Petrified Forest
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Petrified Forest" by Frank Ramirez
"The Prodigal Son" by Sandra Herrmann
Petrified Forest
by Frank Ramirez
The LORD said to Joshua, "Today I have rolled away from you the disgrace of Egypt." And so that place is called Gilgal to this day (Joshua 5:9).
“4-5-83
Please put this back so my husband can get well. I tried to keep him from taking it.
Distrout (sic) Wife of Sacramento Ca.”
The Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona is famous for, obviously, petrified wood. Encompassing over one hundred and seventy square miles, in a portion of northeastern Arizona around a mile in a altitude, the park features the petrified remains of the vast forests that covered this part of the world a long, long time ago.
Dear Sir -- I’m Sorry -- I was tempted & fell. I was going to make a neckless (sic) out of this, but it would have been a millstone around my neck, so am sending it back. Please forgive me, I’m sorry. EGG.
The National Park is dedicated to preserving this treasure for future generations, but as a popular tourist attraction it has been subject to constant theft, both before and after its declaration as a National Monument in 1906 and a National Park in 1961. It is illegal to steal petrified wood from the park. The offense is punishable by fines, and cars can be inspected by suspicious park personnel.
This little rock wanted to go home, so I sent him. Please take care of him - I did. Put him out where he can be among the moonlight and shooting stars of that gorgeous desert. Thank-you. (Conscience Letter 242)
Though many visitors think of the park as desert, it is actually consists of grasslands, the home of many different kinds of plants and animals.
Found this in my room, you can have it back. It’s bad luck I got busted the other night.
The park is home to a visitor center, many educational exhibits, hiking trails, and roads that lead to many displays. There is an unmarked service road, however, that is home to what is referred to by park employees as the conscience pile. In some rare cases the stolen petrified wood is returned, usually with an anonymous note expressing regret about the theft.
Nov-1980
Here are your rock’s nothing but bad trouble
Los Angeles.
At one time there was a park display that perpetuated the story that stolen petrified wood is accompanied by a curse. The display included some of what park officials call “conscience letters.” The individuals expressed regret for the act of taking a national treasure for their own, sometimes attributing a personal misfortune to themselves or a loved one on the crime. Sometimes they were just sorry for the act of theft itself.
They are beautiful, but I can’t enjoy them --
They weigh like a ton of bricks on my conscience.
Sorry.
The sad thing is stolen petrified wood, which often contains not only a record of plant material, but of insect and animal life preserved within, is ruined for scientific purposes. Without knowing its exact location and relationship to the the landscape and other pieces of the petrified forest, the wood is worthless. Nor can the stolen samples be returned to the original spot, even if that were known, because it cannot be guaranteed that the samples were not sanded, polished, or otherwise altered from their original state. And so a pile of conscience rocks grows in a conscience pile, and a file of conscience letters gets fatter and fatter.
And of course no one knows how many pieces of wood have been filched and never returned.
The sad urgency of some of the letters confirms that once some people feel convicted in their hearts of wrongdoing, they want to undo the action of their sin, and to receive some measure of forgiveness. That may not always be possible, but it helps in some way to demonstrate what a gift we receive in forgiveness. And in this passage from Joshua we might be able to sense from afar how grateful the descendants of the slaves in Egypt felt to have the shame of the status they inherited from the previous generation’s unfaithfulness rolled away. Unlike those who actually committed a crime, the children of Israel were not guilty of the same of their status, but in this scripture we see that though it is undeserved they must have felt it deeply, and gained a new self-identity.
(Want to know more? Read Bad Luck, Hot Rocks: Conscience Letters and Photographs from the Petrified Forest,” edited by Ryan Thompson and Phil Orr, published by The Ice Plant, 2014, or “Rocks, Paper, Sinners” by Nicola Twilley, www.newyorker.com, posted January 23, 2015.)
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and is the senior pastor of the Union Center Church of the Brethren near Nappanee, Indiana. Frank has served congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. He and his wife Jennie share three adult children, all married, and three grandchildren. He enjoys writing, reading, exercise, and theater.
