"But you, when you pray, go into your room, and when you have shut your door, pray to your Father who is in the secret place; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you openly."Matthew 6:6It was a frigid, early winter morning in Michigan over 25 years ago. A young Eric Ludy awoke with an extra spring in his step and an unexplained sense of excitement in his heart. Des
Casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ...2 Corinthians 10:5I sat tensely on the bed, trying to slow down my breathing. My heart was beating rapidly. My thoughts were racing. My hands were shaking. It was happening again. That overwhelming sense of doo
The air felt oppressively hot and sticky. A haze of dust and grime engulfed me as I watched dirty, half-naked children scamper around the rows of ramshackle cardboard houses. It was hard to fathom that hundreds of people actually lived in this cramped, filthy neighborhood — one of many “colonias” (poor, make-shift communities) near Juarez, Mexico. Most of the ho
The stillness of the African night was shattered by a piercing scream. Fair-skinned, red-haired Mary Slessor hurried out of her hut, a concerned look on her face. As she stood listening, she heard the sound of yelling and drumming growing steadily louder in the distance.
"Also from among yourselves men will rise up, speaking perverse things, to draw the disciples after themselves. Therefore watch, and remember that for three years I did not cease to warn everyone night and day with tears." Acts 20:30-31 A dusky haze settled over the muggy summer evening
If I am soft to myself and slide comfortably into the vice of self-pity and self-sympathy; if I do not by the grace of God practice fortitude, then I know nothing of calvary love.- Amy CarmichaelMarissa pulled her car into the driveway of her little blue house and sighed as a feeling of heaviness descended upon her. It had been a hard week. Actually, it had been a hard year.
I sat up groggily as the alarm clock beeped, groaning at the unwelcome intrusion into my comfortable sleep. Rubbing my hand across my eyes, I contemplated pressing the snooze button and dozing for an extra thirty minutes.
It was 1905. Seventeen-year-old Lillian Trasher stepped into the bustling editor’s office at a big-city newspaper, nervously clutching her sketchpad. Her heart beat excitedly at the flurry of activity around her as typewriters clicked and reporters scribbled furiously on notepads. Landing a lucrative job as a newspaper artist had been a long-time dream of Lillian’s.