Things I want to share with you.
When I was putting some books away in my cupboard I came across this little gem called "Under the Surface".
On closer inspection it turned out that it contains many hymns written by Frances Ridley Havergal.
Here is a selection that stood out to me so far.
Someone recently shared an account of how the Lord showed His faithfulness to one American Missionary to Indonesia who was imprisoned during World War Two.
Here’s the blurb from the book “Evidence Not Seen”:
“As a new bride, Darlene Deibler followed her veteran missionary husband to the jungles of New Guinea, where the two worked to spread the word of the gospel to tribes who had never before seen a white woman. When World War II erupted, Darlene and her husband, Russell, were forced to go to separate internment camps where both endured countless horrors and degradations. Never to see her husband again, Darlene’s faith never wavered despite test after test. “
(While she was in solitary confinement, Darlene found a small window overlooking the courtyard where other women were permitted to take air and exercise.)
This is how events unfolded as told by Darlene herself:
“The actions of one woman in particular fascinated me. Every time the sentry on duty turned his back to her and marched to the other side of the courtyard, she inched over toward a fence covered with Honolulu Creeper. When the guard clicked his heels, turned about, and began to stroll in her direction, she stopped. There he went, and there she went.
“Aha, intrigue. She’s going to make contact with someone who’s hidden in those vines. Isn’t this exciting! Oh, do be careful. With no books to read, I’ll watch the drama taking place here before my very eyes!” I empathised with her. I wanted her to succeed, and not to be caught. Finally, reaching the vine-covered fence, the woman stood very still. The guard clicked his heels and went off again. At that moment, I saw a hand shoot through the tangle of vine. It held a big bunch of bananas. Quickly she grabbed the bananas, slipped them into the folds of her sarong, and strolled nonchalantly back to join the other women. Nobody knew she had those bananas. But I did- bananas!
I dropped to the floor of my cell. Exhausted from my efforts, I shook all over. Worse still, I began to crave bananas. Everything in me wanted one. I could see them; I could smell them; I could taste them. I got down on my knees and said, “Lord, I’m not asking you for a whole bunch like that woman has. I just want one banana.” I looked up and pleaded, “Lord, just one banana.”
Then I began to rationalize- how could God possibly get a banana to me through these prison walls? I would never ask the guard. If he helped me and was discovered, it would mean retaliation. I would certainly never ask a favor of the Interrogator! There was more chance of the moon falling out of the sky than one of them bringing me a banana. Then I ran out of people. These three were the only ones. Of course, there was the old Indonesian night watchman. “Don’t let it even enter his thinking to bring me a banana. He’d be shot if caught.”
I bowed my head again and prayed, “Lord, there’s no one here who could get a banana to me. There’s no way for You to do it. Please don’t think I’m not thankful for the rice porridge. It’s just that- well, those bananas looked so delicious!”
What I needed to do was link my impotence to God’s omnipotence, but I couldn’t see how God could get a banana to me through these prison walls, even after the knife episode and my healing.
When the Japanese officers from the ships docked in Macassar Harbor visited the prison, great hardships were inflicted upon the prisoners. We were laughed at, scorned, and insulted. When the cells were opened, we were expected to bow low at a perfect 90-degree angle. If we didn’t perform to their satisfaction, we were struck across the back with a cane. These were humiliating and desperate experiences.
The morning after the banana drama, I heard the click of officer’s leather heels on the concrete walkway. The thought of getting to my feet and having to execute a bow was onerous, to say the least. My weight had dropped during those months in the converted insane asylum, until now I was skin drawn over bones. One nice thing about my streamlined proportions was that the thinner I got, the longer my dress became, so I had more covering at night. I stretched out my hands often and laughed at my “bird’s claws”. The meagre daily meals were not designed for putting on weight. I had been healed, but I needed food for strength. I wondered if I could manage to get to my feet and remain upright, but I was determined that when that door opened, they would find me on my feet.
The officers were almost at the door. I reached up, grabbed the window ledge, and pulled myself upright. “Now, Lord,” I prayed, “officers are coming. Give me strength to make a proper bow.” I heard the guard slip a key into the door, but he had the wrong one and ran back to the office to get the right key. I dropped to the floor to rest, then came to my feet again when I heard his tennis shoe-shod feet moving quickly down the walkway. My legs were trembling, and I clutched the bars of the window to steady myself. “Lord, please help me to bow correctly.”
Finally, the door opened, and I looked into the smiling face of Mr. Yamaji, the Kampili camp commander. This was early July, and it had been so long since I had seen a smiling or a familiar face. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, Tuan Yamaji, seperti lihat sobat jan lama, “Mr. Yamaji, it’s just like seeing an old friend!”
Tears filled his eyes. He didn’t say a word but turned and walked out into the courtyard and began to talk with the two officers who had conducted my interrogations. At roll call in Kampili, I had had to give certain commands in Japanese, but I had made a deliberate effort to learn as little of the Japanese language as possible. It was better not to know it. I couldn’t understand what Yamaji was saying – but he spoke with them for a long time. What had happened to the hauteur and belligerence with which those two always conducted themselves toward me? I could see their heads hanging lower and lower. Perhaps he spoke to them of my work as a missionary, or maybe he shared with them concerning that afternoon in his office after I had learned of my husband’s death, when I spoke of Christ, my Saviour, Who gives us love for others- even for our enemies, those who use us badly.
