A Gentle Answer

He had sacrificed his youth for his country, serving proudly in the days when the greater good was valued over individual comfort. He had served alongside honorable men, eaten unrecognizable meals with them, drawn on their strength when he wanted to run.

Those days had rattled him with fear, but he had taken pride in doing his job well. But although they had been assured this work was for the ultimate good, he still had to push back the confusion each time he saw the great cost of the “good.” By the age of twenty-five, he had seen more death and lived through more adventure than the forty-year-old employees in his shop today, the ones who roll their eyes at each other when he drones on about his experience in the war or his love for his country.

After the war, he met Alice by chance when he stopped at the ice cream parlor one afternoon. She was everything pure and bright to his sad, disillusioned mind. Her cheerful greeting caught his attention, but it was her peaceful spirit that convinced him she would always be a safe place for his experience and pain. Over the course of the next few months, with the intuitive use of her words and her silence, she soothed the places that hurt his soul.

For her part, Alice loved the depth in his eyes. She loved the way his smile did not take pleasure for granted, but rather collected each one and turned it over and over in his hands, thankful for its healing presence. Where she would see a pretty meadow from the car window, he would stop the car and get out and walk among the flowers, running his hands over their cheerful faces with a childlike appreciation. He would get on his knees and collect the prettiest daisies, threading their stems together into a makeshift bouquet.

“Come on, let’s go,” she would plead, “we’re going to be late — this is not the time to be picking flowers.”

And he would smile and rise, presenting her with the bouquet in an elaborate show. As she looked down at the bundle of daisies in her hands, each time — without fail — she would find one ugly, drooping flower among the bunch, one that did not fit with the rest. She would look up at him with a furrowed brow.

“Because,” he would say to her unspoken question, “that’s real life.”

They had not been going steady very long before they fell into the comfortable recognition that she would be his lifeline and he would be her anchor till death did them part. As a step in that direction, he got down on one knee in that ice cream parlor nine months after they first met, and they were married a few months later.

Their first year of marriage drifted by with the ease of an autumn leaf floating on the river, as conversations every evening stoked a bright fullness in their relationship. Each discovery brought new intimacy as they found themselves more fully known and loved. Everything was as it should be.

The next few years brimmed with fun adventures — a new home to enjoy, new babies to love, and a new business to run. He observed Alice, appreciated her dedication as she invested late nights and early mornings in their family. His heart swelled with pride as she alternately played with and disciplined the children according to their need. She was strong, with solid opinions that sharpened his own — his capable partner in business and in life.

But as they worked together toward their common goals, they gradually forgot how to be together, to rest in each other’s company. Early on, they had taken great care in arranging the store and spent many a happy afternoon dusting and rearranging their wares without distraction. Now those distractions were usually boisterous, often dirty, and routinely picked up dead animals.

As they corralled the children and managed their growing business, they found less time to speak to each other, and when they took time for conversation, harsh words crept in where harmony had always been. Afraid of this dangerous shift in their marriage and unsure of the best way to close the distance, Alice tried to hold him to herself on a tether of control, becoming critical of the things she had always loved about him.

“Could you pick up some flour so I can make bread with supper?” she had asked him one afternoon.

“I will, but I’ve got to say a few words over the squirrel. I think one of the dogs got him. The kids found his body in the yard this morning and made up a little box for his burial. They’ve asked me to see to it he has a proper funeral,” he explained, offering, “I’ll go get some right after that.”

“It’s not even a real funeral,” she insisted with frustration. “It’s a squirrel, a squirrel. Please just do the service after you get the flour.”

“But, Alice, it’s not just a squirrel to the kids. They want him properly laid to rest, and I intend to help them. The bread can still be ready in time for supper. Just give me a few minutes to finish this.”

She disapproved of the ways he spent his time, bossed him as if he were one of her children. She hoped to pull him, harnessed by her criticism, back onto the path she desperately wanted to walk with him. He felt her critiques keenly and began to withdraw to safer ground. It was an ominous cycle that made each desperately unhappy, though neither could see a way of escape.

