Heartwarming Stories

Jesus is Lord

Heartwarming Stories

Most of the stories presented here have come to me by way of e-mail from friends and readers. Therefore, I am not in a position to speak with certainty about their authenticity. My decision to include them here is based on the fact that I believe that they will touch you in a special way like they did with me when I first read them. Enjoy!!!

Also, don't forget to check out my Table of Contents for my real experiences and observations in my walk with the Lord.

[For best results, view these pages using Internet Explorer.]

December 3, 2008

For Milo

It was 8:00 AM on a cold September morning at our home in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada.

My wife had just opened our front door to pick up her daily newspaper that was lying on the porch, when I heard a very loud bird scream followed by her concerned cry "Milo, Milo".

Immediately, I rushed to her side to find out that our young sun conure bird had flown away over our garage and across the cul-de-sac to another neighbor's back yard. Still dressed in our pajamas, we ran towards the direction where we thought he might be, yelling out his name: Milo [pronounced Meelo ].

In a matter of a few minutes the bird cries had ceased and our efforts to find him were marked by extreme desperation and panic. We went back to the house, put on some warm clothes and continued our frantic search as we begged God to help us find him.

Milo had joined our family about a year ago when our daughter had moved back home for awhile. He was Joanna's bird that eventually became our bird also. When she moved out again, my wife and I became heart-broken and missed him terribly. He was gone only for about three days before our daughter who sensed our love for him agreed to let us keep him with the understanding that he would still be her bird.

Up until Milo came into our life, we did not have any pets besides the occasional gold fish, even though the kids were always pushing us to get some. I was allergic to most cats and dogs plus I knew that our kids, like most children, would not take care of their pets as well as they ought to once the novelty of having them would wear out.

Joanna was elated to discover that finally she had a pet that I would not be allergic to and that I would actually enjoy having around. Not only myself but Teresa, also, were love struck and really taken by this little creature. In a very short time, Milo became a full fledged member of our family and taught us the meaning of unconditional love better than any book or most humans we had met over the years.

I remember spending many hours with him in our back yard or on our deck enjoying the summer sun with him perched on my shoulder or walking up and down on the deck rails. So, from our perspective, Teresa, my wife, was not doing anything different than she had done before plenty of times: picking up the newspaper from the porch with Milo on her shoulder.

Something had startled Milo that eventful morning to the point that he had flown into an uncharted territory away from his home and the people he loved. After searching for over an hour and a half, we were unable to locate him and came back home devastated and empty handed. Even, my search in other possible locations with my car had not produced any results. If anything, I felt certain that some magpie or crow would have eaten him by now or he may have frozen to death with the temperatures so close to the freezing mark. [Sun conures are tropical birds and are very susceptible to colds and low temperatures which can result in fatal bronchial ailments for them.]

As we were pondering our next step of telling the bad news to our daughter amidst the "Please Lord", "Why Lord did he have to fly away?", "Thank you Lord for the time you let us have him", "But why now...we miss him so much", the thought to call a radio station and tell them about a missing bird crossed my mind. But, then, my wife came up with the idea that maybe we should put up a sign about a missing sun conure on the corner mail box. Right away, I found a nice color picture of Milo on our computer and printed it out for Teresa to make up the sign. While she was writing out the info, something told me in my mind to print additional copies for some more mailboxes that were further down the main boulevard.

We were placing up the last sign on the mailbox about five streets down from our home when Teresa asked me if I had been down that road before. I told her that I had and that there was no Milo to be found. She insisted that we look one more time and said: "Milo knows my voice, open the car windows and drive and I will call out for him, he knows my voice...he knows my voice".

Before we reached the end of the cul-de-sac, she asked me to stop and she started calling out his name: "Milo, Milo..." and to my surprise I heard him answering her back in his familiar sweet voice.

We could not believe our eyes when we saw him perched on the rail of a front porch across the street. I watched in anticipation of the moment when he would finally be safe in her arms as she gently proceeded to cover him with her sweater.