* * *
The Prodigal Son
by Sandra Herrmann
Luke 13:1-9
I still remember the day as though it were yesterday: my darling baby brother, always my father’s favorite, standing with one hip cocked out, his fist resting on it, that selfish, pouty face I’d seen way too often, and that half-whine he would put on whenever he wanted something extra. I stopped in the foyer. Last thing I wanted was for my father to see the look on my face. What he called my “hard face.” The one where I was accusing my father of being too lax, too easy-going, too willing to be taken advantage of. I folded my arms and waited.
Oh, yes, I was absolutely right about my brother. He was being just as self-centered as always, wanting “his” share, “his” way. Never stopping to see that there were others involved in whatever equation he was working out. When he wanted the Ferrari, not the car Dad had bought him as a reward for graduating college. When he wanted an advance on his pay ? as though he ever worked at the job Dad had given him (after he failed at three jobs after college). No, Bart had never applied himself to anything. No business degree for him, so he might have the slightest idea of what it took to run a company. No, no ? he studied Sociology and Group Dynamics. As though anyone can be taught how to get people to work as a team.
Bart really was working up a head of steam in there with Dad. His voice was rising, his face turning red, the cords in his neck standing out. I had to shake my head, focus, so I could hear what he was shouting about.
“All I’m asking for is what you’ve already promised me,” Bart was shouting. “You promised me a one-third share of the stock. Why are you telling me you can’t do it now instead of three years from now?”
Dad answered him firmly, which is why I understood what he was saying in his low-key voice. “Bartholomew, I promised you a third of the stock when you turned 30. I refuse to give it to you now because it’s clear that all you’ll do with it is sell it, and I can’t afford to lose a third of the voting stock to outsiders. We’ve all worked very hard to get the company to its current value, and I will not allow anyone to waste that time and energy. Now you’ve asked me this before and I told you then, and I’m telling you now: NO. You will just have to wait until you’re 30.” Dad turned away and sat down behind his desk.
“I feel stifled here, Dad. Every good idea I come up with, every new product I propose, Eric shoots down before it has a chance of success.” He walked to the desk and braced his fists on its polished surface. “I want ? I need ? to get out on my own, to try my hand at making my own place in the world. But I can’t do that without capital.” On that last note, he pounded his fist on Dad’s desk. I prepared to intervene.
“Eric has the business well in hand, son. I know you don’t know like to hear it, but he has the right education, the right relationship with the Board, and he’s put in much more time and work than you have.” As Bart threw himself upright, Dad put up a palm. “No, don’t try to argue with me, I’m not saying you don’t have good ideas. But you lack experience. You’ve only worked with us for a year, remember. Those other jobs did do you good, it’s true, but not in our company. Now this discussion is over.”
“No, Dad, it’s not. If you won’t give me the stock, then the least you can do is give me a third of the value of the company.” I literally gasped. He really had no idea what the company is worth. He looks at the books, and whatever the bottom line is, he thinks that’s its value. He has no idea that salaries, capital improvements, machinery upkeep and lab work all have to come out of that bottom line. I was just about to march in there and dress him down when I heard Dad say, “I can’t do that, either. A lot of that money is tied up. But I tell you what I will do ? I’ll give you the cash value of half of the stock I’ve promised you.”
At that I burst into the office. “Dad! Do you have any idea how much that is you’re promising to give him? You’ll ruin the company! You know he’ll come home broke. He’ll go out and spend it all on his hair-brained schemes!”
I never saw the punch coming. Bart wheeled around and hit me right on my cheek bone. The crack of his fist was the last thing I heard before I hit the floor. I don’t think I was out cold for long, but my head hurt both front and back. At the hospital, I learned I had a severe concussion and a broken cheek bone, and Bart had his money.
