It must not be served in a cup

Nor without meat or fish

Soup must have pepper

It must never, never have sugar

No, no, dear, honourable compatriots. The above prologue is not at all directed at you. The target is all those (particularly in Western society) whose concept of soup is far from that of the Ghanaian. See, these people have ideas about soup which are dangerously funny. How, for instance, can one add sugar or alcohol to soup?

The above verse is also inspired by an encounter I had with Maria a few years ago. Maria is a lively, bouncy French woman from Tenerife Island. Like me, she was also employed in the kitchen at Latimer, a hotel in Southern England. One day, Maria was drinking this yellowish stuff in a cup. When I asked what it was, she said soup. Then she asked if I would like some. Soup in a cup? When will people get serious?

This episode happened in Europe and must not bother us. However, the way we are adopting western lifestyles, it would only be a matter of time when some of us would start showing similar disrespect to soup. It is no secret that many among us feel inadequate when we see others sit at table with half a dozen different dishes.

Compared to ours, theirs appear grand. What with starter stuff, main dish, sauce, vegetables, lamb and the works. But do not despair, countrymen and women. With us, it is all in the soup.

In Ghana, when the dining table is laid, it is typically a tale of four items. First is the main dish; usually, banku, akple, tuo zaafi, fufu, etc. Next is the soup bowl. Then there are two sets of water; one for washing hands, the other to be drunk. End of story. In the event of an earthquake, the one item most likely to be saved is the soup bowl. This is a Ghanaian instinct. Simple.

I could continue this yummy discourse without defining what soup is. Heaven knows the Ghanaian does not need that. We all know soup when we see one. But for the reason that other people may be reading this, let us go ahead and provide some standard explanations.

What is soup? Philosophically, soup is what makes the Ghanaian say ‘I haven’t eaten all day’ simply because all he or she has had did not contain a soup item. Soup is what makes people look forward to going home after a long day’s work. Again, soup is what gingers up nostalgia for homely, far away places. Finally, soup (especially, when taken hot) is what helps critical minds to form opinion on serious issues.

In the average Ghanaian home, the phrase ‘what’s for dinner?’ is functionally out of place. The question is: ‘what soup is doing the backing?’ For us, the chief meal of the day is supper, with the main dish usually constant. Soup, then, is what makes the difference; bringing colour to our dinner table.

Matters of soup are rather serious affairs. For instance, business folks who understand the psychology of soup do not sign a bank cheque after a good soupy treat. In Ghana, people marry because of soup. People divorce because of soup. For both the man who gives out the ‘chop money’ and the wife who prepares the meal, the forum for accountability is the evening meal. This is the moment of truth, with soup being an important indicator.

The issue of soup is the issue of serious recurrent investment. When Ghanaians complain about the effect of the economic crunch on their food budget, they are significantly talking about the cost of soup. Fact of the matter is that there is no telling how much a saucepan of soup is worth. One cannot say the same for banku or fufu, or rice, no matter how perfumed it is. A bowl of soup, by virtue of its richness, can be ten times more expensive than its main dish counterpart.

Although there are different types of soups the structural fundamentals remain the same. Irrespective of what soup is being prepared the following ingredients are must-include: fish and/or meat, pepper, salt, onion and water. Other leaves, nuts and vegetables are added to determine character. Therefore, we have palm nut soup, groundnut soup, kontonmire soup, etc. But for all these soups, vegetables such as garden eggs and okra (Why do we say okro in Ghana?) could be added to form the ‘support squad’.

Some people can be ambitious and go for an experimental mix. There is thus a combination of palm nut soup and groundnut soup (nkatibe) or groundnut soup with kontomire soup (nkatinkonto) or even a mix of all three, namely, groundnut soup, kontomire soup and palm nut soup (nkatinkontobe).

Also significant, though of no less importance, is the inevitable question of light soup. Big issue. Light soup, also known as nkrankra, is like the basis of all soups. In deed, the subject matter of light soup is one which requires thesis or dissertation treatment. Some people refer to it as ‘fisherman soup’. The Nigerian equivalent is ‘pepper soup’ while the Japanese answer would be ‘misoshiru’.

