Grandma's Angel
Stories
Object:
Contents
A Story to Live By: "Grandma's Angel" by John Sumwalt
Sharing Visions: "Stopped in Mid-Air" by Marjorie Evans
Good Stories: "Cost of a Miracle"
Scrap Pile: "Those Testimony Times" by Pamela J. Tinnin
An Invitation to Send Stories
A Story to Live By
Grandma's Angel
by John Sumwalt
After this Job lived one hundred and forty years, and saw his children, and his children's children, four generations. And Job died, old and full of days.
Job 42:16-17
The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them.
Psalm 34:7
My grandmother, Leona Long, lived to be 105. I asked Grandma one day how it was that she had lived so long. Grandma said there were two reasons: she ate horehound candy ("It keeps me regular," she said), and because she had a guardian angel who she had been aware of since the age of four. Grandma said she went to fetch some water one day and saw a rattlesnake on the path. She was about to step over it when she felt something holding her back. There was no one to be seen anywhere around her. From that day on, Grandma knew that her angel would always be near. Grandma endured many hardships. She lost two children, one at the age of three, one on Christmas Eve. My grandfather was killed in an auto accident not long after their 34th wedding anniversary. Grandma was a widow for 47 years. But through all of these years Grandma lived with faith and hope because she knew she was never alone.
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Sharing Visions
Stopped in Mid-Air
by Marjorie Evans
This poor soul cried, and was heard by the Lord, and was saved from every trouble. The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them. O taste and see that the Lord is good; happy are those who take refuge in him.
Psalm 34:6-8
It began as a tranquil Sunday afternoon in May. We were in a hurry to get to a Welsh hymn sing at a historic church in an old section of Los Angeles. So we sped past the once-regal Victorian houses, their beauty long since faded.
Suddenly a young boy, about nine years of age, darted from an overgrown yard into the street. My husband immediately slammed on the brakes, but there was absolutely no way to stop the car before the child would be hit. Horror-stricken, I gasped, "Help, Lord!"
Instantly, the boy stopped in mid-stride, as if a giant, unseen hand had reached down and grabbed the collar of his pale red shirt and held him immobile. Like a statue he stood there, his body bent slightly forward and his right foot poised in mid-air. He was absolutely motionless, as if riveted to that spot, inches from death, as we slid past him.
After the car skidded to a stop, we got out to see if the child needed help. For a moment or two he remained in suspended animation, a look of bewilderment on his face. Then, shaking his head, he slowly lowered his right foot down to the pavement, turned, and ran back into the yard.
Seizing my husband's hand, I cried, "'For he will command his angels concerning you... on their hands they will bear you up....' Honey, we've just witnessed a miracle!"
Marjorie Evans, a former elementary schoolteacher, is now a freelance writer with many published articles and stories, including pieces in the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. She is a member of Pacific Church of Irvine, California. Write to her at: 4162 Fireside Circle, Irvine, CA 92604. Marjorie's story appears in Vision Stories: True Accounts of Visions, Angels, and Healing Miracles, edited by John E. Sumwalt (Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, 2002). Vision Stories is available from CSS through its website (http://www.csspub.com) or by calling 1-800-241-4056. Vision Stories is also available at many local Christian bookstores.
Return to top
Good Stories
Cost of a Miracle
Then Jesus said to him, "What do you want me to do for you?" The blind man said to him, "My teacher, let me see again." Jesus said to him, "Go; your faith has made you well." Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.
Mark 10:51-52
Tess went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured all the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even. The total had to be exactly perfect -- no chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way several blocks to Rexall's Drugstore with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention, but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise.
Nothing.
She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster.
No good.
Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
"And what do you want?" the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. "I'm talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven't seen in ages," he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
"Well, I want to talk to you about my brother," Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. "He's really, really sick ... and I want to buy a miracle."
"I beg your pardon?" said the pharmacist.
"His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head, and my daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?"
