Control
Stories
‘Wally’ K. Freirer To My Descendants
by David O. Bales
Deuteronomy 30:15-20
I don’t expect to be alive when you read this, don’t even intend to be alive when you read this. Someone in your family has given you this to read. You might know who I was, maybe never heard of me. But you have this in your hand because you are my descendant. Because of what has happened to me and what people have told me I should do, I’m writing this to you who wait in my future. You see that my name is Oswald, “Wally,” K. Feirer. I’m 93. I’m dictating this to a fine young fellow who will introduce himself. Go ahead:
I’m Dale Yoder. I met Wally on an Honor Flight to Washington, D.C. and agreed in discussion with him and others on the Honor Flight to turn Wally’s spoken words into print. Back to you, Wally.
Dale. I’ve got your name. I’ll try to remember. My memory is faulty at holding recent names or events. What happened 75 years ago, however, is like something etched in stone, bloody stone.
I’ve been here in assisted living now how long?
The nurse tells me nine years.
Without a job—and without the energy or the mind to work with if I had one—I’ve taken root in this wheel chair. But a lot happened in the last month. These fellas got hold of me and flew me to Washington, D.C. to see the World War II memorial. That’s all they wanted to do. Didn’t want to sell me insurance or buy my antique car. Just took a bunch of us veterans, as they said, out of gratitude for our service.
I appreciate it more than I can say, as much for people asking me questions and listening to me as for my getting to see the monuments—which made my breath come hard. At that point I was glad I was seated. Didn’t have the umph to stand.
But even short chats—I don’t have the energy to jabber half the day—made me feel valuable, like I still had something I could do to be helpful. They said I should record my story for my family, that I could help others, not just inform them. Since what family I have is half a continent away, I’m telling this to … Dale. Right? You’ll clean this up, my repetitions and blunders?
Easy enough. Go ahead, Wally.
In December, ‘44 I was in the first bunch of 18 year old kids drafted and sent into combat. World War II had whittled away the draftees in the U.S. from the 20s, then the 19 year olds, down to us. And here we were in Belgium in the snow. The ground froze so hard we could hardly dig a hole to hide in. We were cold, frightened, and knew next to nothing about soldiering. We were replacing the dead and wounded soldiers we met on our way in—they being carted out to hospitals and cemeteries. We were told we were inserted into a quiet sector in the forest and would have an easy place to train for real combat. Sure.
Hitler had a different idea. On the morning of December sixteenth he launched his massive, do-or-die thrust west through the Ardennes, which, as it turned out, brought his forces towards us south of the village of Bastogne. Took a day or two, but soon we heard the Krauts coming. Soldiers streamed by us saying the Krauts were right behind them. Belgian civilians were more panicked than the military and twice as helpless. They’d just gotten rid of the Kraut army and now it was back. In another day we were almost cut off and trying like everything to find our way out. The sergeant didn’t know what was happening. Snow and freezing harder, so we didn’t get air support.
Turned out we were in the largest, most decisive battle in the U.S. Army’s history. But all we knew at the time was that we were in the way and scrambling to get out of there. Only takes a couple days without food to get really hungry. Only takes a few hours tramping through the snow to freeze in the worst winter anyone could remember. If you didn’t have dry socks to change into—pretty tough when you’re retreating—your feet start to rot with Trench Foot.
Our slap-together group of about 20 GIs got busted up three, four times as we ran west. Soon the clumps of soldiers we were in touch with right and left got smaller and smaller. Some of us turned behind to fire at the enemy, some of us just kept running. After another day I was tumbling into a ravine with another GI. Couple of scared kids. We’d been struggling half the morning through thick saplings and underbrush. Didn’t know this guy’s name. Hadn’t seen him before that morning. He had his helmet but had lost his rifle. I had my rifle but no idea what happened to my helmet. We huddled in the mushy snow and heard the rounds cracking over us. Gasping for breath, we looked up the far side of the ravine, which we assumed was west. No sun to register by. Certainly no compass. But if the firing was behind us, that must be east and we needed to go west, or at least we thought so.
The other GI slumped on his back in the snow, his arms flailing to the side, his breath pumping white clouds. “Can’t go on.” He said. “We gotta’ keep going,” I said. “They’re 50, 60 yards behind.”