We didn’t hear from him for three years. Mom cried a lot and Dad spent a fortune at the dentist because he was grinding his teeth even in his sleep. I took over a large part of the business, and this required long hours and many trips to our regional offices. I have to say, though, that I was pretty proud of myself. The business had grown exponentially in that three years. We’d made a couple of moves on our competitors, and we were just about to launch our first stock offering. We would no longer be the sole owners of the work of our hands, but if you’re going to keep growing, you have to go public at some point. This was why we couldn’t afford to give Bart his stocks.
I had just gotten back from Texas, where I had been involved in some financial negotiations when I saw what seemed like a fleet of cars parked on the front drive. As I paid the cabby and picked up my luggage, I heard music around back. I pushed open the front door and set my stuff down in Dad’s office. Our housekeeper came from the direction of the kitchen, beaming at me.
“Oh, Meester Eric! You are home!! Your father and mother will be so glad. Go outside ? they have beeg party going on. I will bring you some food.”
“What’s the party about?” I asked. “It’s nobody’s birthday.”
“Ah, no, Meester Eric. Your brother has come home. Your father invited all his friends to come and celebrate. Go on outside.” She waved toward the French doors out to the patio.
I was floored. No way. “How does Bart look?” I asked.
“Ah, he looks good now. But,” she lowered her voice, “he didn’t look so good yesterday. He had some bad luck when he was away.” She again started toward the kitchen.
I was furious. “Oh, he had bad luck while he was gone, did he? I can just imagine. Wine, women, song, villas to rent, and cars to buy. So is any of the money left?”
Carlotta bowed her head. She was embarrassed. Well, it was Bart who should be ashamed. Or Dad. Bart took all that money and wasted it. I took her in my arms for just a second. “It’s not your fault, Carlotta. We all knew Dad shouldn’t have given Bart that money. Don’t fix me anything, O.K.? My appetite is spoiled, anyway.”
Just then Dad walked in the doors to the patio. “Eric! You’re home! Come out and join the party!” He put his hands on my shoulders, gave me a bit of a hug, the way he always did. I just stood there. “What’s the matter, Eric? Did the deal fall through?”
“No, I got the deal. The contract’s signed. Just as you expected. I think I’ll go shower.” I started for the stairs.
“Oh, come on outside,” Dad said. “We have a yard full of people, all eating and drinking and wanting to see you. Everybody’s been asking about you.” He started to put his arm over my shoulder as he always did.
“No, Dad,” I said, pulling away. “I’m tired. I worked my tail off for four days to get this new deal. But I’m not the star of the party, am I? Bart’s the star. Even though he had “bad luck” while he was gone. All the money’s gone, right? Did he drive home in a big, new car? No?” My Dad shook his head. “Well, I’m surprised, Dad. You gave him everything he ever wanted, didn’t you? Fancy cars. A share of the company. Half the value of his share. And what did he do with it, Dad?” Dad was shaking his head again. “WHAT DID HE DO WITH IT, DAD?” I felt bad that I was shouting at my father, but I was past caring if I hurt his feelings. “I’ve never had a party thrown for me on that patio. Never had caterers. Never had a band hired, not even when I bought out our biggest competitor and brought home the contract and handed it to you. NOT ONCE, DAD!” I was shaking my finger in the air, shaking all over, in fact. “But dear, dear Bart ? he goes out and wastes the money you gave him, and HE GETS A PARTY!”
“Eric,” he said softly, “you deserve a party, it’s true. But you’re here with me every day. I thought I’d lost Bart. We never heard a word, remember, for three years. If you could have seen him, Eric. He was crying. He asked me for a job. At the bottom of the ladder. To work his way up. If you’d seen him, listened to him apologize. He told me you’d be like this, angry, resentful. But I said, ‘No, Bart, Eric is your brother. He loves you. He’ll be as glad to see you as I am, son.’ But I guess he was right, and I was wrong. I’m sorry. But this party can be for the two of you. Come outside and it will be for both of you.”
I was shaking my head, but he took my hand and nearly dragged me outside, where my emaciated brother and all of our friends were waiting.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
*****************************************
StoryShare, March 6, 2016, issue.
Copyright 2016 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.
