Home

by

Mildred Garner

I stood at the back window and watched the red glow from the taillights of David's pickup disappear into the early morning darkness. The bright starlit sky bore witness to the accuracy of last night's weather forecast, and the day would probably dawn crisp and clear.

The stillness of the tall pine branches indicated the absence of the north wind that could make clear sunny days cold and uninviting. The weather seemed to be on my side this morning. This, I thought, is surely a welcomed change.

As I stood peering into the night, small drifts of snow were outlined against the darkness of the forest beyond. Bare ground beneath the long strands of wire clothe-lines showed through a five-day snow cover.

The light from the kitchen window brought my old-fashioned wringer type washing machine into view. And the moonlight shone on the out dated iron wash-kettle that set, bottom up, twenty feet beyond. This black kettle, so highly esteemed by our pioneer grandparents, had become an unwelcome but major part of my country living.

This familiar scene reminded me of the dwindling stack of cloth diapers, the closets of empty hangers, and that my wash day had, by sheer necessity, arrived.

Ordinarily I would have been jubilant at the prospect of having a half decent winter washday, but this morning my feverish, aching body and throbbing head deprived me of any visible evidence that this day could be any more than a disaster, that is, unless the Lord granted me a very special miracle.

In the usual quietness of the morning, I pondered over the events of the past few months. We had chosen this move, and there were no regrets; country living at any cost was worth the sacrifices we were making.

Desperate to leave the copper mines and return to the country, my husband David and my younger brother Roy had bought this eighty acre farm located on the beautiful Huckleberry Ridge in Southwestern Missouri and moved us and our brood of six here from the foothills of the Mescal Mountains of Southeast Arizona.

When we moved into this incomplete and isolated farm house, several miles from a town or village, we had certainly expected to endure some hardships for a while, but failed to contemplate the arrival of winter before water was piped into the house from the mountain spring below the house.

Back in those days (1956), I was thankful for my wringer washing machine, but without the convenience of running water it had to be put on the back porch to have easy access to hot water from the kettle and from the barrels of water my over-worked husband hauled from the spring.

Dipping water from barrels and heating it in an old-fashioned iron wash kettle had reduced my laundering convenience to that of the Stone Age.

A delightful little gurgle coming from the bedroom intruded upon my thoughts; the six-months old twins were wide awake and ready for special attention.

As I diapered and fed the boys, every bone and fiber in my body seemed to rebel against me. It was with deliberate effort I forced myself to discharge my morning responsibilities.

The long school bus ride to Jane, Missouri forced my three older children (Barbara, eleven; Beverley, nine; and Brenda, seven) out into the early morning cold, almost by daybreak. It was time to get everyone in gear.

Soon the girls were gone, and lively little flames were dancing around the primitive wash-kettle. This was only a tiny step toward completing the task before me. But if I exposed my flu infected lungs to the brisk morning cold much longer, I could easily develop a severe case of pneumonia, but I knew no other solution.

I moved the boys' small cribs into the kitchen to make sure of their safety and comfort. Belinda, my four year old daughter, was told to stay close by the cribs and report any problems or unusual activities.

With difficulty I climbed the stairs to find the place of solitude where I often sought retreat to spend time in prayer and worship. As I entered the small room anxiety hindered my ability to express my need, and I reached for a small inspirational booklet written by the late Rev. W.V. Grant (Sr.).

As I read the many scriptures he compiled that supported divine healing, I felt the vibrations of renewed life sweep over my entire being. My lungs instantly opened, and my breathing capability became normal. The old familiar raw and raspy sensation in my nose and throat vanished, and the energy that I needed returned within seconds. My flu recovering time was reduced to a few minutes. I returned to the back yard with youth's vim and vitality to support me through another overloaded workday.

The fragrance of Yahweh's Spirit filled the air around me, and my heart rejoiced at the multitude of his wondrous blessings. I praised the Lord for every event that helped to create my need for a miracle. Without the crisis and the miracle it demanded, I would have silently labored through another uneventful day that was destined to become forgotten history, a day that bore no special witness of His ever-abiding presence. I would have been deprived of this testimony that helped establish my children in the faith, because they too became aware of my wonderful miracle.

Now, forty-five years later, I am still experiencing His miracles and His sustaining grace. I am ever grateful for the many gifts He has given unto us, especially the gift of divine healing.