He continued to gasp deeply and said, “I’m surrendering.”
“That’s not a great idea. There’s SS out here. Ruthless. Can’t trust they’ll take prisoners.”
He shook his head, the back of his helmet making a little line in the snow. “When I see the first Kraut, I’m going to start waving my arms and yelling ‘Kamarad, kamarad.’ I’ll take my chances.”
No question of trying to drag or carry him, we’d both be captured or dead in less than a minute. I didn’t want to leave him there, but that was his choice. I reached down and we shook hands while he stayed on his back trying to gain his wind. At that moment for some reason I’ll never understand, I slammed my left boot toward the west and that confirmed to my body that I’d made the choice of my life. No more thinking, just running.
That’s when you met the MPs with the Jeep.
Yeah. We came over the hill from different directions to surprise one another at the top. They were as scared as I was. The artillery and machine gun fire was echoing through those hills and hard to tell which direction was which. But I knew exactly where the enemy was and I could yell at them as I jumped in that the whole Kraut army was behind me and I could definitely point them the opposite way.
You okay, Wally? You’re breathing pretty heavily.
Just a minute more. I’ll rest when I’m done. This is for family that follows me. Most important: don’t pretend I was a hero. I was a GI caught in a battle I didn’t start or understand and to which I added next to nothing for the Allied cause. I fired my rifle a few clips toward the loud presence crashing toward us. But for a sliver of a moment in one narrow ravine I made a choice that saved me. Didn’t know if it was better to stay with the other GI and surrender. I chose freely, but with a lot of influence crowding around me. I’d like to think my choice benefits you.
For my descendants: Sometime you’ll have to decide without realizing what will come of your choice. You might consider God, you might not. You might think some possibilities are better than others. But you have to throw your life behind your first step and not turn back. This isn’t the advice of a celebrity, just one in a million men tossed together into a violent, deadly situation. Someday—maybe this has happened to you already—you’ll have to choose. Can be a moment that will change your whole life. You can only guess about the future. But if I can encourage you at all, at least try to choose your best in that split second and then go for broke. Your first step determines all the rest…. Dave?
Dale.
Sorry, Dale. You said you’re a believer.
Yes.
Then you understand what we’ve talked about.
I do, Wally. I’ve thought a lot about what you’ve told me. As the scripture says, “Choose life, so that you and your descendants may live.” That’s pretty well what you’ve shared.
You’ve got it. You think I need to say anything else?
No, Wally. I think you’ve spoken splendidly.
Preaching point: The moment of choice.
* * *
Control
by David O. Bales
Psalm 119:1-8
“No,” Angie said, pressing her hand on her forehead in exasperation, “I want all the greeting cards beside the big window.”
13 year old Emma made a quick stop, swung the package away from her body, and turned left.
Angie raised her voice, “The biggest window, the display” she waved her arm and pumped her finger in the direction.
Emma rolled her eyes to her Aunt Heather, turned right, and proceeded with an exaggerated march in the direction her mother pointed.
“I told her to wear working shoes, and she’s in flip-flops.” No one else was near the cash register except Angie and her sister Heather. Heather had come for a week to help Angie renovate this general store, which Angie had purchased with her divorce settlement. The location was intentional, in Angie’s term, a wide spot on the road to nowhere.
Angie looked over at Heather who was stocking candy in the checkout lane. Heather quickly looked down, because Angie had seen Emma’s gesture toward her aunt. “What?” Angie said.
“Nothing.”
“What? What?” Angie persisted, placing her hand on her hip with a thump. “You don’t approve of how I parent Emma?”
Heather was 42, Angie’s senior by eight years. Although the two hadn’t been much in one another’s life when they were young, Heather had become Angie’s emotional support through the divorce and now this move.
She set down the box of candy bars she was emptying and stood. She’d reckoned that the anxiety and labor of setting up the store after it sat vacant for a year was all that Angie could handle at one time. She’d waited, but knew she’d say it sometime. She spread her arms. “It’s just that you order her a lot, and about a lot of stuff she could figure out herself.”
