The inspiration for this website came from a Scripture song I heard over 10 years ago at a ladies retreat:

Like Apples of Gold in pictures of silver
A word fitly spoken shall be,
Like Apples of Gold in pictures of silver
Let my life bring glory to thee.

A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.
Proverbs 25:11

Although some of the "stories" listed are made up, the Scriptural truths they illustrate are very real and can be of great benefit in a Christian's walk with the Lord and as illustrations for the lost.

It is my heart's desire that amongst the pages of this website, the Christian find words of encouragement and be spurred on to service for our Lord, and that seekers of the truth find Salvation in the timeless truths of God's Word for these troubled times.

- Angela

Posts Tagged ‘Comfort’

The Eye of Faith

The Eye of Faith

It was a Wednesday afternoon. Shrouded in a dense fog, a large steamer edged slowly forward off the coast of Newfoundland, its foghorn crying out somber notes of warning. The captain–near exhaustion from lack of sleep–was startled by a gentle tap on his shoulder. He fumed and found himself face-to-face with an old man in his late seventies.

The old man said, “Captain, I have come to tell you that I must be in Quebec on Saturday afternoon.”

The captain pondered for a moment, and then snorted, “Impossible.”

“Very well,” the old man responded, “if your ship can’t take me, God will find some other means to take me. I have never broken an engagement in 57 years.”

Lifting his weary hands in a gesture of despair, the captain replied, “I would help if I could–but I am helpless.”

Undaunted, the old man suggested, “Let’s go down to the chart room and pray.” The captain raised his eyebrows in utter disbelief, looking at the old man as if he had just escaped from a lunatic asylum.

“Do you know how dense the fog is?” the captain demanded.

The old man responded, “No. My eye is not on the thickness of the fog but on the living God who controls every circumstance of my life.”

Against his better judgment, the captain accompanied the old man to the chart room and kneeled with him in prayer. With simple words a child might use, the old man prayed, “O Lord, if it is consistent with Thy will, please remove this fog in five minutes. Thou knowest the engagement Thou didst make for me in Quebec on Saturday. I believe it is Thy will.”

The captain, a nominal Christian at best, thought it wise to humor the old man and recite a short prayer. But before he was able to utter a single word, he felt a tap on his shoulder. The old man requested, “Don’t pray, because you do not believe; and as I believe God has already answered, there is no need for you to pray.” The captain’s mouth dropped open.

Then the old man explained, “Captain, I have known my Lord for 57 years and there has never been a single day that I have failed to gain an audience with the King. Get up, captain, and open the door, and you will find the fog is gone.” The captain did as he was requested, and was astonished to find that the fog had indeed disappeared.

The captain later testified that this encounter with the aged George Muller completely revolutionized his Christian life. He had seen with his own eyes that Muller’s God was the true and living God of the Bible. He had seen incredible power flow from a frail old man–a power rooted in simple childlike faith in God.

The late pastor Ray Stedman once delivered a sermon in which he said, “Faith has an apparent ridiculousness about it. You are not acting by faith if you are doing what everyone around you is doing. Faith always appears to defy the circumstances. It constitutes a risk and a venture.”

That is the kind of faith George Muller demonstrated decade after decade in his long and fruitful life. During the final year of his earthly sojourn, he wrote that his faith had been increasing over the years little by little, but he emphatically insisted that there was nothing unique about him or his faith. He believed that a life of trust was open to virtually all of God’s children if only they would endure when trials came instead of giving up.

Author Unknown

The Cost of A Miracle

The Cost of A Miracle

Tess was a precocious eight-year-old when she heard her Mom and Dad talking about her little brother, Andrew. All she knew was that he was very sick and they were completely out of money. They were moving to an apartment complex next month because Daddy didn’t have the money for the doctor bills and our house.

Only a very costly surgery could save him now and it was looking like there was no one to loan them the money.

She heard Daddy say to her tearful Mother with whispered desperation, “Only a miracle can save him now.”

Not yet understanding what a miracle was, Tess went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured all the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even. The total had to be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall’s Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief above the door.

She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention but he was too intently talking to another man to be bothered by an eight year old at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter.

That did it! “And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. “I’m talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven’t seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.

“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone.

“He’s really, really sick…and I want to buy a miracle.” “I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist. “

His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”

“We don’t sell miracles here, little girl. I’m sorry but I can’t help you,” the pharmacist said, softening a little. “

Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”

The pharmacist’s brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does you brother need?”

“I don’t know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. “I just know he’s really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can’t pay for it, so I want to use my money.

“How much do you have?” asked the man from Chicago. “One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. And it’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”

“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents-the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.” He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let’s see if I have the kind of miracle you need.”

That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon, specializing in neuro-surgery. The operation was completed without charge and it wasn’t long until Andrew was home again and doing well. Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.

“That surgery,” her Mom whispered, “was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?”

Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost…one dollar and eleven cents… plus the faith of a little child.

A miracle is not the suspension of natural law, but the operation of a higher law…

Author Unknown

Scarred Hands

Scarred Hands

WILLIAM DIXON couldn’t believe there was a God, and he would certainly not forgive Him for taking away his young wife about two years after they were married, and his little boy had also died. Dixon felt very desolate and bitter.

Ten years after Mary Dixon’s death a stirring event occurred in the little village of Brackenthwaite. Old Peggy Winslow’s cottage caught fire, and was burnt to the ground. The poor old woman was pulled out alive, though nearly suffocated by smoke, when the bystanders were horrified to hear a child’s pitiful voice. It was the voice of little Dickey Winslow – Peggy’s orphan grandchild. The flames awoke him and drove him shrieking to the attic window.