One night, he found her in tears as she brushed her hair before bed.

“We’ve been married for ten years today,” she said flatly. “Happy anniversary. We made it.”

He had forgotten their anniversary. The monumental day had passed like any other — an afternoon sandwiched between a morning and an evening. Alice generally didn’t make a big deal of holidays, but anniversaries were different — they were a celebration of the hard work they had poured into their marriage thus far, and when lavishly observed, were an investment in the next year’s happiness. Until now, he had never spared an expense in honoring the day. But things at the shop had been so busy recently.

“Oh no, I am so sorry — ” he began.

“I guess I saw it coming,” she cut him off. ‘What are we even doing? We’re running this shop together, we’re raising a family together. But we don’t ever just spend time together like we used to,” she cried. “Why should today be special when none of the other days are? It shouldn’t have surprised me, but still — ”

“Now, Alice, don’t turn this into any more than it is,” he said. Of course today he’d made a critical mistake. Of course they’d been busy and lost touch lately. But all families have rough seasons. And, he noted bitterly to himself, she hadn’t mention their anniversary today either, until she wielded it now as a weapon.

“Any more than it is?” Alice burst into tears and told him exactly what it was. He stood staring at the floor, listening to her words as she verbally dismantled all that she had devoted her life to protecting. She got into bed, rolled to face the wall, and cried bitterly as she mourned both the years that had driven them apart and her words which now would fix them there.

He cleared his throat and quietly said, “If that’s how you feel,” then opened the door and walked to his truck. Though at first it would not crank, he refused to go back inside to finish the fight. After fifteen minutes of struggle, the engine finally yielded and sputtered to life. He drove dark back roads throughout the night, preparing his words and steeling his heart for the inevitable confrontation. He was only a few miles from home when his truck shuddered and then coasted to a stop. He pounded the steering wheel, cursing first his truck for its betrayal, then himself for the empty fuel tank. He kicked the door open and slammed it behind him as he started walking.

Trudging through the fields before sunrise, he rehearsed her faults, fine-tuning his monologue as he prepared for the clash. As he gained confidence from the evidence mounting against her, he suddenly remembered a verse his mother had made him memorize decades ago. Man that was a lifetime ago when we were kids. His sister had knocked his bicycle into a puddle so he threw mud on her and called her a dirty name. She tattled on him, and they had both been ordered to memorize a passage from the Proverbs. Why would that surface now? This situation is totally different. How did it even go again? It began to come back to his mind:

A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.

The tongue of the wise useth knowledge aright: but the mouth of fools

poureth out foolishness.

The eyes of the LORD are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.

“Probably best you look away, God,” he said to no one in particular, “this may get ugly.”

But as he walked on those verses began to perforate his arguments, and he struggled to keep his points in order. He wasn’t sure if it was the beautiful sunrise, the brisk early morning exercise, or those pointed words from the King James version, but as he strode for home, his anger dissolved as a new feeling emerged in its place. He had spent the last couple of years watching his marriage swirl as the bathwater does before it goes down the drain — slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster.

No more, he decided as he walked through the fields. I’m plugging the tub. Armed with this new resolve, he abandoned his interest in the easy road, the one tempting him to walk away from a fight and keep on walking. As he passed through the fields that morning, he picked a handful of daisies like he had done so often during their early days.

When he got home, he placed the flowers on the kitchen table with a note that said, “Since the war, I haven’t had anything to fight, mostly thanks to you. But somewhere along the way, I drew up battle lines with you on the other side. I don’t really know how we ended up here, but starting today, I want to be on your side again. I want to fight for us.” Then he slipped out the front door again to open the store before she woke up.

When she walked into the kitchen that morning, she glanced apprehensively at the bouquet, which evoked so many memories of their early years. She stepped closer for a better look. There, in amongst the beautiful flowers, was a hideously withered one. It was the one for which she was looking.