"Petrified Forest" by Frank Ramirez
"The Prodigal Son" by Sandra Herrmann
Petrified Forest
by Frank Ramirez
The LORD said to Joshua, "Today I have rolled away from you the disgrace of Egypt." And so that place is called Gilgal to this day (Joshua 5:9).
“4-5-83
Please put this back so my husband can get well. I tried to keep him from taking it.
Distrout (sic) Wife of Sacramento Ca.”
The Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona is famous for, obviously, petrified wood. Encompassing over one hundred and seventy square miles, in a portion of northeastern Arizona around a mile in a altitude, the park features the petrified remains of the vast forests that covered this part of the world a long, long time ago.
Dear Sir -- I’m Sorry -- I was tempted & fell. I was going to make a neckless (sic) out of this, but it would have been a millstone around my neck, so am sending it back. Please forgive me, I’m sorry. EGG.
The National Park is dedicated to preserving this treasure for future generations, but as a popular tourist attraction it has been subject to constant theft, both before and after its declaration as a National Monument in 1906 and a National Park in 1961. It is illegal to steal petrified wood from the park. The offense is punishable by fines, and cars can be inspected by suspicious park personnel.
This little rock wanted to go home, so I sent him. Please take care of him - I did. Put him out where he can be among the moonlight and shooting stars of that gorgeous desert. Thank-you. (Conscience Letter 242)
Though many visitors think of the park as desert, it is actually consists of grasslands, the home of many different kinds of plants and animals.
Found this in my room, you can have it back. It’s bad luck I got busted the other night.
The park is home to a visitor center, many educational exhibits, hiking trails, and roads that lead to many displays. There is an unmarked service road, however, that is home to what is referred to by park employees as the conscience pile. In some rare cases the stolen petrified wood is returned, usually with an anonymous note expressing regret about the theft.
Nov-1980
Here are your rock’s nothing but bad trouble
Los Angeles.
At one time there was a park display that perpetuated the story that stolen petrified wood is accompanied by a curse. The display included some of what park officials call “conscience letters.” The individuals expressed regret for the act of taking a national treasure for their own, sometimes attributing a personal misfortune to themselves or a loved one on the crime. Sometimes they were just sorry for the act of theft itself.
They are beautiful, but I can’t enjoy them --
They weigh like a ton of bricks on my conscience.
Sorry.
The sad thing is stolen petrified wood, which often contains not only a record of plant material, but of insect and animal life preserved within, is ruined for scientific purposes. Without knowing its exact location and relationship to the the landscape and other pieces of the petrified forest, the wood is worthless. Nor can the stolen samples be returned to the original spot, even if that were known, because it cannot be guaranteed that the samples were not sanded, polished, or otherwise altered from their original state. And so a pile of conscience rocks grows in a conscience pile, and a file of conscience letters gets fatter and fatter.
And of course no one knows how many pieces of wood have been filched and never returned.
The sad urgency of some of the letters confirms that once some people feel convicted in their hearts of wrongdoing, they want to undo the action of their sin, and to receive some measure of forgiveness. That may not always be possible, but it helps in some way to demonstrate what a gift we receive in forgiveness. And in this passage from Joshua we might be able to sense from afar how grateful the descendants of the slaves in Egypt felt to have the shame of the status they inherited from the previous generation’s unfaithfulness rolled away. Unlike those who actually committed a crime, the children of Israel were not guilty of the same of their status, but in this scripture we see that though it is undeserved they must have felt it deeply, and gained a new self-identity.
(Want to know more? Read Bad Luck, Hot Rocks: Conscience Letters and Photographs from the Petrified Forest,” edited by Ryan Thompson and Phil Orr, published by The Ice Plant, 2014, or “Rocks, Paper, Sinners” by Nicola Twilley, www.newyorker.com, posted January 23, 2015.)
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and is the senior pastor of the Union Center Church of the Brethren near Nappanee, Indiana. Frank has served congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. He and his wife Jennie share three adult children, all married, and three grandchildren. He enjoys writing, reading, exercise, and theater.
