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 THE
STORY BEHIND THE PICTURE OF THE PRAYING HANDS
Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near
Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children.
Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for
this mob, the father and head of the household, a
goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a
day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find
in the neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless
condition, two the elder children, Albrecht and Albert,
had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for
art, but they knew full well that their father would
never be financially able to send either of them to
Nuremberg to study at the Academy. After many long
discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys
finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The
loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his
earnings, support his brother while he attended the
academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss
completed his studies, in four years, he would support
the other brother at the academy, either with sales of
his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the
mines. They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after
church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to
Nuremberg. Albert went down into the dangerous mines and,
for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work
at the academy was almost an immediate sensation.
Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far
better than those of most of his professors, and by the
time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable
fees for his commissioned works. When the young artist
returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive
dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant
homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated
with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored
position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his
beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had
enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing
words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of
mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to
pursue your dream, and I will take care of you." All
heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the
table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale
face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he
sobbed and repeated, over and over, "No ...no ...no
...no." Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears
from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the
faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his
right cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot
go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look ... look
what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The
bones in every finger have been smashed at least once,
and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly
in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to
return your toast, much less make delicate lines on
parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, brother
...for me it is too late." More than 450 years have
passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful
portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors,
charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every
great museum in the world, but the odds are great that
you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works.
More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging
in your home or office. One day, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed,
Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward.
He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his
great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands." The next time you see a copy of that touching creation,
take a second look. Let it be your reminder, if you still need one, that no one - no one - - ever makes it alone! --Jeanette Deacon--
THIS IS JIM CHECKIN' IN
A minister passing through his church in the middle of the day, Decided to pause by the altar and see who had come to
Just then the back door opened, a man came down the aisle, The minister frowned as he saw the man hadn't shaved in a while. His shirt was kinda' shabby and his coat was worn and frayed. The man knelt, he bowed his head, then rose and walked away. In the days that followed,
each noon time came this chap, Each time he knelt just for a moment, a lunch pail in his lap. Well, the minister's suspicions grew, with robbery a main fear, He decided to stop the man and ask him, "Watcha' doin' here?" The old man, said he worked down the road. Lunch was half an hour.
Lunchtime was his prayer time, for finding strength and power. "I stay only moments, see, 'cause the factory is so far away; As I kneel here talking' to the Lord, this is kinda' what I say: "I JUST CAME AGAIN TO TELL YOU, LORD, HOW HAPPY I'VE BEEN, SINCE WE FOUND EACH OTHER'S FRIENDSHIP AND YOU TOOK AWAY MY SIN. I DON'T KNOW MUCH OF HOW TO PRAY, BUT I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERYDAY.
SO, JESUS, THIS IS JIM CHECKIN' IN." The minister feeling foolish, told Jim, that was fine. He told the man he was welcome to come and pray just anytime. Time to go, Jim smiled, said "Thanks." He hurried to the door. The minister knelt at the altar, he'd never done it before. His cold heart melted, warmed with love, met with Jesus there. As the tears flowed, in his heart, he repeated old Jim's prayer: "I JUST CAME AGAIN TO TELL YOU, LORD,
HOW HAPPY I'VE BEEN, SINCE WE FOUND EACH OTHER'S FRIENDSHIP AND YOU TOOK AWAY MY SIN. I DON'T KNOW MUCH OF HOW TO PRAY, BUT I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERYDAY. SO, JESUS, THIS IS ME CHECKIN' IN." Past noon one day, the minister noticed that old Jim hadn't come. As more days passed without Jim, he began to worry some. At the factory, he asked about him, learning he was ill. The hospital staff was worried, but he'd given them a thrill.
The week that Jim was with them, brought changes in the ward. His smiles, a joy contagious. Changed people, his reward. The head nurse couldn't understand why Jim Looking surprised, old Jim spoke up and with a winsome smile;
"The nurse is wrong, she couldn't know, that all the while Everyday at noon He's here, a dear friend of mine, you see, He sits right down, takes my hand, leans over and says to me: "I JUST CAME AGAIN TO TELL YOU, JIM, HOW HAPPY I HAVE BEEN, SINCE WE FOUND THIS FRIENDSHIP, AND I TOOK AWAY YOUR SIN. I ALWAYS LOVE TO HEAR YOU PRAY, I THINK ABOUT YOU EACH DAY, AND SO JIM, THIS IS JESUS CHECKIN' IN."
These inspirational stories were found on the web site of "Mr.Mom" a truly inspiration filled site well worth a visit!