A thing about light soup is that it is one soup that can be taken on its own. A diner can walk into the restaurant and ask for light soup, neat and straight. No other soup enjoys such patronage. Also, for those recovering from bouts of alcohol intake, light soup is a sure cure. In contrast, an attempt to treat hangover with other soups may fail.

The impressive thing about light soup is that it is so versatile. Indeed, local gastronomy experts believe that all soup come from light soup. The reverse of this logic is that you can have your light soup and easily convert it to palm nut soup or groundnut or okro soup. Such an overhaul doesn’t go against the dynamics of these soups nor does it contravene the national constitution. Do you have light soup and you want it converted to groundnut soup? Don’t worry. Just introduce groundnut paste.

Light soup enthusiasts believe that at the onset of fever, what one needs is not really a doctor. What does the trick is hot, spicy, garden eggs-strewn, dried fish-enriched light soup. Those who doubt the medicinal side of light soup should wait until they have been beaten wet and sore by the rain. Hot light soup restores sanity in seconds.

In biblical retrospect, if Jesus Christ had raised that dead 12 year old child in Ghana, the scripture in Mark 5:43 would have read: ‘And Kwaku Yesu said unto the parents, ‘‘behold, offer thy little girl a bowl of light soup.’’’

When it comes to the structure of light soup, there are two schools of thought. Those who make a meal out of it (the pun is accidental) and those who cannot stomach it (this one is intended). For those who do not like the makeup, their main bone of contention is that light soup doesn’t amount to much. They find the soup too light to be taken seriously. To them, palm nut soup or groundnut soup are not only more filling, they have got character.

But all hope mustn’t be lost. The remedy for anti-light soup folks is simple, a thick light soup. Yes, thick light soup. See, though light soup can be as light and transparent as water (and still maintain its integrity), it can also be made as thick as gravy. This is actually food for thought. But that is another kettle of fish.

Critically, the meat or fish that is used to prepare, goes a long way to flavour and define light soup. The following are thus distinct in their own rights: goat meat light soup, cow meat light soup, bush meat light soup or fresh fish light soup (a personal favourite).

Beyond light soup and others already mentioned, there is another variety of soup. This is what one might call the eclectic or ‘everything goes’ soup. Eclectic soup may begin with a small, innocent bowl of stew. After a day or two of consumption, new ideas crop up. The stew is watered to assume a soup form. More fish or meat is introduced. Then fresh vegetables are added. As the days go by, groundnut paste, okro and even boiled beans may all find their way in. The group of people who are likely to be guilty of the eclectic soup are college students on campus. Other prime candidates are bachelors who do their own cooking.

In Ghanaian culture, learning how to cook soup is part of a girl’s rite of passage to womanhood. The main setting for picking up the skill is home, usually, from a parent. Soup making involves mastering other related skills such as seasoning, grinding, frying and par-boiling. Over all, the talent of soup making requires a high sense of timing and ingredient proportioning.

Once soup is prepared and ready, what it can be eaten with is only a matter of pragmatism. Soup is game with banku, fufu, kokonte, kenkey, tuo zaafi, rice and gari (the eba range). In the case of boiled yam, plantain and the like, soup must advisedly be thick (for the good of the game).

The virtues of soup are accounted for in folklore as well as in pop culture. Our folk tales and proverbs reflect the importance of good soup and its implication for a woman’s fortunes in marriage. In the highlife song entitled ‘Asiko Darling,’ Snr. Eddie Donkor speaks of two women fighting for his love. Whilst one rival was using romantic sweet talk, the other was using the power of good soup to advantage. Also, in Okomfo Kwadee’s ‘Adjoa ye me yere, Yaa ye me mpena’ the singer complains of difficulty in choosing between his mistress and his wife. He expresses this dilemma as he sings out the strength and weakness of each rival. What makes his frustrations worse is that both women make delicious soup.

How soup is taken has its own set of home-grown protocol. In Ghana, while the main dish is served separately from the soup, some people prefer to drop the main dish into the soup and transact ‘business’ from one direct source. Both techniques have their merits.