* * *
The Prodigal Son
by Sandra Herrmann
Luke 13:1-9
I still remember the day as though it were yesterday: my darling baby brother, always my father’s favorite, standing with one hip cocked out, his fist resting on it, that selfish, pouty face I’d seen way too often, and that half-whine he would put on whenever he wanted something extra. I stopped in the foyer. Last thing I wanted was for my father to see the look on my face. What he called my “hard face.” The one where I was accusing my father of being too lax, too easy-going, too willing to be taken advantage of. I folded my arms and waited.
Oh, yes, I was absolutely right about my brother. He was being just as self-centered as always, wanting “his” share, “his” way. Never stopping to see that there were others involved in whatever equation he was working out. When he wanted the Ferrari, not the car Dad had bought him as a reward for graduating college. When he wanted an advance on his pay ? as though he ever worked at the job Dad had given him (after he failed at three jobs after college). No, Bart had never applied himself to anything. No business degree for him, so he might have the slightest idea of what it took to run a company. No, no ? he studied Sociology and Group Dynamics. As though anyone can be taught how to get people to work as a team.
Bart really was working up a head of steam in there with Dad. His voice was rising, his face turning red, the cords in his neck standing out. I had to shake my head, focus, so I could hear what he was shouting about.
“All I’m asking for is what you’ve already promised me,” Bart was shouting. “You promised me a one-third share of the stock. Why are you telling me you can’t do it now instead of three years from now?”
Dad answered him firmly, which is why I understood what he was saying in his low-key voice. “Bartholomew, I promised you a third of the stock when you turned 30. I refuse to give it to you now because it’s clear that all you’ll do with it is sell it, and I can’t afford to lose a third of the voting stock to outsiders. We’ve all worked very hard to get the company to its current value, and I will not allow anyone to waste that time and energy. Now you’ve asked me this before and I told you then, and I’m telling you now: NO. You will just have to wait until you’re 30.” Dad turned away and sat down behind his desk.
“I feel stifled here, Dad. Every good idea I come up with, every new product I propose, Eric shoots down before it has a chance of success.” He walked to the desk and braced his fists on its polished surface. “I want ? I need ? to get out on my own, to try my hand at making my own place in the world. But I can’t do that without capital.” On that last note, he pounded his fist on Dad’s desk. I prepared to intervene.
“Eric has the business well in hand, son. I know you don’t know like to hear it, but he has the right education, the right relationship with the Board, and he’s put in much more time and work than you have.” As Bart threw himself upright, Dad put up a palm. “No, don’t try to argue with me, I’m not saying you don’t have good ideas. But you lack experience. You’ve only worked with us for a year, remember. Those other jobs did do you good, it’s true, but not in our company. Now this discussion is over.”
“No, Dad, it’s not. If you won’t give me the stock, then the least you can do is give me a third of the value of the company.” I literally gasped. He really had no idea what the company is worth. He looks at the books, and whatever the bottom line is, he thinks that’s its value. He has no idea that salaries, capital improvements, machinery upkeep and lab work all have to come out of that bottom line. I was just about to march in there and dress him down when I heard Dad say, “I can’t do that, either. A lot of that money is tied up. But I tell you what I will do ? I’ll give you the cash value of half of the stock I’ve promised you.”
At that I burst into the office. “Dad! Do you have any idea how much that is you’re promising to give him? You’ll ruin the company! You know he’ll come home broke. He’ll go out and spend it all on his hair-brained schemes!”
I never saw the punch coming. Bart wheeled around and hit me right on my cheek bone. The crack of his fist was the last thing I heard before I hit the floor. I don’t think I was out cold for long, but my head hurt both front and back. At the hospital, I learned I had a severe concussion and a broken cheek bone, and Bart had his money.
