Grandma Ollie

Dear Grandma Ollie,

I’m glad you were my dad’s mother.  Have I ever told you how much I loved you, and how the things you did and said impacted my life for good?  If not, I tell you now. 

Grandpa was right to choose “Pansy” as an affectionate nick-name for you, Grandma.  When I think about the pansy’s colorful, cheerful, smiling face, it fits you quite nicely.

You had a great ministry, Grandma Ollie, although I think you’d have been embarrassed to call it that.  You taught little children in Sunday school and wrote poetry.  You wrote to prisoners, the sick, the shut-ins, the bereaved, or to someone you sensed just needed encouragement.  It was just something you did.  You were naturally that kind of woman—hospitable, kind to others, both in deed and tongue.

Your church had a “Fresh Air” program where, every summer, church families opened their homes to kids from the streets of New York.  Your daughters, Esther and Elsie, each had children stay with them every summer, year after year.  You became their Grandma too, as you involved yourself in their young lives.  Those kids came to know the Lord, and their lives were forever changed.

 Sometimes at night, you’d hear someone in the kitchen, (your house was never locked) put on your robe and slippers and go see who it was.  Invariably, much to your pleasure, you’d find a dating couple or two from your church raiding the fridge.  You loved the young people and they loved you back.

If company stopped by your house unexpectedly for a visit near meal time, you never became resentful or upset.  You took it all in stride.  My mom told me you’d say, “Open the fridge; reach left, reach right, pull everything out, and make a meal.”  Did I mention you were amazing?  I think I could learn from you on that score.  Everything doesn’t have to be “perfect” when I have guests.  Right, Grandma?  You know it.  Your motto was, “When you have a heart full of love, you always have something to give!”  And that’s more important than food.  Mom telling me too how you fed tramps who came through the area looking for work. 

  

Thank you for teaching me how to bake bread, cinnamon rolls, and make “Grandma icing.”  (Today we call it penuche frosting.)  I still have your recipes.  How could I forget walking up the lane from our house to yours on an errand, being greeted by your warm smile and given a thick slice of homemade bread, slathered with rich, yellow, home-churned butter and homemade elderberry jelly?  Or a cinnamon roll slathered with Grandma icing?  My brothers received the same.   

Speaking of my brothers, we kids delighted in using the four-seater bright red metal merry-go-round you had in your yard.  Later on we had one down at our house, too.  I wish I’d have a picture of it.  I and three of my brothers each took a seat, propped our feet on a cross-bar, and pulled the flat lever toward us, then away from us, over and over again until the apparatus spun merrily.  We had to take care not to fall off the seat.  I can still hear our shrieks of delighted laughter as we went ‘round and ‘round.

 One day as we kids ate our bread and jelly and admired your beautiful blue pet parakeet in a cage, you told us to not give him any food.  For some reason, I didn’t resist the temptation to give the wee bird just one teensy bite.  What could it hurt?  The next day, you called us kids up to your house.  I was crestfallen when you told us your parakeet had died.  You asked, “Who fed the bird?”  After what seemed like a long and awkward silence, I admitted I had been the cause of his demise, but you never made me feel “bad.”  I still love you for that.  I learned to forgive easily because I experienced your forgiveness.

You laughed, but never aloud.  My mom says so, too.  Your face wreathed with merriment, your eyes squeezed shut and your body shook with silent laughter.  Your daughters took delight in teasing you about your eyes that narrowed to slits when you laughed.  They asked if you could possibly see anything at all.  That really got you going, and the rest of us laughed even harder—sometimes until we had to wipe tears.  I loved those special times of bonding.

  

I especially remember the times you, daughters Esther and Elsie, my mom, my girl cousins and I got together at the home of one or the other’s for lunch, and brought our sewing, mending, or needlework.  (I embroidered a set of pillowcases once.) Or we’d fill a canner with green beans, peaches, pears, tomatoes, or with whatever food needed to be preserved. Sometimes the day called for wallpapering or painting.  The hostess prepared lunch for us, and we’d sit comfortably in each other’s company and share a fantastic new recipe, tips on cooking, family stories and community news, all punctuated by your special laugh. 

The up and down motion of your feet that moved the threaded needle on the treadle sewing machine fascinated me.  Always neat and clean, you were quite skilled at making your own and Grandpa Claude’s clothing.  I was proud of you as a business woman, too; you made black Amish bonnets, white prayer coverings, and hassocks to sell.  I wish I still had the little hassock you gave us for Christmas one year.  Once, I watched you make a small hassock as you tied four empty metal quart cans together, surrounded them with stuffing, and padded the top and bottom. With sturdy upholstery material, you sewed a fitted covering with contrasting cording around the top on your treadle sewing machine.  I don’t remember how you got the cans inside and sewed the hassock shut.  Did I mention you were creative and talented?

(Thank you, Lela Beachy, for sending me the two "Grandma Ollie" hassocks you had!)  

Even though you were Amish Mennonite, and I was Mennonite of a different stripe, you accepted me as I was.  You were a godly woman of prayer, and took a personal interest in our spiritual lives.  We kids never left your house without being handed a Gospel tract, and I thank God for your prayers for me and my brothers.  Your prayers are still operative, you know.  They never died.  Do you remember the day you walked with me from your house down the lane to my house, and you looked at me and asked, “You’ve become a Christian, haven’t you?”  Did I tell you how surprised I was that you’d noticed?  I hadn’t told you that I stood up in church the week before to publicly declare that Jesus was my Lord and Savior.  You went on to say, “I noticed the change in you.”  Did you know a warm feeling of joy filled my heart at your words?  It profoundly marked my life.

And how could I forget the times in my teen years you walked down to our house and knelt by a chair with me in the dining room to pray together?  Each time, my dad and brothers were out on the highway with the tractors, pulling wagon loads of baled hay home from distant rented farm land in Garrett.  Black, angry clouds filled the sky as lightning flashed and booming thunder shook the house.  You were concerned for them and the hay they’d worked hard to grow, cut, rake, dry, bale, and load, that it not get soaked and ruined by a rainstorm.  Somehow it was okay when you were there to pray with us, and everyone came home safe and sound—including the hay!  Thank you for your prayers, Grandma. 

My ninety-year old mom confirms you never spoke a cross word or expressed anger against anyone.  Instead, you had a ready, warm smile for all.  My mom had a special love for you too; she says you were the best mother-in-law a bride could ever have.  That’s saying a lot, considering she and Daddy lived with you in the same house for some time.  Mom told me about the time a whole pie slipped out of your hands, and fell upside down on the floor.  Instead of complaining and getting angry, you simply started to sing, bent down, scooped it up with a spatula, and cleaned the floor.  I’m sorry to say I have not been such a shining example, Grandma.  You chose to think differently than most people: you chose to be pleasant and positive instead of angry and negative.

