More Stories for the Heart

Overview

A sequel to Stories for the Heart, More Stories for the Heart offers up over one hundred stories that hug readers' hearts and encourage their souls. This treasury of timeless tales-written by some of the best Christian communicators today-offers a wealth of compassion and love certain to minister to multiple generations. Readers will find themselves sharing these uplifting tales in conversation and letting the stories' wisdom inspire their thinking. These are stories that will add flavor to readers' views...and ...
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Overview

A sequel to Stories for the Heart, More Stories for the Heart offers up over one hundred stories that hug readers' hearts and encourage their souls. This treasury of timeless tales-written by some of the best Christian communicators today-offers a wealth of compassion and love certain to minister to multiple generations. Readers will find themselves sharing these uplifting tales in conversation and letting the stories' wisdom inspire their thinking. These are stories that will add flavor to readers' views...and will be carried in their hearts. Whether read during peaceful moments spent cuddled up by the fire, during moments basking in the sunshine...or during read-aloud family times with loved ones, More Stories for the Heart is certain to encourage the soul.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781576731420
  • Publisher: The Doubleday Religious Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 7/1/1997
  • Series: Stories for the Heart Series
  • Pages: 302
  • Sales rank: 665,970
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.50 (h) x 0.75 (d)

Read an Excerpt

The Day Philip Joined the Group
PAUL HARVEY with acknowledgement to Rev. Harry Pritchett Jr., rector of All Saints Episcopal Church in Atlanta, who called my attention to a boy named Philip.

He was 9—in a Sunday school class of 8-year-olds.

Eight-year-olds can be cruel.

The third-graders did not welcome Philip to their group. Not just because he was older. He was “different.”

He suffered from Down’s syndrome and its obvious manifestations:
facial characteristics, slow responses, symptoms of retardation.

One Sunday after Easter the Sunday school teacher gathered some of those plastic eggs that pull apart in the middle—the kind in which some ladies’ pantyhose are packaged.

The Sunday school teacher gave one of these plastic eggs to each child.

On that beautiful spring day each child was to go outdoors and discover for himself some symbol of “new life” and place that symbolic seed or leaf or whatever inside his egg.

They would then open their eggs one by one, and each youngster would explain how his find was a symbol of “new life.”

So…

The youngsters gathered ’round on the appointed day and put their eggs on a table, and the teacher began to open them.

One child had found a flower.

All the children “oohed” and “aahed” at the lovely symbol of new life.

In another was a butterfly. “Beautiful,” the girls said. And it’s not easy for an 8-year-old to say “beautiful.”

Another egg was opened to reveal a rock. Some of the children laughed.

“That’s crazy!” one said. “How’s a rock supposed to be like a ‘new life’?”

Immediately a little boy spoke up and said, “That’s mine. I knew everybody would get flowers and leaves and butterflies and all that stuff,
so I got a rock to be different.”

Everyone laughed.

The teacher opened the last one, and there was nothing inside.

“That’s not fair,” someone said. “That’s stupid,” said another.

Teacher felt a tug on his shirt. It was Philip. Looking up he said, “It’s mine. I did do it. It’s empty. I have new life because the tomb is empty.”

The class fell silent.

From that day on Philip became part of the group. They welcomed him. Whatever had made him different was never mentioned again.

Philip’s family had known he would not live a long life; just too many things wrong with the tiny body. That summer, overcome with infection,
Philip died.

On the day of his funeral nine 8-year-old boys and girls confronted the reality of death and marched up to the altar—not with flowers.

Nine children with their Sunday school teacher placed on the casket of their friend their gift of love—an empty egg.

A Song in the Dark
MAX LUCADO, from God Came Near

On any other day, I probably wouldn’t have stopped. Like the majority of people on the busy avenue, I would hardly have noticed him standing there. But the very thing on my mind was the very reason he was there, so I stopped.

I’d just spent a portion of the morning preparing a lesson out of the ninth chapter of John, the chapter that contains the story about the man blind from birth. I’d finished lunch and was returning to my office when
I saw him. He was singing. An aluminum cane was in his left hand; his right hand was extended and open, awaiting donations. He was blind.

