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PORTRAIT OF A CHILD
by Alta |
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The year was 1949 and I had just started my ninth year of
school at Lake View High School in Chicago. The summer
had gone swift enough, but I was ready to take on any new
challenge. One of my favorite hobbies was art. I loved to
draw, especially the faces of people. I wasn't what you
would call a freelance artist. I didn't do much on my own,
but loved to take wallet or any small size photo and make
it into an eight by ten black and white ebony pencil
finished drawing.
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I found out they had a Special Art class conducted by a
teacher, Mr. Johnson, who taught you ever aspect of art.
This included pen and ink, chalk and charcoal, watercolor
and even oil painting. I tried out for his class and felt
really down when I found it was all filled up. A friend
told me to go talk with Mr. Johnson and bring some of my
work, because he was known to make an exception if he
felt you were worth it. Well, I guess he saw something in
me and made room for me in his class. This man was one
of the most talented artists I had ever met and I owe
everything I went on to do to him.
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After I left school, I continued to do enlarging of photos. I
did them for about five dollars each and it made extra
pocket money for me. My mother worked in a factory and
one day asked me to let her take one of my pictures in to
show her fellow workers. Well, that started the landslide.
She was bringing home several wallet pictures a day for
me to enlarge.
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That brings me to the reason for this story. There are two
that stand out the best in my mind. The first one was of a
nun, who was the sister of one of my mother's friends.
That one was quite a challenge. Do you have any idea of
how to draw and color a nun in black and white, when
she is nothing but black and white habit? I finally finished
it and found there are many shades to black. My mothers
friend was very pleased and even gave me a five-dollar
extra tip.
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The second one is the most emotional and precious one I
have ever done. My mother brought home a wallet size
photo and said, "The woman said if you can't do it, she
will understand."
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I looked at this photo and all I saw was a baby in sepia
color (which is what the very old photos were done in. It's
a shade of brown) and was so old you could hardly make
out the features of the face. I told her I would try, but
could not guarantee anything. I sat down that evening
and tried, but to no avail. I tried for several days and
nothing. I knew I had to give this one every try I could.
Something or someone high above said it was important.
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After a good nights sleep and a lot of prayer, I started again
in the morning. My mind went back to Mr. Johnson's
class on anatomy, and with my magnifying glass and
knowledge of anatomy, I finished the portrait. I was very
satisfied with it and hoped the woman would be too.
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That night my mother came home with twenty-five
dollars from the friend and it was then that I learned the
story of the photo. This was the one and only picture she
had from about thirty years ago, of her baby, who only
lived to be eight months old. She had a very hard delivery
and could have no more children. The baby was born
prematurely and was very sick and spent most of those
eight months in the hospital. She did nothing but cry all
day at work and said the picture was a perfect likeness in
every way. She was astounded how I could have done this
without seeing the baby. I went to bed that night, thanking
GOD for giving me the talent to bring such joy and
happiness into the life of someone else with just a pencil
and a piece of paper.
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Alta
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I am a grandmother, living in Bolingbrook, Il. I have 8
children and 22 grandchildren. I also lost an 8 year-old
grandson recently to CF. I love to garden and do plastic
canvas projects, but ill health is starting to pull me away
from both of the things.
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THE WHITE MAN
by Dee |
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I have two sons. The oldest is now 17. When he was two
years old, I was living with my mother and younger
brothers. We had just moved to a larger house, and
shortly afterwards, my son, Chris started waking up about
two or three in the morning. He had been sleeping
through the night for about a year.
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I never really thought anything of it other than it was a
strange house and he wasn't used to being there, and it
wasn't a problem. He would just get up and come get in
bed with myself or my mother.
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It wasn't long after that, he started talking about "the
white man". At first, we didn't quite understand what he
was saying. Anything unusual that happened around the
house, Chris would tell us, "the white man did it." We
started to notice, that when he did wake up in the night,
he wouldn't get up right away, he would lay in his bed
and play and laugh, like someone was there, or like he
was being tickled. Still, we didn't question it.
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I was admitted to the hospital on Christmas Eve that year
because of problems with a pregnancy, my mother had
been working, then coming to the hospital and spending
time with me, then going home to take care of my
brothers and my son. She had fallen asleep on the couch
one night while watching a movie.