"We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I'm sorry, but I can't help you," the pharmacist said, softening a little.
"Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn't enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs."
The pharmacist's brother was a well-dressed man who happened to be standing at the counter and heard the conversation. He stooped down and asked the little girl, "What kind of a miracle does your brother need?"
"I don't know," Tess replied, with her eyes welling up. "I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my daddy can't pay for it, so I want to use my money."
"How much do you have?" asked the pharmacist's brother from Chicago.
"One dollar and eleven cents," Tess answered, barely audibly. "And it's all the money I have, but I can get some more somehow if I need to."
"Well, what a coincidence," smiled the man. "A dollar and eleven cents -- the exact price of a miracle for little brothers."
He took her money in one hand, and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said, "Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let's see if I have the kind of miracle you need."
That well-dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon specializing in neurosurgery. The operation was completed without charge, and it wasn't long until Andrew was home again and doing well. Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place. "That surgery," her mom whispered, "was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?"
Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost ... one dollar and eleven cents ...
Editor's Note: This is a popular anonymous parable containing just enough detail for people to circulate it as a "true story." Information about the gallant Dr. Carlton Armstrong (who fortuitously happened to be the very type of specialist little Andrew needed) has proved elusive. For more information about the origin of "Cost of a Miracle," click on: http://www.snopes.com/glurge/price.htm
Return to top
Scrap Pile
Those Testimony Times
by Pamela J. Tinnin
The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them.
Psalm 34:7
When I was in Kentucky during the summer of 1995 for a "rural ministry immersion experience," I visited a lot of churches. Most of them were very different from the churches I was raised in, very different from the church I pastor. One Sunday four of us seminarians attended the Freewill Primitive Baptist Church, a small concrete block building, painted white, that sat near a creek where the water ran cool and dark under the overhanging trees.
The inside of that little church looked as unfamiliar to me as the outside. For one thing, a platform sat in the very center of the sanctuary, just plain, rough-cut lumber without a pulpit or a lectern, no altar or piano, not even a cross -- just two rows of six wooden chairs. There weren't any pews, just more wooden chairs in row upon row, set along the four sides, each section facing the platform. Three hundred or more people crowded into that room, ladies in bright cotton dresses and men in stiff white shirts and ties, their faces red and sweating.
It was late June, a hot day without a breeze, though all the windows were open. Folks were fanning themselves with worn cardboard fans that had pictures of Jesus on the front and the words "Johnson's Funeral Home" printed on the back with the address and phone number prominently displayed.
The worship at that little church was unlike any I'd experienced. First, it began with singing, eight or nine songs of what they called "line out" singing. The only person with a songbook was the songleader, who would sing out a line in powerful, ringing tones, followed by the congregation singing the line. The student pastors had been invited to sit with the preachers on the platform, and there in the center the sound of that singing vibrated the timbers we could see above us. Occasionally someone would call, "Line it out, brother."
The service lasted nearly three hours. There were four preachers, all of them men in wool suits, but they soon threw off their coats and loosened their ties as they preached first to one side, then another. They took turns, and when one would grow tired another would take his place. "Amens" rang out, the loudest from a row of old men who sat in front-row seats, their faces slick with sweat and creased by their years.
But the place grew quiet when "Testimony Time" came. One of the pastors invited congregation members to share what the Lord had done for them that week. One by one, people came forward. A young woman carrying a toddler asleep on her shoulder, thumb in his mouth; a boy whose mother pushed him from his seat, patting his arm in encouragement; a man who didn't look up, but walked up the aisle, turning his old straw hat over and over in hands dark with the permanent tattoo of coal dust. The young woman spoke in a whisper, telling how Jesus had helped her husband find work. The boy, red-faced and frowning, haltingly spoke of how his grandpa had laid hands on him and prayed for healing, of how "my headaches are plumb gone."