After walking past him about five steps, I stopped and mumbled something to myself about the epitome of hypocrisy and went back in his direction. I put some change in his hand. “Thank you,” he said and then offered me a common Brazilian translation, “and may you have health.”
Ironic wish.

Once again I started on my way. Once again the morning’s study of
John 9 stopped me. “Jesus saw a man, blind from birth.” I paused and pondered. If Jesus were here he would see this man. I wasn’t sure what that meant. But I was sure I hadn’t done it. So I turned around again.

As if the giving of a donation entitled me to do so, I stopped beside a nearby car and observed. I challenged myself to see him. I would stay here until I saw more than a sightless indigent on a busy thoroughfare in downtown Rio de Janeiro.

I watched him sing. Some beggars grovel in a corner cultivating pity.
Others unashamedly lay their children on blankets in the middle of the sidewalk thinking that only the hardest of hearts would ignore a dirty,
naked infant asking for bread.

But this man did none of that. He stood. He stood tall. And he sang.
Loudly. Even proudly. All of us had more reason to sing than he, but he was the one singing. Mainly, he sang folk songs. Once I thought he was singing a hymn, though I wasn’t sure.

His husky voice was out of place amid the buzz of commerce. Like a sparrow who found his way into a noisy factory, or a lost fawn on an interstate,
his singing conjured up an awkward marriage between progress and simplicity.

The passersby had various reactions. Some were curious and gazed unabashedly. Others were uncomfortable. They were quick to duck their heads or walk in a wider circle. “No reminders of harshness today, please.”
Most, however, hardly noticed him. Their thoughts were occupied, their agendas were full and he was…well, he was a blind beggar.

I was thankful he couldn’t see the way they looked at him.

After a few minutes, I went up to him again. “Have you had any lunch?” I asked. He stopped singing. He turned his head toward the sound of my voice and directed his face somewhere past my ear. His eye sockets were empty. He said he was hungry. I went to a nearby restaurant and bought him a sandwich and something cold to drink.

When I came back he was still singing and his hands were still empty.
He was grateful for the food. We sat down on a nearby bench. Between bites he told me about himself. Twenty-eight years old. Single. Living with his parents and seven brothers. “Were you born blind?”

“No, when I was young I had an accident.” He didn’t volunteer any details and I didn’t have the gall to request them.

Though we were almost the same age, we were light-years apart. My three decades had been a summer vacation of family excursions, Sunday school, debate teams, football, and a search for the Mighty One. Growing up blind in the Third World surely offered none of these. My daily concern now involved people, thoughts, concepts, and communication. His day was stitched with concerns of survival: coins, handouts, and food. I’d go home to a nice apartment, a hot meal, and a good wife. I hated to think of the home he would encounter. I’d seen enough overcrowded huts on the hills of Rio to make a reasonable guess. And his reception…would there be anyone there to make him feel special when he got home?

I came whisker-close to asking him, “Does it make you mad that I’m not you?” “Do you ever lie awake at night wondering why the hand you were dealt was so different from the one given a million or so others born thirty years ago?”

I wore a shirt and tie and some new shoes. His shoes had holes and his coat was oversized and bulky. His pants gaped open from a rip in the knee.

And still he sang. Though a sightless, penniless hobo, he still found a song and sang it courageously. I wondered which room in his heart that song came from.

At worst, I figured, he sang from desperation. His song was all he had.
Even when no one gave any coins, he still had his song. Yet he seemed too peaceful to be singing out of self-preservation.

Or perhaps he sang from ignorance. Maybe he didn’t know what he had never had.

No, I decided the motivation that fit his demeanor was the one you’d least expect. He was singing from contentment. Somehow this eyeless pauper had discovered a candle called satisfaction and it glowed in his dark world. Someone had told him, or maybe he’d told himself, that tomorrow’s joy is fathered by today’s acceptance. Acceptance of what, at least for the moment, you cannot alter.

I looked up at the Niagara of faces that flowed past us. Grim.
Professional. Some determined. Some disguised. But none were singing,
not even silently. What if each face were a billboard that announced the true state of the owner’s heart? How many would say “Desperate! Business on the rocks!” or “Broken: In Need of Repair,” or “Faithless, Frantic, and
Fearful”? Quite a few.

