Brenda Knight Graham's Blog, page 3

March 17, 2025

Wearin’ o’ the Green

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We were going to Ireland–our son, Will, his wife Christi, their three children, Charles and I. Our plane tickets, passports, and hotel reservations (at The Red Cow in Dublin) were all in order. Christi had made reservations for various exciting tours and we were also looking forward to visiting our veterinary friend, Tom Comerford and his family

We were going to Ireland. But we didn’t. It was March 2020. Two weeks before we were to leave things began shutting down because of Covid-19. Everything was canceled.

But today, St. Patrick’s Day, 2025, I almost feel we did go. My travel journal purchased for that trip is blank and a tour guide of Ireland, now out of date, sits on a bookshelf as does a volume of Irish prose and poetry. Even so, my mind is full of pictures I’ve seen or imagined–green hills, rocky shores, mysterious castles, dancing and singing of a patriotic, artistic people, weather-beaten old trees, sheep grazing on a sweep of pasture. I’ve always had a deep affection for the Emerald Isle, maybe because my mother did. She was convinced we had Irish blood in our veins. On St. Patrick’s Day she’d be singing “My Wild Irish Rose” or “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”

Who was St. Patrick anyway? Though many legends exist that are not verified, such as the tale of Patrick driving all the snakes out of Ireland, Patrick himself was real, very real. He was a fourth century missionary in Ireland. But first he was kidnapped in his British homeland and taken to Ireland where he was enslaved for many years. After escaping and finding his way home, he hoped never to see Ireland again. But God sent a supernatural messenger to call him back to the people who had abused him. He spent his life spreading the Gospel as a priest and bishop. One symbol he used to explain the Holy Trinity, it is believed, was a three-leaved clover, or shamrock. The shamrock became the symbol of the Emerald Isle.

But why, Kaison asked me, do Americans celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. A few of my own answers: because there are millions of Irish people who are now Americans; because we are captivated by the story and all the imagery; because we love the Emerald Isle, even if we’ve never been there!

Today I’m wearing green and humming “The Wearin’ o’ the Green,” thinking about Ireland with its colorful and troubled history, thinking about my mother’s Irish doctor of whom she was so fond, and our Irish veterinary interns, Tom and Chris. And I’m thinking about St. Patrick who never knew he was a saint, just a humble man obedient to God’s calling.

Some of the lyrics from “Wearin’ o’ the Green” express bits of Irish history:

“Oh, Paddy dear and did you hear the news that’s going ’round?/ The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground./ St. Patrick’s Day no more we’ll keep his colours can’t be seen/ For they’re hangin’ men and women for the wearin’ o’ the green.

“Then since the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red/ Sure Ireland’s sons will ne’er forget the blood that they have shed./ You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod/ But ’twill take root and flourish there though underfoot is trod.

“Oh Ireland must we leave you driven by a tyrant’s hand/ And seek a mother’s blessing from a strange and distant land.”

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Published on March 17, 2025 11:35

March 4, 2025

Of Ewes and Lambs

The above picture, fuzzy as it is, reminds me of the good ole sheep days. Though we no longer have a flock of sheep, as lambing season approaches, I remember the excitement of the birth of each little lamb and the pleasure in seeing the peaceful flock grazing on a sunny afternoon.

Charles or the children (our grandchildren at the back fence, Amanda and Charles D) usually found the new babies first. But there were times when everyone else was at school or work when I would find brand new lambs still tottery on their feet trying to find mama’s teats amongst all her wool. Regardless of who found them (in the back of the barn or in a sheltered spot in the pasture) the babies were a delight to hold and play with when they were little and cuddly. They were so endearing: their innocent softness, their baa so like a human baby, and their bouncy gamboling run in ecstatic abandonment, just so thrilled to be alive. A lamb could leap into the air with all fours, a wooly acrobat.

The ewes were such good mamas. They “planted” their lambs, sometimes two or three, beside the base of a pecan tree, while they performed their task of grazing. I remember the desperate baaing of a ewe when her lamb was lost to her. She hunted until she found her offspring and the reunion was a sweet picture of motherhood. On a few occasions Charles loaned a lamb to a local church for their Easter pageant. That ewe was anxious and unhappy until her baby was returned.

The annual shearing day was an all-family affair starting in the cool of the day. Some ewes submitted to the shearing with fairly docile attitudes. Some went frantic and made the job very difficult. I remember the time Doug ended up on his back with a ewe on top of him. Somehow they all were shorn and turned loose looking like ghosts of themselves. The big old ram looked so skinny and pitiful after shearing.

