteers weekly at a local hospital, on the children’s floor. She baby-sits a neighbor’s children five days a week. On her own this year, she stood outside in line for four hours on a cold Canadian January afternoon and enrolled herself, with her own babysitting money, in two courses she felt she would need for a foundation to develop her career.

At first, one would be tempted to shake their fist at God. Plans in raising a little girl that never panned out, a life of struggle; but as I look at what He gave me instead, I fall on my face in one big tear. Just watching her, I can see the difference between a good architect and a great one. I think I would have been a good architect. I would have given my daughter a good life. But the one God gave her… and me is priceless.

Dedicated to my daughter...And I love you so.
 (c)1999 Rick Beneteau
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
August 10, 2010

One night I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in
spite of all we could do she died leaving us with a tiny premature baby
and crying two-year-old daughter. We would have difficulty keeping the
baby alive, as we had no incubator. (We had no electricity to run an
incubator.) We also had no special feeding facilities.

Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with
treacherous drafts. One student midwife went for the box we had for such
babies and the cotton wool the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to
stoke up the fire and to fill a hot water bottle.

She came back shortly in distress to tell me that in filling the bottle,
it had burst. Rubber perishes easily in tropical climates. "And it is our
last hot water bottle!" she exclaimed.

As in the West it is no good crying over spilled milk, so in Central
Africa it might be considered no good crying over burst water bottles.
They do not grow on trees, and there are no drug stores down forest
pathways.

"All right," I said, "Put the baby as near the fire as you safely can, and
sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts."Your job
is to keep the baby warm." The following noon, as I did most days, I went
to have prayers with any of the orphanage children who chose to gather
with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about
and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping
the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle. The baby could so
easily die if it got chilled.

I also told them of the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had
died. During the prayer time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the
usual blunt conciseness of our African children. "Please, God," she
prayed, "send us a water bottle. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, as the
baby will be dead, so please send it this afternoon." While I gasped
inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added by way of a corollary,
"And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little
girl so she'll know You really love her?"

As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly
say, "Amen?" I just did not believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I
know that He can do everything. The Bible says so. But there are limits,
aren't there?

The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending
me a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years
at that time, and I had never, ever received a parcel from home. Anyway,
if anyone did send me a parcel, who would put in a hot water bottle? I
lived on the equator!

Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching
in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at
my front door. By the time I reached home, the car had gone, but there, on
the verandah, was a large twenty-two pound parcel. I felt tears pricking
my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone, so I sent for the orphanage
children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot.
We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly.

Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused
on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly colored,
knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then there were the
knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children looked a
little bored. Then came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas-that would
make a nice batch of buns for the weekend. Then, as I put my hand in
again, I felt the.....could it really be?

I grasped it and pulled it out-yes, a brand-new, rubber hot water bottle!
I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He
could. Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward,
crying out, "If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly,
too!"

Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small,
beautifully dressed dolly. Her eyes shone! She had never doubted.
Looking up at me, she asked: "Can I go over with you, Mummy, and give this
dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?"

That parcel had been on the way for five whole months. Packed up by my
former Sunday school class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's
prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. And one of the
girls had put in a dolly for an African child-five months before-in answer
to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it "that afternoon."

He lets us set the limit...

 Author - Helen Roseveare
Helen Roseveare is a medical missionary and author
from England who served for years in the former Belgian Congo.
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