We didn’t hear from him for three years. Mom cried a lot and Dad spent a fortune at the dentist because he was grinding his teeth even in his sleep. I took over a large part of the business, and this required long hours and many trips to our regional offices. I have to say, though, that I was pretty proud of myself. The business had grown exponentially in that three years. We’d made a couple of moves on our competitors, and we were just about to launch our first stock offering. We would no longer be the sole owners of the work of our hands, but if you’re going to keep growing, you have to go public at some point. This was why we couldn’t afford to give Bart his stocks.
I had just gotten back from Texas, where I had been involved in some financial negotiations when I saw what seemed like a fleet of cars parked on the front drive. As I paid the cabby and picked up my luggage, I heard music around back. I pushed open the front door and set my stuff down in Dad’s office. Our housekeeper came from the direction of the kitchen, beaming at me.
“Oh, Meester Eric! You are home!! Your father and mother will be so glad. Go outside ? they have beeg party going on. I will bring you some food.”
“What’s the party about?” I asked. “It’s nobody’s birthday.”
“Ah, no, Meester Eric. Your brother has come home. Your father invited all his friends to come and celebrate. Go on outside.” She waved toward the French doors out to the patio.
I was floored. No way. “How does Bart look?” I asked.
“Ah, he looks good now. But,” she lowered her voice, “he didn’t look so good yesterday. He had some bad luck when he was away.” She again started toward the kitchen.
I was furious. “Oh, he had bad luck while he was gone, did he? I can just imagine. Wine, women, song, villas to rent, and cars to buy. So is any of the money left?”
Carlotta bowed her head. She was embarrassed. Well, it was Bart who should be ashamed. Or Dad. Bart took all that money and wasted it. I took her in my arms for just a second. “It’s not your fault, Carlotta. We all knew Dad shouldn’t have given Bart that money. Don’t fix me anything, O.K.? My appetite is spoiled, anyway.”
Just then Dad walked in the doors to the patio. “Eric! You’re home! Come out and join the party!” He put his hands on my shoulders, gave me a bit of a hug, the way he always did. I just stood there. “What’s the matter, Eric? Did the deal fall through?”
“No, I got the deal. The contract’s signed. Just as you expected. I think I’ll go shower.” I started for the stairs.
“Oh, come on outside,” Dad said. “We have a yard full of people, all eating and drinking and wanting to see you. Everybody’s been asking about you.” He started to put his arm over my shoulder as he always did.
“No, Dad,” I said, pulling away. “I’m tired. I worked my tail off for four days to get this new deal. But I’m not the star of the party, am I? Bart’s the star. Even though he had “bad luck” while he was gone. All the money’s gone, right? Did he drive home in a big, new car? No?” My Dad shook his head. “Well, I’m surprised, Dad. You gave him everything he ever wanted, didn’t you? Fancy cars. A share of the company. Half the value of his share. And what did he do with it, Dad?” Dad was shaking his head again. “WHAT DID HE DO WITH IT, DAD?” I felt bad that I was shouting at my father, but I was past caring if I hurt his feelings. “I’ve never had a party thrown for me on that patio. Never had caterers. Never had a band hired, not even when I bought out our biggest competitor and brought home the contract and handed it to you. NOT ONCE, DAD!” I was shaking my finger in the air, shaking all over, in fact. “But dear, dear Bart ? he goes out and wastes the money you gave him, and HE GETS A PARTY!”
“Eric,” he said softly, “you deserve a party, it’s true. But you’re here with me every day. I thought I’d lost Bart. We never heard a word, remember, for three years. If you could have seen him, Eric. He was crying. He asked me for a job. At the bottom of the ladder. To work his way up. If you’d seen him, listened to him apologize. He told me you’d be like this, angry, resentful. But I said, ‘No, Bart, Eric is your brother. He loves you. He’ll be as glad to see you as I am, son.’ But I guess he was right, and I was wrong. I’m sorry. But this party can be for the two of you. Come outside and it will be for both of you.”
I was shaking my head, but he took my hand and nearly dragged me outside, where my emaciated brother and all of our friends were waiting.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
*****************************************
StoryShare, March 6, 2016, issue.
Copyright 2016 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.
