Encourage One Another...

Jesus Christ, our Hero, has conquered the grave and everything with it. So have courage, peace, and put to death all your worry.

My miracle complety unexpected.


Hi everyone i just saw this thread what a blessing. thankyou lord. i wanted to share with you the miracle i had from God.
This happened in october 2004. I went to a weekend encounter. which basically means meeting with God and getting a touch from him.
Anyway it was on the saturday i think. In the morning our pastor was teaching about prayin for an infilling of the Holy Spirit and speaking in tongues. i wasnt sure about this but anyway a lady in my church came up to me and with someone else. they prayed for me to be filled with the spirit they didnt lay their hands on me.
as they were praying i felt my back loosing up. I put my shoulders back i thought that was a bit strange.
you see for years because of lack of self confidence in myself ive had a problem putting my shoulders back. dave kept telling me too but i really couldnt! Because of this i had a humped back. I was so worried i would be one of those old people in the future bending over as they walked.
anyway i didnt realise till later i had received a MIRACLE.
Because this had happened with my back earlier and me putting my shoulders back i asked dave to check my back. he knew it used to be humped but he said it was completly straight! and not only that i got a friend to check how tall i was and i grew an inch! we serve a miracle working God! i testified in church the next day. BLESSED BE THE NAME OF THE LORD.

Amen!

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Thank you for sharing... Praise God \0/

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A True Story By Helen Roseveare, Missionary to Africa

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Originally Posted by peacechild4

A True Story By Helen Roseveare, Missionary to Africa

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One night, in Central Africa, I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in spite of all that we could do, she died leaving us with a tiny, premature baby and a crying, two-year-old daughter.
We would have difficulty keeping the baby alive. We had no incubator. We had no electricity to run an incubator, and no special feeding facilities. Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts.
A student-midwife went for the box we had for such babies and for the cotton wool that the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She came back shortly, in distress, to tell me that in filling the bottle, it had burst. Rubber perishes easily in tropical climates. "...and it is our last hot water bottle!" she exclaimed. As in the West, it is no good crying over spilled milk; so, in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over a burst water bottle. They do not grow on trees, and there are no drugstores down forest pathways. All right," I said, "Put the baby as near the fire as you safely can; sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts. Your job is to keep the baby warm."
The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with many of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle. The baby could so easily die if it got chilled. I also told them about the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died. During the prayer time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt consciousness of our African children. "Please, God," she prayed, "send us a water bottle. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, the baby'll be dead; so, please send it this afternoon." While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added by way of corollary, " ...And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little girl so she'll know You really love her?" As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say, "Amen?" I just did not believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I know that He can do everything: The Bible says so, but there are limits, aren't there? The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had never, ever received a parcel from home. Anyway, if anyone did send a parcel, who would put in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator!
Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time that I reached home, the car had gone, but there, on the veranda, was a large twenty-two pound parcel! I felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone; so, I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly. Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then, there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children began to look a little bored. Next, came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas - - that would make a nice batch of buns for the weekend. As I put my hand in again, I felt the...could it really be? I grasped it, and pulled it out. Yes, "A brand-new rubber, hot water bottle!" I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He could. Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward, crying out, "If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly, too!" Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully dressed dolly. Her eyes shone: She had never doubted! Looking up at me, she asked, "Can I go over with you, Mummy, and give this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?"
That parcel had been on the way for five whole months, packed up by my former Sunday School class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. One of the girls had put in a dolly for an African child -- five months earlier in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it "That afternoon!" "And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear." Isaiah 65:24
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Helen Roseveare a doctor missionary from England to Zaire, Africa, told this as it had happened to her in Africa. She shared it in her testimony on a Wednesday night at Thomas Road Baptist Church.

Doesn't this make you cry with joy!!!!

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Thanks for sharing that with us

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We all know this scripture:
By his stripes we are healed.
Isaiah 53 v 5.
I just found out today that the hebrew word for stripes is friendship!
So it reads:
By his friendship we are healed!
Thats amazing!
Amen.

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I am mentally ill and lonely.
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I thought i would post this:

One time when i was home..i went outside to find my cat had caught a bird. it was still alive so my cat was torementing it. I took it away and held it in my arms..I dont know what happened..but i prayed and saw in my mind a bird flying away..then i felt like power went through my hands to bird..i opened them and then the bird flew away..it was a violet-green swallow..

God bless

That is a beautiful share.. thanks brother.. so encouraging.. Praise God \0/

Makes me think of these scriptures.. about birds.. If God allowed you to pray and His power flowed through you to help that bird.. How much more will allow His power to flow through us to pray and help His own creation.. those made in Gods image!!

Matthew 10:29-31
Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.

Luke 12:24
Consider the ravens, for they neither sow nor reap, which have neither storehouse nor barn; and God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds?

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Inwardly my gut churned with guilt, because I knew how true the message was.

I was holding a sign that read "ABORTION KILLS CHILDREN." I wasn't the only one there. There were hundreds of people, all holding signs. I was determined to fit in, to appear cool and unnerved, But I had a secret I could never reveal. The others might understand, might forgive one abortion, perhaps even two, but seven would be too much to even hope for. I was sure none of the others had ever faced the abortion decision. They couldn't understand that with each I was convinced that I was doing the right thing for myself. Neither would they understand all the circumstances that practically made the choices for me. In their minds, there would be no earthly justification to cover the children who had died in my own womb-in the one place they believed should have been most safe.
Or how could any of these people have the desire to listen and offer comfort? For I esteemed them agents of God, who would be stern judges like my dad. Now, under this sign I felt the same conviction I would have expected from him, if he knew-if I had even tried to explain why-where things had gone wrong.

