***Special thanks to Ginger Chen for sending me a review copy.***

The early morning sun was rising over the well-kept farms of Delaware’s Amish country as Katie Raber drove her buggy toward Byler’s Store near Dover to begin her day’s work. She squinted when she spotted an approaching buggy in the distance. The horse had its neck arched high in the air. Katie didn’t have to think long before she decided who was coming toward her. Ben Stoll would be holding the reins. It was his buggy. She was sure of that. Ben was one of the best-looking Amish boys around. Blessed was any girl who was invited to ride with him in his buggy—something Katie figured she would never experience. Ben was without a doubt the catch among the community’s Amish young men. A cloud crossed the sun, and Katie held the buggy lines tight as she kept her eyes glued on the approaching buggy. Perhaps she could catch a glimpse of Ben this morning. That was all she could hope for. He was from another world. Ben never spoke to her, and she only saw him at the Sunday meetings and the Amish youth gatherings Mamm allowed her to attend. There he would be laughing and talking with someone else—someone more suited to his taste than “plain Katie,” the out-of-step daughter of the odd widow Emma Raber. Katie could walk right under Ben Stoll’s nose, and he wouldn’t even know a shadow had gone by.

Yah, she was Emma Raber’s daughter. That’s how most people in the community thought of her. She even thought of herself that way—just an extension of her mamm. Mamm was nice enough, and Emma really loved her. So, nee, she wasn’t really complaining. But sometimes her mamm did unusual things, and that made Katie seem so…well, weird to the other young adults in the Amish community. For one thing, there would be no rumspringa for Katie. Everyone else she knew among the Delaware Amish would have their time to run around and try out the ways of the world. But not Katie. Emma Raber wouldn’t even consider such a thing for her daughter. And the Amish youth gatherings were few and far between. Mamm was suspicious of even those. “Too much socializing,” she had said.

She could live without rumspringa. Or without Ben Stoll, for that matter. So what, Katie told herself, it might even be best for her if Ben were unobtainable. He might not be all that wunderbah if she ever got to know him. Katie sighed. These were desperate excuses, and she knew it, but lately Mamm’s restrictions were becoming harded and harder to bear. She was only trying to make herself feel better. Ben was wunderbah. Even her friend Arlene Miller wasn’t above stealing a glance at Ben—and that with her boyfriend, Nelson Graber, sitting right across from her at the Sunday night hymn singings!

Katie wondered if all the girls were as taken with Ben as she was. She was aware of everything about him. She noticed when he wore a new black suit at communion time every spring. She noticed the way his buggy shone when the sun rays bounced off the sides at the Sunday meetings. The boy must spend hours waxing the black vinyl of his buggy, she thought. And most of all, she noticed the way Ben smiled when he was happy, which seemed like most of the time. What would it be like to be the kind of girl who made Ben smile that smile? Ha! Certainly a simple, plain soul like Emma Raber’s daughter couldn’t be such a girl…ever.

Katie tried to look away from the fast-approaching buggy. She was way too fascinated with the boy. If Mamm knew her feelings, Katie knew she’d be given a lecture the size of the state of Delaware and right at the kitchen table after supper. Yah, Mamm would not understand how she felt. Life had been hard for Mamm, especially when it came to men. Hadn’t Daett passed away when Katie was still a young girl? The loss had been so painful for Mamm that she might never marry again.

The beat of horse hooves on pavement grew louder. Katie eased open her buggy door just enough to make sure that whoever was in the passing buggy could see it was her in case a greeting was forthcoming. With her hands on the reins, Katie held her breath as the buggy approached and passed without its buggy door opening even an inch. Katie saw the unmistakable outline of Ben’s face through the small window. His hat was tight on his head, and his eyes were looking straight ahead. The moment passed in a flash without the smallest flicker of a hand wave through the window. And then the buggy was gone.

It was the sun in his eyes, Katie told herself. That’s why Ben hadn’t slid open the buggy door or bothered to wave. But she knew better. Ben wasn’t being mean. No, she just wasn’t worth the effort. He had greater and better things on his mind than paying attention to Emma Raber’s odd daughter. Now if she were beautiful, or charming, or funny, or even talkative at the Sunday-night hymn singings, it might be different. With such qualities, perhaps her plainness could be overcome. But all that was a dream that would never come true. She couldn’t be what she wasn’t.

Perhaps she should settle for Joe Helmuth from down the road. Joe walked with a limp from a hay wagon accident when he was five. He would take over his daett’s farm someday, but the scars from that long-ago day would never leave him. The problem was that Joe didn’t pay Katie any attention either.