I remember the sudden fear when I realized several sheep were outside the fence, some even on the street in danger of causing a wreck. It took the help of neighbors and the police to get the errant flock inside the fold.

Feeding time was a boisterous happy time. The sheep came running in joyous anticipation when, late in the afternoon, they heard the rattle of a bucket. Charles had placed several containers in the feeding area of the pasture so the sheep could all have access. But they often ran from one container to another, butting each other, just sure one container was better than another.

On some sad occasions a ewe did sicken and die, despite all our in-house veterinarian could do. If a lamb were orphaned we fed it by bottle for several weeks. Sometimes we even brought the babies in the kitchen or on the back porch for extra tender loving care. Our big old Irish setter, who had a favorite corner on the back porch, sniffed and nurtured the lambs with great tenderness.

Looking back on our good, and sometimes not so good, times with sheep and goats, I am so grateful for those days. I have many pictures in my mind but one of the sweetest is the reunion of a ewe with her lost lamb. Somehow I’m reminded of the words in Isaiah 49:15 that speak of God’s deep love for His children: “Can a woman (or a ewe) forget her sucking child?…Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee.”

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Published on March 04, 2025 09:16

February 24, 2025

Floating Axe

Elisha the prophet, in the Lord’s power, performed such amazing miracles. II Kings is packed with accounts of the miracles of both Elijah and later Elisha. For instance, there was the time Elisha declared a barren woman and her husband would have a son the next year. Then there was the time when that child died of a high fever. Elisha literally lay on the child until he began to breathe. He cured Naaman of leprosy by having him dip seven times in the Jordan River.

Those were all huge, life changing works of God. But, somehow, the account of the floating axe head has always seemed even more astonishing. The story is tucked in amongst those wonderful miracles and could be missed. Maybe the reason it strikes me as so amazing is because it was not a life and death situation.

Basically, in my own words, this is what happened. Elisha’s followers said they needed a bigger house. So Elisha said okay and told them to go with him to the Jordan River and cut down some strong straight timber. While they were felling trees, one man’s axe head flew off and clunked into the river. The poor man was horrified. Not only could he not finish his job but the axe head was borrowed. Elisha calmly asked where in the river the axe had gone down. He proceeded to take a branch and throw it into the very spot. Suddenly the axe head appeared floating on top of the water.

Maybe you’ve never wielded an axe or even carried one but I have. An axe head is heavy. The last time (many moons ago!) I tried to split a pine knot into rich pine splinters, I declare the axe had gotten heavier than before. Lifting it above my head was hard enough. Bringing it down with cutting force to the very spot needed was yet another. I think I settled on two or three splinters, just enough to light the fire that night. Let Charles with his rippling muscled, calf-delivering arms split the rest!

No one was about to die because Elisha’s follower lost that axe head. But it was a borrowed tool! Could the man not afford his own axe? If he couldn’t afford his own, how could he pay the owner for the lost axe? Elisha recognized his plight and decided to remedy it. He threw in a stick and up floated the axe head.

Feathers float; only God could make iron float.

Just as centuries later Jesus, the Son of God, stepped into an ordinary life crisis and turned water into wine at a wedding, so God stepped into an ordinary life crisis during a timbering day by the Jordan and lifted a heavy axe head to float on the water.

Do you think that man or any of the other workmen ever forgot the floating axe? What impact did it have on their lives? Even today, as I read about it, I’m touched by the realization that God cares about the seemingly insignificant problems we have.

For with God nothing shall be impossible. Luke 1:37

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Published on February 24, 2025 08:10

February 14, 2025

Heart Gifts

Indonesian cherry blossoms lace themselves against a blue sky; Japanese magnolias have changed almost overnight from winter gray to vibrant pink for what may be our “temporary” spring; Pink Perfection camellias, as well as the one I call the Valentine Camellia, are heavy with bursting blossoms. Charli baked a triple chocolate cake with chocolate icing for the church’s youth banquet/dessert auction. She and Kaison both served at the banquet, a fundraiser for summer camps. So–it’s time for valentiness!

My mind turns to gift giving. What are the very best heart gifts to give or receive, not just at Valentine’s? Emerald earrings? A dozen red roses? A T-bone steak? A box of chocolates? I’m sure you can remember, as I can, many precious gifting times, both of giving and receiving. While remembering those gifts of the heart purchased at a price, don’t forget those amazing gifts not available in Macy’s or your favorite flower shop.

