Showing posts with label true story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label true story. Show all posts

Saturday 23 October 2021

Mother's prayer- story

 


“Susanna Wesley”


It would be an understatement to say Susanna Annesley came from a large family. She was the twenty-fifth child of a well-known London minister. She was also an intelligent, deeply spiritual girl. Susanna’s daily prayer was “Dear God, guide me. Help me do Thy will. Make my life count.”


Susanna lived in fear that her father would be arrested for his preaching. He was a preacher in the Dissenters’ church. The Dissenters were Christians who worshiped God in their own way rather than following the rules of the Church of England. In the late 1600’s it was against the law to preach for any church other than the Church of England. Dissenters had been branded, had their ears cut off, and been burned alive. Once, soldiers came to the Annesley’s  home and took many of their belongings as a fine because of her father’s preaching.


Susanna dearly loved and respected her father. From him she learned to study and pray at the same time every day—a habit she would one day teach her own children. When she was nineteen, Susanna married Samuel Wesley. Samuel was not only a very committed minister, but he too was highly intelligent and well educated. He also loved to write. Unfortunately for Susanna, he was not a practical man.


Their first home was drab and tiny. Samuel’s job at a small church in a village near London paid very little. They soon had a baby boy and named him Samuel after his father. Susanna prayed that God would use their son and the children that would come later to make a difference in the world.


After a few years, Samuel got a job in a bigger church in the country, one hundred miles from London. Although his pay was better and a house was provided for them, the move was difficult for Susanna. One hundred miles was a long way to be separated from family and friends when the only means of travel was by horse and carriage. She might never see them again.


Samuel spent most of his free time writing magazine articles and poetry, so it was up to Susanna to see that their growing family was clothed and fed. But in spite of Samuel’s shortcomings, Susanna loved him.


Her strong faith saw her through many hardships. Three of their first seven children died. Her oldest son had never talked. On top of that, Samuel made an important man angry by telling the woman he was living with is not his wife and what they were doing was sinful. This meant he we sure to lose his job.


During those dark days, Susanna turned to God for help. She was given a ray of joy when little Samuel finally began to talk when he was five years old. She began teaching him to read and found he had a very quick mind and memorized easily.


Then her husband was offered a job in another town. It paid better still, and a big house on three acres of land was included. Now they could grow their own food. But there were moving expenses, their growing family needed more furniture. They also needed to buy equipment and animals before they could do any farming. All of this put them in debt equal to a year’s salary.


The unschooled church people in the new place didn’t get along well with the Wesleys, who were educated and had famous and important ancestors. They also didn’t like Samuel’s political ideas and his loyalty to the king. A lonely Susanna turned to God for comfort.


One time while Samuel was away, the family was kept awake by gunshots and an angry mob’s pounding and shouting. Because Susanna was recovering from giving birth, a nurse was taking care of her baby across the street. When the mob finally left, the tired nurse fell into a deep sleep and rolled over on the baby and smothered it.


Some time later, an angry church member demanded that Samuel pay him some money he owed him right away. Samuel couldn’t, so the man had him put into prison for three months. While he was gone, one of his enemies killed all their cows, Susanna’s main means of support. Friends helped her and paid Samuels’s debt.


In 1702, a fire ruined two-thirds of their home. Rebuilding the house put them deeper in debt. Seven years later, another fire destroyed nearly everything they owned.


As if constant money troubles and problems with the townspeople weren’t enough, seven more of Susanna’s children died. Of their nineteen children, only nine lived to be adults.


Through it all, Susanna spent six hours a day teaching them. Determined that her children would learn their duty toward God and their neighbours, she wrote three religious textbooks for them. Her teaching was so effective that every one of them grew to love learning and godly living. Somehow, Susanna managed to spend two hours a day in her own Bible reading and prayer.


In the end, Susanna’s teaching, her daily prayers for her children, and her own godly example made a great impact on her world. While her sons John and Charles were studying at college, they started a club with other students who wanted to know and serve God better. The group became known as Methodists, because they had methods for praying, fasting, and studying the Bible at set times.


