Thy sweetness, Lord - Amy Carmichael

Dr. F. B. Meyer once told me that when he was young he was very irritable, and an old man told him that he had found relief from this very thing by looking up the moment he felt it coming, and saying, "Thy sweetness, Lord." By telling this, that old man greatly helped Dr. Meyer, and he told it to tens of thousands. I pass it on to you because I have found it a certain and a quick way of escape. Take the opposite of your temptation and look up inwardly, naming that opposite; Untruth - Thy truth, Lord; Unkindness - Thy kindness, Lord; Impatience - Thy patience, Lord; Selfishness - Thy unselfishness, Lord; Roughness - Thy gentleness, Lord; Discourtesy - Thy courtesy, Lord; Resentment, inward heat, fuss - Thy sweetness, Lord, Thy calmness, Thy peacefulness.
     I think that no one who tries this very simple plan will ever give it up. (It takes it for granted, of course, that all is yielded - the "I" dethroned.) Will all to whom it is new try it for a day, a week, a month, and test it?

-From Edges of His Ways by Amy Carmichael

Prayer for the common person - Elizabeth Prentiss

"Listen to what our Lord said about prayer: 'Enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father;' now was He addressing a few contemplative women or 'the multitude?' Why, He was speaking to day laborers, to fishermen, to the 'common people' who were struggling with poverty; to women who had all their household tasks to perform, their children to bear and rear. And He showed them what He meant by the word 'closet,' when He went to gardens, and mountain-tops, and desert places, in order to be alone with His Father. A praying heart will find a time and a place for devotion."

-From Urbane and his friends by Elizabeth Prentiss

     It is so easy to have unrealistic ideas about prayer or to neglect prayer because we don't measure up to our own unrealistic and unBiblical standards! Prayer is to be incorporated into the context of our daily lives. It is something that we must make happen, but the prayer breathed by a hurried mother as she rushes to the next screaming child is just as holy to the Lord as the hours of prayer spent by someone who has more free time. We must not compare ourselves with others, but we must also not let a busy life serve as an excuse not to pray.

Saving "It" - Amy Carmichael

On another occasion the clue was found through Devai's happening to overhear the conversation of two men in a wood in the early morning. One said to the other something about someone having taken "It" somewhere; and Devai, whose scent is keen where little "Its" are concerned, made friends with the men, and got the information she wanted from them. Careful work resulted in a little child's salvation; but Devai hardly dared believe it safe until she reached Dohnavur. When that occurred we were all at church; for special services were being held in week-day evenings, and old Devai had to possess her soul in patience till we came out of church. Then there was a rush round to the nursery, and an eager showing of the "It." I shall never forget the pang of disappointment and apprehension. Several little ones had been sent to us who could not possible live; and the nurses had got overborne, and we dreaded another strain for them. It was a tiny thing, three pounds and three-quarters of pale brown skin and bone. Its face was a criss-cross of wrinkles, and it looked any age. But "Man looketh upon the outward appearance" would have been assuredly quoted to us, regardless of context, had we ventured upon a remark to old Devai, who poured forth the story of its salvation in vivid sentences. Next evening the old grannie of the compound told us the baby could not live till morning. She laid it on a mat and regarded it critically, felt its pulses (both wrists), examined minutely its eyes and the bridge of its nose: "No, not till morning. Better have the grave prepared, for early morning will be an inconvenient hour for digging." Others confirmed her diagnosis, and sorrowfully the order was given and the grave was dug.
     But the baby lived till morning; and though for two years it needed a nurse to itself, and over and over again all but left us, this baby has grown one of our healthiest: and now when old Devai comes to see us she looks at it, and then to Heaven, and sighs with gratitude.

-From Lotus Buds by Amy Carmichael  

My this story encourage those of you who are facing the impossible today!

Lotus Buds - Amy Carmichael

The above illustration and following chapter are taken from Lotus Buds by Amy Carmichael.

Near an ancient temple in Southern India is a large calm, beautiful pool, enclosed by stone walls, broken here and there by wide spaces fitted with steps leading down to the water's edge; and almost within reach of the hand of one standing on the lowest step are pink Lotus lilies floating serenely on the quiet water or standing up from it in a certain proud loveliness all their own.
     We were travelling to the neighbouring town when we came upon this pool. We could not pass it with only a glance, so we stopped our bullock-carts and unpacked ourselves - we were four or five to a cart - and we climbed down the broken time-worn steps and gazed and gazed till the beauty entered into us.
     Who can describe that harmony of colour, a Lotus-pool in blossom in clear shining after rain! The grey old walls, the brown water, the dark green of the Lotus leaves, the delicate pink of the flowers; overhead, infinite crystalline blue; and beyond the old walls, palms.
     With us was a young Indian friend. "I will gather some of the lilies for you," he said, with the quick Indian desire to give pleasure; but some one interposed: "They must not be gathered by us. The pool belongs to the Temple."
     It was as if a stone had been flung straight at a mirror. There was a sense of crash and the shattering of some bright image. The Lotus-pool was a Temple pool; its flowers are Temple flowers. The little buds that float and open on the water, lifting young innocent faces up to the light as it smiles down upon them and fills them through with almost a tremor of joyousness, these Lotus buds are sacred things- sacred to whom?
     For a single moment that thought had its way, but only for a moment. It flashed and was gone, for the thought was a false thought: it could not stand against this - "All souls are Mine."
     All souls are His, all flowers. An alien power has possessed them, counted them his for so many generations, that we have almost acquiesced in the shameful confiscation. But neither souls nor flowers are his who did not make them. They were never truly his. They belong to the Lord of all the earth, the Creator, the Redeemer. The little Lotus buds are His - His and not another's. The children of the temples of South India are His - His and not another's.
     So now we go forth with the Owner Himself to claim His own possession. There is hope in the thought, and confidence and the purest inspiration. And, stirred to the very depths, as we are and must be many a time when we see the tender Lotus buds gathered by a hand that has no right to them, and crushed underfoot; bewildered and sore troubled, as the heart cannot help being sometimes, when the mystery of the apparent victory of evil over good is overwhelming: even so there will be always a hush, a rest, a repose of spirit, as we stand by the Lotus-pools of life and seek in His Name to gather His flowers.

A sound Christian life - Elizabeth Prentiss

"Yet it is only such in appearance," replied Urbane, "and due to the fact that some quite young persons mistake certain ardors of emotion for genuine love to Christ, make professions not justified by their lives, and so dishonor Him. A little observation will convince you that a great deal of what is called religious conversation, is pious gossip; now I would have you so filled with Christ as to run over, not in mere streams of talk, but in streams of benevolence. There is such a thing as a sound Christian life; it is not all contemplation and prayer; it is not all muscle and sinew. It is a perfect, practicable union of the two. I believe in your joyful emotions if they result in self-denying, patient work for Christ; I believe in your work if it is winged by faith and prayer. You may assure me that you have not time to pray to Christ, because you have so much to do for Christ, and I warn you that He will soon come and try your work, of what sort it is, and condemn it. You may say you spend so much time in meditation and prayer, that you have no time to do work of any sort; then I must assure you that you are mere enthusiasts, to whom Christ has not time to listen. Your frames and your feelings are empty bubbles, beautiful for a moment, to the eye, then gone for ever."

-From Urbane and his friends by Elizabeth Prentiss