When I think back over the many, many wonderful gifts I’ve received, one near the top of the list is my husband’s presentation of the Appalachian Trail. No, it was not a week hiking a section of the Trail. It was the trail itself! It wasn’t stretched from Georgia to Maine. It was close by. Behind the house where we lived for many years was a thick little woods of oaks and palms and pines and thick underbrush. Charles led me there one day and walked with me along a winding adventurous path newly blazed. He had carved a trail in that very small acreage that took almost ten minutes to walk if you took it slowly. He knew how much I missed the mountains and knew I’d dreamed of hiking the Appalachian Trail. So with a mischievous chuckle he said “Here it is–your very own Appalachian Trail!”

I thought, and still do, that it was so very romantic that he’d spent that time and effort and imagination creating a trail. Our own personal Appalachian had no rocky cliffs or waterfalls. But around every bend was a lovely view of our tiny South Georgia “wilderness.” There were no bears to fear, but lots of squirrels, an occasional tortoise, and cute little skittery lizards. And there was an abundance of birds–chickadees, sparrows, bluejays, cardinals, titmice, an occasional extravagantly plumed flicka, and tiny bright finches.

For years I enjoyed “hiking” my Appalachian Trail, spying birds’ nests in the spring, hearing lambs bleat in our nearby pasture, sitting by an oak tree to write a poem, or even having a little picnic with children after school. We made up a game of seeing who could walk/run the trail the fastest, though I always liked the slow and easy version the best.

We all treasure every valentine from children and grandchildren, the gluey smeary ones when they were little, the ones with their picture in the middle of a crookedly cut heart, then the carefully chosen mushy ones and the silly ones. Text messages and phone calls are treasured too. A bowl of pink camellia blossoms sits on our breakfast table now, flowers picked by Kaison and presented with gallant pride. I was so surprised and thrilled recently to learn that my granddaughter, Mattie Graham, who is preparing for competition in the Miss Teen Alabama beauty contest, has dedicated her drive for American Heart Association to her Nana. That’s definitely a “heart” gift!

Speaking of gifts of the heart–Jesus gave us the greatest gift when He died on Calvary showing us how much He loved us. I love the lines of the song “Written in Red” by Gordon Jensen. Mary Faye Ridley used to sing it so beautifully at our church. “In letters of crimson God wrote His love On the hillside so long, long ago…I love you, I love you, That’s what Calvary said. I love you, I love you, I love you written in red.”

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. John 3:16

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Published on February 14, 2025 04:15

February 4, 2025

Amaryllis Friend

The package from Conyers, Georgia arrived in our mailbox early in December. Eagerly opening the box, I found a hard, fist size bulb with only the inkling of a green sprout on top. I was ecstatic. An amaryllis to enjoy through the winter. We’d had several amaryllis gifts over the years, including one from my niece Evelyn last year. So we knew what a joy this one would be. This one was from my old college friend, Audrey Roberson, a friend I’ve only seen once since she and I were students at then Young Harris Junior College in 1962.

Audrey is an encourager. When she was a sophomore and I a freshman she took me “under her wing” and helped me enormously in my transition from homeschooling to college life. Her room was one of my havens. She and I, among several others, went to church at a nearby Baptist church named Old Union. On Sunday nights we had popcorn and kool aid after church at the pastorium before the minister’s wife took us back to our dorms in her big long station wagon. Audrey was the one who urged me to apply for a summer mission job under the Baptist Home Mission Board. My summer in Washington State grew me spiritually and mentally, a lifechanging experience.

Through the years Audrey and I have kept up with each other, exchanging Christmas cards, calling each other two or three times a year, and even on time meeting for dinner together with our husbands in Atlanta. We have prayed for each other’s children, grandchildren, and now great grandchildren. She has continued to encourage me to keep writing when circumstances seemed to say stop. It has been uncanny at times when, in a daze of literary despondency, my phone would ring and there was Audrey with her bright uplifting nudges.

Audrey moved to Conyers a few years ago to be near one of her daughters. I wasn’t able to go to her husband’s funeral, could only mourn from afar. When we talk, I learn a little about how she is, how she has to stay in a lot, visit doctors often. But she always turns the conversation back to whatever is going on in my life. Occasionally, like today, I receive a surprise packet of cards she has made for me to use, or sometimes just a cheerful “praying for you” note.

