PENNY, POUND, PLOW

In his 1695 play, “Canterbury Guests,” writer Edward Ravenscroft used this phrase.

Ever since that time, many writers (especially British) have used the adage. In fact, Charles Dickens used these words in “Nicholas Nickleby,” “Oliver Twist,” and “The Old Curiosity Shop.”

Have you guessed the adage yet?

All but vanished from usage, the expression taught commitment. One shouldn’t undertake anything half-heartedly.

In 2016, American composer Henry Threadgill won a Pulitzer Prize in Music for his album with the name of . . . ready for this? In for a Penny, In for a Pound.

What’s so fascinating about this phrase?

It’s Biblical origins, of course! Of the many Bible verses that have to do with commitment, here’s one of my favorites:

But Jesus said to him, “No one, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.” Luke 9:62, NKJV

As they say, context is key.

In the agricultural area in which Jesus was teaching, farmers understood this statement well. Looking backward while moving forward does not make for plowing straight rows. Fewer crops due to poor land use means less harvest.

On the face of it, the request from the young man (to go bury his father) seems reasonable, compassionate even. But Jesus knew his heart. He knows our hearts, too. We are not fully committed to Him when we choose to look or go back. Leave. Move in a different direction. We’re either going forward with Him, our hand in His, or we’re going our own way.

Two words that have taken the place of commitment these days are “all in.” Jesus said He would rather we were all in than lukewarm. His command is that we love the Lord our God with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our strength.

If we’ve had difficulty with our harvest lately, maybe it’s time to recommit our hands to the plow. No looking back. Just straight rows ahead.

We’re not only in for a penny or a pound. We’re plowing and planting for eternity.

By author eMarie

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A VENTURE TO GAIN

Slowly disappearing from our everday usage, this colloquialism is said to have roots in both the English and French languages.

Before Chaucer’s time, the line was, “For he that naught n’assaieth, naught n’achieveth.” (That’s old English for you!)

Can you guess what the adage is?

In 1546, John Heywood listed his glossary version as far less English and much more Impossible. Impossible to read! However, some believe Heywood had translated a 14th century French quote which stated: “One who never undertook anything, never gained anything.” In today’s language: nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Is that what our Founding Fathers thought when they set out to build our republic? John Adams declared “facts are stubborn things.” Let’s investigate one facet to show just how stubborn they are.

“And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the Protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

Fifty-six men signed the Declaration of Independence. Threats by the King of England aside, these men did not pledge their all on a whim. This was a do or die situation. An impossible venture. As it turned out, some of the Founders lost their lives; some lost part or all of their families; some lost their fortunes. But all lost their honor in the eyes of the English.

From their venture, we gained a republic. One Nation Under God.


Paul, a bondservant of Jesus Christ, proved his faith and love in Jesus again and again. Beaten, stoned, imprisoned, boiled in oil and left for dead, he was eventually beheaded. We see he had counted the cost in his strong statement of faith penned in Phil.1:21.

For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.

 In the last two decades, the term “venture capital” has added a financial component to this adage. Yet, as we saw in 2008 and again in these past few years, monetary gains can be unstable and fleeting.

The only venture with continued, appreciable returns is what we do for Jesus. Depending on the soil, planting seeds can be hard work. Intercessory prayer takes time and effort. Persecution is an option. But the spiritual gain on investment is, well, Heavenly!

For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul? (Mark 8:36, NKJV)

By author eMarie

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OUTSIDE IN

As a fun pastime, I began researching and recording adages. With the passage of time these incredible sayings that speak a broad truth seem destined to fade into the sunset – never to be heard again. Compelled to share their origins and Biblical applications, here is the first of many.

From the blog’s title, can you guess today’s adage? J

Some say this phrase can be traced back to the Victorians who would insert other reading materials between the pages of a Bible. So, they outwardly appeared holy and devout, but that might have been a far cry from the truth.