A young girl came out to meet us and tell us that he had been out there for a long time but she was afraid to go out to get him because she had a big dog who was barking at him and she was also terrified of birds in general. Apparently, she had called her boyfriend who was contemplating to leave work and come over to catch him knowing that this was obviously a special bird and somebody's dear pet.

We had just finished thanking the young girl for her concern when I was overwhelmed by great emotion. Right there and then, in the middle of the street, I almost collapsed and full of tears I turned towards heaven and loudly thanked Jesus for helping us find him.

I was shaking uncontrollably, crying and thanking God for saving his life as we made the joyful short trip back home. I remember asking my wife for some private time of prayer as I proceeded to a room downstairs for a talk with our Lord.

I cried many tears that morning. But these were tears of joy not only for Milo's deliverance but for mine also. You see, it was not that long ago when I was lost. However, the good shepherd knew that I would know His voice when He searched in the wilderness to find me. Milo and I were lost and then found because our Lord and master did not give up on us and found us.

The more I spend time with Milo the more I realize how special he is. As I rub the back of his neck very gently, I remind him and myself that he was created just for me. I believe that God wanted to teach me the meaning of unconditional love and that is why he brought Milo into my life.

Milo has brought our family a special appreciation for God's creation and a unique understanding for all loving relationships between pets and their owners. And, as I look at other pets, I can't help but think of Milo. I see the love in their eyes which reminds me of him. I see their dependence on us their masters and I long to feel that same need for our Lord.

Teach me oh Lord to be dependent on you always and if I ever lose my way, please do not give up on me and call out my name for I will know your voice and I will answer the call.

John Costouros

The smell of rain

[Some pictures in this article do not display properly in browsers other than IE.]

A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. She was still groggy from surgery.

Her husband, David, held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver the couple's new daughter, Dana Lu Blessing.

At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature.

Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs.

"I don't think she's going to make it," he said, as kindly as he could.

"There's only a 10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one."

Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived.

She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on.

"No! No!" was all Diana could say.

She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four.

Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away

But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Dana's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially "raw", the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love.

All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.

There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger.

But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there.

At last, when Dana turned two months old her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time.

And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.

Five years later, Dana was a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life.

She showed no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl can be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.

One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Dana was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing.

As always, Dana was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, little Dana asked, "Do you smell that?"

Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain."

Dana closed her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that?"

Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."

Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced,
"No, it smells like Him.

It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."

Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana happily hopped down to play with the other children.

Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.

During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.

"I can do all things in Him who strengthens me."

BE PROUD OF YOUR SCARS

Some years ago, on a hot summer day in south Florida, a little boy
decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole that was behind his
house. In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out the back
door, leaving behind shoes, socks, and shirt as he went. He flew into
the water, not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the
lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore.

In the house, his mother was looking out the window. She saw the two as they got closer and closer together. In utter fear, she ran toward the water, yelling to her son as loudly as she could. Hearing her
voice, the little boy became alarmed, and made a U-turn to swim to his mother. It was too late. Just as he reached her, the alligator reached him. From the dock, the mother grabbed her little boy by the arms, just as the alligator snatched his legs. That began a very incredible tug-of-war between the two. The alligator was much stronger than the mother, but the mother was much too passionate to let go.......A farmer happened to drive by, heard her screams, raced from his truck, took aim, and shot the alligator. Remarkably, after weeks and weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived. His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the animal. On his arms, there were deep scratches where his mother's fingernails dug into his flesh, in her effort to hang on to the son she loved.

The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma asked the boy if he would show him his scars. The boy lifted his pant legs. Then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, "But look at my arms. I have great scars on my arms, too. I have them because my Mom wouldn't let go."