    Later, tens of thousands would hear John and Charles. John led the Methodist revival in England, which turned people back to the true gospel. And Charles carried the message to countless churches through the hymns



Saturday 8 May 2021

True story- ๐Ÿ‘ณ‍♂️India took revenge ๐Ÿ‡ฎ๐Ÿ‡ณ

 


A story by Manish Nandi

How India took revenge on a person

who hated India. Will gladden cockles your heart!

.

She hated almost everything in the country India, and I guess she needed to find something to like in Calcutta . I was that person

Our quiet and reserved neighbours in Calcutta, the Thorntons, New Zealanders who referred to themselves as Kiwi people, had just moved out. ¹My father said his next colleague, an American, would move in shortly with his family.

Ten days later I was struggling with my high school homework when the doorbell rang. A pleasant-faced but brusque-mannered woman in her 30s asked if I understood English and, when I nodded, wanted to speak with my mother. I explained, in English, that my mother worked and was never home during the day. Surprised that an Indian housewife worked outside her home and an Indian boy spoke English, she asked for a favour. If I could please come and explain something to her two domestic employees that she hadn’t been able to convey.

Both the employees, a cleaner and a cook, said they understood the Thorntons’ English but were befuddled by her American accent. I explained the instructions in both Hindi and English, and then suggested to Edna, who had meanwhile told me her name, that she needed to speak to them slowly and perhaps with a clipped accent. She appreciated my help, but felt that, as a true New Yorker, she would have a tough time altering her speaking style.

Then, in a friendly gesture, she offered me a glass of Coca-Cola and watched wide-eyed as I drank it unhesitatingly. 

Then she said she would like to teach me a game that she loved before but hadn’t been able to play in Calcutta, not knowing who knew English well enough. The game was Scrabble. She warned me that she was a skilled player, and I shouldn’t mind losing a duel with her. “You will get better as you play with me,” she added encouragingly. We started. She was a little amazed that I used words she hadn’t expected me to know and one time had to consult a dictionary when I applied a longer word she didn’t know. Edna didn’t know that words and their structure interested me, and she was struck dumb when I won the match.


She needed a friend. She said that her husband, with his soft-spoken style and self-effacing demeanor, had become quickly popular in India, but she hadn’t a person to talk to. Frankly, she said, she disliked spicy Indian food, impenetrable Indian languages, messy Indian clothes, noisy Indian cities and the smelly Indians she had so far encountered. They seemed shifty and unreliable to her. I somehow appeared to her somewhat different. She detested almost everything in India, and I guess she needed to find something to like in Calcutta. I was that person. We became friends.

In the ensuing months she called me often. She needed my help to understand other people, doctors or servants, to explain her intent to other people, dress or furniture makers, to guide her about mangoes and markets, taxis and textiles. I met and liked her husband, Desmond, and saw immediately why he would be easily adaptable to Indian people and their ways. For Edna, Calcutta, in fact anything Indian, remained an enduring and execrable enigma. None of my interpretations or explanations worked. She loathed it all.

Our friendship ended when my parents moved out to another home in a different part of the city. 


Thirty years later, I was working in the World Bank in the US and talking to a New Yorker colleague who had been in India. He mentioned Desmond, saying that he had died and his wife had settled in a town near Washington. He gave me Edna’s phone number.

When I called her Friday, Edna recognised me in a second and warmly insisted that we talk face-to-face. She suggested that I come over to her place after office, stay the night and return the following morning. She said she would get me the pyjamas and a toothbrush. Such insistence was not customary in the US, but it sounded affectionate and well-meant and I agreed.

I took the hour-long bus trip and, as we approached the bus terminal, wondered how I would identify her after all these years. But I was the only non-white person in the bus in formal clothes, and Edna came forward in a second and hugged me.

When we arrived at her place, I had a shock. It could have been an Indian home. Every piece of furniture, every artifact, even every curtain or cushion was Indian. The rug on the floor was Indian, so were the framed pictures on the wall of the Red Fort and Dal Lake and an antique colonial-era map of India.

She served me Makaibari tea with some pakoras, and, when I offered to take her out for dinner, countermanded it promptly by saying that she has already cooked Basmati rice and chicken butter-masala for me.