Then the adage made an appearance in the Piqua, OH newspaper, Piqua Democrat, in June 1867:
“Don’t judge a book by its cover, see a man by his cloth, as there is often a good deal of solid worth and superior skill underneath a* jacket and yaller pants.” Martin Luther King may have harkened back to this when he said to judge not by skin color but by …“the content of their character.”

In the 1944 edition of African Journal American Speech, the phrase read: You can’t judge a book by its binding.”

But in the 1946 novel, Murder in the Glass Room, authors Edwin Rolfe and Lester Fuller penned: “you can never tell a book by its cover.”

And let’s not forget Bo Didley’s 1962 hit, written by Willie Dixon: “You Can’t Judge a Book by its Cover.”

The above research cites interesting information, but the Old Testament book of Samuel gives the best, original, and accurate use of this adage.

For the LORD does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7b, NKJV)

God sees beyond the outside. No matter who we are, how much we “paint the barn,” or hide behind book covers, He cuts through it all and discerns our hearts.

No need to put on airs. In fact, the only way we can “dress for success” is to put on Jesus’ righteousness (2 Cor.5:21). When we accept Jesus Christ into our hearts, God doesn’t look at us any other way than through Jesus—clean, pure, holy.

We’re no longer judged (condemned). We’re covered!

By eMarie

To leave a comment, please click on the title above, OUTSIDE IN, and scroll down. Please subscribe, share this post with family and friends, and return next week for another encouraging blog. Thank you and God bless you!  🙂

*According to knowyourphrase.com, the words were small and difficult to read

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Penthouse – An Original 9-11 Story (Part 3)

the night is coming when no one can work. (John 9:4b, NKJV)

(From Part 2: “Hammett. Hammett.” Bile burned in my throat. Thunder rolled in the distance, or did the noise reverberate from the television? I raced into the living room and sank to my knees. “Oh, dear God, no!”)

The North Tower crumbled to the ground. Glass and metal hurled through the air. Frantic people scrambled in every direction only to have ash and soot swallow them. The TV screen became a gray-black blur. The camera shook as the crew darted for safety—their nervous voices lost in the melee.

Someone screamed, her shrill, loud voice filled the room and pierced my ears. Her tears flowed down my face into trembling hands. Pieces of priceless pottery sailed through the air, their broken shards less hysterical than she. I had to stop her before she lost complete control. The wet carpet under my face became my first wake-up call. Too weak to push myself up, I laid there.

Garbled voices from the television drifted toward me spewing words that ran together. A third plane crashed somewhere in Pennsylvania, its destination shy of its goal. A man wrung his hands and mumbled about the Pentagon but the information didn’t fully register. I forced myself to read the words on the screen. “America Under Attack.” Voices narrated their impromptu speculation. Eyewitnesses reported chilling accounts. Some commented about children in a nearby preschool whose parents would never pick them up.

No one tried to explain why my husband had to die in the attack.

Time lost its meaning. I don’t know how long I laid there while television commentators continued their analysis. Heat, humidity, and smoke wafted through my open windows. Damp hair stuck to my face. A blinking red light caught my eye, and I thrust myself off the floor. Cell phone plans were expensive, and I’d only given my number to a few people. I racked my brain but couldn’t imagine who would’ve left a message.

Engaged in a dizzy dance, I staggered like a shipwrecked sailor into the bedroom and snatched the phone from the desk. Before I flopped on the bed, I grabbed a coverlet. Curled in a fetal ball, I clutched the phone. Spent nerves prevented me from listening to the message. My mind replayed conversations Hammett shared when he’d headed the safety committee. He equipped the offices with fire extinguishers and carried out routine fire drills up and down the thirty-seven flights of stairs. No wonder he stayed in great physical shape. Hope flooded my thoughts.

I blew out a long sigh, pushed the button, and retrieved the only message. “Hi, Mom, it’s Maddie. It’s about 8:37 on Tuesday morning, September 11. I don’t have to be to work at the hospital until noon today. These twenty-four-hour emergency room shifts are brutal, and I haven’t seen you guys as much as I’d like. I picked up some bagels and cream cheese at that deli you two always rave about. I’m gonna take them up to Dad’s office, and wondered if maybe you could join us.