You and I can identify with that little boy. We have scars, too. No, not from an alligator, but the scars of a painful past. Some of those scars are unsightly, and have caused us deep regret. But, some wounds, my friend, are because God has refused to let go. In the midst of your struggle, He's been right there, holding on to you.

The Scripture teaches that God loves you. You are a child of God. He wants to protect you, and provide for you in every way. But, sometimes, we foolishly wade into dangerous situations, not knowing what lies ahead. The swimming hole of life is filled with peril and we forget that the enemy is waiting to attack. That is when the tug-of-war begins. If you have the scars of His love on your arms, be very, very grateful. He will not ever let you go.

Never judge another person's scars, because you don't know how they got them.

A candle is not dimmed by lighting another.

BEAUTIFUL PENCIL DRAWINGS

A friend of a friend sent these drawings to me and I love them as much as they did.

Christ laughing and grinning..... a concept rarely seen before.

It is these images of Christ that touch my heart as I ponder about the future of a loved one who was just like the little boy in the drawings below.

As he is going through some growing pains and he is facing a crossroad of adult choices, my thoughts and prayers are focusing on him once again.

I look at the images of Christ and draw power and hope. Power...because I know that Christ is in control. Hope...because our God is compassionate and wants the best for His children.

To him , I say, have courage and faith! No matter what troubles may come your way, do not forget that your greatest enemy, Satan, is a defeated foe! Your God and Savior Jesus settled that issue two thousand years ago on the cross. Jesus will never leave you nor forsake you!

Who packed your parachute today?

Charles Plumb was a U.S. Navy jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat
missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb
ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent 6 years
in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now lectures
on lessons learned from that experience.

One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at
another table came up and said, "You're Plumb! You flew jet fighters in
Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down!"

"How in the world did you know that?" asked Plumb.

"I packed your parachute," the man replied. Plumb gasped in surprise and
gratitude.

The man pumped his hand and said, "I guess it worked!"

Plumb assured him, "It sure did. If your chute hadn't worked, I wouldn't be
here today."

Plumb couldn't sleep that night, thinking about that man. Plumb says, "I
kept wondering what he might have looked like in a Navy uniform: a white
hat, a bib in the back, and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I
might have seen him and not even said 'Good morning, how are you?' or
anything because, you see, I was a fighter pilot and he was just a sailor."

Plumb thought of the many hours the sailor had spent on a long wooden table
in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the
silks of each chute, holding in his hands each time the fate of someone he
didn't know.

Now, Plumb asks his audience, "Who's packing your parachute?" Everyone has
someone who provides what they need to make it through the day. Plumb also
points out that he needed many kinds of parachutes when his plane was shot
down over enemy territory-he needed his physical parachute, his mental
parachute, his emotional parachute, and his spiritual parachute. He called
on all these supports before reaching safety.

Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us, we miss what is
really important. We may fail to say hello, please, or thank you,
congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened to them, give
a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason.

As you go through this week, this month, this year, recognize people who
pack your parachute. I am sending you this as my way of thanking you for
your part in packing my parachute!! And I hope you will send it on to those
who have helped pack yours!

Sometimes, we wonder why friends keep forwarding jokes to us without
writing a word, maybe this could explain: When you are very busy, but still
want to keep in touch, guess what you do ---you forward jokes. And to let
you know that you are still remembered, you are still important, you are
still loved, you are still cared for, guess what you get ? --- A forwarded
joke.

So my friend, next time if you get a joke, don't think that you've been
sent just another forwarded joke, but that you've been thought of today and
your friend on the other end of your computer wanted to send you a smile.

{ My many thanks to Eduardo, my Mexican friend, for e-mailing me the above story}

Scripture Moment

For Kyle

One day when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class walking home from school. His name was Kyle. It looked as if he was carrying all of his books. I thought to myself, "why would anyone bring home all his books on a Friday? He must really be a nerd."

I had quite a weekend planned (parties and a football game with my friends tomorrow afternoon), so I shrugged my shoulders and went on. As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him. They ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt. His glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him.