Soup is not only eaten with a main dish, it is also drunk straight. By Ghanaian table etiquette, soup drinking takes place after the meal. A woman whose soup is drunk after a meal is a happy woman. To top up a well eaten meal by drinking soup is a compliment which says ‘it’s a pleasure to have your soup.’ In some homes, it is bad manners to leave the table without drinking the soup. Some men actually use this as a weapon. When they feel peeved and proud, but are not brave enough to skip the entire meal, they leave the soup. In such a situation, the following may ensue:

‘Why, my dear, you have barely eaten?’ says the concerned wife.

‘Woman, didn’t I eat your food, what else do you want?’

The way soup is drunk is an art all its own. To date, the three established formulas can be described as ‘spoon to mouth’, ‘bowl to mouth’ and ‘hand to mouth.’ Like the name suggests, spoon to mouth is simply using spoon to drink soup. It has the element of decency. ‘Bowl to mouth’ also means raising the bowl to the mouth and sucking the soup in. The advantage here is that a lot of soup can be drunk at a time.

The last, ‘hand to mouth,’ is not only the one with the most variations, it also requires the most skill. The first step in this technique is that the fingers are aligned to prevent the soup from leaking. The centre of gravity is lowered to form a little crater in the palm. The scoop machine thus formed is dropped and soon the soup collects in the hole of the hand. This is brought up gingerly and sent straight into the mouth. None of these methods is illegal. An approach which is futuristic is using straw to draw soup like happens when drinking soft drinks.

There is no doubt that we love soup in Ghana. But let’s take our eyes a little beyond our borders and note the soup culture of other countries. As it turns out, it is not everywhere that soup is king. Even in our West African neighbourhood, not everyone gives soup the attention it deserves. Take Burkina Faso. I once visited a friend in Ouagadougou. For three days we had fun, but on what? Grilled meat and Brakina Beer. At night clubs I was wise enough to snack on boiled eggs which kept me sane. When I was leaving, I could tell my Ouagalais pal was pleased with himself. I never went back and never told him why.

How about Nigeria? Well, thanks to their videos we know that soups such as ‘orgbornor’ and ‘egwusi’ play vital roles in their nation building efforts. In Togo, too, I know they pay their dues to soup. Whilst doing boys school at St Paul’s, we had the habit of sneaking across the border to drink in delicious Lome soup along with yam fufu. I couldn’t forget that, same way I couldn’t forget my sixth form grades.

For East Africa, I cannot vouch for them because I have lived with a Ugandan who didn’t know what pepper is. (How unlucky can some people be?). Across Central Africa, I think they might be good at soup, especially, in the green leaves department. Just consider the muscular built of Cameroonian footballers and you would know that soup definitely has a role.

As for the soup credentials of North Africa, I wouldn’t even go there. Bottom line? African unity cannot be achieved on the platform of soup. Way forward? As soup-eriors in continental liberation, Ghanaians must continue to cherish their soup culture and make our nation great and strong.

By Kofi Akpabli
Email: kofiakpabli@yahoo.com

He placed one scoop of clay upon another until a form lay lifeless on the ground.

All of the Garden’s inhabitants paused to witness the event. Hawks hovered. Giraffes stretched. Trees bowed. Butterflies paused on petals and watched.

“You will love me, nature,” God said. “I made you that way. You will obey me, universe. For you were designed to do so. You will reflect my glory, skies, for that is how you were created. But this one will be like me. This one will be able to choose.”

All were silent as the Creator reached into himself and removed something yet unseen. A seed. “It’s called ‘choice.’ The seed of choice.”

Creation stood in silence and gazed upon the lifeless form.

An angel spoke, “But what if he … ”

“What if he chooses not to love?” the Creator finished. “Come, I will show you.”

Unbound by today, God and the angel walked into the realm of tomorrow.

“There, see the fruit of the seed of choice, both the sweet and the bitter.”

The angel gasped at what he saw. Spontaneous love. Voluntary devotion. Chosen tenderness. Never had he seen anything like these. He felt the love of the Adams. He heard the joy of Eve and her daughters. He saw the food and the burdens shared. He absorbed the kindness and marveled at the warmth.

“Heaven has never seen such beauty, my Lord. Truly, this is your greatest creation.”

“Ah, but you’ve only seen the sweet. Now witness the bitter.”

A stench enveloped the pair. The angel turned in horror and proclaimed, “What is it?”

The Creator spoke only one word: “Selfishness.”

