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A Little Job

Jill Briscoe writes…

Not too long ago I was babysitting one of our three, 3-year-old grandchildren. In our family, we had twins and a single birth all within 24 hours. We call them Search, Destroy, and Demolition. I was to babysit Demolition. As I waved good bye to his parents, he looked perfectly all right. We had a little story out of his favorite book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. I put him to bed and went to sleep.

In the middle of the night, I felt a little hand, and I turned on the light. I looked at Drew: chicken pox from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. “Nana,” he said, “Me’s having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Why should some things like this happen to I?”

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The Finish Is What Counts

Stuart Briscoe writes…

I taught all my kids to enjoy running. Then they taught me how not to enjoy it. While I could keep a pace ahead of them, it was great. But when they began to haul me out of bed early in the morning on a frosty morning to run, or when my daughter had me running a 10,000-meter race, I started asking, “What in the world am I doing?”

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Well Done, Good And Faithful Servant

A veteran missionary was returning home to the U.S. after several terms on the field. Aboard a ship bound for New York harbor, a secularist challenged him by pointing out the futility of giving one's life in missionary service. He continued by noting that no one on board ship was paying any attention to the veteran missionary, a sign they apparently considered his efforts quite wasted.

The servant of God responded, “I'm not home yet.”

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Yet, I Will Praise

Margaret Sangster Phippen wrote that in the mid 1950s her father, British minister W. E. Sangster, began to notice some uneasiness in his throat and a dragging in his leg. When he went to the doctor, he found that he had an incurable disease that caused progressive muscular atrophy. His muscles would gradually waste away, his voice would fail, his throat would soon become unable to swallow.

Sangster threw himself into his work in British home missions, figuring he could still write and he would have even more time for prayer. “Let me stay in the struggle Lord,” he pleaded. “I don't mind if I can no longer be a general, but give me just a regiment to lead.”

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Coming Back To Life

Bruce Thielemann writes…

This is a special anniversary for me. Seven years ago today, at this very hour, I was on the operating table in the Presbyterian Hospital, and they were cutting their way into my heart. That operation was a lot longer then than it is now, and it took quite a longer time to come out of the anesthesia because they gave you so much more of it.

I can remember the process of coming to consciousness. At first, I was aware of my existence only by my thoughts. That is, I had no sensory data on which to depend. I could not hear or see or smell or taste or touch. Yet I could think. Descartes says that's enough–“I think, therefore I am.” It seemed true to me at that moment.

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