He looked up and I saw this terrible sadness in his eyes. My heart went out to him, so I jogged over to him and as he crawled around looking for his glasses, I saw a tear in his eye. As I handed him his glasses, I said, "Those guys are jerks. They really should get lives."

He looked at me and said, "Hey, thanks!" There was a big smile on his face. It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude. I helped him pick up his books, and asked him where he lived.

As it turned out, he lived near me, so I asked him why I had never seen him before. He said he had gone to a private school up until now. I would have never hung out with a private school kid before. We talked all the way home, and I carried his books. He turned out to be a pretty cool kid. I asked him if he wanted to play football on Saturday with me and my friends. He said yes.

We hung out all weekend and the more I got to know Kyle, the more I liked him, and my friends thought the same of him. Monday morning came, and there was Kyle with the huge stack of books again. I stopped him and said "Damn boy, you are really gonna build some serious muscles with this pile of books everyday!" He just laughed and handed me half the books.

Over the next four years, Kyle and I became best friends. When we were seniors, we began thinking about colleges. Kyle decided on Georgetown, and I was going to Duke. I knew that we would always be friends, that the miles would never be a problem. He was going to be a doctor, and I was going for business on a football scholarship.

Kyle was valedictorian of our class. I teased him all the time about being a nerd. He had to prepare a speech for graduation. I was so glad it wasn't me having to get up there and speak.

On graduation day, I saw Kyle. He looked great. He was one of those guys that really found himself during high school. He had filled out and actually looked good in glasses! He had more dates than me and all the girls loved him! Boy, sometimes, I was jealous! Today was one of those days.

I could see that he was nervous about his speech, so I walked up to him and smacked him on the back and said, "Hey big guy, you'll be great!" He looked at me with one of those looks (the really grateful one) and smiled and said "thanks".

As he started his speech, he cleared his throat, and began.

"Graduation is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings, maybe a coach......but most of all, your friends. I am here to tell all of you that being a friend to someone is the best gift you can give them ...... I'm going to tell you a story."

I just looked at my friend with disbelief as he told the story of the first day we met.

He had planned to kill himself over the weekend.

He talked of how he had cleaned out his locker so his Mom wouldn't have to do it later, and was carrying his stuff home. He looked hard at me and gave me a little smile. "Thankfully, I was saved. My friend saved me from doing the unspeakable."

I heard the gasp go through the crowd as this handsome, popular boy told us all about his weakest moment. I saw his mom and dad looking at me and smiling that same grateful smile.

Not until THAT moment, did I realize its depth.

Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture, you can change a person's life without even knowing it, for better or worse.

God puts us all in each other's lives to impact one another in some way. Let's pray and hope that our impact is a positive one!

The Birdcage

There once was a man named George Thomas, a pastor in a small New England town. One Easter Sunday morning he came to church carrying a rusty, bent, old bird cage, and set it by the pulpit. Several eyebrows were raised and, as if in response, Pastor Thomas began to speak.

"I was walking through town yesterday when I saw a young boy coming toward me swinging this bird cage. On the bottom of the cage were three little wild birds, shivering with cold and fright. I stopped the lad and asked, "What you got there son?"

"Just some old birds," came the reply.

"What are you gonna do with them?" I asked.

"Take 'em home and have fun with 'em," he answered. I'm gonna
tease 'em and pull out their feathers to make 'em fight. I'm gonna have a real good time."

"But you'll get tired of those birds sooner or later. What will
you do then?"

"Oh, I got some cats," said the little boy. "They like birds. I'll take 'em to them."

The pastor was silent for a moment. "How much do you want for
those birds, son?"

"Huh??!!! Why, you don't want them birds, mister. They're just
plain old field birds. They don't sing -- they ain't even pretty!"

"How much?" the pastor asked again.

The boy sized up the pastor as if he were crazy and said, "$10?" The pastor reached in his pocket and took out a ten dollar bill. He placed it in the boy's hand. In a flash, the boy was gone.

