The Easter of 1946

I'll never forget Easter 1946. I was 14, my little sister Ocy was 12, and my older sister Darlene 16. We lived at home with our mother, and the four of us knew what it was to do without many things. My dad had died five years before, leaving Mom with seven school kids to raise and no money.

By 1946 my older sisters were married and my brothers had left home. A month before Easter the pastor of our church announced that a special Easter offering would be taken to help a poor family. He asked everyone to save and give sacrificially.

When we got home, we talked about what we could do. We decided to buy 50 pounds of potatoes and live on them for a month. This would allow us to save $20 of our grocery money for the offering. When we thought that if we kept our electric lights turned out as much as possible and didn't listen to the radio, we'd save money on that month's electric bill. Darlene got as many house and yard cleaning jobs as possible, and both of us babysat for everyone we could.

For 15 cents we could buy enough cotton loops to make three pot holders to sell for $1. We made $20 on pot holders. That month was one of the best of our lives. Every day we counted the money to see how much we had saved. At night we'd sit in the dark and talk about how the poor family was going to enjoy having the money the church would give them.

We had about 80 people in church, so figured that whatever amount of money we had to give, the offering would surely be 20 times that much. After all, every Sunday the pastor had reminded everyone to save for the sacrificial offering.

The day before Easter, Ocy and I walked to the grocery store and got the manager to give us three crisp $20 bills and one $10 bill for all our change. We ran all the way home to show Mom and Darlene. We had never had so much money before. That night we were so excited we could hardly sleep. We didn't care that we wouldn't have new clothes for Easter; we had $70 for the sacrificial offering.

We could hardly wait to get to church! On Sunday morning, rain was pouring. We didn't own an umbrella, and the church was over a mile from our home, but it didn't seem to matter how wet we got. Darlene had cardboard in her shoes to fill the holes. The cardboard came apart, and her feet got wet. But we sat in church proudly. I heard some teenagers talking about the Smith girls having on their old dresses. I looked at them in their new clothes, and I felt rich.

When the sacrificial offering was taken, we were sitting on the second row from the front. Mom put in the $10 bill, and each of us kids put in a $20. As we walked home after church, we sang all the way. At lunch Mom had a surprise for us. She had bought a dozen eggs, and we had boiled Easter eggs with our fried potatoes!

Late that afternoon the minister drove up in his car. Mom went to the door, talked with him for a moment, and then came back with an envelope in her hand. We asked what it was, but she didn't say a word. She opened the envelope and out fell a bunch of money. There were three crisp $20 bills, one $10 and seventeen $1 bills.

Mom put the money back in the envelope. We didn't talk, just sat and stared at the floor. We had gone from feeling like millionaires to feeling like poor white trash. We kids had such a happy life that we felt sorry for anyone who didn't have our Mom and Dad for parents and a house full of brothers and sisters and other kids visiting constantly. We thought it was fun to share silverware and see whether we got the spoon or the fork that night.

We had two knifes that we passed around to whoever needed them. I knew we didn't have a lot of things that other people had, but I'd never thought we were poor. That Easter day I found out we were. The minister had brought us the money for the poor family, so we must be poor. I didn't like being poor. I looked at my dress and worn-out shoes and felt so ashamed--I didn't even want to go back to church. Everyone there probably already knew we were poor!

I thought about school. I was in the ninth grade and at the top of my class of over 100 students. I wondered if the kids at school knew that we were poor. I decided that I could quit school since I had finished the eighth grade. That was all the law required at that time. We sat in silence for a long time. Then it got dark, and we went to bed.

All that week, we girls went to school and came home, and no one talked much. Finally on Saturday, Mom asked us what we wanted to do with the money. What did poor people do with money? We didn't know. We'd never known we were poor. We didn't want to go to church on Sunday, but Mom said we had to. Although it was a sunny day, we didn't talk on the way.

Mom started to sing, but no one joined in and she only sang one verse. At church we had a missionary speaker. He talked about how churches in Africa made buildings out of sun dried bricks, but they needed money to buy roofs. He said $100 would put a roof on a church. The minister said, "Can't we all sacrifice to help these poor people?" We looked at each other and smiled for the first time in a week.

Mom reached into her purse and pulled out the envelope. She passed it to Darlene. Darlene gave it to me, and I handed it to Ocy. Ocy put it in the offering.

When the offering was counted, the minister announced that it was a little over $100. The missionary was excited. He hadn't expected such a large offering from our small church. He said, "You must have some rich people in this church."

Suddenly it struck us! We had given $87 of that "little over $100."

We were the rich family in the church! Hadn't the missionary said so? From that day on I've never been poor again. I've always remembered how rich I am because I have Jesus!

True Story by Eddie Ogan

The Toys- By Coventry Patmore

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells, 

A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.' Coventry Patmore

A Mighty Fortress Is Our God

A Mighty Fortress Is My God - Martin Luther, 1483-1546 (Translated by Frederick H. Hedge, 1805-1890)

A mighty fortress is our God,
A bulwark never failing;
Our helper He amid the flood
Of mortal ills prevailing.
For still our ancient foe
Doth seek to work us woe -
His craft and pow'r are great,
And armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide,
Our striving would be losing,
Were not the right Man on our side,
The Man of God's own choosing.
Dost ask who that may be?
Christ Jesus, it is He -
Lord Sabbaoth His name,
From age to age the same -
And He must win the battle.