The man finally looked up. He said that since the mine had closed, he'd been drunk every weekend. "Last week my wife left me," he said. "Can't blame her none," he said, and he started to cry, the tears streaking his sharp cheeks. "I come to the preacher, and that very day I quit drinkin' and give my life to the Lord. My wife come home, and I have promised her we'll be here at church every Sunday."
By then I was crying, too, sitting there feeling so very blessed by these people who managed to find evidence of God's grace in the hard times, too. It's easy to be thankful when things are going well, isn't it? Easy to offer prayers of praise and adoration when a new baby is born, a child graduates, or we celebrate twenty years of wedded bliss. But life is such a mixture of the good times and the bad, those "good time" prayers may not come that often. Sometimes when we get discouraged we cannot bring ourselves to pray when we need it most. I know that's happened to me. Perhaps a pastor shouldn't admit that, but it's true.
I've come to believe that God reaches out to us even when we can't find the words to pray or the strength to pray them. This past summer has been one of those times at our church, a time of blessings, a time of loss. Within four days after I returned from an amazing week in Iowa at the national Rural Pastors Institute, Ellen Smith died. A week after Ellen's service, we buried Ed Conkling. Both were long-time, beloved church members. In the middle of that week, my cousin Judy's son and his daughter were killed returning from a family vacation. It was only ten years ago that Judy lost her oldest son to a motorcycle accident. Already grieving, my heart cried out against Judy's terrible loss and against all the losses that have come to the people in this small church where I sometimes feel like I'm not up to the task, not the "right" one to help heal their broken hearts.
Saturday morning came, and with it Ed's funeral. Eliott's Mortuary Chapel was full, even the overflow section. With a heavy heart, I prayed and prayed that my words would be the right ones. After the service, I waited in the entryway for the pallbearers and family to pass by. A few people shook my hand and walked on. Then someone laid a hand on my arm, clasping it in a strong grip. In front of me stood an elderly lady, her hair wispy and white, her head bent low, though her voice was strong and clear. "God has chosen you," she said.
"Excuse me," I mumbled, caught by surprise.
"The Lord has filled you," she said.
Just then someone called my name and I looked in that direction. When I turned back, the woman was gone. I searched the faces at the cemetery and later at the family dinner, but I never found her. I wondered if I could have imagined her, but then I remember rubbing my arm where she had held me so tightly. It was at that moment I realized that I don't have to be "up to the task" -- it is God's grace that heals, God's love that carries people through their darkest journeys.
Pamela J. Tinnin is pastor of Partridge Community Church (United Church of Christ), the only church in Partridge, Kansas (population 250).
Return to top
**********************************************
An Invitation to Send Stories
We are collecting personal stories for a third volume in the vision series, to be released in 2004. The new working title is Shining Moments: Visions of the Holy in Ordinary Lives. If you have any stories to share of your personal experience of the holy, please send them to jsumwalt@naspa.net.
New Book Released
We are happy to report that the second volume in the vision series, Sharing Visions: Divine Revelations, Angels, and Holy Coincidences, is now available from CSS Publishing Company. For more information about the book click here or visit the CSS website at http://www.csspub.com.
Special Pricing for StoryShare Subscribers
Sharing Visions retails for $19.95. CSS has graciously agreed to make the book available to StoryShare subscribers for just $11.97 (plus shipping & handling). To take advantage of this special pricing, you must use the special code SS40SV. Simply e-mail your order to orders@csspub.com or phone 1-800-241-4056. If you live outside the U.S., phone 419-227-1818.
Praise for Sharing Visions
Bishop Richard Wilke, creator of the Disciple Bible Study series, writes: "I am rejoicing as I read the testimonies in Sharing Visions. What an inspiration! I recall my father, an unemotional man, telling me that his mother (who had died some years before) appeared to him in a dream and gave him counsel on a difficult decision he was wrestling with."
StoryShare, October 26, 2003, issue.
Copyright 2003 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., P.O. Box 4503, Lima, Ohio 45802-4503.