The angel stood speechless as they passed through centuries of repugnance. Never had he seen such filth. Rotten hearts. Ruptured promises. Forgotten loyalties. Children of the creation wandering blindly in lonely labyrinths.

“This is the result of choice?” the angel asked.
“Yes.”
“They will forget you?”
“Yes.”
“They will reject you?”
“Yes.”
“They will never come back?”
“Some will. Most won’t.”
“What will it take to make them listen?”

The Creator walked on in time, further and further into the future, until he stood by a tree. A tree that would be fashioned into a cradle. Even then he could smell the hay that would surround him.

With another step into the future, he paused before another tree. It stood alone, a stubborn ruler of a bald hill. The trunk was thick, and the wood was strong. Soon it would be cut. Soon it would be trimmed. Soon it would be mounted on the stony brow of another hill. And soon he would be hung on it.

He felt the wood rub against a back he did not yet wear.

“Will you go down there?” the angel asked.

“I will.”

“Is there no other way?”

“There is not.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to not plant the seed? Wouldn’t it be easier to not give the choice?”

“It would,” the Creator spoke slowly. “But to remove the choice is to remove the love.”

He looked around the hill and foresaw a scene. Three figures hung on three crosses. Arms spread. Heads fallen forward. They moaned with the wind.

Men clad in soldiers’ garb sat on the ground near the trio. They played games in the dirt and laughed.

Men clad in religion stood off to one side. They smiled. Arrogant, cocky. They had protected God, they thought, by killing this false one.

Women clad in sorrow huddled at the foot of the hill. Speechless. Faces tear streaked. Eyes downward. One put her arm around another and tried to lead her away. She wouldn’t leave. “I will stay,” she said softly. “I will stay.”

All heaven stood to fight. All nature rose to rescue. All eternity poised to protect. But the Creator gave no command.

“It must be done … ,” he said, and withdrew.

But as he stepped back in time, he heard the cry that he would someday scream: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34) He wrenched at tomorrow’s agony.

The angel spoke again. “It would be less painful … ”

The Creator interrupted softly. “But it wouldn’t be love.”

They stepped into the Garden again. The Maker looked earnestly at the clay creation. A monsoon of love swelled up within him. He had died for the creation before he had made him. God’s form bent over the sculptured face and breathed. Dust stirred on the lips of the new one. The chest rose, cracking the red mud. The cheeks fleshened. A finger moved. And an eye opened.

But more incredible than the moving of the flesh was the stirring of the spirit. Those who could see the unseen gasped.

Perhaps it was the wind who said it first. Perhaps what the star saw that moment is what has made it blink ever since. Maybe it was left to an angel to whisper it:

“It looks like … it appears so much like … it is him!”

The angel wasn’t speaking of the face, the features, or the body. He was looking inside—at the soul.

“It’s eternal!” gasped another.

Within the man, God had placed a divine seed. A seed of his self. The God of might had created earth’s mightiest. The Creator had created, not a creature, but another creator. And the One who had chosen to love had created one who could love in return.

Now it’s our choice.

From In the Eye of the Storm
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1997) Max Lucado

As she was running and praying, she tripped on a curb and fell,getting her clothes dirty and tearing her dress. She got up, brushed herself off, and started running again. As she ran she once again began to pray, “Dear Lord, please don’t let me be late!…But don’t shove me either.”

He asked his class, “Where is Jesus today?”

Steven raised his hand and said, “He’s in heaven.”

Mary was called on and answered, “He’s in my heart.”

Little Johnny, waving his hand furiously, blurted out, “I know, I know! He’s in our bathroom!!!”

The whole class got very quiet, looked at the teacher, and waited for a response. The teacher was completely at a loss for a few very long seconds.

Finally, he gathered his wits and asked Little Johnny how he knew this.

Little Johnny said, “Well…every morning, my father gets up, bangs on the bathroom door, and yells, “Good Lord, are you still in there?!”

The burglar stopped dead in his tracks. The woman calmly called the police and explained what she had done. As the officer cuffed the man to take him in, he asked the burglar,”Why did you just stand there? All she did was yell a scripture to you.” “Scripture?” replied the burglar, “She said she had an AXE and two 38′s!”