“By the way, I got bored at work Sunday and weighed myself. Big mistake. So, before I eat these bagels, thought I’d take the stairs up to Dad’s office. If it doesn’t kill me, maybe I’ll lose five pounds by the time I get there. “Okay, I’m about to enter the stairwell so I might lose reception but I’ll count off the steps for as long as I can. Ready? “Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen . . .”

***

People often ask why I’ve left this story unfinished. Well, let me ask you – if this were your story, your life, how would it end? Claire had no idea how radically her life would change on September 11, 2001. She and Hammett seemingly had it all: the penthouse, the money, the future . . . or so they thought. Though they’d planned for their financial goals to the last penny, they’d neglected their eternal destination. Maybe more time would’ve helped, but it’s the one commodity none of us can buy. Unlike the fictional characters in my story who had to comply with how they’re written, people have free will.

We choose where we will spend eternity.

The Bible tells us that God sent His Son Jesus into this fallen world to provide a way for us to go to Heaven. Since Jesus lived a perfect life, His death on the cross paid the penalty for our sins. You might think being a good person is good enough. Well, if that were true, Jesus wouldn’t have had to die for your sins. What’s sin? Sin means to break the law, go against a moral code, to miss the mark. If we’re honest, we’ve all missed the mark. When we ask Jesus Christ to forgive our sins, He comes and lives in our hearts. He makes us a new person. We trade our sin-filled life for a new one . . . that’s what “born again” is all about.

We’re all given the opportunity to choose to live for Jesus. Our choice makes the difference between the hope of Heaven or the horror of hell. We all remember the tragedy of September 11, 2001—the images we saw, the news accounts we heard, the stories we read. Maybe you had a relative, close friend, or an acquaintance who died in that horrible attack. Ready or not, the day will come when we, too, breathe our last breath. Like the characters in this story, perhaps you’ve succeeded in achieving your financial goals. None of that will matter if you haven’t chosen Jesus and secured your eternal destination.

To do that, simply ask Jesus into your heart today. Read His Word, the Bible, and let Him lead you home. *** Please see the special page created on this website entitled “The Penthouse” where you can post questions about this story, your thoughts about the 21th anniversary of 9/11/2001, and your memories of that day.

This is an original fictional story written by eMarie.

To leave a comment, please click on the title above, THE PENTHOUSE – An original 9/11 STORY (Part 3), and scroll down. Thank you for subscribing and inviting friends to this website. God bless you! 🙂

THE PENTHOUSE – An Original 9-11 story (Part 2)

But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, but My Father only. (Matt.24:35, NKJV)

(Repeat from part 1: Hammett and I grieved in different ways. He poured himself into his work and allowed it to consume him. “Can’t we talk about this?” I’d pleaded. He shrugged, undressed, and fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow.)

To cope, I skipped meals. Lots of them. If Hammett and I were invited out, I sometimes pretended to eat. Other times, I’d polished off my plate like a ravenous wolf. When my stomach rebelled, unable to handle its contents, I excused myself to find the nearest restroom. My friend Jessica noticed my weight loss and unhealthy eating patterns. She invited me out to lunch. Instead, she took me to meet with her therapist.

After several sessions, I suggested Hammett go with me. “Don’t ever ask me to go to one of those shysters. It’s mind over matter. You think they’ll help you, but all they do is take your money.” He pointed his finger at me. “Besides, I’m not the one that needs help.” In five weeks, I’d gone from a healthy 152-pound, 5’6” woman to a lethargic 129 pounds. I knew I was out of control when I caught a glimpse of my skin-taut rib cage in the mirror.

It didn’t surprise me when I woke up in a hospital bed, disoriented and bewildered, with tubes and monitors all around me. Hammett stroked my hair. “I found you passed out in the bathroom. I’m so sorry. I should have done something . . .  I.” His eyes met mine. “We’ll get counseling. The two of us. We’ll get better.” We did get better. Hammett made it a rule—he’d be home by dinnertime every workday, and he stuck to it. Over time, our therapy sessions went from twice a week to once a month. We learned so much more about each other, and as Solomon had said, we began to appreciate what we’d taken for granted.

