Faimly Stories
Mabel Shoemaker
The old woman sat down on the bench to rest. She had had a tiring day, and it was too much for a poor starving homeless old lady with only one bag of belongings-a tattered blanket, a torn picture, a few cents, and a small pillow. Oh, how she cherished that bag. She held it very close to her wherever she went, and when she stopped, she’d clutch it tightly to her chest so no one could take it away from her. Her mother had given her that bag when she was seven years old. It was only a small carpet-bag with stains on it, but she loved it. It was something she could remember her poor hard-working mother for.
They had lived in poverty and discomfort. It was only the Mabel and her mother. Her father had died of the Fever, and her mother was diligent and didn’t complain with what work she had to do. Her daughter helped her out as much as she could, but she was small and fragile. Every now and then the Shoemaker family would find a nickel or a dime out in the road to buy a little sugar or some spices and meat, which was a real treat.
They lived in a little yellow house at the very edge of the village, so small that no one really noticed it. It had a little stove and oven, for the kitchen side, and a living area, where two small mattresses lay. Her mother worked in a bakery, and her pay was two dollars each day, plus four rolls of bread to take home for dinner. Mabel couldn’t go to school, because they didn’t have enough money.
The old lady sat on the park bench, remembering the day she got the bag. On her seventh birthday, her mother gave it to her.
“It ain’t much, Mabel, but I want you to have it.” her mother said, with a smile.“Oh, Mam! I love it, I do! I’ll take it ‘vreware I go, I will!” Mabel opened up the little bag and squealed with delight. Her mother had placed a shiny copper penny inside the bag. It was the shiniest penny she had ever seen, and it was hers.
“You are to buy anything you want with it, dear,” her mother said softly. Mabel jumped up and hugged and kissed Mam until she couldn’t kiss her anymore. She got up and sat down again, with the small piece of money still in her little palm.
“No, Mam. I’m goin’ te put it somewhere. I’ll put it in the bank, that’s it! By the time I’m twenny, I’ll have so much money I could buy you a brand-new automable!”
“It ain’t automable, dear, it’s automobile. And I don’t think it would grow that much, my love.”
“Oh, posh! It’ll grow, won’t it? And ‘sides, I’ll get it out soon enough. I will put it in the bank and see it grow, I will. Won’t you go with me Mam?”
“Alright dear. We’ll go to the bank, we will. If that’s whatcha wanta do with your new money, then let it be.”
The Shoemakers left to give her penny to the bank to let it grow. While Mabel grew up, she watched her birthday penny expand. Her mother got old and died. Her seventh-birthday penny was now six dollars. She decided to get it out and work. She worked in the bakery like her mother. She shined shoes, sold flowers, and even worked at a store. But they told her she was too poor sooner or later, and she found another job, then another. This is what happened until she was 39 years old. Then the government said to tear down the little yellow house because it looked ugly in the quaint village. Miss Shoemaker pleaded and begged, but they wouldn’t let her have her mother’s home. Before they tore it down, Mabel got what little possessions she had and put them into her carpetbag-a quilt that she and her mother made together, a picture of her Mam, some bread, and a small pillow. She knew that she wouldn’t be living anywhere for a while. It turned out she was right.
Mabel Shoemaker was now forty-five and had no home or place to live. Her nine dollars that used to be one penny soon diminished, and here Mabel Shoemaker was, sitting on the park bench with only ten cents of it left, and nothing to look forward to. She hadn’t any relatives, few possessions, and no home, but she had memories, and that’s what she held on to for the rest of her hard life.
AMY CARMICHAEL
Faithful Servant of God
Amy Carmichael was a woman who mothered hundreds of Indian children and old each of them about Christ. She never married, or had any children of her own, but she called these children hers. She loved all the children so much that she gave her life for all of them.