Well, at least thinking about Ben Stoll helped ease the pain a little, Katie decided. She was only Katie Raber, after all. The girl who could barely open her mouth without dumb words falling out all over each other. If she could only be more like the rest of the Amish girls in the community. But that could never be either, not with how Mamm felt about things.

Katie slapped the reins against her horse as her thoughts swirled through her mind. She couldn’t remember much about Daett. He’d been gone since she was three years old. She could remember happy times though. Going to the barn with him when they did the evening chores. But that was so long ago. If she only had a daett, Katie decided, life would be different. If Mamm married again, Katie figured both of them would be better accepted in the community and Mamm might change her ways. The most obvious possibility was widower Jesse Mast. And he’d come calling on Mamm again just the other evening. Mamm hadn’t said anything about the visit, but Jesse had surely spoken of marriage.

Yah, Mamm should marry again, Katie decided. Mamm’s sorrow over losing her husband was still written on her face after all these years. Was it not high time things changed? Yah, and Katie would pray about the matter.

Da Hah must already be thinking the same thing if He was sending Mamm a suitor in the person of Jesse Mast. So why couldn’t Mamm see this and accept Jesse’s offer of marriage? Was she turning him down because he wasn’t much to look at? Yah, he was a little rough around the edges. But it wasn’t like Mamm to be so concerned with outward appearance. She went more by a person’s kind heart than how he looked on the outside. Perhaps it was the fact that Jesse’s frau, Millie, had died and left him with a family of five children. Was that why Mamm objected? She didn’t want her household increased so dramatically?

Nee, Katie decided that couldn’t be the reason either. Mamm didn’t mind hard work. And if a large family was the problem, she should have been happy after turning down Jesse. Instead, Mamm had walked around the house with the lines on her face running deeper than ever. So why had she turned Jesse down? That was assuming Mamm had turned him down. The proposal of marriage was just a guess on Katie’s part, but she was sure she was right. It couldn’t have been anything else. The two had talked for a long time while sitting on the porch swing. Afterward, Jesse had stood in the yard for a few moments longer, still speaking with Mamm. He’d held his hat in his hand, the sweat ring in his hair still apparent from where the hat had been pressed tightly on his head. Then Jesse had walked back to his buggy, his head bowed. Even Jesse’s horse, Lucy, had looked depressed as they drove down the lane.

Katie had been ready to ask Mamm what Jesse wanted, but one look at her face caused her to change her mind. Mamm looked troubled and yet, at the same time, ready to give someone a piece of her mind. A question from Katie could easily have resulted in another lecture she didn’t want to hear. A lecture about being satisfied with one’s lot in life and not reaching for the stars. That was the standard lecture Mamm always gave when Katie dared complain about attending more of the Amish youth gatherings.

“You don’t know how nice you have it,” Mamm would say. “We have enough to eat, a roof over our heads, and horses to drive us to work and church. What more could we ask for?”

Well, Katie thought, there was plenty more to ask for. All kinds of things a young woman could want. Things that were out there just waiting to enrich one’s life—and, happily, things that were not forbidden by the Ordnung. Like liking a boy. Like someday loving a man who would love her back and consider his life empty without her. Someone who’s eyes would light up when he saw her. Someone who called her sweet things on Sunday nights as he sat on the couch beside her. Wasn’t that what dating couples did? Mamm wouldn’t say when Katie asked, other than muttering something about useless talking until all hours of the night.

How could such time be considered wasted? Katie wondered. It would be glory indeed to sit beside a boy—a soon-to-be man so near she could touch him. What delight it would be to hear his deep voice rumble when he spoke or feel his eyes watching her long before she looked up to meet his gaze. Nee, this couldn’t be wasted time. It would be a touch of heaven, and the most worthwhile thing a girl could set her heart on. Especially if the boy were Ben Stoll…

Katie sighed. So had Jesse Mast asked for Mamm’s hand? Had she turned him down? She’d sent him away looking disappointed, so something was going on. And then there was that look on Mamm’s face in the evenings after the sun had set and the house was quiet. Mamm didn’t like the loneliness of their house either—the hours without a man’s voice being heard. She’d been silent after Jesse left that night, staring at the kitchen wall and seemingly more troubled than usual.

What could she do to help? Katie wondered. She should do something, yah.

A car passed Katie’s buggy, its engine roaring. Katie forced her mind back on the road ahead. Her horse, Sparky, knew the way to Byler’s Store. He should after all this time she’d worked there. But even so, he mustn’t be allowed to go his own way.