A Story to Live By: "Grandma's Angel" by John Sumwalt
Sharing Visions: "Stopped in Mid-Air" by Marjorie Evans
Good Stories: "Cost of a Miracle"
Scrap Pile: "Those Testimony Times" by Pamela J. Tinnin
An Invitation to Send Stories
A Story to Live By
Grandma's Angel
by John Sumwalt
After this Job lived one hundred and forty years, and saw his children, and his children's children, four generations. And Job died, old and full of days.
Job 42:16-17
The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them.
Psalm 34:7
My grandmother, Leona Long, lived to be 105. I asked Grandma one day how it was that she had lived so long. Grandma said there were two reasons: she ate horehound candy ("It keeps me regular," she said), and because she had a guardian angel who she had been aware of since the age of four. Grandma said she went to fetch some water one day and saw a rattlesnake on the path. She was about to step over it when she felt something holding her back. There was no one to be seen anywhere around her. From that day on, Grandma knew that her angel would always be near. Grandma endured many hardships. She lost two children, one at the age of three, one on Christmas Eve. My grandfather was killed in an auto accident not long after their 34th wedding anniversary. Grandma was a widow for 47 years. But through all of these years Grandma lived with faith and hope because she knew she was never alone.
Return to top
Sharing Visions
Stopped in Mid-Air
by Marjorie Evans
This poor soul cried, and was heard by the Lord, and was saved from every trouble. The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them. O taste and see that the Lord is good; happy are those who take refuge in him.
Psalm 34:6-8
It began as a tranquil Sunday afternoon in May. We were in a hurry to get to a Welsh hymn sing at a historic church in an old section of Los Angeles. So we sped past the once-regal Victorian houses, their beauty long since faded.
Suddenly a young boy, about nine years of age, darted from an overgrown yard into the street. My husband immediately slammed on the brakes, but there was absolutely no way to stop the car before the child would be hit. Horror-stricken, I gasped, "Help, Lord!"
Instantly, the boy stopped in mid-stride, as if a giant, unseen hand had reached down and grabbed the collar of his pale red shirt and held him immobile. Like a statue he stood there, his body bent slightly forward and his right foot poised in mid-air. He was absolutely motionless, as if riveted to that spot, inches from death, as we slid past him.
After the car skidded to a stop, we got out to see if the child needed help. For a moment or two he remained in suspended animation, a look of bewilderment on his face. Then, shaking his head, he slowly lowered his right foot down to the pavement, turned, and ran back into the yard.
Seizing my husband's hand, I cried, "'For he will command his angels concerning you... on their hands they will bear you up....' Honey, we've just witnessed a miracle!"
Marjorie Evans, a former elementary schoolteacher, is now a freelance writer with many published articles and stories, including pieces in the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. She is a member of Pacific Church of Irvine, California. Write to her at: 4162 Fireside Circle, Irvine, CA 92604. Marjorie's story appears in Vision Stories: True Accounts of Visions, Angels, and Healing Miracles, edited by John E. Sumwalt (Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, 2002). Vision Stories is available from CSS through its website (http://www.csspub.com) or by calling 1-800-241-4056. Vision Stories is also available at many local Christian bookstores.
Return to top
Good Stories
Cost of a Miracle
Then Jesus said to him, "What do you want me to do for you?" The blind man said to him, "My teacher, let me see again." Jesus said to him, "Go; your faith has made you well." Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.
Mark 10:51-52
Tess went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured all the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even. The total had to be exactly perfect -- no chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way several blocks to Rexall's Drugstore with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention, but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise.
Nothing.
She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster.
No good.
Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
"And what do you want?" the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. "I'm talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven't seen in ages," he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
"Well, I want to talk to you about my brother," Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. "He's really, really sick ... and I want to buy a miracle."
"I beg your pardon?" said the pharmacist.
"His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head, and my daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?"