When Amy was a girl, she had three younger brothers, and three younger sisters. One day, when she was out on a stroll with one of her brothers, they saw a homeless woman called a ‘shawlie,’ because of the shawls that she wore around her neck. She was having so much trouble with her bag that she was about to have a bone-shattering fall! Amy and her brother didn’t know what to do because ‘shawlies’ were looked down on. Nobody cared about them because they were poor and homeless. Quickly Amy and her brother ran to help the lady. Suddenly, someone spoke to her. “GO YE” he said. She turned around. It was as if someone really spoke to her, yet no one was there! God had sent these words to her, she knew. So, that night, as she read her Bible, she read this verse- 1 Corinthians 3:12-14-Gold, Silver, precious stones, wood, hay, stubble- every man’s work shall be made manifest for the day shall declare it because it shall be declared by fire; and the fire shall try even man’s work of what sort it is. If any man’s work abide.”
Amy knew God was calling her to be a missionary. So, in her early 20’s, she applied to the China Inland Mission. But her skin was too frail, so they said, and they rejected her application. But she didn’t give up! She knew God wanted her somewhere else. She served as a missionary in India. For the rest of her life, Amy rescued tiny children being forced into slavery in India. She founded a village and named it Donauver Fellowship, a safe place where hundreds of boys and girls could live.
One child’s name was Preena. She was a slave for the gods at the temple, a small girl of only 7 or 8. Her father made her a slave, but she didn’t like it at all. When she heard she was to be married to one of the gods, she ran away. There was a white woman who knew Jesus. Preena wanted to meet her. The villagers knew she ran away and were going after her. When Preena saw the White Lady, she ran into her arms. “I don’t want to be a slave! I want to know…Jesus.” She cried. One temple woman said they paid 50 rupees for her, and that they wanted her back. Amy said “The child has claimed my help in the name of my Lord Jesus Christ. I will repay your fifty rupees, but this girl you may not have.” Amy Carmichael paid the 50 rupees back, and told Preena about Jesus.
Miss Carmichael’s mission was: In all that she did, to serve the Lord. And she fulfilled that promise! When she was older, in her 60’s, she fell and broke her leg. Her spine was also injured, which made her confined to bed for the rest of her life. But, that didn’t keep her from stopping serving the Lord! Amy wrote thirteen books during these twenty years of her confinement, including the booklet ‘IF’, and her autobiography ‘God’s Missionary’. Not counting the thirteen, she also updated books written by her in previous years.
Amy died a the age of 84 on January 18, 1951. The much-loved children who she cared for buried her near where other children in Donauver Fellowship were buried. Although she told the children before not to mark her grave, they placed a birdbath over it with a carving of only two words ‘Our Amma’.
“One can give without loving, but one cannot love without giving,” Amy advised. Amy loved her children so much- and gave them everything she had. Miss Carmichael never married, or had any children of her own, but she called the children she cared for her own- and treated them as her own.
Amy Carmichael’s special kind of love saved hundreds of children from slavery. She mothered them all and told them about her Lord Jesus. Amy’s life is a wonderful example of unconditional love and self sacrifice.
HE IS RISEN!
“Father!” I yelled, running home from my friend’s house. “Something’s going on outside. There’s a big crowd and everyone’s yelling.”
“Indeed, something is going on, Tabitha,” Father answered, looking out the window.
“Let’s go see what’s happening, Father, you and me,” I pleaded, taking his hand and pulling him away from the chair.
My father squeezed my hand. “No, Tabitha. I don’t want you to go out any more today, you’re still weak from your sickness.”
“I’m not weak anymore, Father! Jesus healed me!”
“Yes, I suppose you could go out and keep me company for a little while.” I squealed and hugged him. “Thank you, Father! I love you!” He smiled as we walked out of our small house together. We walked along the dusty road, and I looked at him. He seemed to be thinking about what had happened in the past year. A tear trickled down his cheek as he remembered how he had asked the Messiah, called Jesus, if He could save me, a girl who was helplessly sick. Jesus was coming to heal me when one of Father’s servants caught up with him. “Don’t disturb Jesus, sir, your daughter is dead.” Father hid his face in his hands. However, Jesus insisted on coming to Father’s house. When He got there, I was lying on the ground, lifeless. Mother and the servants were crying bitterly. Jesus told them to stop, that I was merely sleeping. They didn’t believe Him, of course. I really was dead! I remember when I woke up, a man was smiling at me.