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Finally, at the insistence of a family friend, they decided to enroll their son in a private school. Not just ANY private school, but a Catholic school. Nuns. Daily mass. The whole shootin’ match. Well, the first day of school finally arrived, and dressed in his salt-and-pepper cords and white wool dress shirt and blue cardigan sweater, the youngster ventured out into the great unknown. His mother and father were convinced they were doing the right thing. They were both there waiting for their son when he returned home.

And when he walked in with a stern, focused and very determined expression on his face, they hoped they had made the right choice. He walked right past them and went straight to his room – and quietly closed the door.

For nearly two hours he toiled away in his room – with math books strewn about his desk and the surrounding floor. He only emerged long enough to eat, and after quickly cleaning his plate, he went straight back to his room, closed the door, and worked feverishly at his studies until bedtime.

This pattern continued ceaselessly until it was time for the first quarter report card. After school, the boy walked into the home with his report card – unopened – in his hand. Without a word, he dropped the envelope on the family dinner table and went straight to his room. His parents were petrified. What lay inside the envelope? Success? Failure? DOOM?!? Patiently, cautiously the mother opened the letter, and to her amazement, she saw a bright red “A” under the subject, MATH. Overjoyed, she and her husband rushed into their son’s room, thrilled at the remarkable progress of their young son!

“Was it the nuns that did it?”, the father asked.

The boy only shook his head and said, “No.”

“Was it the one-on-one tutoring? The peer-mentoring?”, asked the mother.

Again, the boy shrugged, “No.”

“The textbooks? The teacher? The curriculum?”, asked the father.

“Nope,” said the son. “It was all very clear to me from the very first day of school, that these folks in Catholic school meant business!”

“How so?”, asked his mom.

“When I walked into the lobby, and I saw that guy they’d nailed to the plus sign, I knew they meant business!”

Date Added: 5/08/00
Funny Christian Stories
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The minister replied: “I hope it will not prove as helpful as the last sermon you heard me preach.”

“Why, what do you mean?” asked the astonished woman.

“Well,” said the minister, “that sermon lasted you three months.”

There was this gracious lady mailing an old family Bible to her brother in another part of the country.

“Is there anything breakable in here?” asked the postal clerk. “Only the Ten Commandments,” answered the lady.

A Sunday School teacher decided to have her young class memorize one of the most quoted passages in the Bible… Psalm 23. She gave the youngsters a month to learn the verse. Little Bobby was excited about the task, but he just couldn’t remember the Psalm. After much practice, he could barely get past the first line.

On the day that the kids were scheduled to recite Psalm 23 in front of the congregation, Bobby was so nervous. When it was his turn, he stepped up to the microphone and said proudly,

“The Lord is my shepherd…and that’s all I need to know!”

A teenager was sitting in church, and when the collection plate was passed around, he quickly pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and dropped it in. Just then, the person behind him tapped him on his shoulder and handed him a $20 bill. The boy smiled, placed the $20 in the plate and passed it on, admiring that the man was being generous. Then the boy felt another tap from behind and heard a whisper:
“Son,” the man said, “that was your $20 bill that had fallen out of your pocket.”

The youngster replied: “One mail and one e-mail.”

After the service, to be social, she walked up to a very sleepy looking gentleman, extended her hand in greeting, and said, “Hello, I’m Gladys Dunn.”

And the gentleman replied, “You’re not the only one ma’am, I’m glad it’s done too!!”

Gary answered soberly: “I asked God to teach me to whistle … And He just then did!”

Date Added: 10/25/00
Funny Christian Stories

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What you’re about to read is an honest and personal account of a series of events that permanently altered the course of my life. It began with my unexpected discovery that I had a bad heart–not the organ that pumps life-giving blood through my veins, but that place deep inside where all my thoughts and motives originate. Here’s how it happened:

I grew up in church and believed in God. I knew I wasn’t perfect but felt in my heart that I was basically a decent person. I would later find that the Bible describes the condition of every heart (yours and mine) as deceitful (Jer 17:9). There I was, living it up (so I thought), unaware that I was deader than a door-nail in my sin (Eph 2:1); utterly lost, yet certain I knew exactly where I was going. My own heart was deceiving me. I wonder–could your heart be deceiving you, too?

