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My fav story about obediance & humility

This is pretty long, but good....

For those who don't know, Beth Moore is a well-known women's Bible

teacher based in Houston, Texas. She has written several books and does

videos of Bible teaching from around the world.)

Knoxville airport all waiting to board planes: I had the Bible on my

lap and was very intent upon what I was doing. I'd had a marvelous

morning with the Lord. I say that because I want to tell you it is a

scary thing to have the Spirit of God really working in you. You could

end up doing some things you never would have done otherwise. Life in

the Spirit can be dangerous for a thousand reasons not the least of

which is your ego...

I tried to keep from staring but he was such a strange sight. Humped

over in a wheelchair, he was skin and bones, dressed in clothes that

obviously fit when he was at least twenty pounds heavier. His knees

protruded from his trousers, and his shoulders looked like the

was still in his shirt. His hands looked like tangled masses of

veins and bones. The strangest part of him was his hair and nails.

Stringy grey hair hung well over his shoulders and down part of his

back. His fingernails were long. Clean, but strangely out of place on an

I looked down at my Bible as fast as I could, discomfort burning my

face. As I tried to imagine what his story might have been, I found

myself wondering if I'd just had a Howard Hughes sighting. Then, I

remembered reading somewhere that he was dead. So this man in the

airport...an impersonator maybe? Was a camera on us somewhere?....

There I sat trying to concentrate on the Word to keep from being

concerned about a thin slice of humanity served on a wheelchair only a

few seats from me. All the while my heart was growing more and more

overwhelmed with a feeling for him. Let's admit it. Curiosity is a

more comfortable than true concern,and suddenly I was awash with

emotion for this bizarre-looking old man.

I had walked with God long enough to see the handwriting on the wall.

I 've learned that when I begin to feel what God feels, something so

contrary to my natural feelings, something dramatic is bound to

And it may be embarrassing. I immediately began to resist because I

could feel God working on my spirit and I started arguing with God in

mind. "Oh no, God please no." I looked up at the ceiling as if I could

stare straight through it into heaven and said, " Don't make me

to this man. Not right here and now. Please. I'll do anything. Put me

on the same plane, but don't make me get up here and witness to this

in front of this gawking audience. Please, Lord!"

There I sat in the blue vinyl chair begging His Highness, "Please

don't make me witness to this man. Not now. I'll do it on the plane.

Then I heard it..."I don't want you to witness to him. I want you to

brush his hair."

The words were so clear, my heart leapt into my throat, and my

thoughts spun like a top. Do I witness to the man or brush his hair?

brainer. I looked straight back up at the ceiling and said, "God, as I

live and breathe, I want you to know I am ready to witness to this

I'm on this Lord. I'm you're girl! You've never seen a woman witness

a man faster in your life. What difference does it make if his hair is

mess if he is not redeemed? I am on him. I am going to witness to this


Again as clearly as I've ever heard an audible word, God seemed to

write this statement across the wall of my mind. "That is not what I

said, Beth. I don't want you to witness to him. I want you to go brush

his hair."

I looked up at God and quipped, "I don't have a hairbrush. It's in my

suitcase on the plane, How am I suppose to brush his hair without a


God was so insistent that I almost involuntarily began to walk toward

him as these thoughts came to me from God's word: "I will thoroughly

finish you unto all good works." (2 Tim 3:7) I stumbled over to the

wheelchair thinking I could use one myself. Even as I retell this

my pulse quickens and I feel those same butterflies.

I knelt down in front of the man, and asked as demurely as possible,

"Sir, may I have the pleasure of brushing your hair?"

He looked back at me and said, "What did you say?"

"May I have the pleasure of brushing your hair?"

To which he responded in volume ten, "Little lady, if you expect me to

hear you, you're going to have to talk louder than that.

At this point, I took a deep breath and blurted out, "SIR, MAY I HAVE

THE PLEASURE OF BRUSHING YOUR HAIR?" At which point every eye in the

place darted right at me. I was the only thing in the room looking

peculiar than old Mr. Longlocks. Face crimson and forehead breaking

in a sweat, I watched him look up at me with absolute shock on

his face, and say, "If you really want to."

Are you kidding? OF course I didn't want to. But God didn't seem

interested in my personal preference right about then. He pressed on

heart until I could utter the words, "Yes, sir, I would be pleased.

I have one little problem. I don't have a hairbrush."

"I have one in my bag," he responded.