And tho' this world, with devils filled,
Should threaten to undo us;
We will not fear, for God hath willed
His truth to triumph thru us.
The prince of darkness grim -
We tremble not for him;
His rage we can endure,
For lo! his doom is sure -
One little word shall fell him.

That word above all earthly pow'rs -
No thanks to them - abideth;
The Spirit and the gifts are ours
Thru Him who with us sideth.
Let goods and kindred go,
This mortal life also;
The body they may kill;
God's truth abideth still;
His kingdom is forever.

The Love of God

The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell
It goes beyond the highest star
And reaches to the lowest hell.
The guilty pair bowed down with care,
God sent His Son to win
His erring child, He reconciled
And pardoned from his sin.

Refrain:

O Love of God, so rich and pure
So measureless and strong.
It shall forever more endure
The saints' and angels' song!

When years of time shall pass away,
And earthly thrones and kingdoms fall,
When men, who here refuse to pray,
On rocks and hills and mountains call,
God’s love so sure, shall still endure,
All measureless and strong;
Redeeming grace to Adam’s race—
The saints’ and angels’ song.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made;
Were every stalk on earth a quill
And every man a scribe by trade-
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky!


Story of the Song: Words by Fred­er­ick M. Leh­man; he wrote this song in 1917 in Pas­a­de­na, Cal­i­fornia, and it was pub­lished in Songs That Are Dif­fer­ent, Vol­ume 2, 1919. The lyr­ics are based on the Jew­ish poem Had­da­mut, writ­ten in Ara­ma­ic in 1050 by Meir Ben Isaac Ne­hor­ai, a can­tor in Worms, Ger­ma­ny; they have been trans­lat­ed in­to at least 18 lang­uages.

One day, dur­ing short in­ter­vals of in­at­ten­tion to our work, we picked up a scrap of pa­per and, seat­ed up­on an emp­ty le­mon box pushed against the wall, with a stub pen­cil, add­ed the (first two) stan­zas and chor­us of the song…Since the lines (3rd stan­za from the Jew­ish po­em) had been found pen­ciled on the wall of a pa­tient’s room in an in­sane asy­lum af­ter he had been car­ried to his grave, the gen­er­al opin­ion was that this in­mate had writ­ten the epic in mo­ments of san­ity. - Frederick M. Lehman, “History of the Song, The Love of God,” 1948

I Trust In Jesus

Before this body turns to dust
Before this world I leave
Upon The Lord I’ve placed my trust
Upon The Rock I’ll cleave

I’ve placed my trust in Jesus Christ
God’s Son of flesh and bone
The innocent Lamb sacrificed
I trust His word alone

I trust He chose for man to die
Then rose again to reign
That as God’s Seed He’d multiply
His flock when born-again

I trust His blood can cleanse the soul
I trust His blood can save
His very name can make us whole
And save us from the grave

I trust in Jesus’ loving care
I trust He bore my shame
I trust the love He came to share
Remains today the same

I trust the pardon Jesus bought
Can save this wretch from hell
I trust Salvation’s true report
My Saviour had to tell

Although the devil’s out to harm
Though Satan, he’s out to kill
I trust my Lord’s almighty arm
I trust His righteous will

I trust my life to Christ The Lord
I trust in Heaven’s Door
I trust in God’s Almighty Sword
I’ll trust Him evermore…

Michael P. Johnson


Testimony of Michael P. Johnson:
All praise and glory to The Living Lord; God and Jesus Christ my soon coming King.
Born a sinner saved by grace. I first truly began going to church at the tender age of 46 years 10 months. After six wonderful life changing months. After thoroughly reading the Bible and believing it from front to back true! I was born-again through the precious blood of my personal Saviour Jesus Christ. After accepting that He is who He & God’s Word (Bible) says He is. I further can testify that The Lord God Jesus Christ LIVES.

For even as an insignificant wretch that I was, six times I personally audibly heard the voice of The Living God. Once The Father, four times Jesus; the Holy Spirit once. Always distinct audible. Though each time was different some lengthy, others short. Countless other times in diverse ways I have recognised God speaking to me. So now I can never doubt that The Godhead well & truly lives! ! !

The Weaver

I had this poem written on my birthday card sometime in 1992. The author was 'unknown'; yet I searched in the net for some authorship to this poem; I am not sure I found some, because the second part of this poem is attributed to B.M. Franklin. But the first part was different in the original version. But here it is, just as I received it.

Behind our lives the Weaver stands
And works His wondrous will;
We leave it in His all-wise hands
And trust His perfect skill.
Should mystery enshroud His plan
And our short sight be dim;
We will not try the whole to scan -
But leave each thread to Him.

Not until the loom is silent
And the shuttle ceases to fly
Will God unroll the batten
And explain the reason why
The dark threads were as needful,
In the Weaver's skillful hand,
As threads of gold and silver;
For the pattern He has planned.

- Unknown

The Battle of the Self

Oh, the bitter shame and sorrow,
That a time could ever be
When I let the Saviour's pity
Plead in vain, and proudly answered:
'All of self, and none of Thee'

Yet He found me: I beheld Him
Bleeding on the accursed tree;
Heard Him pray, "Forgive them, Father",
And my wistful heart said faintly:
'Some of self and some of Thee'

Day by day, His tender mercy,
Healing, helping, full and free,
Sweet and strong, and oh, so patient,
Brought me lower, while I whispered:
'Less of self and more of Thee'

Higher than the highest heaven,
Deeper than the deepest sea,
Lord, Thy love at last has conquered;
Grant me now my soul's desire:
'None of self but all of Thee'

- Unknown