Curiously, though, my perspective began to change. I had always known evil existed, but I understood it to be something menacing and remote. Hitler, for example, was an evil man. Imagine my shock when I discovered in my own heart (of all places!) a seemingly inexhaustible fountain of evil. I suddenly saw everything in a different light. Even the good I tried to do seemed tainted by selfish motives, or pride, or some other defect. Now sometimes I’m a slow learner, but it didn’t take me long to realize I had a problem–a BIG problem. It was God.

I know it’s not too popular to talk about God’s anger. We prefer a god who’s always lenient, overlooking our faults. To our own detriment, most of us never bother to find out for ourselves what the Bible really says about God. It’s surprising to many people, for instance, how much Jesus talked about hell. For example, He said “Do not be afraid of those who can kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both body and soul in hell” (Matt 10:28). That’s hard. We’d really rather not have anything to do with a God like that. So we ignore Him, or try to soften His image a bit. But He won’t change or go away.

And so I feared God. I knew He was angered by my sin, and rightly so (Rom 1:18-20). Where once I had excused my shortcomings, I now had to shut my mouth (Rom 3:19). Desperate for answers, I prayed and read my Bible. What (or rather Who) I encountered there changed my life.

My sin had separated me from God–which is what sin does (Isa 59:2)–and I was unable to bridge the gulf between us. I was helpless (Rom 5:6) and hopeless (Eph 2:12). I needed a rescuer–someone to save me–and God had sent One (Jn 3:16). It was Jesus, crucified and risen, that I encountered in the pages of Scripture and on my knees. He saved me, not because of anything good I had done, but because of His mercy (Titus 3:5). What I deserved was death (Rom 6:23), and I knew it. But in a stunning display of love, Jesus died in my place (Rom 5:8; Isa 53:5-6)–the sinless One taking the sinner’s punishment! Because of that one incredible sacrifice, God forgave me, as He does anyone who turns from sin and trusts Christ (Acts 3:19; Rom 3:23-24; 10:9-11). Amazing! It still brings me to my knees in grateful adoration.

I have just one regret. Far too often I’ve failed to live my life in a way pleasing to the One who loved me enough to die for me. Without exception, though, I’ve found the Scripture to be true: “If you hide your sins, you will not succeed. If you confess and reject them, you will receive mercy” (Prov 28:13).

I’ve written this for a number of reasons. One of the most basic is because I care about you. I want you to know the truth because Jesus said the truth will make you free (Jn 8:32). Telling the truth could cost me a friendship–maybe yours–and that’s something I don’t want to lose. But I’ve come to the conclusion that I wouldn’t be much of a friend to you if I didn’t tell you what I’ve found. I am, as someone has said, a little like the beggar telling other beggars where he’s found food.

Still, it’s a disturbing thing, this truth that frees. It disturbs our distorted views of God and ourselves, of heaven and hell. It disturbs our false sense of security, that confidence we misplace in unreliable things–our selves, our possessions, family, friends, even our religion. It reduces us to nothing and then, through Christ alone, freely offers us everything. It eliminates every pathway to God but one: “I am the way, the truth and the life,” Jesus said. “No one comes to the Father except through me” (Jn 14:6) “Enter through the narrow gate,” He said on another occasion. “For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it” (Matt 7:13-14). Stop and look around. Which road are you on? It’s essential that you know.

If you’ve read this far, you’ve probably formed an opinion about what I’ve written. You may think I’m crazy, or that you’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. Maybe you think it’s okay for me to believe what I want, but it’s definitely not for you. The real issue, however, is whether what either one of us believes is true or not. Believing you’re on a plane for New York when your flight is actually bound for Los Angeles won’t get you where you want to go, no matter how sincerely you believe it. Please don’t stake your eternal destination on something you haven’t even honestly investigated. Find out for yourself what the Bible says.

On the other hand, you may find yourself deeply stirred by what you’ve just read–drawn, not so much to my words as to the words of Christ. Though profoundly disturbing, they ring true to you. I, or the person who gave this to you, would be happy to talk with you further. Or better yet, call out to the Lord. He’s nearer than you think, waiting to be gracious.