By now, our daughter Madilyn had graduated medical school and joined a small emergency medicine practice in the City. Our daughter-in-law visited often with our grandson, Oliver. He lit up the room and kept us young. We enjoyed spoiling him with toys, books, clothes, and electronics.

A shiver crawled along my spine. I glanced at my watch, stunned that I’d daydreamed on the balcony for so long. I hurried to clean off the table and brought the breakfast dishes to the sink, then turned on my favorite TV morning show to accompany my mundane chores. Water splashed over my hands. I hummed and scrubbed the plates.

“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you. . .” I turned toward the television—its picture captured my attention. The camera lens zoomed in close, as if I rode on the wings of a misguided jet. The commentator’s words pricked my ears. Sirens and horns blared outside and in the background while the TV newscaster narrated the uncertain reality. Clear blue skies above the Twin Towers blackened with billowy smoke. Again and again, images of the plane as it flew into the North Tower appeared on the screen. I flipped through the channels. There had to be some mistake, maybe some sick reenactment of War of the Worlds.

I hurried to the balcony and looked toward Manhattan, to the steel towers that graced our view.

“God, help us.” Dark smoke rose into the air until it entombed the silvery tower. Back inside, I grabbed the phone from the receiver, relieved I still had a dial tone. Before I pushed a button, the phone slipped from my sweat-drenched palm. My breath caught in my throat. The TV camera tracked another plane soaring at low altitude on approach to the South Tower. My body crumpled to the floor and my heart hammered as flames erupted through the tower’s jagged opening. The newscaster’s voice faded away. Eerie figures fell from the windows of the north building, surreal and horrible. Frightened people dotted the street, too stunned to cry. Their confusion matched my own.

My cell phone rang. I leaped off the floor and raced to my desk, then read the number on the screen. “Hammett, where are you?” For a nanosecond, everything moved in slow motion before rocketing forward. Shattered glass and noise rumbled in the background. Desperate screams almost drowned Hammett’s words. I dug my nails into the desk.

“Hammett, I can’t hear you.” I yelled over the chaos that probably surrounded him. He sniffled. “You were right. I shouldn’t have come to work today.” His words came between stilted breaths. I gripped the phone so tight my hand ached. I could only imagine what Hammett saw, how he felt at that moment, the thoughts going through his mind.

I wanted to say something of comfort, something to encourage him. “Hammett, I can’t live without you. I don’t want to.” The words left my lips and, oh, how I wished I could take them back. They weren’t helpful or what he needed to hear.

He sobbed. Hard. And I’ll never forget the grit in his voice as he gasped and choked out these words. “You’ve made my life so happy . . . I wish I had . . . a million more. Take care of . . . Madilyn. Suzanne . . . and Oliver. I’ll . . . watch over you.” The line went dead.

“Hammett. Hammett.” Bile burned in my throat. Thunder rolled in the distance, or did the noise reverberate from the television? I raced into the living room and sank to my knees.

“Oh, dear God, no!”

*** Part 3 of this original fictional story by eMarie will be posted Friday, September 9, 2022

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THE PENTHOUSE – An Original 9-11 STORY (Part 1)

So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. (Psm. 90:12, NKJV)

The morning began like most others. Hammett hurried onto the balcony while securing the knot in his tie. After forty-two years, the fit of his black suit and crisp white shirt still stirred butterflies in my stomach. I poured two cups of black coffee as he buttered the toast, our usual pre-work breakfast. Between bits of conversation I followed the movements of a jogger plodding his way through Central Park, a view we’d paid dearly for.

As September mornings go, humidity already presented a challenge, but the pale blue sky and mid-60s temperature offered Hammett a perfect seven-mile bike ride to his office in New York City’s Twin Towers.

He pushed his plate away and gazed toward the tall green trees. An occasional hint of autumn splendor painted the leaves. Hammett leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head.