I was speechless for minutes. When I recovered my tongue, I made bold to ask what had happened to change her view, since, the last I knew, she detested much of India – “with passion,” she added. What she then told me was a remarkable tale. 


It was not literature, philosophy or culture that turned her mind around. It was simply the ordinary people of India, the street folk and bazaar vendors and domestic employees who altered her perspective.

“I began with endless distrust,” said Edna, “I assumed they were out to cheat me and take advantage of a naรฏve foreigner. Day by day the exact opposite happened. I would buy bananas, and the poor vendor would choose the best for me, return the excessive amount I had paid. The cleaner would find and give me the cash I had carelessly dropped in the kitchen. The cook gave me and my husband the best pieces of meat, to keep only the bones for himself. Day by day, they taught me a lesson I couldn’t overlook.

“Every time I went out, a fruit seller would pester me to buy his stuff. I refused, for I wanted to buy from the market next door where I would have more choice. One day, out on the street, the heel of my shoe came off. I didn’t know how to walk back home. The fruit seller came running, made me sit on his empty fruit basket, left with the broken shoe and came back in ten minutes with it repaired, put it on my foot and would not take a cent. I insisted, he refused. I doubt anybody would have done that for me in New York.”

Edna smiled, “Yes, I hated India with passion. And India took revenge. It just made me into an Indian.”


Tuesday 23 February 2021

Trust him !!

 ๐ŸŒท⭐️๐ŸŒธ๐Ÿ’“๐ŸŒธ⚡️๐ŸŒท



A  person  started  to  walk on  a  rope  tied  between two  tall  towers. 

He  was  walking  slowly, balancing  a  long  stick  in his  hands.

 HE  HAD  HIS SON  SITTING ON  HIS  SHOULDERS.


Everyone  on  the  ground were  watching  him  in bated  breath 

 and  were  very  TENSE.  When  he  slowly  reached  the second  tower,  everyone clapped,  whistled  and welcomed  him. 

They  shook  hands  and took  selfies.


He  asked  the  crowd  “DO YOU  ALL  THINK  I  can  WALK  BACK  on  the  SAME ROPE  NOW  from  THIS SIDE  TO  THAT  SIDE?”


Crowed  shouted  in  one voice  “YES,  YES,  YOU CAN.."


Do  you  TRUST  ME,  he ASKED?   They  said YES ,YES,  we  are  READY  to BET  ON  YOU.


He  said  okay,  can  anyone of  you  GIVE  YOUR  CHILD to  SIT  on  MY SHOULDER,  I will  take  the  CHILD  to  the OTHER  SIDE  SAFELY.


There  was  STUNNED SILENCE.  Everyone  became QUIET.


BELIEF  is  DIFFERENT. TRUST  is  DIFFERENT. 


FOR  TRUST  YOU  NEED  TO SURRENDER  TOTALLY. 


This  is  WHAT  we  LACK towards  GOD  in  TODAY ’s WORLD.


We  BELIEVE  in  ALMIGHTY .  

BUT  do  we TRUST  HIM?

Thursday 21 January 2021

Forgiven - True story


 I was at the grocery store this morning and heard a loud crash and something shattering. Being nosy, I walked towards the sound and saw some people whispering and looking back to the end of the next aisle. When I walked down that aisle, I saw an older lady had hit a shelf containing dishes with her cart and many had fallen to the ground and broke. She was kneeling on the floor embarrassed, frantically picking up the shattered pieces, while her husband was peeling off the bar code from each broken dish saying “Now we will have to pay for all this!”


I felt so bad for her, and everyone was just standing there staring at her!! I went and knelt beside her and told her not to worry and started helping her pick up the broken pieces. After about a minute, the store manager came and knelt beside us and said, “Leave it, we will clean this up. Let’s get your information so you can go to the hospital and have that cut on your hand looked at.”


The lady, totally embarrassed said, “I need to pay for all this first.” The manager smiled, helped her to her feet and said, “No ma’am, we have insurance for this, you do not have to pay anything!”


----------------------------------

For you who have read this so far, I would like you to give me a minute. Wherever you are, close your eyes, and imagine God doing the same for you!