The pastor picked up the cage and gently carried it to the end of the alley where there was a tree and a grassy spot. Setting the cage down, he opened the door, and by softly tapping the bars persuaded the birds out, setting them free.

Well, that explained the empty bird cage on the pulpit, and then the pastor began to tell this story.
One day Satan and Jesus were having a conversation. Satan had just come from the Garden of Eden, and he was gloating and boasting.

"Yes, sir, I just caught the world full of people down there. Set me a trap, used bait I knew they couldn't resist. Got 'em all!"

"What are you going to do with them?" Jesus asked.

Satan replied, "Oh, I'm gonna have fun! I'm gonna teach them how to marry and divorce each other, how to hate and abuse each other, how to drink and smoke and curse. I'm gonna teach them how to invent guns and bombs and kill each other. I'm really gonna have fun!"

"And what will you do when you get done with them?" Jesus asked.

"Oh, I'll kill 'em," Satan glared proudly.

"How much do you want for them?" Jesus asked.

"Oh, you don't want those people. They ain't no good. Why, you'll take them and they'll just hate you. They'll spit on you, curse you and kill you!! You don't want those people!!"

"How much?" He asked again.

Satan looked at Jesus and sneered, "All your tears, and all your blood."

Jesus said, "DONE!" Then He paid the price.

The pastor picked up the cage, he opened the door and he walked
from the pulpit.

Death of a Guru: The Story of Rabi Maharaj

No matter how fulfilling life becomes, there are always certain regrets
when one looks back. My deepest sense of loss involves my father. So much
has happened since his death. I often wonder what it would be like to
share it all with him, and what his reaction would be.

We never shared anything in our lives. Because of vows he had taken
before I was born, not once did he ever speak to me or pay me the
slightest heed. Just two words from him would have made me unspeakably
happy. How I wanted to hear him say, "Rabi. Son." Just once. But he never
did.

For eight long years he uttered not a word. The trancelike condition he
had achieved is called in the East a state of higher consciousness and can
be attained only through deep meditation.

"Why is Father that way?" I would ask my mother, still too young to
understand. "He is someone very special -- the greatest man you could have
for a father," she would reply. "He is seeking the true Self that lies
within us all, the One Being, of which there is no other. And that's what
you are too, Rabi."

Father had set an example, achieved wide acclaim, and earned the
worship of many, and it was inevitable that upon his death his mantle
would fall upon me. I had never imagined, however, that I would still be
so young when this fateful day arrived.

When father died I felt I had lost everything. Though I had scarcely
known him as my father, he had been my inspiration -- a god -- and now he
was dead.

At his funeral, my father's stiff body was placed on a great pile of
firewood. The thought of his body being sacrificed to Agni, the god of
fire, added a new dimension of mystery to the bewilderment and deep sense
of loss that already overwhelmed me.

As the flames engulfed him, it was impossible to suppress the anguish I
felt. "Mommy!" I screamed. "Mommy!" If she heard me above the roar of
sparks and fire, she made no indication. A true Hindu, she found strength
to follow the teaching of Krishna: she would mourn neither the living nor
the dead. Not once did she cry as the flames consumed my father.

After my father's funeral, I became a favorite subject for the
palm-readers and astrologers who frequented our house. Our family would
hardly make an important decision without consulting an astrologer, so it
was vital that my future be confirmed in the same way. It was encouraging
to learn that the lines on my palms and the planets and stars, according
to those who interpreted them, all agreed I would become a great Hindu
leader. I was obviously a chosen vessel, destined for early success in the
search for union with Brahman (the One). The forces that had guided my
father were now guiding me.

I was only eleven and already many people were bowing before me, laying
gifts of money, cotton cloth, and other treasures at my feet and hanging
garlands of flowers around my neck at religious ceremonies.

