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    The Pastor's Son

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    oceanna

    Posts : 4025

    The Pastor's Son

    Post by oceanna on Fri May 20, 2011 4:56 pm

    Every Sunday afternoon, after the morning service at the church, the Pastor and his eleven year old son would go out into their town and hand out Gospel Tracts.

    This particular Sunday afternoon, as it came time for the Pastor and his son to go to the streets with their tracts, it was very cold outside, as well as pouring rain.



    The boy bundled up in his warmest and driest clothes and said, 'OK, dad, I'm ready.'

    His Pastor dad asked, 'Ready for what?'

    'Dad, it's time we gather our tracts together and go out..'

    Dad responds, 'Son, it's very cold outside and it's pouring rain..'

    The boy gives his dad a surprised look, asking, 'But Dad, aren't people still going to Hell, even though it's raining?'

    Dad answers, 'Son, I am not going out in this weather.'

    Despondently, the boy asks, 'Dad, can I go? Please?'

    His father hesitated for a moment then said, 'Son, you can go. Here are the tracts, be careful son..'

    'Thanks Dad!'

    And with that, he was off and out into the rain. This eleven year old boy walked the streets of the town going door to door and handing everybody he met in the street a Gospel Tract .

    After two hours of walking in the rain, he was soaking, bone-chilled wet and down to his VERY LAST TRACT. He stopped on a corner and looked for someone to hand a tract to, but the streets were totally deserted.

    Then he turned toward the first home he saw and started up the sidewalk to the front door and rang the door bell. He rang the bell, but nobody answered.

    He rang it again and again, but still no one answered. He waited but still no answer.

    Finally, this eleven year old trooper turned to leave, but something stopped him.

    Again, he turned to the door and rang the bell and knocked loudly on the door with his fist. He waited, something holding him there on the front porch!

    He rang again and this time the door slowly opened.

    Standing in the doorway was a very sad-looking elderly lady. She softly asked, 'What can I do for you, son?' With radiant eyes and a smile that lit up her world, this little boy said, 'Ma'am, I'm sorry if I disturbed you, but I just want to tell you that * JESUS REALLY DOES LOVE YOU * and I came to give you my very last Gospel Tract which will tell you all about JESUS and His great LOVE.'

    With that, he handed her his last tract and turned to leave.

    She called to him as he departed. 'Thank you, son! And God Bless You!'

    Well, the following Sunday morning in church Pastor Dad was in the pulpit. As the service began, he asked, 'Does anybody have testimony or want to say anything?'

    Slowly, in the back row of the church, an elderly lady stood to her feet.

    As she began to speak, a look of glorious radiance came from her face, 'No one in this church knows me. I've never been here before. You see, before last Sunday I was not a Christian. My husband passed on some time ago, leaving me totally alone in this world. Last Sunday, being a particularly cold and rainy day, it was even more so in my heart that I came to the end of the line where I no longer had any hope or will to live.

    So I took a rope and a chair and ascended the stairway into the attic of my home. I fastened the rope securely to a rafter in the roof, then stood on the chair and fastened the other end of the rope around my neck. Standing on that chair, so lonely and broken-hearted I was about to leap off, when suddenly the loud ringing of my doorbell downstairs startled me. I thought, 'I'll wait a minute, and whoever it is will go away.'

    I waited and waited, but the ringing doorbell seemed to get louder and more insistent, and then the person ringing also started knocking loudly...

    I thought to myself again, 'Who on earth could this be? Nobody ever rings my bell or comes to see me.' I loosened the rope from my neck and started for the front door, all the while the bell rang louder and louder.

    When I opened the door and looked I could hardly believe my eyes, for there on my front porch was the most radiant and angelic little boy I had ever seen in my life. His SMILE, oh, I could never describe it to you!

    The words that came from his mouth caused my heart that had long been dead, TO LEAP TO LIFE as he exclaimed with a cherub-like voice, 'Ma'am, I just came to tell you that JESUS REALLY DOES LOVE YOU .' Then he gave me this
    Gospel Tract that I now hold in my hand.

    As the little angel disappeared back out into the cold and rain, I closed my door and read slowly every word of this Gospel Tract. Then I went up to my attic to get my rope and chair. I wouldn't be needing them any more.

    You see-- -I am now a Happy Child of the KING. Since the address of your church was on the back of this Gospel Tract, I have come here to personally say THANK YOU to God's little angel who came just in the nick of time.

    There was not a dry eye in the church. And as shouts of praise and honour to THE KING resounded off the very rafters of the building, Pastor Dad descended from the pulpit to the front pew where the little angel was seated....

    He took his son in his arms and sobbed uncontrollably.

    Probably no church has had a more glorious moment, and probably this universe has never seen a Papa that was more filled with love & honour for his son... Except for One.

    Blessed are your eyes for reading this message.

    If you love JESUS, please forward this message.
    Spread His word, and share His goodness and faithfulness.

    Matthew 10:32 says:
    'Whoever acknowledges Me before men, I will acknowledge him before My Father in heaven. But whoever disowns Me before men, I will disown him before My Father in heaven'




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    wuzfuz

    Posts : 3682

    Re: The Pastor's Son

    Post by wuzfuz on Tue Mar 27, 2012 5:52 pm


    Worth the read
    Here is a story of an aging couple
    Told by their son who was
    President of NBC NEWS.

    This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997 he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing. It is well worth reading. A few good chuckles are guaranteed.


    My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.

    He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.

    "In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."

    At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
    "Oh, baloney!" she said. "He hit a horse."

    "Well," my father said, "there was that, too."

    So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.

    My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.

    My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that.

    But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.

    But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.

    It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.

    Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother..

    So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once.

    For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

    Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.

    (Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)

    He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church.
    She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.

    If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."

    After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."

    If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"

    "I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

    "No left turns," he said.

    "What?" I asked.

    "No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.

    As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."

    "What?" I said again.

    "No left turns," he said. "Think about it.. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights.."

    "You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support.
    "No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works."
    But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."

    I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.

    "Loses count?" I asked.

    "Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."

    I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.

    "No," he said " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."
    My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.

    She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.

    They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)

    He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

    One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.

    A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."

    "You're probably right," I said.

    "Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated.

    "Because you're 102 years old," I said.

    "Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day.

    That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.

    He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said:
    "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet"

    An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:

    "I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."

    A short time later, he died.

    I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.

    I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life,
    Or because he quit taking left turns. "

    Life is too short to wake up with regrets.

    So love the people who treat you right.

    Forget about the ones who don't.

    Believe everything happens for a reason.

    If you get a chance, take it & if it changes your life, let it.

    Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it."


    ENJOY LIFE NOW - IT HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE!












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    Glad E Olah
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    Posts : 1575

    Re: The Pastor's Son

    Post by Glad E Olah on Wed Mar 28, 2012 3:57 am

    It sure was worth the read.

    Thanks Wuzfuz!
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    oceanna

    Posts : 4025

    Re: The Pastor's Son

    Post by oceanna on Wed Mar 28, 2012 3:57 pm

    A very good story Wuzfuz.
    Thanks for posting it.


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