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She opened her eyes, and saw someone come out of the
room that Chris shared with my middle brother. This
man went into the utility room and turned towards the
back door. Mother thought to herself, "what is that boy
doing?", thinking it was my brother. Then she realized
that the person she saw was too big to be my brother. Then
she said her thought was, "oh my God, someone has
gotten in the house!"
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She got up and walked to the utility room to find out
what he wanted, and found no one in the house and the
back door locked from inside. She knew then that it was a
spirit.
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She said he was a young man, either in his late teens or
early twenties, that he wore blue jeans, tennis shoes and a
turquoise t-shirt. He would let us know he was there by
doing little things, lights that we had turned off would
come back on, noises, sparks coming out of the door of the
microwave that was unplugged (like a 4th of July
sparkler). At anytime of day or night, you could ask my
two year-old son where the white man was, and he could
always tell you.
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The white man liked the top of a mirror in my mother's
room. I'm not sure if it was him or another "angel", but
after coming home from the hospital and being home
only a day and a half, I lost the child I was carrying. I
remember waking up, and seeing someone standing over
me with his hands under me. I tried to scream but only a
"grunting" noise would come out. It only scared me
because I didn't know who it was, and I never saw a face,
only from the shoulders down.
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My mother told me that she heard me trying to scream,
but thought I was just in pain and she didn't get up
because it was time to take the medication to stop the
contractions if they started again. It seems like I dozed off,
but only for a few seconds.
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When I woke up, I had to go to the bathroom, and when I
got there, the baby started to come, feet first. He delivered
to the hips, and wouldn't come any further.
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I won't go into the details of that experience, but wanted
to add it so that everyone will know that someone is there
to help your loved ones cross over, they aren't alone.
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The youngest of my three brothers had a teacher who had
lived in the house before us. He was an Indian man. Our
heritage is also Indian. This teacher had told my brother,
"Willie, do you know I lived in that house before you did,
and do you know there is a ghost in that house?"
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My brother's answer was a casual "yeah, my mom's
already seen him."
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It wasn't too long after that, I had a party at the house to
celebrate two birthdays. Our landlord was invited to the
party and while he was there, he mentioned that Willie
had told him that we had a ghost. Of course he was being a
little "smart" about it.
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My mother told him that we did, and then described him
to the landlord the same way she did to me. The landlord
turned as white as a sheet and when mom asked him
what was wrong, he told her this:
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"I bought this house from a man who had three sons. One
of them was shot." (we never asked, so we don't know if it
was an accident, murder, suicide or what happened).
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He then told my mother that the clothes she described
were the clothes they buried this young man in.
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Now the ending to this story...
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When my son was three, we moved out of state. When he
was nine, we moved back to the same town. Chris and I
were on the way to my aunt's house, we had to pass the
house that we had lived in on the way, and Chris said,
"That's where the white man lives." I was totally shocked.
My heart was in my throat. I'm sure he had heard us talk
about the white man many times, but to know exactly
what house it was (out in the country), after seven years,
and him being only two at the time we moved out of that
house, three when we moved out of state.
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My aunt had only just moved to the area. Chris had not
been to this area before except as a two year old. How was
he able to pick out the house?
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Dee Brown
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JUFFROUW MEYERS..Remember
by Liesel |
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She was short, plump and homely. Her face was deeply
lined and her double chin hung in folds. Age marks
covered her cheeks but I rather admired her nose which
was high and, I thought, patrician looking. She was
probably in her late seventies. She always wore the same
long black skirt and a long sleeved blouse of an
unidentifiable color with a tattered lace. Her apartment, in
a tall, gray building, was always cold. It was January and
winters in Holland are cold and damp. Our shoes would
often stick to the ice and Ans, aunt Frieda's maid, would
wrap our shoes with rags. By the time we got to our
destination the rags would have worn off so we'd have to
walk carefully so our leather soles would not freeze to the
ice.
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Her name was Juffrouw (Miss, in Dutch) Meyers and our
aunt had engaged her to teach my cousin Werner and I
some rudiments of English. She sat so close to the electric
heater that I always worried that her skirt would catch fire.