It has been such fun through the month of January to watch the growth of this lily. Sometimes it has grown as much as an inch a day. When the first blossom opened it was like Christmas all over again. Now it has four gorgeous blossoms, stunning bright red. I think of Audrey when I look at it, my long distance friend who has refused to give in to physical challenges, who has persisted in sharing God’s love–like a beautiful lily herself.

A friend loveth at all times… Proverbs 17:17

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Published on February 04, 2025 15:28

January 27, 2025

Southern Snow

It was late in the afternoon Tuesday last week when the flakes began to fall from a gray glowering sky. We had been hoping the meteorologists were right in their predictions of snow in Gulf coast and South Georgia. Now here it was, the snowfall we’d so wanted to see. All afternoon the great grands had checked the time just itching for the snowstorm to begin. “It’ll be just twenty more minutes,” they’d say, or five, or twenty-five as time went on. They’d just gone home when Charli called back squealing into the phone, “It’s snowing! Nana, go look!”

I sat on the cold porch and cuddled a cat watching the magical sight. Fluffy flakes whispered to the ground. Charles joined me as the green barn, his truck, the neighbors’ fence, the magnolias, everything merged into a soft white haze. I wished I could run out as the children did and feel the cool flakes on my eyelashes, taste them on my tongue. But of course I couldn’t do that. I could only watch, absorb the sights, listen to the very quietness as the snow covered shrubbery and grass.

It snowed for hours. It was still snowing when we went to bed. I cupped my hands around my face at the window so I could see the curtain of flakes in the porch light. By then everything was perfectly white. We went to bed hoping it wouldn’t all be melted by morning.

It was a historic snow. Never in our lifetime had the extreme south received five, six, even seven inches of pure white snow. We had snows where I grew up in North Georgia and a very occasional snow in Cairo when our children were growing up. But it had been about fifteen years since we had experienced a significant snowfall and then only maybe an inch.

The snow did not melt Tuesday night. We looked out at a solid blanket of white with drifts against pine trees and corners of the house. The reports varied from five to even nine inches all across the south while our northern neighbors had none. The ramp was covered thick, the front yard looked like a ski slope, and bird feeders were wrapped in white so birds couldn’t get to their breakfast. The bird bath was not just a skating rink, but more like a fantastic wedding cake.

Charles went out to sprinkle seeds for the birds, take pictures, and leave his inches-deep footprints around the house. He found his truck so deep in snow, he was glad he didn’t have to go out on a call to deliver a calf or suture a wounded horse. Camellia bushes had turned into ghosts and an eerie stillness pervaded, no cars anywhere. The only sound, he said, was the crunch of his boots.

Now, on Saturday, there are still blankets of snow under sheltering trees, grimy slush along the streets, sheets of white in strange melting patterns on the rooftops. Though there is a steady dripping as snow melts, clumps and remnants shine in the warming sun. The driveway is clear so I can walk with my tall walker on the pavement. Kaison found great joy in throwing snowballs at my back. The cats still look bewildered, moving with stealthy caution.

To me, this snow was an answer to prayer. We couldn’t go north to Will’s in Birmingham when they recently had snow. We couldn’t go to North Georgia to enjoy their wonderful thick snow. But God sent us in the deep south the most beauitful snow ever! Pictures of downtown Cairo in the Cairo Messenger show the courthouse, the theater and all looking like somewhere in Vermont. Folks sledded along Canal Street in New Orleans and made snow men in Panama City, Florida. Our nephew’s little eighteen-month-old boy in Fairhope, Alabama, received a sled for Christmas as a joke. But his parents were able to put that sled to playful use.

Thank you, God, for life’s many beautiful extras. Thank you for the snow!

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Published on January 27, 2025 16:59

January 11, 2025

Lamp Unto My Feet

While washing the dust off my old lamps, I couldn’t help thinking about how we used to depend on the light from them.

Our big stone house was so dark when night fell. Somehow the stairway lamp was often the last to be lit. Everyone was busy elsewhere and no one remembered to light that very important lamp. As a little girl, I was very anxious when sent on an upstairs errand in the dark. Until a lamp on the upper balcony was lit, a bookcase could become a bear, a chair with a coat draped over it was some kind of witch. Even the fascinating world globe took on a sinister appearance like a bald-headed monster.

A kerosene lamp doesn’t really shed much light. But it’s enough to cut the darkness. By the light of a lamp we could read, Mamma and her helpers could cook supper, knitters could pick up their work, and those assigned to shelling corn could start rattling dry kernels into an aluminum pan. It was as if the darkness ate life away, but when a lamp was lit, life could begin again.