I went around to the back of that wheelchair, and I got on my hands

and knees and unzipped the stranger's old carry-on hardly believing

I was doing. I stood up and started brushing the old man's hair. It

perfectly clean, but it was tangled and matted. I don't do many things

well, but I must admit I've had notable experience untangling knotted

hair mothering two little girls. Like I'd done with either Amanda or

Melissa in such a condition, I began brushing at the very bottom of

strands, remembering to take my time not to pull.

A miraculous thing happened to me as I started brushing that old man's

hair.... Everybody else in the room disappeared. There was no one

for those moments except that old man and me. I brushed and I brushed

and I brushed until every tangle was out of that hair. I know this

sounds so strange but I've never felt that kind of love for another

soul in my entire life. I believe with all my heart, I--for that few

minutes--felt a portion of the very love of God. That He had overtaken

my heart for a little while like someone renting a room and making

Himself at home for a short while. The emotions were so strong and so

pure that I knew they had to be God's.

His hair was finally as soft and smooth as an infant's. I slipped the

brush back in the bag, went around the chair to face him. I got back

down on my knees, put my hands on his knees, and said, "Sir, do you

my Jesus?"

He said, "Yes, I do." Well, that figures.

He explained, "I've known Him since I married my bride. She wouldn't

marry me until I got to know the Savior."

He said "You see, the problem is, I haven't seen my bride in months.

I've had open-heart surgery, and she's been too ill to come see me. I

was sitting here thinking to myself. What a mess I must be for my


Only God knows how often He allows us to be part of a divine moment

when we're completely unaware of the significance. This, on the other

hand, was one of those rare encounters when I knew God had intervened

details only He could have known. It was a God moment, and I'll never

forget it. Our time came to board, and we were not on the same plane.

was deeply ashamed of how I'd acted earlier and would have been so

to have accompanied him on that aircraft.

I still had a few minutes, and as I gathered my things to board, the

airline hostess returned from the corridor, tears streaming down her

cheeks. She said, "That old man's sitting on the plane, sobbing. Why

you do that? What made you do that?"

I said "Do you know Jesus? He can be the bossiest thing!" And we got

to share.

I learned something about God that day. He knows if you're exhausted

because you're hungry, you're serving in the wrong place or it is time

to move on but you feel too responsible to budge. He knows if you're

hurting or feeling rejected. He knows if you're sick or drowning under

wave of temptation. Or He knows if you just need your hair brushed. He

sees you as an individual. Tell Him your need!

I got on my own flight, sobs choking my throat, wondering how many

opportunities just like that one had I missed along the way...all

because I didn't want people to think I was strange. God didn't send

to that old man. He sent that old man to me.

John 1:14 "The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We

have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only,who came from the

Father, full of grace and truth."
nice story....i too, hav one.

Making A Difference

There is a story many years ago of an elementary teacher. Her name was Mrs. Thompson. And as she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children a lie.

Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. But that was impossible, because there

in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named

Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn't play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could

be unpleasant.

It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big "F" at the top of his papers.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she got quite a surprise.

Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be around."

His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."

His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps

aren't taken."

Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class."

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was

ashamed of herself.

She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he cut from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains

to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.

Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to."

After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded.

By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that, while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer...the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.

The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he'd met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.

Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together. They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so

much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until

I met you."

-Author Unknown

"God, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference"
Staff Member
Wow. I'm in tears after reading BOTH stories! Very awesome devotionals and I'm telling you that each one taught me a lesson so fast.

I feel so great now after reading these! Thanks for sharing
I agree with Chad, those stories do teach valuable lessons. As Christians, we must be sensitive to the still smal voice of God and use every opportunity given to us to help or be a blessing to others.
I loved that story! I am copying and printing it. I have a lot of teacher friends and have a teachers heart so that story especially touched me. Thank you!!
May we keep the strengh to pray for these precious moments . . .to realize and use them wisely as they happen :love: I love this! ! ! Thanks for sharing, i am so touched!
Boy, Kiko, this is the second time you got me with your post. . .i am looking forward to see more of this tears aaaaaaaaaaare rolllin But I love it! ! !
GBU peeps
The Cab Ride

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life, a life for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was that it was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, made me laugh and weep.

But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August night. I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town.

I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers or a worker heading to an early shift at some factory in the industrial part of town.

When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under such circumstances, many drivers just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.

"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice.

I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened.

A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said.

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Can you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."

I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.

They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.

The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut.

It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift.

I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But those great moments often catch us unaware, beautifully wrapped in what others may consider an insignificant event.

".....And their eyes were opened and they recognized Jesus." Luke 24:31