Keep Your Fork
There was a woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had
been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things "in
order," she contacted her pastor and had him come to her house to discuss
certain aspects of her final wishes. She told him which songs she wanted
sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit
she wanted to be buried in. The woman also requested to be buried with her
favorite Bible.
Everything was in order and the pastor was preparing to leave when the woman
suddenly remembered something very important to her. "There's one more
thing," she said excitedly.
"What's that?" came the pastor's reply.
"This is very important," the woman continued. "I want to be buried with a
fork in my right hand."
The pastor stood looking at the woman, not knowing quite what to say.
"That surprises you, doesn't it?" the woman asked.
"Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request," said the pastor.
The woman explained. "In all my years of attending church socials and
potluck dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course
were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, 'Keep your
fork'. It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was
coming...like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something
wonderful, and with substance! So, I just want people to see me there in
that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder "What's with
the fork?'. Then I want you to tell them: "Keep your fork....the best is
yet to come".
The pastor's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the woman
good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before
her death. But he also knew that the woman had a better grasp of heaven than
he did. She KNEW that something better was coming.
At the funeral people were walking by the woman's casket and they saw the
pretty dress she was wearing, her favorite Bible and the fork placed in her
right hand. Over and over, the pastor heard the question "What's with the
fork?" And over and over he smiled. During his message, the pastor told the
people of the conversation he had with the woman shortly before she died. He
also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. The
pastor told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and
told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it
either. He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork, let it
remind you oh so gently, that the best is yet to come.
The legend of the Sand Dollar
There's a pretty little legend
That I would like to tell
Of the birth and death of Jesus
Found in this lowly shell.
If you examine closely,
You'll see that you find here
Four nail holes and a fifth one
Made by a Roman's spear.
On one side the Easter lily,
Its center is the star
That appeared unto the shepherds
And led them from afar.
The Christmas poinsettia,
Etched on the other side
Reminds us of His birthday,
Our happy Christmastide.
Now break the center open,
And here you will release
The five white doves awaiting
To spread Good will and peace.
This simple little symbol,
Christ left for you and me
To help us spread His Gospel
Through all eternity.
THE BIRTH OF THE SONG "PRECIOUS LORD"
Back in 1932 I was 32 years old and a fairly new husband. My wife,
Nettie, and I were living in a little apartment on Chicago's Southside.
One hot August afternoon I had to go to St. Louis, where I was to be the
featured soloist at a large revival meeting.
I didn't want to go. Nettie was in the last month of pregnancy with our
first child. But a lot of people were expecting me in St. Louis.
I kissed Nettie good-bye, clattered downstairs to our Model A and, in a
fresh Lake Michigan breeze, chugged out of Chicago on Route 66.
However, outside the city, I discovered that in my anxiety at leaving, I
had forgotten my music case. I wheeled around and headed back. I found
Nettie sleeping peacefully. I hesitated by her bed; something was
strongly telling me to stay. But eager to get on my way, and not wanting
to disturb Nettie, I shrugged off the feeling and quietly slipped out of
the room with my music.
The next night, in the steaming St. Louis heat, the crowd called on me
to sing again and again. When I finally sat down, a messenger boy ran up
with a Western Union telegram. I ripped open the envelope.
Pasted on the yellow sheet were the words: YOUR WIFE JUST DIED.
People were happily singing and clapping around me, but I could hardly
keep from crying out. I rushed to a phone and called home.
All I could hear on the other end was "Nettie is dead. Nettie is dead."
When I got back, I learned that Nettie had given birth to a boy. I swung
between grief and joy.
Yet that night, the baby died. I buried Nettie and our little both
together, in the same casket. Then I fell apart.
For days I closeted myself. I felt that God had done me an injustice. I
didn't want to serve Him any more or write gospel songs. I just wanted to
go back to that jazz world I once knew so well. But then, as I hunched
alone in that dark apartment those first sad days, I thought back to the
afternoon I went to St. Louis. Something kept telling me to stay with
Nettie.
Was that something God? Oh, if I had paid more attention to Him that
day, I would have stayed and been with Nettie when she died. From that
moment on I vowed to listen more closely to Him. But still I was lost in
grief.
Everyone was kind to me, especially a friend, Professor Fry, who seemed
to know what I needed. On the following Saturday evening he took me up to
Malone's Poro College, a neighborhood music school. It was quiet; the
late evening sun crept through the curtained windows. I sat down at the
piano, and my hands began to browse over the keys. Something happened to
me then. I felt at peace. I felt as though I could reach out and touch
God. I found myself playing a melody, one into my head-they just seemed
to fall into place:
Precious Lord, take my hand,
lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn,
Through the storm, through the night
lead me on to the light,
Take my hand, precious Lord,
Lead me home.