There were tasks for keeping the lamps bright. Someone had to wash the glass globes when they got smoky. Someone had to trim the wicks so the flames would be nice and even instead of jagged like a rocky mountain. Sometimes someone had to replace a wick that was burned too close. The new heavy fiber wick had to be skillfully threaded through the lamp’s workings so as to reach the kerosene in the reservoir. A badly kept lamp made reading very hard and made one’s navigation of the furniture almost treacherous.

The era of electricity started for us when I was fifteen. Most people in their eighties and nineties can tell you when their family “got lights.” Our grandson, Charles Reeves, is an electrician. He enjoys making our lights brighter and we, of course, delight in it too. But in my mind, when I read the verse about God’s Word being a light “unto my path” it’s those old kerosene lamps I picture.

If we don’t remember to open His Word and let His Light show us the way, we will stumble and fall. Also, I think about our lives being the only Bible many people see. Our fuel needs to be renewed day by day. Our globes need to be clean and clear for His Light to shine through. Our wicks need trimming and even, sometimes, replacing.

Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path. Psalm 119:105 is a Bible verse familiar even to little children. But there is another facet to the subject of lamps. Not only is His Word a lamp unto my feet, but He is our lamp! II Samuel 22:29 says: For thou art my lamp, O Lord: and the Lord will lighten my darkness. If God, our faithful God, is my lamp, why should I fear? His light will not need to be trimmed or chimneys scrubbed. His light will be true and bright–always, even after nightfall.

May your light shine brightly this year as He lights your path!

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Published on January 11, 2025 15:20

December 31, 2024

In the Bleak Midwinter

I didn’t even notice them at first. They were blooming so subtly amongst a tangle of dead lantana branches. When I did see them, I had to smile. I thought, what a wonderful picture of hope midst dreariness. We do have a few camellias starting to bloom, and the Japanese magnolias are budding vigorously. Still–pecan trees in nearby orchards thrust bare and sprangly limbs against the sky. Oak trees are brooding and gray. Overall, it doesn’t really look like the song by Christina Rosetti, “In the
Bleak Midwinter.” But her lines come to mind:

“In the bleak midwinter, Frosty wind may blow, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone. Snow had fallen Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter long, long ago.”

Yet there–there in the drear, sad patch of deadness–rises this tiny cluster of blossoms. Our good God never leaves us without hope. It might be only a spray or just a ray, but He will always give hope to thirsty souls.

I took a picture on my “Picture This” app and learned that, not only is the delicate flower called, as I know it, narcissus or paperwhite, but is also bunchflower daffodil, Tazetta, Jonquil, Joss flower, even Chinese sacred lily. The number of names may have to do with the fact that the flower grows all over the world, a native of the Mediterranean region.

The greatest sign of joy, peace, patience–and hope–we’ve just celebrated. The coming of Jesus in a lowly stable in the bleak midwinter. I wanted to remember more of Rosetti’s lines so I looked them up.

“Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, Nor Earth sustain, Heaven and earth shall flee away, When He comes to reign. In the bleak midwinter A stable-place sufficed. Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.”

“In the Bleak Midwinter” was first published in Scribner’s Monthly, 1872, under the title “A Christmas Carol.” I especially love to hear it sung by my country singer nephew, Neil Dover.

Look for beacons of hope in your garden!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYBODY!!!

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Published on December 31, 2024 14:21

December 23, 2024

Mamma’s Christmas Fudge

Mamma made fudge in early December, in time to pack boxes of it to send to her away children. The away children were mainly boys, whether in school in Canada, or in the armed services, or missionaries. Mamma wanted each one to feel the arms, the taste, of home at Christmas.

After gathering her ingredients, Mamma studied the weather to find the best day, a sunny day with low humidity. She had us bring in plenty of dry seasoned oak wood for the stove. The iron kettle of water simmering on the back of the stove was an indication the heat was just right.

Getting ready for fudge making included cracking walnuts and picking the nuts out of the shells. She usually set my sister and me to working on the nuts. Daddy purchased a large box of nuts from a friend on the other side of the Soque River every year. They were hard black walnuts, so hard we used a hammer to crack them on a nice big rock behind the house. We could then take a pan full of cracked nuts inside. Mamma sometimes helped us pick the nuts out with horseshoe nails, perfect for digging nutmeat out of the shells’ tiny tunnels and crevices.

I don’t remember Mamma studying a recipe. My sister Suzanne did inherit her recipe as you will see at the end of this blog. But mainly I remember Mamma humming with a certain delight as she placed sugar, cocoa, and all in a big pot with confident movements, having made fudge all her life.

