GOD’SCORNER

AN OMINOUSLY EARLY darkness—a 25 degree drop in temperature—a far-off howl that in seconds became a roaring 61 mile per hour wind—the crash of a pine on the drive—a terrifying ball of fire—pyrotechnics followed by sputtering flame and then total darkness—a power outage that was to last for 24 hours while public utility crews scoured the area in search of scorched and fallen wires.

Indoors, candles and old-fashioned kerosene lamps elongated shadows. Flashlights flickered back and forth to wood piles as fireplaces suddenly became important. The thermometer registered 19 degrees, and what warmth there was in the house had to be maintained. Too dark to read. No power for television. Nothing left but to gather around the fireplace and talk.

“It was the strangest feeling,” said a young man in his late twenties. “Here sat Mom and Dad and I, all alone, the storm so bad, nothing to see but the dark

by Gertrude M. Puelicher

shapes of trees blowing every which way, each candle lighting up only its own little spot, the house cooling off in spite of the fireplace, and you know what it made me think of? When my brother and I were little kids, after supper, we’d sit on Dad’s lap and he’d read to us. Sometimes he’d make up stories about things he’d seen in the woods or tell us Bible stories. Sometimes he’d sing to us, and Mom would join in from the kitchen. I feel sorry for today’s kids. The only stories they get are the ones on TV or in the movies.”

Is it possible that progress is the cattle prod that is destroying us? Push a button and we download a television show for convenient viewing. Electronic eyes open gated driveways and garage doors without our stepping out of the car. We have moved from the joy of simple living to the pressures of a technological age. And with this much vaunted progress we have lost the happiness of family togetherness. We have forgotten we have blessings for which to give thanks.

As a child I attended a Methodist Sunday School that I enjoyed principally because of the martial tone of the hymns. My favorite was “Count Your Blessings,” and I counted them with fervor. The little reed organ gave forth with a chord, the entire Sunday School rose, and we swung into “Count your many blessings, name them one by one, Count your many blessings, See what God has done.” I’m fairly certain I never knew just what my blessings were nor what God had to do with them, but what a strutting impetus that tune had, and how we loved to sing it.

Are you submerged in problems? Are you agonizing over pressures not of your making? Sit down, my friend, and count your blessings. Count them one by one. You’ll be amazed at what God has done and is doing not only for you but for all who are willing to accept Him. n