God Whispers

It was a quiet, hot day, almost mesmeric. Cheryll and I were on holidays at Coolum.   We’d driven to Lake Cootharaba, hired a little motorboat and crossed the lake to the other side. There we walked along a narrow track leading to the coloured sands.  I was completely absorbed in the beautiful sunlit scenery as I followed Cheryll along the track.  My thoughts began to drift while I enjoyed the shimmering hot countryside covered with a profusion of wildflowers – mauve, white and yellow. Suddenly Cheryll leapt backwards and grabbed my hand, saying, ‘Nettie! Nettie! A snake!’ I looked down and sure enough, a huge, long brown snake opened its oh-so-wide jaw about six centimetres from my ankle and hissed. There was no doubt about its intentions. My mind froze. Time stopped. Random, illogical ideas filled my thoughts. Cheryll must be scared. She’s holding my hand. This seemed to last for ages. I...

‘I’ll have to go up and visit Jenny,’ I told my sister. ‘She’s been in a hospice for a while now and I haven’t been to see her since she moved there.’ Jenny had had several strokes which had left her with numerous serious health issues. Her best friend told me she had not long to live. It was hard to believe – bright little Jenny with her blond hair and impish jokes; all the fun we’d had together. She was a sincere Christian too. With a childlike faith, she’d say, as we’d set out for a day at the beach under a grey cloudy sky, ‘Let’s just thank God for that patch of blue sky, Nettie.’ We did, and God swept the clouds away. Jen and I had many happy days out together, often characterised by our having to ask God to intervene and seeing Him move on our behalf. She was also part of our miracle-sparkling New Zealand holiday. The thought had been nagging at my mind. I needed to see Jenny now. I’d put it off, as I was busy teaching speech and drama and running a prayer group. ...

Waiting for the exam . November 1985. Dressed in a skirt and blouse that were pretty but comfortable, I waited to be called in to do my exam for my Speech and Drama teaching letters. I was nervous. Never a comfortable ‘up front’ person, I realised the examiner had the power to give – or withhold – my future plans. I’d had my fill of classroom teaching after that last year teaching teenagers, including boys who were there only because the law forbade them to leave. So I’d picked up my drama studies, hoping to teach individuals or small groups. The door opened. ‘Mrs Jones is ready for you now, Jeanette,’ the lady in charge told me. I walked in as confidently as I could. My program. I’d chosen several pieces to fit the criteria, including a poem I particularly loved, The Flower by George Herbert. That old metaphysical poem expressed exactly what I’d been feeling in my relationship with God lately, so I could say it with heart-felt expression. The examiner. What...

Jacinta’s Miracle - H ealing from chronic fatigue    Photo of newly risen sun - Pam Bishop “Do you think we could pray for my niece Jacinta today?” my friend Joy asked as we settled into the comfy lounge chairs at my little house in Carina.   There were f our of us, the ‘core group’ of a little prayer group I led for many years. “Her chronic fatigue is so bad now she can’t even shower herself.” “Oh! Of course,” we said and proceeded to pray.  We prayed for Jacinta for months, every time we met. We realised many others were praying – her family and friends, her church leaders. Before chronic fatigue Jacinta had been a strong, popular, highly motivated girl who did well at school and was a dancer. She did ballet, pointe, jazz, Latin and tap at a local dance school and did voluntary dancing and choreography for her church’s musicals. When she was seventeen and in Grade Twelve, the trouble began. She was tired. Exhausted. Fo...

"Don’t forget to set your alarm for five o’clock. We’re going to the beach early,”  Margy reminded me one night during my holiday with her family in Nambour. “I haven't forgotten!” No way would I forget a swim at the beach. “I’m coming too!” Ten year old Pam was excited. I prepared for bed and sat in a chair.  Sipping a cup of tea, I read my Bible and sat, hoping to feel God's presence. I'd welcomed these holidays. I hadn't been a Christian long and was still finding my way. A recent mountain top experience with God had left me hungry to hear more of that still small voice, but He'd 'gone silent' in my busy life.  Now I was staying with the Smiths, my friends in Nambour, for six whole weeks. Surely all that free time would enable me to hear from Him! The days drifted past lazily and happily.  I spent plenty of time praying.  Surely He'd speak to me? Wasn't that part of what I’d ‘signed up’ for when I surrendered to God? ...

                                              Photo Arlene Dodson A few weeks ago a close family friend was planning to leave for a New Zealand holiday with his wife. They looked forward to their much-needed break. A day or two before they were due to leave, Rob (we’ll call him Rob), in preparation for his flight, went to the doctor. He hoped to get help for a lingering cough after a cold.   The doctor examined him carefully and said, “Your cough is fine but your heart’s not beating normally. It needs to be checked.” Rob groaned inwardly. Surely not a delay in getting away on holidays? The doctor sent him for tests. He was not okay at all. He was admitted to hospital where further tests showed atrial fibrillation– “You were headed for cardiac failure,” the doctor told him. He proceeded to treat him and aborted the threatened crisis. Go...

Until recently Queensland was in severe drought. Parts still are. This was written a while ago but is still applicable in some areas. I pray for the farmers who still suffer the effects of drought. The land is aching. Parched. I look from my veranda to dry yellow-brown grass, plants dying, even weeds wilting. The entire countryside is tired, drained. The river has shrunk in parts to a narrow silver thread, trickling lazily over dry rocks. Only the deep hole there to swim and cool off. Down near the little stream are banks of cracked mud. Dry and scaly. In the wet weather the mud swells, and now it has shrunk. Further up, big cracks form in the land. Crows make loud protesting ‘ark’ sounds. They hover and flap in the dusty air. Over dinner one night I comment how pretty the yellow-flowering creepers are on the trees near the bank. “They’re a pest,” Jim tells me. “They kill the trees. Suck the life out of them. They’re parasites.” Oh. I wonder if, in dr...