“Who can find a virtuous and capable wife?  She is more precious than rubies…Her children stand and bless her… Reward her for all she has done.  Let her deeds publicly declare her praise.”  (Prov. 31:10, 28, 31, NLT)

Grandma Ollie, all your children have joined you in heaven, so I stand and salute you.  I publicly declare your praise—through my writing. 

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

The Auction

The sale grounds at the home of my paternal grandparents, Claude and Olive Yoder, were crowded.  Outside, the flurry of activity seemed another world to me: they were selling my grandmother’s things—and my grandfather’s too. Since the years of Grandma Ollie’s death, the lonely house, once filled with bustling activity, was no longer to be his home.  

Tired of the noisy din, I withdrew into the house.  The once-orderly home sounded empty and hollow as I took a private moment to walk through the gutted rooms. Alone, I entered the narrow pantry.   A limp, white muslin curtain hung forlornly over a simple rod that drooped at an angle over the narrow open window that almost filled the narrow wall straight ahead.  A gentle breeze stirred the curtain to life as I entered the space. Empty. Like the hole in my heart.  I caressed the gray linoleum-covered shelves that lined the wall on the right—shelves that once held Grandma’s freshly-baked cookies, cakes, pies, pots, pans, and supplies.

I sighed and retreated to the kitchen.  My eye moved to the old Frigidaire refrigerator with rounded top corners, and to the large white gas stove.   The porcelain-covered cast iron sink that once held mountains of dirty dishes and pans of sudsy hot water at many Thanksgivings and Christmases, seemed forlorn without the “cat and kittens” and Aloe vera plants and geranium cuttings on the windowsill.  It was a nice kitchen, really—good countertop space, even if it was covered with linoleum.  I pulled open the deep drawer to the left of the sink where she’d once kept her homemade bread, jelly, and a covered glass dish of “Grandpa butter,” a rich, yellow soft churned butter purchased from local Old-Order Amish farmers.  (The Old-Order Amish had horses and buggies, but Claude and Ollie had a shiny black car, and were members of Mountain View Amish Mennonite Church.)

I took a few steps to the wide archway between the kitchen and dining room, and could once again see the blanket nailed across the opening as we 16 cousins put on a Christmas program (directed by me, I might add).  Those who didn’t have a part in the actual nativity scene would recite Scripture verses or poems.  I got lost in thought as I remembered Christmases in their home—the long, dark dining room table, as every child’s parents sat on a bench behind the table and beyond, Claude and Ollie sitting at the end near his roll-top desk. Through tears, I again saw Grandma’s eyes that would squeeze shut from the broad smile on her face as she beamed with pleasure at her grandchildren’s performance.  (For Amish grandparents, surely they had a more open mindset than what I imagined other Amish folks did, to encourage such play-acting.  And I loved them for it.)  I remember Grandma’s table, laden with food at mealtime, and then with bowls filled with Rice Krispie squares, popcorn balls, nuts, and penuche peanut candy squares, for eating after the gift-giving.

The door above the bottom stair step that led upstairs from the dining room was closed.  I knew there were two spacious bedrooms upstairs with Jack and Jill bath, and storage under the eaves.  Without going upstairs, I bent down and opened the hinged bottom stair tread one last time. Nostalgia swept over me as I remembered the children’s toys she’d always kept for us there.  I wiped tears on my blouse sleeve and walked into the living room, now naked and bare.  No huge, lush trailing ferns sitting on tall pedestals in two corners of the room.  No companionable rocking chairs, couch, or extra dining room chairs lined up under the double windows. No bureau chest of drawers whose top right-hand drawer secreted a yellow plastic hen that laid little round eggs when put on a surface and pressed.  Through the double living room windows, I looked out into the overgrown area where Grandma once kept a flourishing garden, and beyond that to the farm’s orchard where I’d gathered apples as a child.  An ache tugged at my heart as I turned away.  

With slow and quiet steps, as though in respectful mourning for the house, I entered Grandpa and Grandma’s bedroom.  An empty spot that once held their dresser greeted me.  I thought of the top left-hand drawer that had held Grandma Ollie’s white Mennonite head coverings with strings sewn to the bottom corners.  (I used to try one on from time to time, and I could still remember the sense of Grandma’s pleasure when I did so.)  In that drawer was also a thing of great fascination for me—a special teeny purse made of mother-of-pearl with a red lining.  It had a long chain, and inside the purse locket was a tiny note in Grandma’s handwriting: “First gift from my parents 1903.”  On the decorative outside were the words, “Souvenir, Norfolk, VA.”

Two clothes closets with doors still sporting glass knobs, separated by a built-in shelving unit with a hinged door, and hinged hamper chute below it, met my gaze as it swept the room.  The hall bathroom had built-in shelving with a hinged door and laundry chute as well.  I opened the laundry chute one last time and looked down the hole to the basement floor below, now filled with items for the sale.  I choked back the tears, and wound my way back through the kitchen, into the dining room, to the front door.  The green-patterned linoleum beneath my feet seemed cracked and worn, kind of like my feelings. 

I headed outside to the wide front porch that cried out for my grandma’s touch.  No friendly red geraniums greeted me.  The peeled paint and exposed wood seemed to reflect the peeling layers of my emotions and raw sense of loss.  The high concrete steps were crumbling away, and Grandma’s flower beds were no more.  I’d always loved how the porch steps came to a landing that sported a set of steps on either side of it, so one could turn right or left to go to the yard.  

Slowly, I made my way down those concrete steps one last time and turned right toward the garage and basement door and tables that held boxes of sale items.  I spied Grandma’s Bibles distributed throughout several boxes, and I remembered she’d been a writer.  I leafed through her Bibles, and saw they contained notes and papers which I intensely ached to have, but was afraid to take because they were not mine to take.  I’d been told she had a book of poetry somewhere too, but I never got to see it.  

Grandpa Claude, in his wide-brimmed straw hat and white shirt, with suspenders fastened to dark-colored Amish pants, sat quietly on a chair with his wooden cane under the large canopy tent.  Silently, he put a hand on his knee and watched his and Ollie’s things pawned off to the highest bidder.  My heart felt sad that he’d been so lonely without my grandma by his side.  

I left the garage and made my way to my husband and three young children in the crowd.