“Huhh,” Angie said and waved her aside because a customer was coming to the check stand with a couple toddlers and an arm load of mustard, mayonnaise, cheese and lunch meat. The toddlers were vibrating like gerbils around the woman’s legs. She placed her load on the counter and with a glance at the two sisters figured that keeping her children away from the candy that Heather had just rearranged was enough to deal with without getting caught in whatever was going on between the store’s new owner and her employee.
After the customer exited, Angie began cleaning the counter again and Heather set a few more Mars Bars in order. Other customers were entering the store, giving them an excuse to bypass the pain of a disagreement. They closed at six PM and Angie said to Emma, “We’re going to stay. Turn over the ‘closed’ sign on the way out and we’ll lock it after you. Go straight home and we’ll be there soon.”
Emma looked to her aunt with a desperate glance for sympathy and went out.
Angie started counting the till, but again she’d noticed the look between aunt and niece. “You two plotting against me?” She asked with a sideways smile, which meant to Heather: Okay, we can talk about it now.
“Just that you boss her so much.”
“She needs direction,” Angie said and slapped down a stack of tens.
“Like Wayne gave you?”
Angie threw her hands on her chest. “What? You’re comparing me to him?”
“Just to get your attention.”
Angie calmed herself and said, “All kids need guidance. That’s why I want her to grow up in a small town.”
“I know,” Heather said. “A whole village. I just think you’re taking it too far. You don’t give her space to make choices.”
“She isn’t ready to make many choices.”
“You don’t give her much chance to learn.”
Angie dropped uncounted bills onto the counter. “She’s got her whole life ahead and I don’t want her making mistakes that will ruin her future.”
“She certainly will make mistakes,” Heather said, and pressed a hand on her temple, concentrating on what she’ll say. “You were in kindergarten when I was in middle school. You didn’t know what my adolescence was like.”
“You were long gone when I got to middle school,” Angie said. “But Mom and Dad said you sailed through school.”
“Might I say,” Heather responded with a chuckle, “they intentionally deceived you or maybe they really didn’t know.” She paused and Angie listened.
“I had as much trouble as anybody else. As I see Emma and listen to her, I don’t think my life was much different than hers, in the sense of decisions, I mean. Not many cell phones then. But I remember the group of girls I was in and all of us were cheating as much as we could, especially in geometry. We worked out a system to communicate across the room. Quiet clever, really. I didn’t need anybody standing over me shaking a finger and reminding me cheating was wrong. We all knew it was wrong. I needed something inside me, a solid center of myself, and it wasn’t going to form just by people ordering me.”
“You never told me that when I was a kid,” Angie said.
“I wasn’t around much. Yet I’ve been thinking about that with Emma. I don’t know how it occurred for you or how it will happen for her, but for me I broke free from the pressures around me by my faith. It was vague. I had a few acquaintances who wouldn’t call it ‘faith.’ But it was faith. That included a sense of right and wrong but it wasn’t just about right and wrong. It was my whole life. For me God didn’t sweep me off my feet and whisk me to visions and ecstasies. But I was drawn to thinking about God, more and more in what I considered and what I did. It was a day by day thing. Slowly through high school I felt as though I was steadied and supported. Didn’t have to remember my lies. Didn’t have to worry about getting caught. And I didn’t figure it out right away, but I was beginning to understand myself in relation to God and others, and thus I had direction. It was a relief to have something outside of me that was now somehow living in me.
“Funny thing, but later, when I started reading the Bible, what had grown in me seemed to match Psalm 119. It’s not as though God surrounded me with prickly commands, but it was God’s guiding. As I read that psalm, guidance came from the outside but it landed inside me. It was a kind of control, but it was also protection. It’s what I needed to confirm what I’d been growing into for years.”
Angie had a blank face. Heather couldn’t tell if what she’d said helped or not. After a pause she continued, “That’s how it was for me, anyway; and it took some time and mistakes to get there.”
Angie started counting the change into piles of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. Heather watched her lips moving through the numbers. Angie finished and gave Heather a questioning look. “Think I’m controlling like Wayne?”
“Yeah, some.”
Angie slammed the cash register shut, “Then I’ll definitely have to think about it.”
She grabbed the broad broom and started sweeping the aisles, shaking her head in amazement as she did. Heather followed with the mop, smiling.
Preaching point: God’s gracious, protective control.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 16, 2020, issue.