“Because that’s real life,” she smiled as the tears began to form. “I’m ready.”

It was the biggest fight of their lives — the daily falling in and out of love, the constant swelling and humbling of selves, the moment-by-moment strain of choosing to honor each other. But they fought it, and in the end, they won. Many times, they had feared they might not. But as she lay still, waiting peacefully as the sickness nudged her further into eternity, Alice’s final words to him were, “We made it. Come soon.” And that lovely smile.

It was the proudest victory of his life. He had learned in the war what it meant to serve the greater good, to offer oneself for the masses. But he learned in his marriage what it meant to sacrifice himself for another individual, one who often opposed or hurt him. In the end, the victory over the struggle brought a fulfillment only known by those who have experienced it.

During their first year of marriage, he thought he knew what it was to be fully known and fully loved. But as the years passed, Alice had shown him more and more what it meant…

The post Stories Between Friends – Devon Dial appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

GOD WILL ANSWER US WHEN WE CALL

Keyword answer (verb): to speak or write in reply; to act in response to

At that time, when you call, the Lord will answer; when you cry out, he will say, “Here I am.” Isaiah 58:9 CSB

Please pick up, please pick up! 

The engine light was flashing on my dashboard. I was on my way home from work, and it was starting to get dark. I kept calling my husband’s number, but there was no answer. I pulled over to the side of the busy road to figure out what to do. I continued to call him as I read the manual, searched on my phone for what to do when an engine light is flashing in an eighteen-year-old car, and texted a couple of my friends for moral support. 

I was starting to feel scared, alone, and frustrated by the whole situation. Feelings of insignificance teased through my heart and mind. Even though I am completely confident in my husband’s love for me, I was starting to wonder if he would even notice that I was unusually late getting home. Would he realize that he should check on me? 

It wasn’t long before he called me very concerned and apologetic for not hearing his phone while he was mowing the lawn. He talked me through my tentative drive home, ready to come get me at the first sign of trouble. I was instantly reassured by his caring response. 

We all need help sometimes. We might find ourselves in a broken-down car, a broken-down body, a broken-down relationship, or a broken-down spirit. 

And we desperately want someone to answer our call. 

That’s what we can count on with Jesus. He promises that when we call on him, he will answer. 

He is available all day and night–constantly watching over us, always thinking about us and listening for our call. We never have to worry that he might not hear us or that he might not answer. We can be completely confident that he will. 

What makes this promise even more meaningful are the words he answers with. 

Jesus reassures us that when we cry out he will say, “Here I am.” 

Here I am. 

I’m right here with you in your brokenness and need. I’m right here giving you the peace and hope of my Spirit. I’m right here holding you close in your panic and your grief. I’m right here taking care of you because you matter more than anything to me.  

We get to be loved and listened to by the God of the universe. 

Even if we don’t see or hear an answer right away. 

Even when the answer is not the one we wanted. 

Even when we feel like no one is listening. 

God is.

He is the only one who is never too busy for us. 

He is the only one who can give us exactly what we need. 

He is the only one who never loses his phone. 

And he will always pick up. 

Dear Jesus, you are so constant and faithful. I love knowing that you always hear my cries for help. Thank you for answering me every time I call. Amen.

If you love this one word devotion from Susie and want more of the same, sign up here (and a get a free gift, too!).

The post Stories Between Friends – Susie Crosby appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

The Accident That Gave Me New Life

It is hard to believe this is my story. I have no recollection of the miracle that changed my life. The incident took place in my birthplace, India, when I was almost three years old.

It was a hot day in April. A loud, piercing cry jolted my mother out of her thoughts, as she splashed cold water on her face to wash away the summer sweat. She had just returned home with my sister and me after spending the afternoon at her sister’s school, helping children practice for a cultural program. After setting us down in the bedroom to play, Mom had rushed to the wash basin near the dining table to freshen herself, her mind abuzz with dinner plans.