She had a perpetual cold and evidently only one
handkerchief that she would wave over the stove to dry
each time she blew her nose. Her apartment was small
and the furnishings shabby and drab. There was always a
mixed odor of cabbage, laundry and camphor which I
thought came from all the people who seemed to live
with her. They spoke German and didn't stay too long
because by the next lesson there was a new batch, resting
on the couch, sleeping on the floor in the hallway or
sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea and talking to one
another. Sometimes she would raise her voice to them,
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"Try to speak Dutch, PLEASE, and lower your voices. I'm
trying to teach these children."
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Werner and I lived with our aunt Frieda in Amsterdam
in 1939 while our parents still resided in the camp for
refugees in Rotterdam which the Dutch Government had
opened to house myriad's of Jews who were swarming
over the border. Juffrouw Myers had the voice of an old
person. It quavered but still it was strong enough to scold
us when our accent truly offended her. She took the
money, which aunt Frieda gave us to pay for our lessons
with greedy fingers and the bills immediately disappeared
into the side pocket of her skirt.
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"Remember, in America they will respect you if you speak
their language" was her refrain as she kept after us. Study!
That was the main message. We never saw her smile! She
probably had little to smile about.
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On the way home, after our lessons, Werner and I would
imagine what we would do to this creature who smelled
bad, spat when she talked and was ugly.
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"We should send her into the forest to scare the crows
maybe. Maybe she was the witch in Hansel and Gretel?"
We laughed and giggled. Youngsters can be so cruel.
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The years passed and I occasionally thought about that
lady. I know nothing about her past but realized later that
she gave sanctuary to refugees with no place to go. The
money from our lessons undoubtedly helped to feed the
hordes and the smell probably was cabbage that was
inexpensive. Most likely she could not afford to heat the
apartment and the stove was turned on only during the
times she gave lessons. There was no welfare in those
days in Holland and it must have been a struggle to
survive.
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Whatever the reason, I realize now that she was truly a
decent and caring human being. Those she helped must
have thought she was an angel. I don't know how she
managed with her minimal income. She was trying to
teach survival skills to those poor dispossessed people.
How did they find her? Word of mouth perhaps. She
knew that the Germans would come soon enough, that
the Dutch army could not possibly stop them. Speaking
Dutch, they might not be recognized for who they were. I
wonder about her final destination. She was, after all old,
and with the country under German control, she would
be among the first to be deported.
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Where are those people she helped. Did any survive and
remember her. I would like to think that somewhere,
someone would recall and say kaddish for her. Why do I
write about her now after so many years? She came to me
in a dream many months ago.
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"Remember", she said sitting in her wooden chair.
"Remember!"
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Liesel Shineberg
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Her Beautiful Smile
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I was at the hospital when this happened. My cousin was
in a coma. I suddenly saw my aunt who had died. She was
a ministering angel. She was standing there in a white
robe tied with a cord around her waist. Her hair was long
and pretty and hung down to her shoulders. She was
there to watch over her son. She just smiled at me so
beautifully.
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I turned my head for a split second while saying a prayer
for my cousin and turned back and she was gone.
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When she was alive, my aunt was an angel on earth for
everyone she met and it seems right that she continues
to be an angel.
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NOTE: The author's name is withheld out of respect for
the privacy of other family members
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SPECIAL EFFECTS
by Pamela |
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The picture perfect sunset, | |
The rolling prairie sod, | |
The gift of love, the baby child | |
All signed by the Hand of God" | |
My son-in-law, Barney has always had a great interest in
filmmaking. Once when our family went to see a move
with Barney, as the movie ended, I began to get my coat
and get ready to leave. I noticed that Barney was still
sitting in his seat, not making a move to leave but still
sitting transfixed before the movie screen, watching the
credits roll. I asked, "Are you ready to go?" Barney said,
"Not yet, I want to see who did the special effects."
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I wonder, how many times do I get caught up in the
"special effects" of the thunder and lightning around me
instead of asking myself as Barney did, "Who did the
special effects. Who caused it all to happen?"
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One of my favorite poems is by Elizabeth Barrett
Browning:
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"Earth's crammed with heaven, | |
And every common bush afire with God; | |
But only he who sees takes off his shoes, | |
The rest sit around it and pluck blackberries." | |
God used a bush to get the attention of Moses in Exodus,
chapter 3. Moses looked at the bush and saw that it was on
fire, yet it was not consumed by the fire. Moses said, "I
must turn aside now and see this marvelous sight, why
the bush is not burned up." Moses was paying attention
and said, "I must see." He was looking for the cause of this
"special effect."