A bevy of antique dealers circled like sharks around my grandmother’s things.  Then the auctioneer held up a familiar object: that special little heart-shaped mother-of-pearl purse locket!  And I wanted it.  My heart thumped as I began to bid.  Money was tight for our young family, and my heart beat faster as the auctioneer’s voice rose with excited tempo to the duel between me and another bidder—ten dollars, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty—I looked up at Dave.  The auctioneer asked, “Who’ll make it thirty-five?”  Dave nodded and allowed me to bid higher, because he knew how much I wanted something of my grandmother’s.  I had no room for much of anything of Grandma’s in my house, but this little purse locket would fit just fine.  As the auctioneer asked, “Do I hear forty?” my hand automatically shot up.  Strangely, the antique dealer had quit bidding against me.  I felt numb as the bidding stopped with me. I got it for forty dollars!  I’d won!

After awhile, my cousin Pauline sidled up to me and said she was so glad I kept on bidding and got it.  Later, I was told that someone had told the antique dealer I was Olive’s granddaughter, and that’s why he’d quit bidding.  I was grateful for whoever had spoken up for me.

As the auction ended, and we drove away, I was left with the unmistakable feeling that the auction had trespassed on my property—a tender place in my heart.  They’d had no right to be at my grandma’s house, selling and buying her and grandpa’s things.  But they had been, and there was nothing I could do about it.  Farewell, sweet childhood delight. 

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy

Remembering Tillie

I sit at my computer tonight remembering my mother-in-law, Tillie Wengerd Beachy, who recently passed from this life into the glorious peace and beauty of Heaven.  She was one hundred one years and nine months of age.

She was a staunch believer in the Lord Jesus Christ as her personal savior, and a woman of honor with a strong sense of justice.  She was one to speak her mind: you always knew what she thought about any given subject.  No pretending or hiding the “real Tillie.”

When Dave and I got married in 1967, Tillie took some getting used to.  I remember when we were dating, Tillie said, “We couldn’t think of anyone else better suited for a wife for Dave.”  I wasn’t quite sure how to take that at first, but I chose to take it as a compliment instead of wondering if she wished there were somebody better. J 

Tillie was a very pragmatic lady.  No frills or unnecessary “stuff.”  Having learned this, I remember one Christmas I decided I’d give her a practical gift and filled a bread basket with homemade cookies.  I was so hopeful she’d like it.  When I handed her the gift, she remarked, “Oh, thanks for the cookies, but I have no use for the bread basket: I already have one.”  I was confused and a bit hurt, because in my family of origin, one never turned down a gift, even if it was “of no use.”  Tillie wasn’t too keen on giving gifts wrapped in paper either, but preferred to hand the gift, unwrapped, to the recipient.  Like I said, she was a very practical, no-nonsense, take-charge kind of woman.  Not wrong, just different.

She and her husband, Irvin, had a great big heart for missions.  In the downstairs hallway of their Beachley Street home in Meyersdale, PA, was a large map of the world with areas marked for giving to missionary work around the world.  They prayed for and supported many good ministries and did without things so they could give more.  Tillie was quite frugal, but they always had sufficient, and we had many a wonderful meal at their home as the family of seven children with their spouses and children gathered for Thanksgiving and Christmas or other special events. 

She and Irvin both loved to sing and worship the Lord, and for a number of years, they opened their home to a group of “Hungry Hearts” who desired the infilling and gifts of the Holy Spirit.  People from different churches attended every Saturday night, and Dave and I were privileged among them.  Those were some special times of spiritual growth and deep unity of fellowship.

Tillie was quite knowledgeable on a variety of subjects, and their home sported a set of encyclopedias.  I remember one time at a Christmas gathering in the Beachley St. house, someone asked a question, and I expressed surprise that she knew the answer.  She looked at me, laughed, and said, “Why?  Did you think I was too stupid to know the answer?”  I was quite taken aback she’d even think such a thing of me.  In my family of origin, my expression of surprise would have meant, “Wow, I’m impressed you know that!”  It had been meant as a compliment.  Her personality wasn’t wrong—just different. 

After Irvin died, Tillie moved to an apartment in Springs, PA, near her eldest daughter, Phoebe.  I have good memories of visiting her frequently there.  I can still see her in the kitchen as she prepared a simple but delicious meal and sliced homemade bread while I set the table.  Sometimes we would talk about Scripture, personal concerns, or the whereabouts of people she knew in the community.   She frequently told us she was so thankful for our good marriage.  Over the years I’d come to understand and appreciate her for who she was.

When she could no longer care for herself, she moved in with her oldest daughter and husband.  The children devised a plan to take turns calling her every day.  When her eyesight began to fail, Dave and others made it a point to read Scripture to her with each phone call.

 Years passed, and Tillie longed to go on “home” to the Lord she loved; she said she felt lonely and was tired of living.  Dave and I visited her at Goodwill Mennonite Home in Grantsville, MD when we could.  It was hard for her to hear what was said to her, so conversation was a real challenge. 

 My mother-in-law finally got her wish to go “home” on Monday, December 15, 2014.  Thank you, Tillie, for all the years of faithful prayer for your family.  One thing is for sure: your prayers will never die.  I’ll see you in Heaven, Mama Beachy.

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

Are You Ready for Christmas?

Poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s moving lyrics, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” penned long ago in 1863 begins:

 “I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

“I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

The song, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” croons across the airwaves every year after Thanksgiving until the end of December.  But for many, the mention of “home” is especially painful this time of year.

Homeless people fill shelters, or wander the streets.  Prisons are full of men and women who can’t go home for Christmas.  Families live in cars because they have lost everything – their job, house, and bank account.  Others suffer the death of a loved one, and so many suffer the pain of divorce or separation in a marriage.

Adult children are angry and refuse to come home or even speak to their parents.  Loving parents hold out longing arms and cry out to God because of those broken relationships.  Children wither mentally, emotionally, and physically because of parental abuse and neglect.  Moms and dads have wayward or runaway children, some of whom are enslaved in the sex traffic trade, have been kidnapped or killed.  Service men and women in combat overseas miss the comforts of home at Christmas time.  For all these, and many more, the words “Merry Christmas” are painful, hollow and mocking.

Brokenness abounds.

I think of the homeless woman I’ve encountered at various times throughout this year.  She pushes a grocery cart filled with her belongings as she hunches over the handle, reading a book, and making her way slowly up and down the sidewalks and streets.  I saw her the day of my children’s book signing at the Family Christian bookstore in Manassas, and again yesterday when I stopped by there to do some Christmas shopping.  The pavement had given the wheels on her buggy a worn flat spot making a “clunk, clunk,” sound with each step.

