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His Presence
The great Scottish preacher, John McNeill, related how as a young lad he worked late on Saturdays. To reach home he would have to walk through seven dark, dangerous miles on a road that was infamous for robbers and thieves. "One Saturda it was past midnight before I finished my work and left for home. Two miles out of town the road got blacker than ever. There were high, wooded hills on the right and high, wooded hills on the left. The night was as black as a wolf's jaw. I was sixteen years old. I was moving along so fast that my feet hardly touched the ground. Then, suddenly, twenty yards in front of me, so it seemed, there rang out a great, strong, manly voice. "Is that you, Johnny?" And for a moment I couldn't really have told you my name! And then I recovered. That was my father come to meet me at the worst of it! His voice first startled me and then delivered me from all my fears. The night became light around me! His hand on my shoulder, his voice in my ear, and his feet rising, falling on the road beside my own. I feared no evil, for he was with me. I can't tell you any more about the road home that night. Why? Because I was as good as home right there. All that makes home home was with me!"

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for though art with me."

From the book Hours of Power, by Robert H. Schuller

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Feathers in the Wind
Once there was a Catholic priest who made calls regularly in the home of a yound widow. Somebody started passing a rumor. Some busybody began to be suspicious. Two ladies "put two and two together" and began to gossip. Suddenly the young widow died and the community was informed that she had been secretly sick with cancer. Only the priest knew about it. He came regularly to pray for her and to help her. But someone with a dirty mind had started talking. The two ladies who were responsible for it all came to the priest and said, "We are sorry, truly sorry. Whey didn't you tell us, Father?" (A priest or a minister frequently cannot defend himself without violating somebody else's confidence.) The priest answered, "All right, if you're sorry, take this feather pillow, go to the top of the hill, and let the feathers fly where the wind will take them." And they did. When they came back with their empty pillowcase they said, "Father, we have done this. Now, will you forgive us?" The priest answered, "Not until you go out and pick up every feather and put them back in the sack and bring it back to me." They said, "But that is impossible, Father. The winds have blown the feathers to the four corners." To which he replied, "So it is with your words."

From the book Hours of Power, by Robert H. Schuller

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The Power of Thanks
Rudyard Kipling was one of those authors who was very successful in his lifetime. A British newspaper criticized him and ridiculed him and called him a mercenary. They said, "He is now writing just for the money. One word of Rudyard Kipling today is worth a hundred dollars.
Shortly after the release of the unking article, a reporter approached Kipling at a gathering and said, "So, you're worth a hundred dollars a word. Here's a hundred dollars. Give me a word." Then he handed him a paper and pencil.
Kipling took the hundred dollars, put it in his pocket, and on the paper he wrote one word: Thanks!

From the book Hours of Power, by Robert H. Schuller

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