The irony was painfully amusing. This blind man could be the most peaceful fellow on the street. No diploma, no awards, and no future—at least in the aggressive sense of the word. But I wondered how many in that urban stampede would trade their boardrooms and blue suits in a second for a chance to drink at this young man’s well.

“Faith is the bird that sings while it is yet dark.”

Before I helped my friend back to his position, I tried to verbalize my empathy. “Life is hard, isn’t it?” A slight smile. He again turned his face toward the direction of my voice and started to respond, then paused and said, “I’d better get back to work.”

For almost a block, I could hear him singing. And in my mind’s eye I
could still see him. But the man I now saw was a different one than the one to whom I’d given a few coins. Though the man I now saw was still sightless, he was remarkably insightful. And though I was the one with eyes, it was he who gave me a new vision.

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Table of Contents

COMPASSION 13
COMFORTING by Charles Swindoll
I WANT THAT ONE by Charles Stanley
HE NEEDED A SON
LITTLE FLOWER by James McCutcheon
SIGNIFICANCE by R. C Sproul
INFORMATION PLEASE by Paul Villiard
BEETHOVEN'S GIFT by Philip Yancey
AT THE WINTER FEEDER by John Leax
LONESOME
MAKE ME LIKE JOE! by Tony Campolo
LADY, ARE YOU RICH? by Marion Doolan
TO MY NEIGHBOR by Mother Teresa
A GUY NAMED BILL by Rebecca Manley Pippert, retold by Alice Gray
AUTUMN DANCE by Robin Jones Gunn
TO MY NURSES
A SECOND CHANCE by Billy Graham
ETERNAL HARMONY by John MacArthur, retold by Casandra Lindell
ARE YOU GOD? by Charles Swindoll
WORDS MUST WAIT by Ruth Bell Graham
ENCOURAGEMENT 43
THE SECRET by Paul Harvey
MR ROTH
I DON'T BELIEVE A WORD OF IT by Howard Hendricks
A PERFECT POT OF TEA by Roberta Messner
ENCOURAGING WORDS by Susan Maycinik
THREE LETTERS FROM TEDDY by Elizabeth Silance Ballard
THE COMFORT OF A COLD, WET NOSE by Barbara Baumgardner
GIVING AND RECEIVING by Billie Davis
TEACHER DAN by Marilyn McAuley
THE MENDER by Ruth Bell Graham
LONG RANGE VISION by Howard Hendricks
THE RED COAT by Melody Carlson
THE YOUNG WIDOW by Alice Gray
MICHAEL'S STORY BEGINS AT AGE SIX by Charlotte Elmore
ANOTHER CHANCE by H Stephen Glenn and Jane Nelsen
COME IN TOGETHER by Stu Weber
FIRST THINGS by Tony Campolo
VIRTUE 81
FORGIVENESS
THESE THINGS I WISH FOR YOU by Paul Harvey
WHY I'M A SPORTS MOM by Judy Bodmer
TO WHOM SHALL I LEAVE MY KINGDOM? by Donald E Wildmon
THE MAGNADOODLE MESSAGE by Liz Curtis Higgs
BEAUTY CONTEST by Carla Muir
BOUQUET by David Seamands
OLYMPIC GOLD by Catherine Swift
A CANDY BAR by Doris Sanford
WHAT TO LISTEN FOR by Tim Hansel
GOOD TURN by Nola Bertelson
BEHIND THE QUICK SKETCH by Joni Eareckson Tada
ANDROCLUS AND THE LION by Autus Gellius, retold by Casandra Lindell
GOSSIP by Billy Graham
THE TOE-TAPPER by Joan Sparks
TAKING SIDES by Zig Ziglar
THE DRESS by Margaret Jensen
DISTANT RELATIVES by Carla Muir
IT'S MORE THAN A JOB by Charles Swindoll
A TENDER WARRIOR by Stu Weber
LOVE 119
ONENESS
THE PENCIL BOX by Doris Sanford
SHE'S MY PRECIOUS by Robertson McQuilkin
THE FINAL BID by Robert Strand