Copyright 2020 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
by David O. Bales
Deuteronomy 30:15-20
I don’t expect to be alive when you read this, don’t even intend to be alive when you read this. Someone in your family has given you this to read. You might know who I was, maybe never heard of me. But you have this in your hand because you are my descendant. Because of what has happened to me and what people have told me I should do, I’m writing this to you who wait in my future. You see that my name is Oswald, “Wally,” K. Feirer. I’m 93. I’m dictating this to a fine young fellow who will introduce himself. Go ahead:
I’m Dale Yoder. I met Wally on an Honor Flight to Washington, D.C. and agreed in discussion with him and others on the Honor Flight to turn Wally’s spoken words into print. Back to you, Wally.
Dale. I’ve got your name. I’ll try to remember. My memory is faulty at holding recent names or events. What happened 75 years ago, however, is like something etched in stone, bloody stone.
I’ve been here in assisted living now how long?
The nurse tells me nine years.
Without a job—and without the energy or the mind to work with if I had one—I’ve taken root in this wheel chair. But a lot happened in the last month. These fellas got hold of me and flew me to Washington, D.C. to see the World War II memorial. That’s all they wanted to do. Didn’t want to sell me insurance or buy my antique car. Just took a bunch of us veterans, as they said, out of gratitude for our service.
I appreciate it more than I can say, as much for people asking me questions and listening to me as for my getting to see the monuments—which made my breath come hard. At that point I was glad I was seated. Didn’t have the umph to stand.
But even short chats—I don’t have the energy to jabber half the day—made me feel valuable, like I still had something I could do to be helpful. They said I should record my story for my family, that I could help others, not just inform them. Since what family I have is half a continent away, I’m telling this to … Dale. Right? You’ll clean this up, my repetitions and blunders?
Easy enough. Go ahead, Wally.
In December, ‘44 I was in the first bunch of 18 year old kids drafted and sent into combat. World War II had whittled away the draftees in the U.S. from the 20s, then the 19 year olds, down to us. And here we were in Belgium in the snow. The ground froze so hard we could hardly dig a hole to hide in. We were cold, frightened, and knew next to nothing about soldiering. We were replacing the dead and wounded soldiers we met on our way in—they being carted out to hospitals and cemeteries. We were told we were inserted into a quiet sector in the forest and would have an easy place to train for real combat. Sure.
Hitler had a different idea. On the morning of December sixteenth he launched his massive, do-or-die thrust west through the Ardennes, which, as it turned out, brought his forces towards us south of the village of Bastogne. Took a day or two, but soon we heard the Krauts coming. Soldiers streamed by us saying the Krauts were right behind them. Belgian civilians were more panicked than the military and twice as helpless. They’d just gotten rid of the Kraut army and now it was back. In another day we were almost cut off and trying like everything to find our way out. The sergeant didn’t know what was happening. Snow and freezing harder, so we didn’t get air support.
Turned out we were in the largest, most decisive battle in the U.S. Army’s history. But all we knew at the time was that we were in the way and scrambling to get out of there. Only takes a couple days without food to get really hungry. Only takes a few hours tramping through the snow to freeze in the worst winter anyone could remember. If you didn’t have dry socks to change into—pretty tough when you’re retreating—your feet start to rot with Trench Foot.
Our slap-together group of about 20 GIs got busted up three, four times as we ran west. Soon the clumps of soldiers we were in touch with right and left got smaller and smaller. Some of us turned behind to fire at the enemy, some of us just kept running. After another day I was tumbling into a ravine with another GI. Couple of scared kids. We’d been struggling half the morning through thick saplings and underbrush. Didn’t know this guy’s name. Hadn’t seen him before that morning. He had his helmet but had lost his rifle. I had my rifle but no idea what happened to my helmet. We huddled in the mushy snow and heard the rounds cracking over us. Gasping for breath, we looked up the far side of the ravine, which we assumed was west. No sun to register by. Certainly no compass. But if the firing was behind us, that must be east and we needed to go west, or at least we thought so.
The other GI slumped on his back in the snow, his arms flailing to the side, his breath pumping white clouds. “Can’t go on.” He said. “We gotta’ keep going,” I said. “They’re 50, 60 yards behind.”