Don’t let your own bad heart fool you like mine did me. “Not all those who say I am their Lord will enter the kingdom of Heaven,” Jesus warned. “The only people who will enter the kingdom of Heaven are the ones who do what my Father in Heaven wants” (Matt 7:21). Those who follow Christ will find peace and freedom and fullness of life unimaginable by others. What you lose is nothing–no, less than nothing— compared to what you gain.

The Scriptures give us only two alternatives: “This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life!” (Deut 30:19) “Christ died for all so that those who live would no longer live for themselves. He died for them and was raised from the dead so that they would live for Him” (2 Cor 5:15). There are the choices: life or death, blessings or curses, living for yourself or living for Christ. Which have you chosen?

Submitted by Barry Wallace
Date Added: 5/15/00
Challenging Christian Stories
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Recently, one of my best friends, whom I’ve shared just about everything with since the first day of kindergarten, spent the weekend with me. Since I moved to a new town several years ago, we’ve both always looked forward to the few times a year when we can see each other.

Over the weekend, we spent hours and hours, staying up late into the night, talking about the people she was hanging around with. She started telling me stories about her new boyfriend, about how he experimented with drugs and was into other self-destructive behavior. I was blown away! She told me how she had been lying to her parents about where she was going and even sneaking out to see this guy because they didn’t want her around him. No matter how hard I tried to tell her that she deserved better, she didn’t believe me. Her self-respect seemed to have disappeared.

I tried to convince her that she was ruining her future and heading for big trouble. I felt like I was getting nowhere. I just couldn’t believe that she really thought it was acceptable to hang with a bunch of losers, especially her boyfriend.

By the time she left, I was really worried about her and exhausted by the experience. It had been so frustrating, I had come close to telling her several times during the weekend that maybe we had just grown too far apart to continue our friendship – but I didn’t. I put the power of friendship to the ultimate test. We’d been friends for far too long. I had to hope that she valued me enough to know that I was trying to save her from hurting herself. I wanted to believe that our friendship could conquer anything.

A few days later, she called to say that she had thought long and hard about our conversation, and then she told me that she had broken up with her boyfriend. I just listened on the other end of the phone with tears of joy running down my face. It was one of the truly rewarding moments in my life. Never had I been so proud of a friend.

by Danielle Fishel
from Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul
Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap

Special Thanks to Marge M.
Date Added: 8/25/00
Encouraging Christian Stories
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He asked me, “Do you love me?”

I answered, “Of course, God! You are my Lord and Saviour!”

Then He asked, “If you were physically handicapped, would you still love me?”

I was perplexed. I looked down upon my arms, legs and the rest of my body and wondered how many things I wouldn’t; be able to do, the things that I took for granted.

And I answered, “It would be tough Lord, but I would still love You.”

Then the Lord said, “If you were blind, would you still love my creation?”

How could I love something without being able to see it? Then I thought of all the blind people in the world and how many of them still loved God and His creation.

So I answered, “Its hard to think of it, but I would still love you.”

The Lord then asked me, “If you were deaf, would you still listen to my word?”

How could I listen to anything being deaf? Then I understood. Listening to God’s Word is not merely using our ears, but our hearts. I answered, “It would be tough, but I would still listen to Your word.”

The Lord then asked, “If you were mute, would you still praise My Name?”

How could I praise without a voice?

Then it occurred to me: God wants us to sing from our very heart and soul. It never matters what we sound like. And praising God is not always with a song, but when we are persecuted, we give God praise with our words of thanks.

So I answered, “Though I could not physically sing, I would still praise Your Name.”

And the Lord asked, “Do you really love Me?”

With courage and a strong conviction, I answered boldly, “Yes Lord! I love You because You are the one and true God!”

I thought I had answered well, but… God asked, “THEN WHY DO YOU SIN?”

I answered, “Because I am only human. I am not perfect.”

“THEN WHY IN TIMES OF PEACE DO YOU STRAY THE FURTHEST? WHY ONLY IN TIMES OF TROUBLE DO YOU PRAY THE EARNEST?”

No answers. Only tears.

The Lord continued: “Why only sing at fellowships and retreats? Why seek Me only in times of worship? Why ask things so selfishly? Why ask things so unfaithfully?”

The tears continued to roll down my cheeks.

“Why are you ashamed of Me? Why are you not spreading
the good news? Why in times of persecution, you cry to others when I offer My shoulder to cry on? Why make excuses when I give you opportunities to serve in My Name?”