Finally, Mr, Yamaji came back to my cell.
“You’re very ill, aren’t you?” he asked sympathetically.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Yamaji, I am.”
“I’m going back to the camp now. Have you any word for the women?”
The Lord gave me confidence to answer, “Yes, sir, when you go back, please tell them for me that I’m all right. I’m still trusting the Lord. They’ll understand what I mean, and I believe you do.”
“All right,” he replied; then, turning on his heels, he left. When Mr. Yamaji and the Kempeitai officers had gone and the guard had closed the door, it hit me – I didn’t bow to those men! “Oh Lord,” I cried, “why didn’t You help me remember? They’ll come back and beat me (for not bowing). Lord, please, not back to the hearing room again. Not now, Lord, I can’t; I just can’t.” I heard the guard coming back and knew he was coming for me. Struggling to my feet, I stood ready to go. He opened the door, walked in, and with a sweeping gesture laid at my feet – bananas! “They’re yours,” he said, “and they’re all from Mr. Yamaji.” I sat down in stunned silence and counted them. There were ninety-two bananas!
In all my spiritual experience, I’ve never known such shame before my Lord. I pushed the bananas into a corner and wept before Him. “Lord, forgive me; I’m so ashamed. I couldn’t trust You enough to get even one banana for me. Just look at them – there are almost a hundred.”
In the quiet of the shadowed cell, He answered back within my heart: “That’s what I delight to do, the exceeding abundant above anything you ask or think.” I knew in those moments that nothing is impossible to my God.
After God assured me it was His delight to send me those bananas, my heart was salved, and it took all the character I possessed not to eat all ninety-two in one sitting. After months of meagre rations of rice porridge, I knew that to gorge could make me deathly ill, so I portioned out so many bananas per day, saving the greener ones for last. This was God’s provision, and strength began to flow into my body.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” (Psalm 23:5)
I hope you are as challenged and blessed as I have been by this.
(found here: http://www.neve-family.com/books/tozer/world/08.html)
ALMOST EVERY CHRISTIAN wants to be spiritual, but few know what the experience means. A lot of unfounded comfort could be swept away and much true consolation received if we could get straightened out.
It is difficult for us to shake off the notion that a person is as spiritual as he or she feels. Our basic spirituality seldom accords our feelings. There are many carnal persons whose religious emotions are sensitive to every impression and who manage to keep themselves on a fairly high plane of inward enjoyment but who have no marks of godliness upon them. They have a low boiling point and can get heated up over almost anything religious at a moment's notice. Their tears are close to the surface and their voices carry a world of emotional content. Such have a reputation for being spiritual, and they themselves may easily believe they are. But they are not necessarily so.
Spiritual people are indifferent to their feelings--they live by faith in God with little care about their own emotions. They think God's thoughts and see things as God sees them. They rejoice in Christ and have no confidence in themselves. They are more concerned with obedience than with happiness. This is less romantic, perhaps, but it will stand the test of fire.
( Article taken from This World: Playground or Battleground?, Chapter 8 )
found at http://www.neve-family.com/books/tozer/world/02.html
NO ONE CAN BLAME PEOPLE for being afraid. The world is in for a baptism of fire, and whether or not this present conflict is the beginning of the ordeal, such a baptism will surely come sooner or later. God declares this by the voice of all the holy prophets since time began – there is no escaping it.
But are not we Christians a people of another order? Do we not claim a place in the purpose of God altogether above the uncertainties of time and chance in which the sons of this world are caught? Have we not been given a prophetic preview off all those things that are to come upon the earth? Can anything take us unaware?
Surely Bible-reading Christians should be the last persons on earth to give way to hysteria. They are redeemed from their past offenses, kept in their present circumstances by the power of an all-powerful God, and their future is safe in His hands. God has promised to support them in the flood, protect them in the fire, feed them in famine, shield them against their enemies, hide them in His safe chambers until the indignation is past and receive them at last into eternal tabernacles.
If we are called upon to suffer, we may be perfectly sure that we shall be rewarded for every pain and blessed for every tear. Underneath will be the Everlasting Arms and within will be the deep assurance that all is well with our souls. Nothing can separate us from the love of God – not death, nor life, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature.
This is a big old world, and it is full of the habitations of darkness, but nowhere in its vast expanse is there one thing of which a real Christian need be afraid. Surely a fear-ridden Christian has never examined his or her defenses.
A fear-stricken church cannot help a scared world. We who are in the secret place of safety must begin to talk and act like it. We, above all who dwell upon the earth, should be calm, hopeful, buoyant and cheerful. We'll never convince the scared world that there is peace at the Cross if we continue to exhibit the same fears as those who make no profession of Christianity.
( Article taken from This World: Playground or Battleground?, Chapter 2 )