How I loved religious ceremonies -- especially private ones in our own
home or those of others, where friends and relatives would crowd in. There
I would be the center of attention, admired by all. I loved to move
through the audience, sprinkling holy water on worshipers or marking
foreheads with the sacred white sandalwood paste. I also loved how the
worshipers, after the ceremony, bowed low before me to leave their
offerings at my feet.

While vacationing at an Aunt's ranch, I had my first real encounter
with Jesus. I was walking along enjoying nature one day and was startled
by a rustling sound in the underbrush behind me. I turned quickly and, to
my horror, saw a large snake coming directly toward me -- its beady eyes
staring intently into mine. I felt paralyzed, wanting desperately to run
but unable to move.

In that moment of frozen terror, out of the past came my mother's
voice, repeating words I had long forgotten: "Rabi, if ever you're in real
danger and nothing else seems to work, there's another god you can pray
to. His name is Jesus."

"Jesus! Help me!" I tried to yell, but the desperate cry was choked and
hardly audible.

To my astonishment, the snake turned around and quickly wriggled off
into the underbrush. Breathless and still trembling, I was filled with
wondering gratitude to this amazing god, Jesus. Why had my mother not
taught me more about him?

During my third year in high school I experienced an increasingly deep
inner conflict. My growing awareness of God as the Creator, separate and
distinct from the universe He had made, contradicted the Hindu concept
that god was everything, that the Creator and the Creation were one and
the same. If there was only One Reality, then Brahman was evil as well as
good, death as well as life, hatred as well as love. That made everything
meaningless, life an absurdity. It was not easy to maintain both one's
sanity and the view that good and evil, love and hate, life and death were
One Reality.

One day a friend of my cousin Shanti, whose name was Molli, came by to
visit. She asked me about whether I found Hinduism fulfilling. Trying to
hide my emptiness, I lied and told her I was very happy and that my
religion was the Truth. She listened patiently to my pompous and sometimes
arrogant pronouncements. Without arguing, she exposed my emptiness gently
with politely phrased questions.

She told me that Jesus had brought her close to God. She also said that
God is a God of love and that He desires us to be close to Him. As
appealing as this sounded to me, I stubbornly resisted, not willing to
surrender my Hindu roots.

Still, I found myself asking, "What makes you so happy? You must have
been doing a lot of meditation."

"I used to," Molli responded, "but not any more. Jesus has given me a
peace and joy that I never knew before." Then she said, "Rabi, you don't
seem very happy. Are you?"

I lowered my voice: "I'm not happy. I wish I had your joy." Was I
saying this?

"My joy is because my sins are forgiven," said Molli. "Peace and joy
come from Christ, through really knowing Him."

We continued talking for half a day, unaware of how the time had
passed. I wanted her peace and joy, but I was absolutely resolved that I
wasn't going to give up any part of my religion.

As she was leaving, she said: "Before you go to bed tonight, Rabi,
please get on your knees and ask God to show you the Truth -- and I'll be
praying for you." With a wave of her hand she was gone.

Pride demanded that I reject everything Molli had said, but I was too
desperate to save face any longer. I fell to my knees, conscious that I
was giving in to her request.

"God, the true God and Creator, please show me the truth!" Something
inside me snapped. For the first time in my life, I felt I had really
prayed and gotten through -- not to some impersonal Force, but to the true
God who loves and cares. Too tired to think any longer, I crawled into bed
and fell asleep almost instantly.

Soon after, my cousin Krishna invited me to a Christian meeting. I
again surprised myself by responding: "Why not?"

On our way there, Krishna and I were joined by Ramkair, a new
acquaintance of his. "Do you know anything about this meeting?" I asked
him, anxious to get some advance information.

A little," he replied. "I became a Christian recently."

"Tell me," I said eagerly. "Did Jesus really change your life?" Ramkair
smiled broadly. "He sure did! Everything is different."

"It's really true, Rab!" added Krishna enthusiastically. "I've become a
Christian too -- just a few days ago."

