Angels in the Alley

Sorry Folks, I have decided to remove this story from my “Inspirational Stories” blog here at wordpress.

I received a comment from someone named Rudolph Reid stating that he is the orignal author of this piece. Mr. Reid, I tried to contact you regarding this, however your email (ntlworld)bounced back and the web address provided by your comment  is a dead link.  Please comment again with an alternate email address.

I gladly remove this piece. I’ll gladly add it again with author’s name and author’s link, etc.  Searches in various search engines after receiving your initial comment have not provided me with any assistance in finding true author of  this piece.  Mr. Reid, please comment again with alternate email.

If I cannot establish communication, I’ll remove this post entirely.

-r.

The Little Grass Hut

The only survivor of a shipwreck was washed up on a small, uninhabited island. He prayed feverishly for GOD to rescue him, and every day he scanned the horizon for help, but none seemed forthcoming.

Exhausted, he eventually managed to build a little hut out of driftwood and long grass to protect himself from the elements, and to store his few possessions.

One day, after scavenging for food, he arrived home to find his little hut in flames, with smoke rolling up to the sky. The worst had happened, and everything was lost. He was stunned with disbelief, grief, and anger. “GOD, how could you do this to me?” he cried.

Early the next day he was awakened by the sound of a ship that was approaching the island.

It had come to rescue him. “How did you know I was here?” asked the weary man of his rescuers. “We saw your smoke signal,” they replied.

It’s easy to get discouraged when things are going bad, but we shouldn’t lose heart, because GOD is at work in our lives, even in the midst of pain, and suffering.

Remember that, the next time your little hut seems to be burning to the ground, it just may be a smoke signal that summons the grace of GOD.

God and The Spider

Another great story sent to me by friend, Flor Estella. - r.

(Author Unknown) 

During World War II, a US marine was separated from his unit on a Pacific island. The fighting had been intense, and in the smoke and the crossfire he had lost touch with his comrades.

Alone in the jungle, he could hear enemy soldiers coming in his direction. Scrambling for cover, he found his way up a high ridge to several small caves in the rock. Quickly he crawled inside one of the caves. Although safe for the moment, he realized that once the enemy soldiers looking for him swept up the ridge, they would quickly search all the caves and he would be killed.

As he waited, he prayed, “Lord, if it be your will, please protect me. Whatever your will though, I love you and trust you. Amen.”

After praying, he lay quietly listening to the enemy begin to draw close. He thought, “Well, I guess the Lord isn’t going to help me out of this one.” Then he saw a spider begin to build a web over the front of his cave.As he watched, listening to the enemy searching for him all the while, the spider layered strand after strand of web across the opening of the cave.”Hah, he thought. “What I need is a brick wall and what the Lord has sent me is a spider web. God does have a sense of humor.”

As the enemy drew closer he watched from the darkness of his hideout and could see them searching one cave after another. As they came to his, he got ready to make his last stand. To his amazement, however, after glancing in the direction of his cave, they moved on. Suddenly, he realized that with the spider web over the entrance, his cave looked as if no one had entered for quite a while.

“Lord, forgive me,” prayed the young man. “I had forgotten that in you a spider’s web is stronger than a brick wall.”

The Minister Was Passing Through

Another great story/poem that was sent to me from my friend, Flor Estella. – r.

(Author Unknown)

A minister passing through his church
in the middle of the day,
Decided to pause by the altar
and see who had come to pray.

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 kind of 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,
“What are you doing 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,
because the factory is so far away;
as I kneel here talking to the Lord,
This is kind a 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.

“DON’T KNOW MUCH OF HOW TO PRAY,
BUT I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERYDAY.
SO, JESUS, THIS IS JIM
CHECKING IN TODAY.”

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,
and 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
CHECKING IN TODAY.”

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, were his reward.

The head nurse couldn’t understand
why Jim was so glad,
when no flowers, calls or cards came,
Not a visitor he had.

The minister stayed by his bed,
He voiced the nurse’s concern:
No friends came to show they cared.
He had nowhere to turn.

Looking surprised, old Jim spoke
up and with a winsome smile;
“the nurse is wrong, she couldn’t know,
that in here 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.”

Praying Hands

(Author Unknown) 

     Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremburg, 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 of Albrecht Durer the Elder’s children 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 Nuremburg 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 ream, 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 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!

     God Bless Albert and Albrecht Durer.

     Blessings, too, on those who sacrifice so that another may succeed. And blessings on those who truly appreciate the sacrifices made by others on their behalf.