"We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I'm sorry, but I can't help you," the pharmacist said, softening a little.
"Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn't enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs."
The pharmacist's brother was a well-dressed man who happened to be standing at the counter and heard the conversation. He stooped down and asked the little girl, "What kind of a miracle does your brother need?"
"I don't know," Tess replied, with her eyes welling up. "I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my daddy can't pay for it, so I want to use my money."
"How much do you have?" asked the pharmacist's brother from Chicago.
"One dollar and eleven cents," Tess answered, barely audibly. "And it's all the money I have, but I can get some more somehow if I need to."
"Well, what a coincidence," smiled the man. "A dollar and eleven cents -- the exact price of a miracle for little brothers."
He took her money in one hand, and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said, "Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let's see if I have the kind of miracle you need."
That well-dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon specializing in neurosurgery. The operation was completed without charge, and it wasn't long until Andrew was home again and doing well. Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place. "That surgery," her mom whispered, "was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?"
Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost ... one dollar and eleven cents ...
Editor's Note: This is a popular anonymous parable containing just enough detail for people to circulate it as a "true story." Information about the gallant Dr. Carlton Armstrong (who fortuitously happened to be the very type of specialist little Andrew needed) has proved elusive. For more information about the origin of "Cost of a Miracle," click on: http://www.snopes.com/glurge/price.htm
Return to top
Scrap Pile
Those Testimony Times
by Pamela J. Tinnin
The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and delivers them.
Psalm 34:7
When I was in Kentucky during the summer of 1995 for a "rural ministry immersion experience," I visited a lot of churches. Most of them were very different from the churches I was raised in, very different from the church I pastor. One Sunday four of us seminarians attended the Freewill Primitive Baptist Church, a small concrete block building, painted white, that sat near a creek where the water ran cool and dark under the overhanging trees.
The inside of that little church looked as unfamiliar to me as the outside. For one thing, a platform sat in the very center of the sanctuary, just plain, rough-cut lumber without a pulpit or a lectern, no altar or piano, not even a cross -- just two rows of six wooden chairs. There weren't any pews, just more wooden chairs in row upon row, set along the four sides, each section facing the platform. Three hundred or more people crowded into that room, ladies in bright cotton dresses and men in stiff white shirts and ties, their faces red and sweating.
It was late June, a hot day without a breeze, though all the windows were open. Folks were fanning themselves with worn cardboard fans that had pictures of Jesus on the front and the words "Johnson's Funeral Home" printed on the back with the address and phone number prominently displayed.
The worship at that little church was unlike any I'd experienced. First, it began with singing, eight or nine songs of what they called "line out" singing. The only person with a songbook was the songleader, who would sing out a line in powerful, ringing tones, followed by the congregation singing the line. The student pastors had been invited to sit with the preachers on the platform, and there in the center the sound of that singing vibrated the timbers we could see above us. Occasionally someone would call, "Line it out, brother."
The service lasted nearly three hours. There were four preachers, all of them men in wool suits, but they soon threw off their coats and loosened their ties as they preached first to one side, then another. They took turns, and when one would grow tired another would take his place. "Amens" rang out, the loudest from a row of old men who sat in front-row seats, their faces slick with sweat and creased by their years.
But the place grew quiet when "Testimony Time" came. One of the pastors invited congregation members to share what the Lord had done for them that week. One by one, people came forward. A young woman carrying a toddler asleep on her shoulder, thumb in his mouth; a boy whose mother pushed him from his seat, patting his arm in encouragement; a man who didn't look up, but walked up the aisle, turning his old straw hat over and over in hands dark with the permanent tattoo of coal dust. The young woman spoke in a whisper, telling how Jesus had helped her husband find work. The boy, red-faced and frowning, haltingly spoke of how his grandpa had laid hands on him and prayed for healing, of how "my headaches are plumb gone."