A mother can recognize not just her child’s unique voice, but also her wordless cries. When the shriek cut through the quiet afternoon, my mother knew it belonged to me and that something bad had happened.

Without stopping to dry her face, she rushed to my side, at the foot of the dining table, where I was stomping my feet and howling. Shocked and confused, Mom knelt down beside me, her eyes rapidly scanned my body. “What happened, my baby? Where did you get hurt?”

Tears mingled with the water on her face as my mother searched the area around me for clues. To her horror, she discovered an opened jar of colorless liquid on the dining table. No, it wasn’t water. She put the pieces together. I had accidentally ingested caustic soda.

Despite never having tasted the effects herself, she could feel—as only mothers can—every part of the pain that I was feeling. Scooping me up in her arms, Mom tried her best to soothe me. Fears and worries flooded her mind. But she had no time to dwell on them. She knew she had to act fast.

My birth in 1979 brought my parents great joy. I was a chubby and happy baby with thick, black hair and big, brown eyes. Friends and family thought I looked like a doll. “Toy” became my nickname. Only a year later, my sister was born. We called her Joy. Our middle-class family of four lived in a one-bedroom house in Hyderabad, India. Dad worked at a bank while Mom stayed at home to take care of her energetic toddlers.

In many Indian homes, sodium hydroxide, also known as caustic soda, was used to remove tough stains from toilets and other areas of the house. Earlier that morning, our maid had diluted the alkaline chemical in water and used it to make our toilets shine. She had, inadvertently, left the chemical on the dining table.

It was a strange coincidence that my dad just happened to be home unusually early from work that day. Upon hearing my wailing, he rushed inside the house, only to encounter Mom already on her way out with me kicking and crying in her arms. Her hands shaking, her face red, and her eyes wide-eyed and wet, she stammered, “Toy drank caustic soda. Hurry, drop Joy at the neighbor’s and meet me at the doctor’s clinic.”

My screams were so loud that they forced neighbors out of their homes. Dad handed my sister over to one of them. He followed my mother who was running barefoot toward the doctor’s clinic which was a stone’s throw away from our house. The doctor quickly realized that the problem was too big for his small practice to handle. He told my parents to take me to a nearby hospital as soon as possible.

All the while, the caustic soda ate away at the skin in my mouth and throat. My crying would not abate.

Mom held me close to her chest as she straddled my dad’s Vespa. Although my father was terrified, he held himself together, determined to do everything in his power to rid his baby of pain. He rode as fast as he could to our neighborhood hospital.

Dad had barely hit the brakes when Mom hurried into the hospital yelling, “Help! My daughter has ingested caustic soda.” The hospital staff sprang into action. While they took me inside to be examined, my parents gathered their thoughts. Will their firstborn survive? How could they have avoided this accident? They blamed themselves. Hadn’t they told the maid to be careful, to keep the caustic soda out of reach of their children? Why was this happening? God, please help us!

They contacted their siblings and friends, while the doctors attended to me. Within the hour, aunts and uncles and friends filled up the hospital waiting room.

Corrosive ingestion is not an uncommon problem in a developing country like India which lacks strict regulatory measures. The doctors probably had treated patients like me before. However, they didn’t know how much chemical I had ingested and the extent of damage to my esophagus, respiratory tract, and internal organs. The physicians gave me a sedative and conducted a thorough investigation.

The good news was that my internal organs did not appear to have suffered any harm. The bad news was that the chemical had adversely affected my respiratory tract. Though unconscious, my breathing became more and more labored.

The medical team delivered their verdict to my parents. They had done all they could to save my life. “It’s in God’s hands now,” they told my parents. There was little chance I would survive more than a few hours. By 2 a.m., I would most likely be dead.

My mother sank into my father’s arms, as she struggled to remain standing. Tears rolled down Dad’s cheeks, as he felt hope slowly slip away.