I enjoyed him this way, relaxed, with a slight upturn in his lips. “Are you sure you have to finish out the week?” If only I’d bitten my tongue. Instead, the words rang like an alarm clock.

Hammett looked at his watch then sprang out of the chair. “I promised Julia I would.” He bent down and kissed my forehead. “Just three more days.”

He touched my shoulder, and I held onto his hand. I stared into his deep blue eyes—the worry lines in his forehead more pronounced than I’d ever noticed. I held back words I wanted to say. Words like, you don’t owe her anything; I’ve always admired your dedication, but it’s such a beautiful day. Let’s ride the ferry. Deep inside, I knew it wouldn’t help if I said them.

We’d married two years before we graduated college. Hammett began his career as an intern, and continued to work for the same marketing firm for forty years. I stayed home and raised our two children. Hammett climbed the corporate ladder until he’d earned a place at the table—chief financial officer. With our debts paid, children’s futures secured, and nothing preventing us, we sold our home in the country and bought a penthouse on the upper west side. Our wallets took a wallop, so I accepted a part-time job as an at-home editor. After ten years, we achieved our dream. We paid off the mortgage and breathed easier. We owned the penthouse free and clear.

Though we had means, we’d chosen to live with fun and frugality in mind. We’d gone on a few cruises but stayed in hostels when we toured Europe. Our friends bought yachts, we rented kayaks. Skiing in Aspen never made it on our radar. The nearby Poconos filled that need.

Several months ago, we met with our investment banker. A month later, Hammett signed his retirement papers. At the firm’s request, he agreed to work as a consultant on an occasional basis, and at his discretion.

That afternoon we went through our scrapbooks and picture albums. Every page told the story of our lives. Days, weeks, months, and years passed before our eyes. Though I hadn’t voiced the thought, I wondered how many more years we’d have together.

As if he read my mind, Hammett took my hand. “It’s the beginning of the rest of our lives. Whatever time we have, we’ll make the most of it. You and me.” A tenuous smile spread his lips.

The sun warmed me as I stood at the edge of the balcony and waved to Hammett, his bike pointed toward his trek to work. He leaned over the handlebars, his satchel slung on his back, the path through Central Park a little busier now than thirty minutes ago. He stopped pedaling long enough to throw me a kiss, something he hadn’t done for years. I pretended to catch it and threw one back.

He smiled and rode down the sun-dappled pathway.

No longer able to see him, I lingered on the balcony, absorbed in the moment. Hammett’s words from months ago, “the rest of our lives,” flashed through my mind like a shooting star.

Somehow, the thought took me back several years when our daughter-in-law and son, Solomon, an administrator at Cedar Sinai Hospital, traveled to Haiti. Unable to conceive, they adopted a newborn in Port-au-Prince. Solomon returned a changed man. “Mom, Dad, you’ve gotta go there. We take everything for granted. They have nothing, yet they’re the happiest people I’ve ever met.” A week later, Solomon lay in a hospital bed with fever, severe abdominal pain, and diarrhea. Diagnosed with malaria, he slipped into a coma. A few days later, he left our lives forever.

Hammett and I grieved in different ways. He poured himself into his work and allowed it to consume him.

“Can’t we talk about this?” I’d pleaded. He shrugged, undressed, and fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow…

Part 2 of this original fictional story by eMarie will be posted Friday, September 2, 2022

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NEED A LIFT?

Since moving to the Boise, ID area, we’ve noticed more windy summer days than not. While we enjoy pleasant, consistent airflow indoors (thank God for air conditioning!), it’s amazing to watch birds navigate the blustery skies. But what about airplanes?

Sometime ago, I found this interesting article:

“During our tour of an aircraft carrier, a jet fighter pilot explained that planes need a 56-kilometer-per-hour wind to take off on such a short runway. To reach this steady breeze, the captain turns his ship into the wind. “’Shouldn’t the wind come from the plane’s back?’” I asked. The pilot answered, “’No. The jets must fly into the wind. That’s the only way to achieve lift.’”