The man finally looked up. He said that since the mine had closed, he'd been drunk every weekend. "Last week my wife left me," he said. "Can't blame her none," he said, and he started to cry, the tears streaking his sharp cheeks. "I come to the preacher, and that very day I quit drinkin' and give my life to the Lord. My wife come home, and I have promised her we'll be here at church every Sunday."
By then I was crying, too, sitting there feeling so very blessed by these people who managed to find evidence of God's grace in the hard times, too. It's easy to be thankful when things are going well, isn't it? Easy to offer prayers of praise and adoration when a new baby is born, a child graduates, or we celebrate twenty years of wedded bliss. But life is such a mixture of the good times and the bad, those "good time" prayers may not come that often. Sometimes when we get discouraged we cannot bring ourselves to pray when we need it most. I know that's happened to me. Perhaps a pastor shouldn't admit that, but it's true.
I've come to believe that God reaches out to us even when we can't find the words to pray or the strength to pray them. This past summer has been one of those times at our church, a time of blessings, a time of loss. Within four days after I returned from an amazing week in Iowa at the national Rural Pastors Institute, Ellen Smith died. A week after Ellen's service, we buried Ed Conkling. Both were long-time, beloved church members. In the middle of that week, my cousin Judy's son and his daughter were killed returning from a family vacation. It was only ten years ago that Judy lost her oldest son to a motorcycle accident. Already grieving, my heart cried out against Judy's terrible loss and against all the losses that have come to the people in this small church where I sometimes feel like I'm not up to the task, not the "right" one to help heal their broken hearts.
Saturday morning came, and with it Ed's funeral. Eliott's Mortuary Chapel was full, even the overflow section. With a heavy heart, I prayed and prayed that my words would be the right ones. After the service, I waited in the entryway for the pallbearers and family to pass by. A few people shook my hand and walked on. Then someone laid a hand on my arm, clasping it in a strong grip. In front of me stood an elderly lady, her hair wispy and white, her head bent low, though her voice was strong and clear. "God has chosen you," she said.
"Excuse me," I mumbled, caught by surprise.
"The Lord has filled you," she said.
Just then someone called my name and I looked in that direction. When I turned back, the woman was gone. I searched the faces at the cemetery and later at the family dinner, but I never found her. I wondered if I could have imagined her, but then I remember rubbing my arm where she had held me so tightly. It was at that moment I realized that I don't have to be "up to the task" -- it is God's grace that heals, God's love that carries people through their darkest journeys.
Pamela J. Tinnin is pastor of Partridge Community Church (United Church of Christ), the only church in Partridge, Kansas (population 250).
Return to top
**********************************************
An Invitation to Send Stories
We are collecting personal stories for a third volume in the vision series, to be released in 2004. The new working title is Shining Moments: Visions of the Holy in Ordinary Lives. If you have any stories to share of your personal experience of the holy, please send them to jsumwalt@naspa.net.
New Book Released
We are happy to report that the second volume in the vision series, Sharing Visions: Divine Revelations, Angels, and Holy Coincidences, is now available from CSS Publishing Company. For more information about the book click here or visit the CSS website at http://www.csspub.com.
Special Pricing for StoryShare Subscribers
Sharing Visions retails for $19.95. CSS has graciously agreed to make the book available to StoryShare subscribers for just $11.97 (plus shipping & handling). To take advantage of this special pricing, you must use the special code SS40SV. Simply e-mail your order to orders@csspub.com or phone 1-800-241-4056. If you live outside the U.S., phone 419-227-1818.
Praise for Sharing Visions
Bishop Richard Wilke, creator of the Disciple Bible Study series, writes: "I am rejoicing as I read the testimonies in Sharing Visions. What an inspiration! I recall my father, an unemotional man, telling me that his mother (who had died some years before) appeared to him in a dream and gave him counsel on a difficult decision he was wrestling with."
StoryShare, October 26, 2003, issue.
Copyright 2003 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., P.O. Box 4503, Lima, Ohio 45802-4503.