When I spoke with her a few months ago, she told me she’d lost her job and her home, and asked me for some money.  I gave her some, and asked, “Do you have family in the area?
She replied, “Yes.”

Again I pressed her.  “Why don’t they help you?”

Her answer: “We’ve had a falling-out.”

“Why don’t you give them a call and see if you can work things out?” I encouraged.

The homeless woman looked up from the book she was reading, and answered,   “The ball’s in their court now.”

How utterly sad!  An angry “falling out,” insisting her family come to her, prevents her from being home for Christmas!  And she isn’t the only one with that story.  Over the years, I’ve spoken with a few other homeless persons who’d had angry words at home, left the family to be on their own, and refused to make up.

“And in despair I bowed my head:
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said,
‘For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.’”

Indeed, Mr. Longfellow.  Hate and anger at Christmas time when there ought to be peace?   Dear God, tenderize our hearts!  We can’t solve all of the world’s big problems – you know, wars and all the overwhelming problems of the world – but we are responsible for our own corner of it.  One family member at a time.  One neighbor at a time.   Don’t play the blame game.  “If possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”  (Romans 12:18) Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.  What is my responsibility?

Jesus said, “Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye but do not notice or consider the beam of timber that is in your own eye?...You actor (pretender, hypocrite)! First take the beam out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother’s eye.”  (Luke 6:41-42)

“Let all bitterness and indignation and wrath (passion, rage, bad temper) and resentment (anger, animosity) and quarreling (brawling, clamor, contention) and slander (evil speaking, abusive or blasphemous language) be banished from you, with all malice (spite, ill will, or baseness of any kind).  And become useful and helpful and kind to one another, tenderhearted (compassionate, understanding, loving-hearted), forgiving one another [readily and freely], as God in Christ forgave you.   (Ephesians 4:31-32)  “As you would like and desire that men would do to you, do exactly so to them.”  (Luke 6:31)  And, “See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.”  (Hebrews 12:15, NIV)

We tend to forget how much God has forgiven us for.  I don’t understand the love of God, but He sent Jesus, because He so loved the whole rotten, stinking world steeped in darkness and sin, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have God’s kind of life – everlasting life!  (John 3:16, my paraphrase)  Not one of us deserves even one teeny little bit of His forgiveness!  He already freely extends forgiveness to us even though we didn’t ask to be forgiven.  Think about that.  Our part is to believe Him and receive the forgiveness He freely offers.  What a gift to undeserving humanity!  If you haven’t yet received His free gift of forgiveness, tell Jesus you receive it right now and that you believe in Him.  Tell Him you want Him to be your Lord and Savior.  And it will be so.  Freely you have received, freely give – which includes forgiving others as you have been forgiven.  

Everywhere I go, people ask me the question: “Are you ready for Christmas?”  So, I ask you, dear reader, “Are you ready for Christmas?”  If you have a meek and humble heart to welcome the Prince of Peace, you are ready for Christmas.

The final triumphant lines of Longfellow’s poem are fitting here:

“Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.’

“Till ringing, singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men!”

All Scripture is taken from the Amplified Bible unless otherwise noted.

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

The Christmas Bonus

1987 was a year of great change and adjustment for our family as we left Pennsylvania and moved to Virginia because my husband found employment there.  Although my parents and brothers and their families all lived in the same area of Virginia, I felt a great sense of loss because of friends I left behind.  I also left behind certain “social positions” such as President of our local chapter of Women’s Aglow in Somerset, heavy involvement in our church at Indian Lake Christian Center, and a home Bible study with dear friends with whom we'd met for a number of years.   Here in Virginia, I was a "nobody."  I didn’t feel established.  The neighbors were new, roads were new, traffic was heavier and faster, and we’d had to find a new church and make new friends.  We felt led to go to a different church than my parents and brothers attended, so we didn’t see them on a regular basis.  Everyone seemed involved in their own face-paced lifestyle and circle of friends. 

Now, in a few days, we'd be celebrating our second Christmas in Virginia.  Smiling faces and excited chatter greeted me as our family of five gathered for dinner on that December evening years ago.  Our oldest son told of a bonus check he’d received from his boss, and our daughter said she’d also received one from her employer.  My husband got a nice Christmas bonus as well.  

I told each one I was glad for them, but suddenly the monster of self-pity reared its ugly head and hissed in my ear.  Where is my bonus?  Everyone except me is doing something worthwhile and getting rewarded for it.  My throat tightened and I turned away so they wouldn’t see my tears.  What was the matter with me? 

The family ate in ten minutes what it had taken me hours to prepare.  Afterwards, my teenage boys headed to their bedrooms downstairs and my daughter to hers down the hall from the kitchen.  My husband went to the living room to watch TV, and I was left alone, staring at a messy table and even more kitchen duty.  Where was my free time?  The monster squeezed my heart, sending streams of tears down my cheeks.  I felt cheated, unappreciated, taken for granted, and worthless.  The emotional pain in my chest was palpable as the monster stabbed me.

Feeling quite sorry for myself, I shuffled around the table, stacked plates and silverware, and plodded to the kitchen.  I looked out the kitchen window into the inky blackness of night and set the plates in the sink, then headed back to the dining room for another load of dirty dishes.  I gave my husband a furtive glance to see if he’d volunteer to help.  Nope, he was enjoying his TV program.  Suddenly, the words of Joyce Meyer came to my remembrance: “You can either be pitiful or powerful, but you can’t be both.”  

I straightened my shoulders and decided the monster had played his last hand.  I dismissed him with a stiff rebuke, and he fled in terror at the name of Jesus.  The Holy Spirit helped me realize that Jesus will reward me for ministering to my family.  Jesus was my Christmas bonus, and I was honored to serve Him by caring for my loved ones.  What could be better than that?

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy 

The Angel That "Flied"

“I remember all that happened as though it were just yesterday.”  Debbie leaned forward, thick, ash-blond hair falling attractively around her strong face.  Her large, warm, clear blue eyes filled with tears as she told me the story.

“That Friday, I dropped off my four-year-old son Danny and his cousin Melanie at my mom’s town house, drove out of the complex and across the divided highway to the parked school bus I would drive come September.  The road looked wet from the shimmer of the intense August heat, and the 100° felt like at least 120°.  As I cleaned and washed out the bus, I kicked off my shoes to let the water cool my feet.  Then, as I bent down to clean under a seat, I heard a voice say, ‘Hi, Mommy!’ 