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When he looked for the cause, it was then that God spoke
to him, telling him to remove his sandals, "For the place
you are standing is holy ground." God identified Himself
to Moses then and said, "I am the God of your father, the
God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob."
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The question is, will we look only at the "special effects"
or will we look to Him, the Creator of the special effects.
Will we enter in, take off our shoes, and stand on holy
ground or will we choose to sit around it plucking
blackberries.
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I believe, like Moses, God wants us to "turn aside now and
see".... to look for Him and not just look for another
"special effect" to sit around while we obliviously nibble
our popcorn.
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The next time you see "special effects", remember to look
for the Creator. Romans 1:20
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Pamela R. Blaine
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WebPages:
http://members.aol.com/mblaine/pamy/PamyPlace.html
PamyPlace
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A little bit about Pam:
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I've been married to Michael for 33 years and we have 4
children: Julie, Jeanna, Jeremy, and Justin (we got stuck on
the letter J). I have loved music ever since I can remember
and I play piano at our church where Mike is worship
leader. I like to write stories, poems and songs
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LOVE ALMOST LOST
by Darryl |
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Darryl of Maryland met a woman on a telephone chat
line. Darryl said, "Linda is a special woman."
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The two got together and fell in love. That should have
been the beginning of a wonderful relationship and end of
the story, but Darryl took a wrong turn and almost lost the
woman of his dreams.
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Darryl purchased a computer, began using the internet
and soon seemed drawn to what he described as
"perverted web sites." When Linda discovered Darryl's
preoccupation with unhealthy viewing material she was
deeply troubled and hurt and walked away from the
relationship.
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Darryl says, "Well, this broke my heart but, it's what I
needed to take a look at myself and my life. Linda is a
good Christian so of course my behavior affected her.
What was I thinking? I was devastated."
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Losing Linda was a wake up call for Darryl and it wasn't
long before he turned to God for guidance. He said "I
prayed constantly for deliverance and to be reunited with
the woman I love. (I believe that God sent her to me). I
started looking into Christian chat. There was so much
inspiration there. Next thing I know I get an instant
message from no other than Linda. I was elated and
immediately thanked God."
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Linda and Darryl spoke to one another and at the end of
the conversation Darryl was invited to attend a church
service with Linda.
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"You just know I'm going!" Says Darryl.
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After this contact with Linda, Darryl got in touch with a
friend to see if he could get a bible for Darryl. The friend
was happy to do this for him and the two planned to meet
at church the following day.
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Darryl says, "My heart feels a lot more full now. Wasn't
sure I was going to survive this blow (of almost losing
Linda). Thank God he is so forgiving. This is such a
miracle for me." Hope some of you can relate. Pray for
me."
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NO ONE SIN IS GREATER
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My story begins long ago as a child. There was always fear
in my life of some degree. Darkness always frightened me
and it seemed as if someone was always in my room.
Many a night I lay awake all night long waiting for the
boogie man to come and get me.
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My life had many ups and downs but the downs seemed
to overpower everything. I had done drugs had an
abortion and was dealing with feelings from being
molested. I hated myself so much. At the time I didn't
realize that God could see me home through faith.
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When in church I would sit and cry a river of tears. Now I
know it was a washing of my soul. I wanted to be healed
so badly from the hurt inside. Every Sunday in church I
would cry from the minute I walked in until I left and
each time I felt a sense of peace as I left God's house. There
were times as I sat on the pew at church that I would sob
and cry so hard that the preacher during his sermon
would say "bless her oh lord." The whole church would
pray for me but I couldn't get that feeling of emptiness out
of my heart.
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I learned the problem was within me. I could not forgive
myself for the things I had done. My forgiveness of myself
took place one Sunday. I was in the bathroom brushing
and yanking on my hair and mentally saying to myself
"why are you going to church you are nothing but a
hypocrite, a sinner."
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God spoke saying "No one sin is greater than another."
That very instant all the pressure I felt upon me before
just lifted. I was saved by the grace of God. I can still hear
his voice saying, "No one sin is greater than another." I
could feel his love and I praise him now because without
him I would not be here.
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Anonymous
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