“God called Joshua to lead His people into the “winds” that awaited them in the promised land. Joshua required two things. Internally, he needed to “be strong and very courageous” (Joshua 1:7); and externally, he needed challenges. This included the daily task of leading thousands of Israelites, facing walled cities (6:1–5), demoralizing defeats (7:3–5), Achan’s theft (vv. 16–26), and continual battles (chs. 10–11).

“The wind that blew in Joshua’s face would lift his life as long as his thrust came from God’s instructions. God said he must “be careful to obey all the law . . . do not turn from it to the right or to the left . . . meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do everything written in it. Then you will be prosperous and successful” (1:7–8).

“Are you resolved to follow God’s ways, no matter what? Then look for challenges. Fly boldly into the wind and see your spirit soar.”

I pray that you allow Jesus to be the wind beneath your wings. Whatever adventure He has for you and wherever He sends you, He’ll give you a lift.  🙂

Article written by Mike Wittmer*

Reposted by author eMarie)

To leave a comment, please click on the title above, NEED A LIFT?, and scroll down. Please subscribe and return next week for another encouraging blog. Thank you and God bless you!  🙂

* Mike posted this article posted on FB 2/2022

 

DON’T TRIP ON THE PEBBLE

A few months ago, I was really frustrated with my writing. I was entering a contest, and I wanted to get everything just right. I wanted my chapter to be perfect, and anything short of that didn’t seem good enough. Then, I saw a box of crayons, and the Lord reminded me of a lesson I’d started to learn long ago.

When I was in 1st grade, I used to take my red crayon and draw a big red X across my workbook page if I had a single incorrect answer. It didn’t matter if there were 20 questions, and I got 19 out of 20 right. If I missed one answer, the whole page was wrong. I concentrated on where I’d fallen short instead of on where I’d succeeded. I wanted perfection.

It used to drive my teacher crazy, and it took a lot of scolding on her part, before I got it through my head: I didn’t need to throw out everything that was good because of one mistake.

I’ve since grown up and put away my crayons. But sometimes I still focus on the spot and forget to appreciate all that’s right, whether it’s in the beauty of a day or in my writing.

I think each of us can get so caught up in the step we missed or where we fell short that we stop climbing. We miss the mountaintop because we trip on a pebble. And too often we forget that we don’t run alone.

The Lord doesn’t expect us to get everything perfect, not in our lives or in our writing. But He has called us to keep on running, to keep on writing, and to keep our eyes on the finish line. Perseverance. Determination. Not perfection.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12: 1-2, NIV)

By Sherry Schindelar (sherryshindelar.com)

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WHEN PUSH COMES TO SHOVE

A paraphrased definition of push comes to shove explains it as a critical point in a situation when a shove, rather than a push, is needed. The origin or first use of this phrase is unknown. However, a fun story from the late 1880s illustrates its meaning.

A nameless, entrepreneurial young woman arrived in town only to find its men in deep despair. She inquired about their sad state and was told the town’s only barber had fled during the night, stiffing all but a lucky few of debts he owed. On further questioning, she discovered the men were more concerned about their shaggy and unshaven appearance than the money they’d lost.

This woman jumped at the opportunity. She set up shop in the rogue barber’s establishment and soon needed to hire a few more like-minded women to accommodate her growing (pun intended) business. Her wealth accumulated, and an article in the town’s newspaper called her an “apterous tonsorial angel” (wingless barber angel).*

Ergo, she did what was needed when push came to shove.

Silliness aside, this story reminds me of Paul and Silas. After freeing a fortune-telling slave girl of an evil spirit that brought her masters much wealth, the two believers were beaten and thrown into prison. At midnight, Paul and Silas sat in their cell singing and praising God. Of course, the other prisoners listened! Who rejoices in their pain and misery, especially when death hangs like a thick Roman cloud over their heads?

Suddenly an earthquake shook the building and all the prisoners’ chains were loosed. Now, even if earthquakes happened regularly in that region, one that freed fettered inmates would be enough to cause the jailer to take his life. If he didn’t, Rome would.