“I wheeled around, shocked to see my baby, my Danny, standing on the bus steps!  I said, ‘Danny!  What are you doing here?  I told you to stay at Grandma’s!  Now you stay right here; I’m just about finished…’

“I turned my attention to stuffing the ditty bag (first-aid kit, fire extinguisher, etc.)  When I straightened and looked out the window, my eyes met a terrifying sight.  My son’s body was pasted to the grill of an on-coming black Chevy Blazer.  Danny’s head and chin stuck up over the edge of the hood.  The vehicle kept moving, sliding, sliding, for about ninety-four feet as I watched, frozen.  I don’t remember any sound. When the blazer finally stopped, Danny was thrown off, and he slid twenty more feet on his back across the sizzling-hot asphalt.

“I leaped from the bus, forgetting my bare feet, and dashed to Danny’s twisted, rubbery form lying motionless in the road.  By now, my feet were blistered, and my mind was becoming hysterical.  My baby’s face was a funny color as I dropped to the pavement beside him.  His small, tangled body looked ghastly.  I wanted to scream.

“Suddenly I felt my spirit take control of my mind, like something coming out of here.”  Debbie paused to demonstrate by laying her hands across her abdomen.  “It seemed I somehow became only an instrument God was using, and I was filled with an overwhelming peace I never experienced before or since.  I acted out the instructions I heard from my spirit:  ‘Lay hands on the sick and they shall recover.’  So I laid hands on Danny’s head, then his neck, chest, stomach, legs, and feet.  I prayed aloud, ‘Lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover,’ over and over again.  I experienced what Jesus said in the Bible, John 7:38: ‘Whoever believes in Me, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.’

“By this time a crowd had gathered around me and Danny.  One man who heard me pray thought I was in shock, pulled me away from my son and told me to call my husband.  Reluctantly, I obeyed.  But first, I called a Christian sister and asked her to call others.

“When I got back to the scene, the ambulance had arrived, and Danny was in the back.  I got in beside him.  As we started for Commonwealth Hospital, I saw a huge ‘goose egg’ grow on the side of his head, almost like a second head.  Again, I began to pray.  Laying my hands on his head, I said, ‘In the Name of Jesus, there will be no brain damage to this child!’  I didn’t care who heard me.

“A paramedic named John made unsuccessful attempts to get an I.V. into Danny.  Suddenly he yelled to the driver, ‘Go in on code blue!’ and quickly straddled the still form, and began heart massage.  Danny’s lips had turned purple and white.  John yelled, ‘Mom, call his name!  Call his name!’

“So I shouted, ‘Danny, in the name of Jesus, talk to me!  Talk to me!’  All at once, my son began to cry.  ‘That sound is music to our ears, Mom,’ John said.  ‘We’ve placed him in the best hands – those of the Great Physician.  I’m with Fishnet Ministries, and all three of us running this ambulance are born-again Christians, ma’am.’  By this time, John was able to insert the I.V.

“At Commonwealth, the doctors were grave.  X-rays showed the neck separated in three places, and multiple contusions from head to toe.  There was great concern about internal hemorrhaging and spleen damage, so he was transferred to the trauma unit at Fairfax Hospital in Fairfax, Virginia.

“Upon our arrival there, a group of Christians had gathered to pray with us as Danny was rushed to the second floor and prepped for surgery.  Within the walls of a private room, we knelt in a circle, holding hands.  As we prayed, someone spoke in tongues by the power of the Holy Spirit and gave the interpretation.  The message was this:  ‘There will be no knife taken to this child.  Jesus is on the scene, and He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.  The eyes of man will see a miracle, and miracles are for the unbelievers.’

“We finished praying and sat down to wait.  In just a few minutes the door burst open, and a frantic nurse beckoned with urgency.  ‘Mr. and Mrs. Mosher, Dr. Seneca wants to see you immediately!  The X-rays are starting to contradict themselves, and he doesn’t know what to think!’

“My husband and I jumped to our feet, and the prayer partners thanked and praised God.  As we entered the trauma unit, Dr. Seneca met us.  He looked quite moved as he announced, ‘Danny does not need surgery.  He started functioning on his own.  His neck shows no separation now, and all hemorrhaging has stopped; but we want to keep him here for observation.’

“We spent that night with Danny in intensive care.  I told a nurse he was brought in on a ‘code blue’ and asked her what that meant.  I was stunned to learn that it meant the death signal, and she was incredulous that our son survived.

“The next day, Saturday, Danny was moved to a regular room.  His left collar bone stuck straight up out of his shoulder, and the doctors could not wrap it because of the severe third degree burns on his back.  Dr. Seneca and Dr. Vitek took more X-rays, and were awe-struck.  The results showed nothing broken, yet they could see and feel his collar bone sticking straight up!  On Sunday, Dr. Seneca released Danny to go home, and called him a miracle child as he offered a teddy bear to my son.

“My husband, Victor, and I were concerned about possible mental trauma in our son, so that afternoon we questioned him at home.  I said, ‘Danny, do you realize what happened to you, honey?’

“He thought awhile, then said, ‘Umm, I ‘member the big black hitted me, then I went to sleep.’  I asked him if that’s all he remembered.  His forehead creased in deep thought, then all at once his face brightened. ‘I ‘member the angel that flyed, Mommy.’ 

“I was transfixed and asked him what he meant by seeing an angel.  He replied, ‘Yes, Mommy, you know—the angel that flyed in the ambulance. The angel took my hands and placed them around my neck, like this.’  Danny placed his small hands behind his own neck to demonstrate.  ‘And he carried me.’

“I asked him where he was carried, where he went.  My son said, ‘The angel took me to Jesus, Mommy.  The angel said Jesus told him to go down in the road and get the little boy that was hurt.’

“Stunned, I asked him again if he really saw Jesus.  When he replied, ‘Uh-humm,’ I asked him what Jesus looked like.  He thought hard and struggled for the right words.  Finally, my four-year old Danny said matter-of-factly, “Mommy, Him looked like a big, bright, bright light bulb!  There was lights all around!’

“I asked him if he talked to Jesus.  He nodded and said, ‘Uh-huh.’  I prodded him further, and wanted to know what Jesus said to him.  Danny said, ‘Jesus said He was gonna heal me!

My curiosity got the best of me, and I asked him if he saw me or any people, on the road at the scene of the accident.  Danny said, ‘No, Mommy, but I ‘member the man sitting by the road with his hands on his head.

All of us in the room were stunned by what was just revealed.  The man who hit Danny had been sitting on the curb with his head in his hands, just as Danny described him.  I believe Danny must have been out of his body before the ambulance arrived.