Collect the pieces of your broken heart from all the blows life has thrown at you. God will heal all your wounds, and I assure you that your sins and mistakes will be forgiven. 

You see, we all have the same insurance, and it’s called Grace. Ask for forgiveness, the Manager of the universe, GOD, will say to you “Everything has already been paid for, now go on your way, all is forgiven!”



Tuesday 25 June 2019

*THE TABLECLOTH*

This is an old story but worth narrating again



-  A Beautiful story . . . makes you understand that things happen for a reason .

The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry, to reopen a church in suburban Brooklyn , arrived in early October excited about their opportunities. When they saw their church, it was very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve.

They worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, etc, and on December 18 were ahead of schedule and just about finished. 

On December 19 a terrible tempest - a driving rainstorm - hit the area and lasted for two days. 

On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high.

The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor,  and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Christmas Eve service, headed home. On the way he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity, so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church.

By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45 minutes later.

She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area.

Then he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet. "Pastor," she asked, "where did you get that tablecloth?"

The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials 'EBG' were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria .

The woman could hardly believe it as the pastor told how he had just gotten "The Tablecloth". The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria

When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week. He was captured, sent to prison and she never saw her husband or her home again.

The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the pastor keep it for the church. The pastor insisted on driving her home. That was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.

What a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return.

One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood, continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the pastor wondered why he wasn't leaving.

The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike?

He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a prison. He never saw his wife or his home again in all the 35 years between.

The pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier.

He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Christmas reunion he could ever imagine.

This is a true story submitted by Pastor Rob Reid who says, "God does work in mysterious ways. I asked the Lord to bless you as I prayed for you today, to guide you and protect you as you go along your way. His love is always with you. His promises are true, and when we give Him all our cares we know He will see us through.

"So when the road you're traveling seems difficult at best, just remember I'm here praying and God will do the rest. 

When there is nothing left but God, that is when you find out that God is all you need. 

Monday 3 December 2018

A Deadly Frozen Night (A True Story)



=============================

There was a Jewish man named Yankel, who had a bakery, in a town, Crown Heights, Germany. He always said, "You know why I’m alive today?"

He said "I was a kid, just a teenager at the time in Germany.

Nazis were killing Jews with no mercy.

We were on the train being taken to Auschwitz by Nazis. Night came and it was deathly cold in that compartment.

The Germans left us on the side of the tracks overnight, sometimes for days, without any food. There were no blankets to keep us warm. Snow was falling everywhere. Cold winds were hitting our cheeks, every second. We were hundreds of people in that terribly cold night. No food. No water. No shelter. No blankets ".

"The blood in our bodies started freezing. It was becoming ice.

Beside me, there was a beloved elderly Jewish man from my hometown. He was shivering from head to toe, and looked
terrible. So I wrapped my arms around him to warm him up.

I hugged him tightly to give him some heat. I rubbed his arms, his legs, his face, his neck. I begged him to try to be alive.
I encouraged him.

All night long, I kept this man warm this way.

I was tired, and freezing cold myself. My fingers were numb, but I didn’t stop rubbing heat into that old man’s body.

Hours and hours went by. Finally, morning came and the sun began
to shine. I looked around to see the other people.

To my horror, all I could see were frozen bodies. All I could hear was deathly silence.

Nobody else in that cabin were alive. That freezing night killed them all.

They died from the cold. Only two people survived: the old man and me.

The old man survived because I kept him warm... and I survived because I was warming him.

May I tell you the secret to survival in this world?

When you warm other people’s hearts, you will remain warm yourself.

When you support, encourage and inspire others, then you will discover support, encouragement and inspiration in your own life as well.

My friends, That is the secret to a happy life." "When you are good to others you are good to yourself" "When you make people happy, people will make you happy"

Bear one another's burdens and so fulfill  the law of God.