Sometimes, Father looks at me and smiles. Other times he hugs me and cries. I took his hand. Then we walked down the dirt path towards the protesting crowd.
When we got there, I heard people crying, “Sacrifice Him” and “Kill Him on a cross!” We edged to the front of the crowd. The angry crowd was yelling at Jesus, the One who had brought me back to life, the One who had saved physical and spiritual sicknesses alike. Jesus would be killed?
“Father! Do something! Don’t let them kill Jesus!” I cried out.
“There’s nothing I can do, Tabitha.”
“But He can‘t die!”
“Maybe Jesus did something wrong, sweetheart.”
“The Messiah can’t do anything wrong, Father! Please try to help!” Father was thinking.
“The only thing we can do is pray. Let’s ask God to help Jesus.”
“Yes, Father,” I said. We both came home. We prayed hard. , but it didn’t seem to help. Father went to see what happened, and he said that they had killed Jesus on a cross. I cried myself to sleep that night.
The next day I just moped around. I didn't laugh, talk, or play. I’d lay around in our bedroom and cry - feeling sorry for my Hero. It didn't seem like He could do something wrong-why did they kill Him?
"Tabitha, I know you're sad that Jesus is not alive. But get on with your life! You can do things that Jesus did-don't be so unhappy that you can't do anything! Look at it a different way," Mother said. I knew she was right.
The day after, I decided to do what Mother said. I may not be able to do miracles, but I can encourage others.
I walked out of the house, smiling, the first time I had done that in three days. There was a boy in the street. He was crying. I asked him what was wrong. He said, "My family is hungry. I cannot pay for food." I told him to wait. I ran back into the house, telling Mother that I was taking some fruit and bread for a poor boy. Running out, I gave him the food. He ran home, very grateful.
I kept walking and I saw a woman. She, also, was weeping. ‘Woman, what’s wrong?” I asked, walking up to her. “My Son died three days ago,” she explained. I knew what sorrow she was going through - I had gone through that misery when Jesus had died. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” I asked. “Yes. Please go and tell Jesus’ disciples that Mary has gone to put perfume on Jesus’ body,” the woman answered.
“Okay, where do they live?”
“At John’s house. Go on,” she told me. I followed the woman’s directions, and finally got there.
“Is this the house of John?” I asked. There were 11 people inside.
“Yes,” someone answered.
“A woman named Mary has gone to fragrance Jesus’ body, she said to tell you,” I said.
“Thank you,” said the man who had spoken before. “I’m John. We are all Jesus’ Disciples. I opened my eyes wide. These people were Jesus’ followers!
“Y-you’re welcome,” I stammered. I turned towards the doorway and walked out.
On my way home, I saw what looked like a bundle of clothes tumbling down a hill. As it came closer, I found out it was a woman, running. “He’s alive!” she was saying. I noticed it was the same woman I had talked to before. “My son’s alive!”
“It can’t be,” I thought. “That lady must be out of her mind!” But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed real. If Jesus was able to bring me back to life, couldn’t He bring Himself back to life too? I ran back and up the hill where I had seen the people carrying Jesus’ body. As I kept walking, I saw a tomb. A huge stone was on its side, leaning against the wall. The tomb was completely empty when I went in. A chill ran up my spine. Jesus wasn’t there! That didn’t mean Jesus was alive though. His body could have been moved. I walked out of the tomb. Then I saw someone climbing the hill. It was a man with a beard. He walking with sandals on and He had scars on His hands. Wait-was this Jesus?
It was! I saw His face! When I was sure it was Him, I ran home to tell my parents. At first, they didn’t believe me, but later they saw Him too. It was the first Easter there ever was, and of all the other ones I’ve had in my life, the first was definitely the best!