“Well, the burns on his back healed miraculously without medical treatment, and by Tuesday morning his left collar bone was down flat.  The doctors were incredulous; they had truly seen a miracle!

“Today, Danny is a strapping 5’11”, 195 pounds, totally normal fourteen-year old with large hands and a warm, affectionate heart.  As I sometimes hold those hands in mine, I thank God for His kind goodness.  Although I had been a Christian for many years, that August of 1984 was the time I lost my fear of God—you know, the hell-fire and brimstone teaching I’d been raised with—and I realized how much He loved me.  He was not ‘up there’ with a club just waiting for me to sin so He could ‘get me.’  He allowed me to keep all three of my sons, yet gave up the only One He had for me!”

As Debbie spoke these words, her eyes brimmed with tears that spilled down her face.  “I have a very thankful heart for Who God is, and I firmly believe that having an attitude of heart-felt gratitude and faith in God’s Word are vital keys to experiencing the miraculous intervention of God.

***

I wrote this after my interview with Debbie Mosher in 1996, and sold the story to Guideposts Magazine.  It made the cover story of their 1997 May/June issue of Angels on Earth magazine. They re-wrote the story to their own liking, and also interviewed Debbie.

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

Kick the Hurry Habit

Harry let out a swear word as he yelled at the car ahead of him.  “Get a move on, you creep; I haven’t got all day!!”  He blew one long, loud blast on the horn as he moved within an inch of the offending car’s rear bumper.  The other driver stuck his hand out the window and gave Harry an obscene hand signal. 

“Good grief, Harry, calm down,” his wife Melda admonished.  “You’ll give yourself a heart attack!”  Harry gave Melda a withering glance, gripped the steering wheel, and retorted, “I don’t want to be late for church!”

Here in Northern Virginia, life seems so fast-paced.  Traffic can be a “bear,” and patience wears thin.  Drivers honk their horns, or weave in and out of traffic just to gain a couple car lengths.  (Then you laugh when you see them stuck at the next traffic light with you.)   The TV show, Mythbusters, did an interesting experiment with a fifteen minute timed driving exercise.  One driver was to weave in and out of traffic, while the other driver was to stay with traffic, and forbidden to change lanes at all, and arrive at a set location.  To my surprise, the “weaver” only arrived a minute sooner than the one who just stayed with traffic.  So I ask: is it really worth it to let traffic give you a migraine, upset stomach, and angry emotions? 

   

When we hurry, our muscle tension increases, blood pressure rises and hormones are released that, if the stress is prolonged, hinder the body’s healing and recovery processes.  When we hurry, we work faster, lift heavier, and are accident-prone.  My mom used to say, “Haste makes waste!”  And it’s so true; in our frustration to open flour and cereal bags, for example, they often rip open, and the contents spill everywhere.  In our hurry, milk or water gets knocked over, and the stress to deal with the mess is worse than ever.  Maybe we won’t need to “cry over spilled milk” if we slow down and take our time.

On the TV show Chopped, chefs must prepare a dish in thirty minutes and face a panel of three judges, hoping to avoid being “chopped” from moving on to the next round.  All four contestants begin with the appetizer round; one is eliminated because of faults found with his dish.  Round two is the main course, and again one of the remaining three is removed from the competition.  The final two chefs compete to win the dessert round.  The stress is unbelievable as chefs perspire, run to and from the pantry, slam pots, skillets, griddles, use deep fryers, blenders, sharp knives, and sometimes an ice cream machine.  Food is everywhere.  More than once, I’ve seen a chef cut a finger so badly that they lost valuable time getting the finger bandaged, and in the end, were “chopped” because they got blood on the serving plate.  The stress is palpable.  I ask myself: “Why would anyone want to subject themselves to such punishment?” The reasons chefs give for doing it is to “not let my family down,” or “to show my parents that I’m good at something,” or “because I love competition and want to win.” 

And we eat too fast.  Why?  Sometimes it’s because we oversleep, and need to gulp something for breakfast before we dash off to school, work, church, or an appointment.  Sometimes it’s just a habit.  My husband said he learned to eat fast on the job site.  As a commercial construction superintendent, he had to coordinate many subcontractors work, and often had to “eat on the run.”

Hurry spills over into listening, too.  We can easily get bored with people who speak slowly, or take their time to tell a story.  Are we so proud as to think that what someone has to say is not worth our time?  Since I write for home and family, let’s relate this to the family.  Do husbands and wives pay attention when their spouse talks?  Do parents take time to listen patiently to their children who want to share something?  Or are we so rushed in our schedules that our kids (and spouses) get lost in the shuffle?  Children can so easily learn to feel devalued and unloved because parents don’t take time to slow down, listen to them, and play with them.  I think children who feel hurried can also develop resentment toward the parents, and learn to pass that behavior on to their own children someday.

A number of years ago, I knew a lady who never answered her phone.  Instead, an answering machine message was short and not so sweet: “We’re busy – leave a message!”  It was said in such a way that the word “busy” sounded like she was even annoyed to take time to make the recording.  When I was around her, she talked of all she had to do, all that was going on, and seemed to wear busyness like a badge of honor.  I’ve come to realize that the more prominently a person wears that badge, the more disrespect and downright rudeness is displayed.  Do we take time to really connect and care about people?

We hurry our quiet time with God – if we have one at all.  This is an area I’ve had to work on.  How easy it is to let the tyranny of the urgent supersede good intentions.  I have to train my mind to put things into perspective and make a quality decision to satisfy the desire of my spirit and not let my mind dictate what my body should do.  And when I do, I feel peaceful, de-stressed, and satisfied.  The rest of the day goes so much better.

Why do we have a hurry habit?  Sometimes we try to please people and say “yes” to everything that’s asked of us.  A life without healthy boundaries, and the inability to say “no,” leads to a life of incredible stress.  We don’t want to disappoint people, so we don’t take care of our emotional health.  And sometimes we expect too much of ourselves, like, “I have to write one blog post per week!”  Or “I have to get that next chapter of the book written!” Or, “I have to host that party!”

There is a difference between being busy in an emergency, and being habitually busy.  Our bodies were not designed to be in a continual state of “fight or flight”.  We can choose different thoughts.  And we can learn to go to bed on time, get up on time, and begin our day with God.  By choosing to be orderly, put things in their proper perspective, refusing to stress out over traffic lights, etc, and deliberately slowing down, you will notice a relaxed feeling of freedom in your body.  You’ll get back your sense of control and increase your overall energy level.  We need to kick the hurry habit for our own wellbeing and for the sake of everyone around us.  Will you join me in my quest?