While she was making fudge, Mamma was unavailable for anything else. We knew not to bother her with any complaint, a ripped hem or a difficult math problem, until she was completely done. She stirred the mix and watched it carefully. When the time was right, she dropped tiny bits into a cup of cold water testing to see if the mass had come to a soft ball stage. It took several tests before she was satisfied it was right. Suzanne remembers how we stood by in eagerness to taste those test balls. When it was ready, she removed the pot from the stove and started beating the contents with a spoon. That stage took a lot of strength and patience.

After stirring in the nuts, Mamma poured the fudge out on wax paper and we all held our breath that this would be a perfect batch, firm but not grainy, with a satiny sheen. Only then would Mamma be satisfied and happy.

She made at least two batches, one chocolate and one vanilla, so there would be plenty for all her family at Christmas, those at home and those far away. She cut squares so carefully, striving for perfection. Then we helped her pack the boxes to mail to Japan, Germany, Canada, the Philippines. We each wrote notes to our siblings and Mamma tucked small packages of socks and gloves around the precious fudge.

I was always at home at Christmas to enjoy the fudge right from a Christmasy tin so I never received one of Mamma’s boxes. I asked my brother Charlie recently what it was like getting a box of fudge when he was stationed in Germany. He said the fudge was still moist and delicious when it arrived and that it tasted just like home.

Here’s Mamma’s recipe as dictated to Suzanne:

1 teaspoon white Karo syrup…..2 cups sugar….1 cup milk….2 tablespoons margarine….4 tablespoons cocoa (if desired)….1 teaspoon vanilla flavoring….1/4 teaspoon salt

Mix sugar, syrup, salt, milk, cocoa and margarine. Stir until it boils. Let it boil about 15 or 20 minutes. This is the soft ball testing stage. Let cool for around 15 minutes until fudge is lukewarm. Add teaspoon vanilla. Beat until it will barely pour. Add nuts. Pour on wax paper and cool.

Merry Christmas, everyone! May the reality of Jesus’ coming from heaven to become a helpless baby and ultimately go to the cross for each of us–may that reality be more precious to you than ever before!

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Published on December 23, 2024 06:58

November 25, 2024

A Mother’s Fears

As most expectant mothers are, I’m sure, I was anxious about being everything my baby needed in a mother. Would I waken when he cried in the night? Would I feed him right? What if he had colic? And would I even hold him right without breaking him? Actually, in 1968, I didn’t know whether the baby was a boy or a girl. But that was another concern. My husband was confident we were having a boy. Would he be terribly disappointed if the baby turned out to be a girl?

But my biggest concern was whether or not I could keep my baby safe in the car. This was before seat belts and I was a new driver. I had a horror of stopping suddenly and slinging my baby into the dashboard. I tried to listen to God who repeatedly told me He would keep my baby safe, He would “Give His angels charge over (us) to guard us in all our ways” (Psalm 91:11). God would protect us and keep us as He did David and Daniel and Paul and Silas.

In the excitement of bringing my baby home and introducing him to the nursery and all the eager family members and neighbors, I forgot my worries. Our baby was a boy, a healthy, beautiful boy. And Charles was so proud! I had no trouble waking when he cried. I quickly learned how to burp him and so enjoyed rocking him for a nap.

But the first time I started out to take William to the doctor, I was again paralyzed with fear. I bundled him securely and fastened him in his infant seat but I could just picture seat and all hitting all that treacherous stuff in front of him. Remember, there were no seatbelts. I pulled into the street and headed toward Thomasville, fourteen miles away.

A car in front of me suddenly stopped and I had to brake. My right arm shot into place in front of my baby like a steel guard rail. He didn’t even wake up.

I’d never before swung my arm out like that. I had not had time to think about what needed to be done. My arm simply swung into place as if I’d had years of practice.

I sat breathing hard as the car in front moved on and I followed. My arm becoming a guardrail had nothing to do with me. God had taken over. And I knew right then that if God would protect us in our car He would protect us in every other way.

God gave me the automatic swinging guardrail of an arm and fifty-six years later (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WILLIAM!) I’m still protecting whoever is in the passenger seat, sometimes slamming my arm across their chest, though now (thank the Lord!) everyone wears a protective seatbelt. My great grandchildren laugh at me and sometimes I laugh at myself when my arm slings out to protect a bag of groceries. But, hey, God gave me a gift and I’m not giving it back!

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Published on November 25, 2024 05:10

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