The preacher's sermon was based on Psalm 23, and the words, "The Lord
is my shepherd," made my heart leap. After expounding the Psalm, the
preacher said: "Jesus wants to be your Shepherd. Have you heard His voice
speaking to your heart? Why not open your heart to Him now? Don't wait
until tomorrow -- that may be too late!" The preacher seemed to be
speaking directly to me. I could delay no longer.

I quickly knelt in front of him. He smiled and asked if anyone else
wanted to receive Jesus. No one stirred. Then he asked the Christians to
come forward and pray with me. Several did, kneeling beside me. For years
Hindus had bowed before me -- and now I was kneeling before a Christian.

Aloud I repeated after him a prayer inviting Jesus into my heart. When
the preacher said, "Amen," he suggested I pray in my own words. Quietly,
choking with emotion, I began: "Lord Jesus, I've never studied the Bible,
but I've heard that you died for my sins at Calvary so I could be forgiven
and reconciled to God. Please forgive me all my sins. Come into my heart!"

Before I finished, I knew that Jesus wasn't just another one of several
million gods. He was the God for whom I had hungered. He Himself was the
Creator. Yet, He loved me enough to become a man and die for my sins. With
that realization, tons of darkness seemed to lift and a brilliant light
flooded my soul.

After arriving home, Krishna and I found the entire family waiting up
for us, apparently having heard what had happened. "I asked Jesus into my
life tonight!" I exclaimed happily, as I looked from one to another of
those startled faces. "It's glorious. I can't tell you how much he means
to me already."

Some in my family seemed wounded and bewildered; others seemed happy
for me. But before it was all over with, thirteen of us had ended up
giving our hearts to Jesus! It was incredible.

The following day I walked resolutely into the prayer room with
Krishna. Together we carried everything out into the yard: idols, Hindu
scriptures, and religious paraphernalia. We wanted to rid ourselves of
every tie with the past and with the powers of darkness that had blinded
and enslaved us for so long.

When everything had been piled on the rubbish heap, we set it on fire
and watched the flames consume our past. The tiny figures we once feared
as gods were turning to ashes. We hugged one another and offered thanks to
the Son of God who had died to set us free.

I found my thoughts going back to my father's cremation nearly eight
years before. In contrast to our new found joy, that scene had aroused
inconsolable grief. My father's body had been offered to the very same
false gods who now lay in smoldering fragments before me. It seemed
unbelievable that I should be participating with great joy in the utter
destruction of that which represented all I had once believed in so
fanatically.

In a sense this was my cremation ceremony -- the end of the person I
had once been...the death of a guru. The old Rabi Maharaj had died in
Christ. And out of that grave a new Rabi had risen in whom Christ was now
living.

(Editor's Note: If you would be interested in a detailed account of
Rabi's conversion, read his book Death of a Guru. Rabi is presently based
in Southern California and is involved in evangelism all over the world.
He invites you to write: East/West Gospel Ministries, P.O. Box 2191, La
Habra, CA 90632.)

COPYRIGHT/REPRODUCTION LIMITATIONS: This data file is the sole property
of the Christian Research Institute. It may not be altered or edited in
any way. It may be reproduced only in its entirety for circulation as
"freeware," without charge. All reproductions of this data file must
contain the copyright notice (i.e., "Copyright 1994 by the Christian
Research Institute"). This data file may not be used without the
permission of the Christian Research Institute for resale or the
enhancement of any other product sold. This includes all of its content
with the exception of a few brief quotations not to exceed more than 500
words.

If you desire to reproduce less than 500 words of this data file for
resale or the enhancement of any other product for resale, please give the
following source credit: Copyright 1994 by the Christian Research
Institute, P.O. Box 500-TC, San Juan Capistrano, CA 92693.

John Costouros

$Vote for Costouros, John: Jesus is Lord at \o/ PRAIZE!$

Christian Links