This is when push came to shove. No doubt, Paul and Silas, and any one of us, might have been tempted to say, “Wow. Thank you, Lord, for this miracle. I’m outta here!” Instead, the two men reassured the jailer they were all still there.

I love this part! I can’t help but giggle each time I think about it. Ready?

The jailer called for light!

But The Light had already come! At our darkest hour of night, Jesus came to give us eternal life. Our lives, and that of the jailer’s, had already been spared. No different than each of us, this jailer had to see for himself.

And isn’t that so gracious of God to let us grope and wander in the dark until that critical point, until that earth-shaking moment, until we ask for Light. Until we want to taste and see for ourselves that He is good. He is there. And best of all, we don’t have to wait until push comes to shove. We can enjoy His gift of love and eternal life now. All we have to do is ask.

“Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and you will be saved, you and your household.” (Acts 16:31, NKJV)

By Author eMarie

To leave a comment, please click on the title in bold above, WHEN PUSH COMES TO SHOVE, and scroll down. Thank you for subscribing and sharing this website with friends, and please come back next week for more encouragement. Thank you and God bless you!  🙂

*wordhistories.net

HIS ONE LIFE

Last week’s blog included one stanza from C.T. Studd’s poem Only One life, Twill Soon Be Past.

Because this plaque in my childhood home had such an impact on me, I wanted to share its author with you.

Born to wealthy, non-Christian parents, Charles Thomas (C.T.) Studd enjoyed a privileged childhood in Spratton, England. Well known for their cricket prowess, C.T. and his two brothers dominated the Cambridge sport in the early 1880s.

But when their father Edward became a born-again believer at a Moody Crusade, he invited a preacher into their home. Slow to accept the full gospel, C.T. would only go so far as admitting that Jesus Christ died. However, once he acknowledged that Jesus Christ died for him and accepted Him as Lord and Savior, “joy and peace came into my soul. I knew then what it was to be born again.”

C.T. entered the mission field in 1885, formed the World Evangelization Crusade (aka WEC Int.), and spent the next 46 years in service to the Lord in China, India, and Africa. C.T. lived “Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends.” (John 15:13, NKJV)

A few of C.T.’s inspirational quotes follow:

  • Some wish to live within the sound of church or chapel bell, I want to run a rescue shop within a yard of hell.
  • If Jesus Christ be God and died for me, then no sacrifice can be too great for me to make for Him.
  • The light that shines farthest, shines brightest, nearest home.
  • God’s real people have always been called fanatics.*

C.T. Studd’s powerful poem Only One life, Twill Soon Be Past is printed in its entirety below.

Only One Life, Twill Soon Be Past
by C.T. Studd

“Two little lines I heard one day,
Traveling along life’s busy way;
Bringing conviction to my heart,
And from my mind would not depart;

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Only one life, yes only one,
Soon will its fleeting hours be done;
Then, in ‘that day’ my Lord to meet,
And stand before His Judgement seat;

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Only one life, the still small voice,
Gently pleads for a better choice
Bidding me selfish aims to leave,
And to God’s holy will to cleave;

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Only one life, a few brief years,
Each with its burdens, hopes, and fears;
Each with its clays I must fulfill.
living for self or in His will;

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.

When this bright world would tempt me sore,
When Satan would a victory score;
When self would seek to have its way,
Then help me Lord with joy to say;

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Give me Father, a purpose deep,
In joy or sorrow Thy word to keep;
Faithful and true what e’er the strife,
Pleasing Thee in my daily life;

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Oh let my love with fervor burn,
And from the world now let me turn;
Living for Thee, and Thee alone,
Bringing Thee pleasure on Thy throne;

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Only one life, yes only one,
Now let me say, “Thy will be done”;
And when at last I’ll hear the call,
I know I’ll say “twas worth it all”;

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.

__ extra stanza __

Only one life, ’twill soon be past,
Only what’s done for Christ will last.
And when I am dying, how happy I’ll be,
If the lamp of my life has been burned out for Thee.*”
✝️

By Author eMarie

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* reasonforhopejesus.com