The Little Pink Slippers by Lois Jones, Guest Writer

THE LITTLE PINK SLIPPERS

by Lois Jones

The school bus pulled into the circle in front of West Central Elementary. This had been my first year in my new school since we had recently moved. I was in third grade and my brother, Bobby, was in fourth. As we stepped off the bus, I saw some of my girl classmates and as usual they had their little carrying cases with them because it was Thursday. Every Thursday several little girls in my class had ballet classes after school. How I envied them; not so much for the dancing, but for the little pink ballet slippers they got to wear. I really wanted to have a pair of pink ballet slippers. I spent a lot of time at home curling my toes under and standing on the tops of my toes pretending I had ballet slippers on my feet.

Times were tough at home and there was no money for ballet shoes or lessons. However, that did not stop my intense longing. I felt a little out of place in third grade anyway because since I had started first grade at five years old I was now only seven and the smallest one in my class.  I dreaded to go to school on Thursdays because I knew the girls would have their lessons and I would have to hear about it all day long.

This Thursday proved to be different than all the rest. My school bus came thirty minutes after school which allowed me time to play under an oak tree on the playground. There were no girls to play with this day since they had gone to lessons or home. My brother was some distance away playing marbles with the boys. I was all alone under the tree. Suddenly I saw a small rectangular box sitting between the exposed roots of the tree. I removed the top and inside was a brand new pair of pink ballet slippers just my size. I knew they had not been left by any of the girls because they would not have fit since they were all bigger than I was. Even though I was only seven years old and had not been brought up in church, I knew God had sent them by an angel.  It gives God great pleasure to give good  gifts to his children. To this day, I am thankful and my poor toes are too.

Remembering Lucy Martin by J.Lyn Jones

Lucy Martin gripped the embroidery needle shakily with her left hand. The worn oak rocker gave a cocoon of comfort to her tired soul. A few months earlier she suffered from a stroke that caused her right hand to rest motionless in her lap. Her halo of gray white hair reflected the soft lamp light of the room. She gingerly reached into her sewing basket. With clumsy movement, she managed to pull out the baby blanket she had been embroidering. Stitch by stitch. Just a few more stitches and it would be complete. If only her right hand would work the way it had before the stroke. Every stitch was made with painstaking effort. Each thread sewn, a symbol of persevering love. Her eyes watered, it was just so difficult. She must complete it soon. The baby would be born any day now. The new mother would need a blanket for her infant daughter, to protect her from December's icy chill. She completed as many stitches as her left hand would allow, and placed her handiwork back in the basket. The daily ritual continued until the day arrived when the final stitch was knotted. The blanket was gently folded and wrapped. Finally, it was lovingly given.

The baby was me, 42 years ago. Lucy Martin, an elder sister in Christ, had a stroke which left her with many challenges. She loved a young couple, (my mom and my dad) and their baby. She showed her love with her gift. Stitch by stitch she persevered in spite of her disability. Many years have passed and Sis. Martin has gone on to her reward. She will be remembered for her selfless giving. We will never forget the dear lady who made the blanket, stitched with sacrifice and love. 

 

 

 

 

"Great is his faithfulness;

 

 his mercies begin afresh each morning.

 

I say to myself, "The Lord is my inheritance; therefore, I will hope in Him." 

 

The Lord is good to those who depend on him,

 

to those who search for him." 

 

Lamentations 3:23-25 NLT

 

 

 

 

The Servant

 

Dark limestone walls reveal, an open solitary window in an upper room.
 

The oil lamps flicker, reflecting shadows of men seated in a circle.
 

The last supper. Sweet incense mixes with smells of fresh baked bread.

 Then, uncomfortable silence.

Thirty-three year old Messiah, is on his knees. He calls for a towel and basin of water. 
 

The young everlasting King is kneeling?

Rough aggresive men, some former fishermen, stare in disbelief. 

"If any among you would be great, let Him be a servant."

 

The words fall like rough stones. A servant? 

That doesn't feel great at all. Wash another's feet? 

What is He thinking? 

 

"No servant is greater than his Master."

 

One by one dirty calloused feet are rinsed. One by one humility washes over calloused hearts. 
 

The oil lamps become brighter, the wall shadows grow larger.
 

 "Love one another as I have loved you..."

"Greater love hath no man than this, than a man would lay down his life for his friends."
 

"Love your neighbor as yourself."

 

 

 

When the mind of Christ is in us, then we become great.