THE GOOD STUFF by Robert Fulghum
SHOOOOPPPING! by Gary Smalley
HEIRLOOM by Ann Weems, retold by Alice Gray
IT HAPPENED ON THE BROOKLYN SUBWAY by Paul Deutschman
LOVE IS A GRANDPARENT by Erma Bombeck
LOVE FROM THE HEART by Chad Miller
EXTRAORDINARY PEOPLE by Jo Ann Larsen
50 PROMISES FOR MARRIAGE by Steve Stephens
THE TREASURE by Alice Gray
THAT LITTLE CHINA CHIP by Bettie B Youngs
THE DANCE by Thelda Bevens
DON'T FORGET WHAT REALLY MATTERS by Paul Harvey
THE LAST "I LOVE YOU" by Debbi Smoot
FAMILY 157
A MOMENT IN TIME by Matthew Norquist
WHEN GROWN KIDS COME TO VISIT by Erma Bombeck
RUNNING AWAY by Christopher de Vinck
WHY MY WIFE BOUGHT HANDCUFFS by Philip Gulley
TOO BUSY by Ron Mehl
WHEN THE MOON DOESN'T SHINE by Ruth Senter
FATHER'S DAY: A TRIBUTE by Max Lucado
RELEASING THE ARROW by Stu Weber
LAUGHTER IN THE WALLS by Bob Benson
DAD'S HELPER by Ron Mehl
LEGACY OF AN ADOPTED CHILD
THE GIFT by George Parler
PAPA'S SERMON
ALONE TIME FOR MOM by Crystal Kirg iss
WORDS FOR YOUR FAMILY by Gary Smalley and John Trent
GIFT OF LOVE by James Dobson
A MOTHER'S WAY by Temple Bailey
TENDER INTUITION by Robin Jones Gunn
SLIPPERY RISKS by Heather Harpham Kopp
FAMILY VACATIONS AND OTHER THREATS TO MARRIAGE by Philip Gulley
WHEN GOD CREATED FATHERS by Erma Bombeck
LIFE 197
NO BOX by Kenneth Caraway
LOOKIN' GOOD by Patsy Clairmont
A STREET VENDOR NAMED CONTENTMENT by Max Lucado
DEATH AND THE DAWN by Pearl S Buck
GROWING ROOTS by Philip Gulley
PERSPECTIVE by Marilyn McAuley
SAVING THE BROKEN PIECES by Robert Schuller
TRAIN TO BARCELONA by Jori Senter Stuart
SANDCASTLES by Max Lucado
THE CRAZY QUILT by Melody Carlson
ONE MAN'S JUNK ANOTHER MAN'S TREASURE by Ron Mehl
COMMENCE PRAYER by Charles Swindoll
SECRET CRACKS AND CREVICES by Melody Carlson
BACK ON COURSE by Sandy Snavely
REDWOOD CANYON by Casandra Lindell
LIFE BEGINS AT 80 by Frank Laubach
BUS STOP by Patsy Clairmont
FAITH 243
SEEING GOD
CINDERELLA by Max Lucado
A NEW PERSPECTIVE by Billy Graham
TREASURES IN HEAVEN by Bob Welch
HIDE AND SEEK by Brother David Steindl-Rast, retold by Brennan Manning
THE LAMPLIGHTER by Marilyn McAuley
SOFT CRIES by Ruth Bell Graham
SPIRITUAL HERO by James Dobson
DRIFTING by Tony Evans
ONLY GLIMPSES by Alice Gray
THE CASTLE OF GOD'S LOVE by Larry Libby
A VISION OF FORGIVENESS by Gigi Tchividjian
A MEETING OF THE MINDS by Kevin Keller
FRIGHTENED SPARROWS by Paul Harvey, retold by Philip Yancey
RUNNING FOR DADDY! by Kay Arthur
REAL TREASURE by Robin Jones Gunn
CALM IN THE STORM by Ron Mehl
A PARABLE OF GOD'S PERSPECTIVE by Robin Jones, retold by Casandra Lindell
WORSHIP AND WORRY by Ruth Bell Graham
ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN?
MAKING ADJUSTMENTS by Ron Mehl
THE ARTIST
RAGMAN by Walter J Wangerin
THE BELLS ARE RINGING by James Dobson
HEAVEN
NOTES 285
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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 30, 2000

    Touching, great hard to put down Stories

    I loved this book and find it very touching and just plain good. I love the Chicken Soup books and put this in the same catagory except even find it one step better.

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