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

A Bouquet of Hurry-Me-Nots

God was up to something.  How else could I explain the sequence of events that unfolded this week?  On Tuesday of this week, at my ten o’clock Women’s Life Bible study, one group re-capped their discussion as having been about living relaxed in the knowledge of our righteousness through Jesus Christ, and not living stressed anymore.  After hurrying home from my women’s Bible study, I ate lunch. 

That afternoon, hubby surprised me with, “Would you like to go to Skyline Drive tomorrow?  We can see beautiful scenery and maybe even some wildlife, and get a bite to eat for lunch.”

 

When Dave asked me the question, I was smack dab in the middle of making a big batch of “Butcher’s Sauce” that I hoped to have done in time to serve over pasta for dinner.  As I chopped, fried and stirred, I saw that by the time I got everything into the crock pot, and with the four hours cooking time needed, even on high, I would need to make something else for dinner.  My mind scrambled to think of what to make for the three of us (our son lives in the downstairs and eats with us several nights a week). 

In considering Dave’s question, I thought of my plans to make applesauce the next day from the one and a half bushels of McIntosh apples we bought at Hilltop Fruit Market in Grantsville, Maryland, last weekend.  But the idea of an unexpected “date” instead of making applesauce, quite appealed to me.  Surely the apples wouldn’t spoil in a day.  I took a deep breath and said, “Sure!”  I didn’t realize how much I needed the diversion.

That evening, with a different menu, we ate dinner early so we could attend our Tuesday evening Bible study at church.  I was very tired from the stress of hurrying through the day’s work, and I sat down for part of the worship.  As I sat there, I realized how good it felt to just relax and not have to hurry to get things done.  Our pastor taught on being established in righteousness and resting in the Lord (a reminder of what I’d heard in Women’s Life Bible study just that morning.)

The next morning, I called my chiropractor and changed my appointment to nine o’clock so we could leave earlier in the day.  As I waited in the treatment room for Dr. Tara to come in, a sudden knowing filled me as to one reason why I had knots in my upper back and shoulder muscles, and why my mid and lower back muscles may had been so tight and painful all summer.  I had been a “hurrier!”  I wouldn’t have had to make that “Butcher’s Sauce” recipe on Tuesday (copied from Dr. Tara’s bulletin board in the waiting room on Monday.)  But because I was eager to try it, I shopped for all the ingredients yet on Monday.  I gave myself a silent lecture: “Elaine, you make extra work for yourself when you don’t have to!”  I was stunned by my flash of insight.  

As I told Dr. Tara my revelation, she said that, yes indeed, stress makes the body core muscles tighten, causing muscular aches and pains.  I knew God was talking to me through her, too.  It was like a switch had turned on inside me when I saw the truth.  I thought of John 8:32: “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

On our drive, I shared my revelation with Dave and about my mission to slow down and de-stress.  I drew deep breaths and enjoyed the puffy white clouds scattered across a deep blue October sky.  I drank in the sight of nature and trees in the first stages of changing leaf color as the miles and stress melted behind us.  The applesauce-making, my writing, cleaning, and laundry could politely all wait their turn when I got back home.

There's nothing like cool green trees to aid relaxation!

Our first stop was the Shenandoah National Park Association visitor's center, where we made some purchases.  We played the wonderfully relaxing music CD, The Sounds of Shenandoah -- Beautiful Music & the Natural Symphony of Shenandoah, on the rest of our "date."  I read "Moonshiner's Son" by Carolyn Reeder when I got home.  Took me a few days to finish it, but I enjoyed it very much.  So much so, in fact, that I ordered some more of her books from Amazon; her most popular is "Shades of Gray," NOT to be confused with "Fifty Shades of Gray!"  The "Everything Bug" book is delightful reading as well.  I love everything we bought!

Skyline Drive has many overlooks; I think we stopped at each one!  I like the cloud shadow patterns on the mountains.

I got out of the car lots of times to take pictures.

Dave was so thoughtful; before we left the house, he researched rest stops and eating places.  I enjoyed the rustle of soft leaves under my feet as I walked from the car to the restroom.

Just beyond the restrooms was the Elkwallow Camp store, gift shop, and a grill room where we bought some lunch.

The day was quite breezy, but warm enough to eat at a picnic table outside.  Dave enjoyed his cup of chili, grilled cheese sandwich, and corn muffins.  I had a hamburger and fries.

One mountainside with some colored leaves; such a pretty view!

Lots of hiking trails in the Shenandoah National Park, but we didn't go hiking.

I plan to write more blog posts about types, causes and effects of stress, and how to have peace instead of knots in your stomach or back.  God bless you, dear reader!

Copyright © 2014 Elaine Beachy

Contentment and the Stuff Mart

Even as a senior citizen, I still love Veggie Tales! When I babysat our granddaughter years ago, she and I loved to watch Madame Blueberry and the Stuff Mart.  Although Madame had lots of good friends and a nice tree house, she was still unhappy because she thought she needed more “stuff.”

Like Madame Blueberry, many people look at what others have: a bigger house, a nicer car, better vacations, stylish clothes, new furniture, and the list goes on and on.  We want them because we feel discontented, or bored.  We want them because we feel jealous, envious, or inferior to others who have “more.”  Learn why Madame Blueberry was so “blue.”  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2un3RWta_4

I Timothy 6:6 reads: “But godliness with contentment is great gain; for we brought nothing into this world, and we can take nothing out of it.  But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that.”

And Hebrews 13:5 says, “Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.  So we say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid.  What can man do to me?’”

Is it possible the reason we covet and are discontent is because we’re afraid someone else will “get ahead” of us, receive more praise, more approval from others?  I believe the Lord is saying, “Your value is not in what you have, but in who I say you are.” 

You may ask, “So you’re saying I shouldn’t care what house I live in, what kind of clothes I have, or whether or not I have enough money?”  No, that’s not what I’m saying.  God created us to want to be creative, invent things, and be a good care-taker of what He’s given us.  I like what I read somewhere: we shouldn't be discontent to the point of being agitated or disquieted.  

Sometimes I get the urge to buy new accessories for the house because after six or seven years, I get tired of the “same old, same old.”  You ever been there?  That’s when I have to ask myself, “Why do I want to buy something new?”  For me, I think that it's my creative side calls to me.  For example, I imagine what our master bedroom would look like with different curtains and bedspread.  But then I remember the scripture about being content with what I have, and I think of the many who wish they had a home—or anything, for that matter. I start thanking God for what I already have, and the urge to buy something new dissipates. 