As the Lord gave me these words and melody, He also healed my spirit. I
learned that when we are in our deepest grief, when we feel farthest from
God, this is when He is closest, and when we are most open to His
restoring power. And so I go on living for God willingly and joyfully,
until that day comes when He will take me and gently lead me home.
-Tommy Dorsey/ "The Birth of "Precious Lord"
by Tommy A. Dorsey, GUIDEPOST
THE STORY OF CHARLIE COULSON
A true account about "Charlie Coulson - The Christian Drummer Boy" taken from
an old, out of print book called "Touching Incidents and Remarkable Answers to
Prayers."
I was a surgeon in the United States Army during the Civil War. After the
battle of Gettysburg, there were hundreds of wounded soldiers in my hospital.
Many were wounded so severely that a leg or an arm, or sometimes both, needed
to be amputated.
One of these was a boy who had been in the service for only three months.
Since he was too young to be a soldier, he had enlisted as a drummer. When my
assistants came to give him Chloroform before the amputation, he turned his
head and refused it. When they told him that it was the doctor's orders, he
said, "Send the doctor to me." I came to his bedside and said, "Young man, why
do you refuse the chloroform? When I picked you up on the battlefield, you
were so far gone that I almost didn't bother to pick you up. But when you
opened those large blue eyes, it occurred to me that you had a mother
somewhere who might be thinking of you that very moment. I didn't want you to
die on the field, so I had you brought here. But you' ve lost so much blood
that you're just too weak to live through an operation without chloroform.
You'd better let me give you some."
He laid his hand on mine, looked at me in the face and said, "Doctor, one
Sunday afternoon, when I was nine and a half years old, I gave my life to
Christ. I learned to trust Him then. I know I can trust Him now. He is my
strength. He will support me while you amputate my arm and leg." I asked him
if he would at least let me give him a little brandy.
Again he looked at me and said, "Doctor, when I was about 5-years-old, my
mother knelt by my side with her arms around me and said, 'Charlie, I am
praying to Jesus that you will never take even one drink of alcohol. Your
father died a drunkard, and I've asked God to use you to warn people against
the dangers of drinking, and to encourage them to love and serve the Lord.' I
am now 17-years-old, and I have never had anything stronger than tea or
coffee. There is a very good chance that I am about to die and go into the
presence of my God. Would you send me there with brandy on my breath?"
I will never forget the look that boy gave me. At that time I hated Jesus, but
I respected that boy's loyalty to His Savior. And when I saw how he loved and
trusted Him to the very end, something deeply touched my heart. I did for that
boy what I had never done for any other soldier. I asked him if he wanted to
see his chaplain.
Chaplain R. knew the boy well from having seen him often at the tent prayer
meetings. Taking his hand he said," Charlie, I am sorry to see you like this."
"Oh, I am all right, sir," answered Charlie. "The doctor offered me
chloroform, but I told him I didn't want any. Then he wanted to give me
brandy, which I didn't want either. So now, if my Savior calls me I can go to
Him in my right mind."
"You must not die, Charlie," said the chaplain, "but if the Lord does call you
home, is there anything I can do for you after you're gone?" "Chaplain, please
reach under my pillow and take my little Bible. My mother's address is inside.
Please send it to her and write a letter for me. Tell her that since I left
home I have never let a single day pass, no matter if we were on the march, on
the battlefield, or in the hospital, without reading a portion of God's word,
and daily praying that He would bless her."
"Is there anything else I can do for you, my lad?" asked the chaplain. "Yes.
Please write a letter to the Sunday School teacher of the Sands Street Church
in Brooklyn, New York. Tell him that I've never forgotten his encouragement,
good advice, and many prayers for me. They have helped me and comforted me
through all the dangers of battle. And now, in my dying hour, I thank the Lord
for my dear old teacher, and ask Him to bless and strengthen him. That is
all."
Then turning to me, he said, "I'm ready, doctor. I promise I won't even groan
while you take off my arm and leg, if you don't offer me chloroform." I
promised, but I didn't have the courage to take knife in my hand without first
going into the next room and taking a little brandy myself.
While cutting through the flesh, Charlie Coulson never groaned. But when I
took the saw to separate the bone, the lad took the corner of his pillow in
his mouth and all I could hear him whisper was, "O Jesus, blessed Jesus! Stand
by me now." He kept his promise. He never groaned.