Every summer our family (including 5 kids) would pile into the family car and head for South Carolina to visit my dad's parents, his 12 brothers and sisters and their large families.

I was just 6 years old at the first reunion, and was paired off with a 5-year-old cousin. We were running through the fields and stopped among the tall corn. He turned to me and touched me in a way that I knew, even at my young age, was wrong. I was shocked into not being able to tell him to stop. What that child did is still painful to remember, and I can still feel the soundless scream from the bottom of my soul. And every summer, for five years the same thing happened even though I'd promise myself I wouldn't let him touch me.

I felt ashamed, that I had disappointed God. I couldn't tell my dad because to him, an Army first sergeant, everything was either clean and correct or it was punishable. Nor could I have God's love or speak to Him, for I feared he was like my dad. I was ashamed, unworthy of love. Then when mom and dad came to kiss and hug my sister and I good night, they'd kiss her and find me pretending to be asleep. They'd turn away and softly close the door. Neither they nor I knew I was sinking into hell-knew how important that hug could have been.

Still, I was a Christian, attending Sunday school. Sin was never mentioned in the church. But in the Wednesday young girls class it was. As a result, although I longed for God's presence, I felt so impure, so defiled that I had no hope of God's love for me.
At 13 I became promiscuous. I liked pot because it released me from the pain of being separated from God and unable to talk to anyone.

The only love I knew was sex, and I was its dedicated child. My parents couldn't hug me, but a mere acquaintance could join with me in the singular most intimate act. At the beginning of my Sophomore year an older boy whom I had recently met at a beach came to town. We smoked pot, drank and ended in his hotel room.

I gladly aborted his child-a loveless sacrifice upon the altar of sensuality. Others were following the same course: unrestrained passion, pregnancy, destroy the child. It was the accepted wisdom. And I was the head of the class, the girl to emulate: a cheerleader, honor-roll, Keywanettes president, homecoming Queen, High School Beauty Queen, I'd even kept the same boyfriend all through high school. And still there was constant uncertainty, no dedication or lasting meaning, only the intimacy of sex that had to be repeated countless times. In 1979, my junior year, I had another abortion "You are only getting rid of a piece of unwanted tissue," they said. It was what a girl had to do to keep her boyfriend.

After college I connected with another man who enjoyed the favors of irresponsible sex, who had no use for the children he begat. So, thinking I was giving unconditional love, I had two of his children aborted. But now there was the realization that I'd lost something precious. But I suppressed it not allowing it any expression. We were married and I destroyed two more children within my own womb. I was obsessed with the need to keep him happy, at any cost. But adultery ended the relationship and four babies never knew the delights of childhood.

Another relationship with a child-man and I gave birth to my first child, Costa. His father could not be found during that birth. During recovery I listened to God. I would end that abusive relationship. My baby didn't need such a father and I didn't need such a husband. Three months later I finally obeyed and said, "no more!"
It was like Heaven heard and on the that same day, I met God's man, Ted Zounis.

He not only loved and needed me, he fell in love with my little guy. I began to get a whole new take on life-life being restored to my dead heart. In fact, with the birth of Costa, I began to sincerely grieve my dead babies.
I loved my baby so much, and it was my first pure love-a far sweeter exchange than I had ever known. And I often wondered, how much would I have loved the ones who died within me. Sometimes seeing an empty swing or toys scattered about someone's yard would slice my heart. On the anniversaries of their deaths I would count the years and wonder what they would have been like had I preferred them above my boyfriends now long gone. And between those times the guilt would rise to haunt my quiet and sleepy hours. It gave me no peace.
In 1990 at Calvary Chapel of Ft. Lauderdale, I found myself in the awesome presence of the God of my childhood, the true lover of my soul, the one I'd forsaken so very long ago. But every time the pastor would speak of abortion or and upcoming event, called Life Chain, I would cringe and grip the arms of the chair with such strength as to leave impressions. For I feared someone would look at me and see a sign above my head flashing "murderer." I felt like I was drowning in guilt and shame. I wanted no one, including Ted to know I'd had seven abortions.

During that time the enemy was whispering, "No matter how much you love God you will not be with him when you die. You will be in Hell with me!" Even though it was a familiar fear, I chose to disregard his evil counsel, and participated in "Life Chain."

For I knew the truth of the words on that sign, "ABORTION KILLS CHILDREN." And with that fire in my hands was the realization of the truth it spoke. A month later I was listening to Carol Evereton on Christian Radio. She spoke a truth I'd heard several times before, became alive to me. It was Jesus suffering, mercilessly beaten and hanging for nine hours on a cross in unspeakable agony as a legal substitute for my punishment! I did not need to face God's wrath or hell! The love I couldn't imagine was there all the time in measureless abundance . . . and my dad? ...how unfair I'd been!

That revelation pierced through my heart. What unspeakable love! I was made clean, not by my efforts or anything I could do. He did it! My abortions were no worse than Saul's sins of murder before he became a chief apostle. All I needed to do was confess my sins and ask God's forgiveness, and seven abortions plus years of sin disappeared from His sight.

I did it with a gratitude that radiated from every nerve and pore. I was bathed in his love, hugged, comforted, and covered in a blanket of peace. I realized then that the fire I had held in my hands was the fire of the Holy Spirit, preparing me for restoration to my Father, the God of my childhood.

The fire in my hands has become a fire in my heart to warn and to heal: To warn of the lifelong horror of abortion-a warning that is withheld by those who profit from abortion. Instead of condemnation I offer the hope and counsel I have received. For He continues to free me from post abortion syndrome, from the weight of the past-of immorality, anger, denial, depression, fear, confusion, loneliness, and self abuse. In exchange, He has given me a peace that will last forever and love that passes understanding.

Moreover, I have a lively hope of being reconciled to my babies in Heaven.

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