He continued to gasp deeply and said, “I’m surrendering.”
“That’s not a great idea. There’s SS out here. Ruthless. Can’t trust they’ll take prisoners.”
He shook his head, the back of his helmet making a little line in the snow. “When I see the first Kraut, I’m going to start waving my arms and yelling ‘Kamarad, kamarad.’ I’ll take my chances.”
No question of trying to drag or carry him, we’d both be captured or dead in less than a minute. I didn’t want to leave him there, but that was his choice. I reached down and we shook hands while he stayed on his back trying to gain his wind. At that moment for some reason I’ll never understand, I slammed my left boot toward the west and that confirmed to my body that I’d made the choice of my life. No more thinking, just running.
That’s when you met the MPs with the Jeep.
Yeah. We came over the hill from different directions to surprise one another at the top. They were as scared as I was. The artillery and machine gun fire was echoing through those hills and hard to tell which direction was which. But I knew exactly where the enemy was and I could yell at them as I jumped in that the whole Kraut army was behind me and I could definitely point them the opposite way.
You okay, Wally? You’re breathing pretty heavily.
Just a minute more. I’ll rest when I’m done. This is for family that follows me. Most important: don’t pretend I was a hero. I was a GI caught in a battle I didn’t start or understand and to which I added next to nothing for the Allied cause. I fired my rifle a few clips toward the loud presence crashing toward us. But for a sliver of a moment in one narrow ravine I made a choice that saved me. Didn’t know if it was better to stay with the other GI and surrender. I chose freely, but with a lot of influence crowding around me. I’d like to think my choice benefits you.
For my descendants: Sometime you’ll have to decide without realizing what will come of your choice. You might consider God, you might not. You might think some possibilities are better than others. But you have to throw your life behind your first step and not turn back. This isn’t the advice of a celebrity, just one in a million men tossed together into a violent, deadly situation. Someday—maybe this has happened to you already—you’ll have to choose. Can be a moment that will change your whole life. You can only guess about the future. But if I can encourage you at all, at least try to choose your best in that split second and then go for broke. Your first step determines all the rest…. Dave?
Dale.
Sorry, Dale. You said you’re a believer.
Yes.
Then you understand what we’ve talked about.
I do, Wally. I’ve thought a lot about what you’ve told me. As the scripture says, “Choose life, so that you and your descendants may live.” That’s pretty well what you’ve shared.
You’ve got it. You think I need to say anything else?
No, Wally. I think you’ve spoken splendidly.
Preaching point: The moment of choice.
* * *
Control
by David O. Bales
Psalm 119:1-8
“No,” Angie said, pressing her hand on her forehead in exasperation, “I want all the greeting cards beside the big window.”
13 year old Emma made a quick stop, swung the package away from her body, and turned left.
Angie raised her voice, “The biggest window, the display” she waved her arm and pumped her finger in the direction.
Emma rolled her eyes to her Aunt Heather, turned right, and proceeded with an exaggerated march in the direction her mother pointed.
“I told her to wear working shoes, and she’s in flip-flops.” No one else was near the cash register except Angie and her sister Heather. Heather had come for a week to help Angie renovate this general store, which Angie had purchased with her divorce settlement. The location was intentional, in Angie’s term, a wide spot on the road to nowhere.
Angie looked over at Heather who was stocking candy in the checkout lane. Heather quickly looked down, because Angie had seen Emma’s gesture toward her aunt. “What?” Angie said.
“Nothing.”
“What? What?” Angie persisted, placing her hand on her hip with a thump. “You don’t approve of how I parent Emma?”
Heather was 42, Angie’s senior by eight years. Although the two hadn’t been much in one another’s life when they were young, Heather had become Angie’s emotional support through the divorce and now this move.
She set down the box of candy bars she was emptying and stood. She’d reckoned that the anxiety and labor of setting up the store after it sat vacant for a year was all that Angie could handle at one time. She’d waited, but knew she’d say it sometime. She spread her arms. “It’s just that you order her a lot, and about a lot of stuff she could figure out herself.”