Mom’s sisters gathered around her in shock. Only a few hours ago, they had watched me play, walk, talk… a picture of life and promise. They wondered if the Toy lying on the hospital bed, barely alive, was really their niece. What could they do or say to console their sister? As women who had faith in God, they spoke words of comfort to my mom and encouraged her to pray. Prayer was integral to their life. Kneeling by my hospital bed, they pounded on Heaven’s doors for hours, pleading for a miracle.

2 a.m. came around. I was still breathing.

“Could this be true? How could this child still be alive?” The nurses and the doctors who came to check on me were perplexed. They checked my vitals to confirm that their little patient had made it. My breathing had improved.

Dad, Mom, friends, and relatives embraced one another as they saw hope return. God had heard them and answered their prayers.

Recovery from my injuries took a while. For the next several months, I ate only soft foods. It took a few more years before I could eat like a normal child.

Even now, I cannot swallow large pills and use a pill crusher to powder my medicine. I also chew my food carefully and sometimes, surreptitiously nudge my throat with my hand to get stubborn food moving.

While the memory of the accident has escaped my mind, the knowledge of the fact that God preserved my life has always stayed with me. In tough times, I’m encouraged to look back at God’s faithfulness and rely on Him to help me press on. Not a birthday goes by when I’m not reminded of the fact that I’m alive for a reason and I’m encouraged to live a purposeful life that glorifies God and blesses others.

The post Stories Between Friends – Mabel Ninan appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

What the Brook Knew

Joanna Kenyon and I got to be friends while playing hooky from a session at the Inspire Christian Writers Conference at Mount Hermon earlier this year (now with a new name). Fancy coffee drinks, conversation, and tears offered the antidote for overwhelm and gave us the reboot our souls needed to enjoy the rest of that wonderful conference, now richer for the new friendship we were given.

Joanna is a gentle and whimsical storyteller as well as an accomplished musician and composer. The delightful tale, “What the Brook Knew,” has been removed from this post for the happy reason that it has been included in a story collection now available for purchase (my pre-ordered copy arrived today!).

The Quest of Emily Morrow and other tales — Currently free on Kindle Unlimited (as of 11/03/25)

The Quest of Emily Morrow and other tales — Paperback (for people like me who love to hold a good book and turn paper pages) from Amazon

You can find more from Joanna by clicking “here.”

The post Stories Between Friends – Joanna Kenyon appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.

Please find a quiet corner and treat yourself to this delightful and surprising tale. You can thank me later : )

***

GULLYWASHER

Some of my favorite lunches were had with a little lady in her ’80s. This sweet saint, we’ll call her Miss Myrtle, came to the church every Thursday morning to do some light cleaning and water the plants.

No plants were ever more lovingly cared for. After worship on Sundays, Myrtle would carry the plants from their place on the altar or the foyer or from off the sill in front of the baptistry, down to the counter in the church kitchen. She did this because the kitchen windows were the only ones in the building that weren’t stained glass, and Myrtle wanted her lilies, mums, and marigolds to enjoy full sun during the week. On the shelf in the janitor’s closet were six old Coca-Cola bottles filled with tap water that she used for the watering. When he asked her why she didn’t come just use a cup from the sink, she said, “Oh, I’d love to give ‘em all rainwater, but if it’s got to be out of the tap, it’s best that the water sit out for more than twenty-four hours. That gives time for the getting out of the bad stuff.”

My office was just down the hall from the little classroom where Myrtle liked to eat her lunch on those Thursdays. Whenever I heard her go in and sit down, I’d grab my granola bar, cold cut sandwich, and apple to join her. We usually didn’t talk about a whole lot. We talked about the weather, things going on in the city, and how the Braves were doing (she loved the old Atlanta skipper, Bobby Cox). I’d ask her about her family. She’d tell me about her life growing up in the low country of South Carolina and what it was like when she and her late husband moved to Augusta, Georgia after the war. But her bag of Lay’s potato chips and little bottle of Ensure didn’t last very long, and she’d be back about her business.