I tried to answer, but there was no answer to give.

“You are blessed with life. I made you not to throw this gift away. I have blessed you with talents to serve Me, but you continue to turn away. I have revealed My Word to you, but you do not gain in knowledge. I have spoken to you but your ears were closed. I have shown My blessings to you, but your eyes were turned away. I have sent you servants, but you sat idly by as they were pushed away. I have heard your prayers and I have answered them all.”

“DO YOU TRULY LOVE ME ?”

I could not answer. How could I? I was embarrassed beyond belief. I had no excuse. What could I say to this? When I my heart had cried out and the tears had flowed, I said, “Please forgive me Lord. I am unworthy to be Your child.”

The Lord answered, “That is My Grace, My child.”

I asked, “Then why do you continue to forgive me? Why do You love me so?”

The Lord answered, “Because you are My creation. You are my child. I will never abandon you. When you cry, I will have compassion and cry with you. When you shout with joy, I will laugh with you. When you are down, I will encourage you. When you fall, I will raise you up. When you are tired, I will carry you. I will be with you till the end of days, and I will love you forever.”

Never had I cried so hard before. How could I have been so cold? How could I have hurt God as I had done? I asked God, “How much do You love me?”

The Lord stretched out His arms, and I saw His nail-pierced hands. I bowed down at the feet of Christ, my Saviour. And for the first time, I truly prayed.

Date Added: 5/08/00
A Love Story, Author Unknown
Heartwarming Christian Stories
http://www.christianstories.com

I would like to share an experience which, to date, convinces me that I’ve encountered the presence of an angel. It was my very first trip outside of Ghana to London, and the word ‘excited’ still doesn’t completely cover the emotions that welled up in me at the time.

Most of the trip is a blur to me now, but I do remember that a good part of the trip involved going to and coming out of train stations. At the age of six, all the train stations I visited in London looked all alike to me. My favourite part of the train rides was using the escalators to get to the trains.

I found it so cool; the way the stairs could move non-stop standing on them was something else as though magic was being performed under my feet! I found them scary at first, but then I just couldn’t stay away. I always looked forward to my next escalator ride.

One fateful sunny day in London, my parents, siblings and I found ourselves at Kings Cross St. Pancreas. We had just gotten off the train and unto a very busy terminal. Train stations in London are normally busy. That day was no different. I skipped on ahead of my family and unto my new found love – the escalator.

My memory fails me on all other events but this… and every time I think of it, it is as though it happened just minutes ago. A white British gentleman, in a long brown coat with a brief case, asked me where my parents were. (I do not remember what his exact words were.) I looked around and when I couldn’t locate the whereabouts of my family, I realized I had lost them.

When we reached the platform, the stranger took me by the hand and led me to an ascending escalator. We had come two flights down so we went two flights up in search of my family.

I found them in a very short time as they were also frantically looking for me. My mother asked me to thank the gentleman who had led me to them but as I turned around to do just that, he was nowhere in sight. I am certain I went back to the escalators to look for him, but the many travellers with similar brown coats streaming the train station terminal did not help my search. He had vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Looking back at this life-changing incident, I can’t help but wonder; Angels, how fast do they fly? Because if it took this one just seconds to come and help me find my family and manage to disappear within a blink of an eye, I cannot for the life of me fathom how short a time they take to fly…. Can you?

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read “People I Have Liked.” I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn’t match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named “Friends” was next to one marked “Friends I Have Betrayed.”

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. “Books I Have Read,” “Lies I Have Told”, “Comfort I Have Given”, “Jokes I Have Laughed At”. Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: “Things I’ve Yelled at My Brothers.” Other I couldn’t laugh at: “Things I Have Done in My Anger”, “Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents”. I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards?

But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature. When I pulled out the file marked “Songs I Have Listened To”, I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn’t found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented. When I came to a file marked “Lustful Thoughts”, I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only and inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: “No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!” In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn’t matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards.

But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot.

Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self- pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore “People I Have Shared the Gospel With”. The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn’t bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn’t anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn’t say a word. He just cried with me. Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. “No!” I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was “No, no,” as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn’t be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written in His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, “It is finished.” I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.