“Huhh,” Angie said and waved her aside because a customer was coming to the check stand with a couple toddlers and an arm load of mustard, mayonnaise, cheese and lunch meat. The toddlers were vibrating like gerbils around the woman’s legs. She placed her load on the counter and with a glance at the two sisters figured that keeping her children away from the candy that Heather had just rearranged was enough to deal with without getting caught in whatever was going on between the store’s new owner and her employee.
After the customer exited, Angie began cleaning the counter again and Heather set a few more Mars Bars in order. Other customers were entering the store, giving them an excuse to bypass the pain of a disagreement. They closed at six PM and Angie said to Emma, “We’re going to stay. Turn over the ‘closed’ sign on the way out and we’ll lock it after you. Go straight home and we’ll be there soon.”
Emma looked to her aunt with a desperate glance for sympathy and went out.
Angie started counting the till, but again she’d noticed the look between aunt and niece. “You two plotting against me?” She asked with a sideways smile, which meant to Heather: Okay, we can talk about it now.
“Just that you boss her so much.”
“She needs direction,” Angie said and slapped down a stack of tens.
“Like Wayne gave you?”
Angie threw her hands on her chest. “What? You’re comparing me to him?”
“Just to get your attention.”
Angie calmed herself and said, “All kids need guidance. That’s why I want her to grow up in a small town.”
“I know,” Heather said. “A whole village. I just think you’re taking it too far. You don’t give her space to make choices.”
“She isn’t ready to make many choices.”
“You don’t give her much chance to learn.”
Angie dropped uncounted bills onto the counter. “She’s got her whole life ahead and I don’t want her making mistakes that will ruin her future.”
“She certainly will make mistakes,” Heather said, and pressed a hand on her temple, concentrating on what she’ll say. “You were in kindergarten when I was in middle school. You didn’t know what my adolescence was like.”
“You were long gone when I got to middle school,” Angie said. “But Mom and Dad said you sailed through school.”
“Might I say,” Heather responded with a chuckle, “they intentionally deceived you or maybe they really didn’t know.” She paused and Angie listened.
“I had as much trouble as anybody else. As I see Emma and listen to her, I don’t think my life was much different than hers, in the sense of decisions, I mean. Not many cell phones then. But I remember the group of girls I was in and all of us were cheating as much as we could, especially in geometry. We worked out a system to communicate across the room. Quiet clever, really. I didn’t need anybody standing over me shaking a finger and reminding me cheating was wrong. We all knew it was wrong. I needed something inside me, a solid center of myself, and it wasn’t going to form just by people ordering me.”
“You never told me that when I was a kid,” Angie said.
“I wasn’t around much. Yet I’ve been thinking about that with Emma. I don’t know how it occurred for you or how it will happen for her, but for me I broke free from the pressures around me by my faith. It was vague. I had a few acquaintances who wouldn’t call it ‘faith.’ But it was faith. That included a sense of right and wrong but it wasn’t just about right and wrong. It was my whole life. For me God didn’t sweep me off my feet and whisk me to visions and ecstasies. But I was drawn to thinking about God, more and more in what I considered and what I did. It was a day by day thing. Slowly through high school I felt as though I was steadied and supported. Didn’t have to remember my lies. Didn’t have to worry about getting caught. And I didn’t figure it out right away, but I was beginning to understand myself in relation to God and others, and thus I had direction. It was a relief to have something outside of me that was now somehow living in me.
“Funny thing, but later, when I started reading the Bible, what had grown in me seemed to match Psalm 119. It’s not as though God surrounded me with prickly commands, but it was God’s guiding. As I read that psalm, guidance came from the outside but it landed inside me. It was a kind of control, but it was also protection. It’s what I needed to confirm what I’d been growing into for years.”
Angie had a blank face. Heather couldn’t tell if what she’d said helped or not. After a pause she continued, “That’s how it was for me, anyway; and it took some time and mistakes to get there.”
Angie started counting the change into piles of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. Heather watched her lips moving through the numbers. Angie finished and gave Heather a questioning look. “Think I’m controlling like Wayne?”
“Yeah, some.”
Angie slammed the cash register shut, “Then I’ll definitely have to think about it.”
She grabbed the broad broom and started sweeping the aisles, shaking her head in amazement as she did. Heather followed with the mop, smiling.
Preaching point: God’s gracious, protective control.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 16, 2020, issue.
Copyright 2020 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