But one day, when the conversation turned to matters of her faith and relationship with God, she shared something that has blessed me for years. We were talking about knowing God as a friend and having our faith be personal when she sat back, put her hands in her lap, lowered her head, lifted her eyes and said, “Pastor, I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told another soul in my entire life. Then with a sweet little smile, she declared, “God and I have been very close ever since the afternoon of my wedding day.”

She proceeded to wistfully reminisce about a wonderful answered prayer from many years ago. Myrtle and her husband were married in her home church in Smoaks, South Carolina. She recalled to me that it was a lovely summer wedding with a large reception held on the grounds following the ceremony. By mid-afternoon, it was time for the newlyweds to leave for their new home and her husband’s hometown of Bamberg, some 20 miles away. They didn’t have a car and would be making the trip by horse and buggy.

Myrtle got kind of bashful when she remembered how funny it felt, once they clip-clopped out of sight from everyone at the church, to be alone with a man. She loved Richard, of course, but she’d only just kissed him for the first time in front of the minister and hundreds of her family and friends. She told me that the ride to Bamberg was pretty uncomfortable. She hadn’t changed but was still wearing her wedding dress. The dirt road was awfully rutted and bumpy and after a while she was in great need of a bathroom. She’d had a lot of punch!

She told me she really didn’t know how to tell her new husband that she needed to relieve herself, and she was embarrassed to think what that might look like anyway in her big white dress out in the backwoods. She tried and tried to hold it, but Bamberg didn’t come soon enough and, with her 82-year-old cheeks cherry red, Myrtle told me that she wet herself.

“Pastor, I was as mortified as I could be. As hard as it would have been to tell Richard that I had to go to the bathroom, it was going to be doubly hard explaining that I’d gone in his buggy. It was the most awful thing.” But then came the miracle.

“In my humiliation,” Myrtle continued, all I knew to do was pray. I said, ‘Lord, I’m in an awful fix here. I’m begging you, please, to send a thunderstorm. A big gullywasher to wash the whole thing clean.’”

At this, Myrtle lifted her head, grinning ear to ear, and told me that not ten minutes later one of those late-day pop-up thunderstorms so common on hazy, hot southern summer days, came on so fast that the team of horses couldn’t get the newlyweds to shelter before they were both drenched to the bone. Myrtle said that she just laughed and laughed until she almost cried. “God gave me a pretty good wink that day, and we’ve shared a lifetime of looks ever since.”

Just as every house is built by first laying a foundation, every relationship with God is built by times when we cried out to Him and He responded to us in some way. We all have stories similar to Myrtle’s, and, while some of them may seem strange or difficult to explain, the warmth of friendship they engender is priceless. We do well to think back today to some of those times in our early walk with the Lord and to ask ourselves if we’ve been doing much building on them. God loves sharing memories with us and is always ready to be a part of our history. Nothing beats a Father’s wink.

***

Want more?

John continues to share new stories every Saturday with his circle of family and friends. Just write to John at johnisaactate@gmail.com and ask to be added to his list.

You can also read Swimming Trunks (another story from the book) here on Emmanuel Church’s website.

You can also buy the book on Amazon by clicking on the highlighted title in the blurb below.

Written during a season of separation, What We Knew in the Light is a collection of encouraging stories told to a beleaguered church by a loving shepherd. Drawn from personal experiences gained from a lifetime spent in fellowships of believers, Pastor Tate’s colorful, poignant, and often humorous tales seek to remind folks of the blessings of brighter days as they pass through dark valleys. Each tale is told with a simple, yet powerful application for living and is presented with pastoral care and compassion. Wherever you are in your pilgrimage, What We Knew in the Light is sure to be an encouragement.

Happy reading, my friends! And, as always, I love to know your thoughts and stories. Please don’t hesitate to comment here or drop me a line.

The post Stories Between Friends – John Tate appeared first on Jody Evans, Author.