*Share*

Saturday 13 February 2016

A True Story



A man from   Norfolk VA, called a local radio station to share this on Sept 11th, 2003, TWO YEARS AFTER THE TRAGEDIES OF 9/11/2001. 
His name was Robert Matthews. These are his words: 
A few weeks before Sept. 11th, my wife and I found out we were going to have our first child. She planned a trip out to California to visit her sister.  On our way to the airport, we prayed that God would grant my wife a safe trip and be with her. Shortly after I said 'amen,' we both heard a loud pop and the car shook violently.. We had blown out a tire. I replaced the tire as quickly as I could, but we still missed her flight.. both very upset, we drove home.. 
I received a call from my father who was retired NYFD. He asked what my wife's flight number was, but I explained that we missed the flight. 
My father informed me that her flight was the one that crashed into the southern tower. I was too shocked to speak. My father also had more news for me; he was going to help. 'This is not something I can't just sit by for; I have to do something.' 
I was concerned for his safety, of course, but more because he had never given his life to Christ. After a brief debate, I knew his mind was made up.  Before he got off of the phone, he said, 'take good care of my grandchild.  Those were the last words I ever heard my father say; he died while helping in the rescue effort. 
My joy that my prayer of safety for my wife had been answered quickly became anger. I was angry at God, at my father, and at  myself. I had gone for nearly two years blaming God for taking my father away. My son would never know his grandfather, my father had never accepted Christ, and I never got to say good-bye. 
Then something happened. About two months ago, I was sitting at home with my wife and my son, when there was a knock on the  door. I looked at my wife, but I could tell she wasn't expecting anyone. I opened the door to a couple with a small child. 
The man looked at me and asked if my father's name was Jake Matthews. I told him it was. He quickly grabbed my hand and said, 'I never got the chance to meet your father, but it is an honor to meet his son.' 
He explained to me that his wife had worked in the World Trade Center and had been caught inside after the attack. She was pregnant and had been caught under debris. He then explained that my father had been the one to find his wife and free her.  My eyes welled up with tears as I thought of my father giving his life for people like this. He then said, 'there is something else you need to know.' 
His wife then told me that as my father worked to free her, she talked to him and led him to Christ. I began sobbing at the news. 
Now I know that when I get to Heaven, my father will be standing beside Jesus to welcome me, and that this family would be able to thank him themselves .. 
When their baby boy was born, they named him Jacob Matthew, in honor of the man who gave his life so that a mother and baby could live. This story should help us to realize this: God is always in control. 
We may not see the reason behind things, and we may never know this side of heaven, but God is ALWAYS in control. 
Please take time to share this amazing story.  You may never know the impact it may have on someone...  God doesn't call the qualified, He qualifies the called. 
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.  His love endures Forever.  Psalm 136:1

Love, 
Esther

Saturday 3 January 2015

Humanization-upgrade it!!


A Lady asks: "How much do you sell your eggs for?"The old vendor replies "0.50 ¢ an egg, madam" .The Lady says, I'll take 6 eggs for $2.50 or I'm leaving.  The old salesman replies  Buy them at the price you want, Madam. This is a good start for me because I haven't sold a single egg today and I need this to live.  She bought her eggs at a bargain price and left with the feeling that she had won.  She got into her fancy car and went to a fancy restaurant with her friend.  She and her friend ordered what they wanted. They ate a little and left a lot of what they had asked for.  So they paid the bill, which was $150. The ladies gave $200 and told the fancy restaurant owner to keep the change as a tip...
This story might seem quite normal to the owner of the fancy restaurant, but very unfair to the egg seller...
The question it raises is:
Why do we always need to show that we have power when we buy from the needy? 
And why are we generous to those who don't even need our generosity?
 I once read this somewhere ,that a father used to buy goods from poor people at high prices, even though he didn't need the things. Sometimes he paid more for them. I was amazed. One day I asked him "why are you doing this dad?" Then my father replied: "It's charity wrapped in dignity, son."

Then this message of attempted "humanisation" will have gone one step further... in the right direction...

Love,
Esther 


๐Ÿง”Father's handprints ๐Ÿ‘

~Father's handprints ~  ✋๐Ÿฝ ๐Ÿ–๐Ÿฝ ๐Ÿคš๐Ÿฝ  Father had grown old and would take support of the wall while walking. As a result the walls had ...