Onlookers were much distressed to see the child’s plight, but felt it was too late to save him, as the stair had already fallen in. Suddenly, William Dixon rushed to the burning cottage, climbed up the iron piping, and took the trembling boy in his arms. Down he came again, holding the child in his right arm, and supporting himself by his left, the two reached the ground in safety, amid the cheers, just as the smoking wall fell.

Dickey was not hurt, but the hand with which Dixon held on to the hot piping was terribly burnt. The burn healed, but left a deep scar that he would carry to his grave.

Poor old Peggy could not rally from the shock, and died soon after. Then the question was: What is to become of Dickey? James Lovatt, a most respectable person, begged that Dickey be given to him to adopt, as he and his wife longed for a little lad, having lost one of their own. To every one’s surprise, Will Dixon made a similar request. It was difficult to decide between the two. So a meeting was called, composed of the minister, miller, and others.

Mr. Haywood, the miller, said: “It is very kind of both Lovatt and Dixon to offer to adopt the orphan boy, but I am in a great perplexity as to which of them ought to have him. Dixon, having saved his life, has the first claim; but, on the other hand, Lovatt has a wife, and the care of a woman is necessary to a child.”

Mr. Lipton, the minister, said: “A man of Dixon’s atheistic notions cannot be a suitable guardian for a child; whilst Lovatt and his wife are both Christian people, and would train up the child in the way he should go.”

“Dixon saved the child’s body, but it would be a sorry thing for the boy’s future welfare if the one who took him from the burning cottage would be the means of leading him to his eternal ruin.”

“We will hear what the applicants themselves have to say,” said Mr. Haywood, “then put the question to the vote, Mr. Lovatt.”

Mr. Lovatt replied: “Well, gentlemen, my wife and I lost a little lad of our own not long ago, and we feel this child would fill the vacant place. We would do our best to bring up the lad in the fear of the Lord. Besides, a child so young needs a woman to look after it.”

“Good, Mr. Lovatt; and now, Mr. Dixon.”

“I have only one argument, sir, and it is this,” answered Dixon quietly, as he took the bandage off his left hand, and held up the sadly scarred and injured member.

For a few moments there was quiet in the room, the eyes of some were dimmed. There was something in the sight of that scarred hand which appealed to their sense of justice. He had a claim on the boy by reason of what he has suffered for him. So, when the question was put to the vote, the meeting decided by a majority in favour of William Dixon.

So a new era began for Dixon. Dickey never missed a mother’s care, for Will was both father and mother to the orphan boy, and lavished all the pent-up tenderness of his strong nature upon the child he had saved.

Dickey was a clever boy, and quickly responded to his adopted father’s training; he adored him with all the fervour of his loving little heart. He remembered how “daddy” had saved him from the fire, and had claimed him because of the hand so dreadfully burnt for his sake. It moved Dickey to tears, with kisses on the hand that had been scarred for him.

One summer there was a great exhibition of pictures in the town and Dixon took Dickey to see them. The boy was greatly interested in the pictures and the stories daddy told about some of them. The picture that impressed him most was one of the Lord reproving Thomas; underneath which were the words:

“Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands”- John 20:27.

Dickey read the words and said, “Please, daddy, tell me the story of that picture.” – “No, not that one!” – “Why not that one?”

“Because it’s a story I do not believe.”

“Oh, but that’s nothing”, urged Dickey; “you don’t believe the story of Jack the Giantkiller, yet it’s one of my favourites. Do tell me the story of the picture – please, daddy.” So Dixon told the story, and it interested him greatly.

“It’s like you and me, daddy,” said the boy. “When the Lovatts wanted to get me, you showed them your hand. Perhaps when Thomas saw the scars on the Good Man’s hands he felt that he belonged to Him.”

“I suppose so,” answered Dixon.

“The Good Man looked so sad,“ said Dickey, “I ‘spect He was sorry that Thomas did not believe at first. It was horrid of him not to, wasn’t it, after the Good Man had died for him? “

Dixon did not answer, and Dickey went on, “It would have been horrid of me if I’d contradicted like that when they told me about you and the fire, and said I didn’t believe you had done it; wouldn’t it, daddy?”

“I don’t want to think about him, my boy.”

“But perhaps he loved the Good Man after that, though – like I love you. When I see your poor hand, daddy, I love you more than millions and millions.”

Tired little Dickey fell asleep before he had measured the amount of his grateful affection; but Dixon’s rest was sorely disturbed that night. He could not get out of his thoughts the picture of that tender, sorrowful Face which had looked down on him from the walls of the exhibition. He dreamed of Lovatt and himself contending for the possession of Dickey; but when he showed his scarred hand the boy turned away from him. A bitter sense of injustice surged up in his heart.

He did not yield to this influence at once, but his love for Dickey had softened his heart, and the seed that was dropped in it that day did not fall upon stony ground. Dixon was an honest man, and he could not fail to see that the argument he had employed to make Dickey his own, rose up in judgment against him whilst he denied the claim of those scarred Hands which had been pierced for him; and when he saw the child’s warm hearted gratitude for the deliverance which his adopted father had wrought for him, Dixon felt that he cut a sorry figure beside his boy.

So, after a time, Dixon’s heart became as that of a little child. He found out by reading the Book, that as Dickey belonged to him, so he belonged to the Saviour who had been wounded for his transgressions, and he gave himself up body, soul and spirit – into the keeping of those blessed hands which had once been pierced for him.

“He was despised, and we esteemed Him not…. But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities.” – “Who His Own Self bare our sins in His Own body on the tree” – 1 Pet. 2:24.

“The blood of Jesus Christ His son cleanseth us from all sin.” – 1 John 1:7.

“In Whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins.” – Eph. 1:7.

“Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.” – Acts 4:12.

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