  

Instead, I look at my house and try to think how I could rearrange the furniture, or relocate wall art, candles, silk flowers and greenery.  Decorating for the seasons helps satisfy my creative side, too.  I closed my Home Interiors & Gifts business in June of 2009, and I still had a lot of things left from my stock.  I had an open house sale that year, gave a lot away, and kept just what fit into a closet.  I do love color, design and creativity, and I don’t think Jesus is against that.  In fact, He created us to want to improve our environment, be creative and inventive.  He just doesn’t want our lives to be disquieted with wanting more and more “stuff” for the sake of accumulation.  

If we so choose, the simple things in life bring us joy and contentment.  Charles Dickens said, “Cheerfulness and contentment are great beautifiers and are famous preservers of youthful looks.”  Madame Blueberry certainly wasn’t nice to be around when she was sucked into Complaining Swamp. In the end, she learned to be thankful for what she had.

Contentment comes from learning to be thankful—not comparing ourselves to others or entertaining the green-eyed monster.  Comparisons create feelings of stress, envy, jealousy, and resentment.  So what if someone is smarter, cuter, has something nicer or bigger, or is approved by high society?  Our worth does not depend on earthly, temporal things.  As followers of Jesus Christ, our perspective must be on eternal values learned from God’s Word.  I Timothy 6:17-18 tells us, “Command those who are rich in this present world not to be arrogant nor to put their hope in wealth, which is so uncertain, but to put their hope in God, who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment.  Command them to do good, to be rich in good deeds, and to be generous and willing to share.”

The Russian author, Leo Tolstoy, tells the story of a man who was told he could have all the land he could walk around in one day, but he had to be back at the starting point by sundown.  The man walked for a long time, and thought he’d better head back, but he kept saying, “Just a little bit farther,” and kept walking to widen his territory.  Finally, he knew he had to head back, and he ran.  In the distance he saw his starting place, and in a burst of speed and determination, he crossed the finish line just as the sun slipped behind the hill.  He fell to the ground, gasping for breath, as blood gushed from his mouth and nose, and he died.  In the end, the only land he needed was six feet. 

God bless you, dear reader! 

All scriptures are from the NIV Bible. 

                                    Copyright ©2014 Elaine Beachy

How to Pray for Your Children

What’s a parent to do?  Besides Television Thoroughfare and Computer Court being dangerous places for children to play, drugs, alcohol, and promiscuous behavior threaten their health and safety if they associate with the wrong peers.  Schools with liberal philosophies on sex education, evolution, and moral relativism threaten to erode godly values. 

Some parents make financial sacrifices and enroll their children in expensive private or Christian schools in an attempt to protect them from wrong influences.  But, human nature being what it is without Jesus, there is no guarantee that, even in Christian schools, safety from every threat will be found.    

You install television and computer filters to help protect your children from destruction.  You are careful to watch over your child’s friendships.  If you’re a Christian parent, I know you care deeply that your child receives salvation by faith in Jesus Christ.  You’ve cultivated a godly atmosphere of love in your home, and taught the Word of God to them.  But still you struggle with worry and fears because of unprecedented challenges your children face in today’s society, as sin and lawlessness increase.  

As children spread their wings and fly from the nest, so to speak, many parents worry whether they have done enough to disciple their children in the ways of the Lord to prepare them for life.  What if they walk away from Jesus?  What if they marry the wrong person?  What if they choose the wrong career?  What if they adopt New Age teaching, get sucked into the occult or witchcraft?

A mother’s pillow is wet with tears before she falls asleep at night, only to awaken in the early morning hours with the pain of a wayward son or daughter still in her heart.  She blames herself for failing as a parent and prays in distress, fearful that her child will turn against God and be eternally lost.  Fear haunts her.  Fathers also experience this pain. "What if… what if… what if… " STOP!  Such thoughts and speech are destructive – and negatively productive! 

                              

I have hope and good news for you: declare the Word of God over your children!  “The Word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword…”  (Hebrews 4:12, NKJ)   Stop praying in fear.  Declare the Word of the Lord with the power and authority Jesus gave you!  You will find hope and faith arise in your heart when you do.  It gives God a framework of faith in which to work on their behalf.  Claim God’s promises about your children and stand on them in persistent faith, no matter how circumstances look.  The Word says in Psalm 127:3 that “Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from Him.”   Speak life!  Choose words based on what God says about your children and declare them prayerfully, with faith in God: Don’t say things like:

·         My kids are a pain in the neck.

·         Suzie will never change.

·         Satan has my kids.

·         Johnny is no good.

·         I wish I didn’t have any kids.

Do you want those words to bear fruit?  I don’t think so.  You should be aware that parents who repeatedly say or think such things give the devil legal license and inroads into their children’s lives.  Don’t do that!  Proverbs 18:20 (NKJ) says that the power of life and death are in the power of the tongue.

·         My children are a blessing.

·         God is doing a good work in Suzie’s life.

·         My children are taught of the Lord.

·         God will fulfill His plan in Johnny’s life.

·         I’m blessed to be entrusted with raising children for the Lord.

One of my favorite scriptures to pray over my children is Isaiah 54:13:  “All your sons will be taught by the Lord, and great will be your children’s peace.”  Another one is, “I will pour out My Spirit on all people.  Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions…”  (Acts 2:17)  And, “Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.”  (Proverbs 22:6) 

I put my children’s names in the Scripture verses and say them back to God.  “For as the rain comes down, and the snow from heaven, and do not return there, but water the earth, and make it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; it shall not return to Me void, but it shall accomplish what I please, and it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.”  Isaiah 55:10-11 (NKJ)  God gave us His Word, His promises, to speak in the earth, that He may establish them.  It's the Genesis law of sowing and reaping.  Your words are spiritual seeds; choose them carefully.  The crop you raise will be your own.

Remember that Proverbs 18:21 says, “The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit.”  The Lord has given us very great and precious promises that are realized when we speak our faith in His word, and with persistent patience, wait on the Lord to bring about the fulfillment.  Like a farmer who plants his crops in the earth, and waits for the harvest, so we sow into the spiritual realm with the words of our mouth.  What kind of harvest do you want?  It’s important to say what God says about you, your family, and your circumstances.

For more on speaking God’s Word over your children, I recommend Mike Shreve’s book, “65 Promises From God for Your Child – Powerful Prayers for Supernatural Results.”

Be encouraged, dear reader, and God bless you!

All Scriptures are from the NIV translation unless otherwise noted.

Copyright ©2014 Elaine Beachy