I couldn't sleep that night. Whichever way I tossed and turned I saw those
soft blue eyes. The words, "Blessed Jesus. Stand by me now" kept ringing in my
ears. A little after midnight, I finally left my bed and visited the hospital
- something I had never done before unless there was an emergency. I had such
a strange and strong desire to see that boy. When I got there, an orderly told
me that 16 of the badly wounded soldiers had died. "Was Charlie Coulson one of
them?" I asked. "No,sir," he answered. "He's sleeping as sweet as a babe."
When I came to his bed, one of the nurses said, "at about 9 o'clock two
members of the YMCA came through the hospital to sing a hymn. Chaplain R. was
with them. He knelt by Charlie's bed and offered a fervent and soul-stirring
prayer. Then, while still on their knees, they sang one of the sweetest of all
hymns, 'Jesus, Lover Of My Soul.' Charlie sang along with them, too. I
couldn't understand how that boy, who was in such horrible pain, could sing."
Five days after I performed the operation, Charlie sent for me, and it was
from him that I heard my first Gospel sermon. "Doctor," he said,"my time has
come. I don't expect to see another sunrise. I want to thank you with all my
heart for your kindness to me. I know you are Jewish, and that you do not
believe in Jesus, but I want you to stay and see me die trusting my Savior to
the last moment of my life." I tried to stay, but I just couldn't. I didn't
have the courage to stand by and see a Christian boy die rejoicing in the love
of that Jesus who I hated. So I hurriedly left the room.
About 20 minutes later, an orderly came and found me sitting in my office with
my hands covering my face. He told me that Charlie wanted to see me. "I've
just seen him," I answered, "and I can't see him again." "But Doctor, he says
he must see you once more before he dies." So I made up my mind to go and see
Charlie, say an endearing word and let him die. However, I was determined that
nothing he could say would influence me in the least bit, so far as his Jesus
was concerned.
When I entered the hospital I saw he was sinking fast, so I sat down by his
bed. Asking me to take his hand, he said, "Doctor, I love you because you are
a Jew. The best friend I've found in the world was a Jew." I asked him who
that was, and he answered, "Jesus Christ, and I want to introduce you to Him
before I die. Will you promise me, doctor that what I am about to say to you,
you will never forget?" I promised, and he said, "5 days ago, while you
amputated my arm and leg, I prayed to the Lord Jesus Christ and asked Him to
make His love known to you."
Those words went deep in my heart. I couldn't understand how, when I was
causing him the most intense pain, he could forget about himself and think of
nothing but the Savior and my unconverted soul. All I could say to him was,
"Well, my dear boy, you'll soon be all right." With these words I left him,
and 12 minutes later he fell asleep safe in the arms of his Savior.
Hundreds of soldiers died in my hospital during the war, but I only followed
one to the grave, and that was Charlie Coulson. I rode 3 miles to see him
buried. I had him dressed in a new uniform, and placed in an officer's coffin,
with a United States flag over it.
That boy's dying words made a deep impression on me. I was rich at that time
so far as money was concerned, but I would have given every penny I possessed
if I could have felt towards Christ as Charlie did. But that feeling cannot be
bought with money. Alas, I soon forgot all about my Christian soldier's little
sermon, but I could not forget the boy himself. Looking back, I now know I was
under deep conviction of sin at that time. But for nearly 10 years I remained
unrepentant, until finally the dear boy's prayer was answered, and I
surrendered my life to the love of Jesus.
About a year and a half after my conversion, I went to a prayer meeting one
evening in Brooklyn. It was one of those meetings where Christians testify
about the lovingkindness of God.
After several had spoken, an elderly lady stood up and said, "Dear friends,
this may be the last time I have a chance to publicly share how good the Lord
has been to me. My doctor told me yesterday that my right lung is nearly gone
and my left lung is failing fast, so at the best I only have a short time to
be with you. But what is left of me belongs to Jesus. It's a great joy to know
that I shall soon meet my son with Jesus in heaven."
"Charlie was not only a soldier for his country, but also a soldier for
Christ. He was wounded at the battle of Gettysburg, and was cared for by a
Jewish doctor who amputated his arm and leg. He died 5 days after the
operation. The chaplain of the regiment wrote me a letter and sent me my boy's
Bible. I was told that in his dying hour my Charlie sent for that Jewish
doctor and said to him, "5 days ago while you amputated my arm and leg I
prayed to the Lord Jesus Christ for you."
As I heard this lady speak, I just couldn't sit still! I left my seat, ran
across the room and taking her hand I said, "God bless you, my dear sister.
Your boy's prayer has been heard and answered! I am the Jewish doctor that
Charlie prayed for, and his Savior is now my Savior! The love of Jesus has won
my soul!"
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