WINTER MORNING GUEST...
One winter morning in 1931, I came down to breakfast - and
found the table empty. It was cold outside. The worst blizzard on record
had paralyzed the city. No cars were out. The snow had drifted up two
stories high against our house, blackening the windows.
"Daddy, what's happening?" I asked.
I was six years old. Gently Dad told me our fuel and food supplies
were exhausted. He's just put the last piece of coal on the fire. Mother
had eight ounces of milk left for my baby brother Tom. After that - nothing.
"So what are we going to eat?" I asked.
"We'll have our devotions first, John Edmund," he said, in a voice
that told me I should not ask questions.
My father was a pastor. As a Christian he'd been chased out of his
Syrian homeland. He arrived as a teenager in the United States with no money
and barely a word of English - nothing but his vocation to preach. He knew
hardship of a kind few see today. Yet my parents consistently gave away at
least 10 percent of their income, and no one but God ever knew when we were
in financial need.
That morning, Dad read the scriptures as usual, and afterwards we
knelt for prayer. He prayed earnestly for the family, for our relatives and
friends, for those he called the "missionaries of the cross" and those in the
city who'd endured the blizzard without adequate shelter.
Then he prayed something like this: "Lord, Thou knowest we have no
more coal to burn. If it can please Thee, send us some fuel. If not, Thy
will be done - we thank Thee for warm clothes and bed covers, which will keep
us comfortable, even without the fire. Also, Thou knowest we have no food
except milk for Baby Thomas. If it can please Thee..."
For someone facing bitter cold and hunger, he was remarkably calm.
Nothing deflected him from completing the family devotions - not even the
clamor we now heard beyond the muffling wall of snow.
Finally someone pounded on the door. The visitor had cleared the snow
off the windowpane, and we saw his face peering in.
"Your door's iced up," he yelled. "I can't open it."
The devotions over, Dad jumped up. He pulled; the man pushed. When
the door suddenly gave, an avalanche of snow fell into the entrance hall. I
didn't recognize the man, and I don't think Dad did either because he said
politely, "Can I help you?"
The man explained he was a farmer who'd heard Dad preach in Allegan
three years earlier.
"I awakened at four o'clock this morning," he said, "and I couldn't
get you out of my mind. The truck was stuck in the garage, so I harnessed
the horses to the sleigh and came over."
"Well, please come in," my father said. On any other occasion, he'd
have added, "And have some breakfast with us." But, of course, today there
was no breakfast.
The man thanked him. And then - to our astonishment - he plucked a
large box off the sleigh. More than sixty years later, I can see that box as
clear as yesterday. It contained milk, eggs, butter, pork chops, grain,
homemade bread and a host of other things. When the farmer had delivered the
box, he went back out and got a cord of wood. Finally, after a very hearty
breakfast, he insisted Dad take a ten-dollar bill.
Almost every day Dad reminded us that "God is the Provider." And my
experience throughout adult life has confirmed it.
"I have never seen the righteous forsaken nor their children begging
bread." (Psalm 37:25)
The Bible said it. But Dad and Mom showed me it was true.
--- By John Edmund Haggai
From: Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul by Jack Canfield,
Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Aubery and Nancy Mitchell Autio.
--- Shared by Joe Gatuslao
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