Ahead of her, Bishop Jonas Miller’s place was coming up. His wife, Laura, was out in the yard hanging wash on the line. Katie leaned out of the buggy to wave, and Laura paused long enough to wave back before bending again to her work. At least the older Amish folk didn’t think she was strange, even with her Mamm the way she was.

Katie settled herself in the buggy seat again. If Mamm married Jesse, she might have to stay home from her job at Byler’s and help with the added work five children entailed. But that would be an attractive kind of work—more normal almost. And it could lead to other kinds of normalness in her life. And perhaps even to a boy sitting on the couch beside her some Sunday night after a hymn singing. Yah, somehow Mamm must be persuaded to accept Jesse’s offer of marriage.

Katie turned into the parking lot at Byler’s and pulled Sparky to a stop at the far end of the hitching rail that was located on one side of the store. She climbed down, unhitched the buggy, and led Sparky around to the back where he could munch at stray pieces of grass during the day. She tied him to the fence with a long rope before walking back to the buggy. She pushed both doors shut before heading to the employee entrance of the store.

***Special thanks to Ginger Chen for sending me a review copy.***

I can still see his face. Lean. Determined. Framed by his lengthy beard. I can see him running up the hill toward our house. He was carrying his bag of doctor implements. 

Mom was having chest spasms, and any real doctor was miles away—across four hours of the broken, rutted, dusty Honduran road we took only as a last resort.

The running man was my Uncle Joe. The smart one of the family. The older brother. The intellectual genius. When Uncle Joe walked by, we stopped talking and listened intently when he spoke. On this day, he rushed by, not paying any attention to us children.

I knew he was coming about Mom, but I recall experiencing no fear for her life. Perhaps I wasn’t old enough to have such a fear. To me, Uncle Joe’s haste seemed more entertainment than emergency. After all, Mom had looked fine to me a few minutes earlier.

When Uncle Joe left the house some time later, he issued a favorable report that I never questioned. Nor did anyone else. The mysteries of the Englisha world of medicine were even further removed from us than the four hours to town. Uncle Joe studied the books, and we trusted him.

Years later, when our little Amish community in Central America was on its last legs and held in the grip of terrible church fights over cape dresses, bicycles, singing in English or Spanish on Sunday mornings, and other horrors that the adults spoke of with bated breath, it was the look on Uncle Joe’s face as he talked with Mom and Dad by the fence on Sunday afternoon that made things clear to me. If Uncle Joe thought something was over, then it was over.

Uncle Joe lived below us, across the fields, in a house smaller than ours even though his family was much larger. How they managed, I never thought to wonder. Their house never looked crowded. It was kept spotless by his wife, Laura, and their oldest daughters Rosanna and Naomi. We didn’t visit often on Sunday afternoons. Mostly we children dropped by on weekdays, sent on some errand by Mom or we wandered past on our meanderings around the countryside.

They kept goats in the yard, all of them tied with long ropes to stakes. One of them was named Christopher. We didn’t have goats. Dad ran a machine shop, and Mom took care of the garden. Goats were foreign to us. Smelly creatures. Mom scorned goat’s milk, even when Uncle Joe said emphatically it was far superior to cow’s milk.

We all lived near each other in those days—part of a grand experiment to see if the Amish faith could survive on foreign soil.

My grandfather, Peter Stoll, an Amish man of   impeccable standing, had taken it upon himself to lead an Amish community to the Central American country of Honduras. He wasn’t an ordained minister, and I don’t remember seeing him speak in public. Still, the integrity of his life and his ideas so affected those around him that they were willing to follow him where few had gone before.

At the height of the experimental community, we ended up being twenty families or so. We all lived on two neighboring ranches purchased in a valley below a mountain. Most of us had come to Honduras from the hot religious fervor of the small Aylmer community along the shores of  Lake Erie in Southern Ontario or from the detached coolness of Amish country spread over Northern Indiana. Plans were for the two to become one in mind and heart. And for awhile we did.

Those were wonderful years. The memories of that time still bring an automatic gathering of hearts among the Amish who were there—and even some of us who are no longer Amish. All these years later, most of us are scattered across the United States and Canada—except for the few of the original group who stayed behind.

Some of the people credit the joy of those days to the weather in our Honduras valley. And lovely weather it was. Balmy. Hardly ever above ninety or below forty. Others credit the culture. Some attribute our happiness to being so far from the States that we only had each other. I don’t know the full reason for our happiness. Perhaps it isn’t possible to know. But I do remember the energy of the place—its vibrancy. I do know the years left their imprints on us all.

This was my childhood. Those hazy years when time drags. When nothing seems to come soon enough. And where everything is greeted as if it had never been before. To me that land—that valley—was home. I absorbed it completely. Its sounds. Its language. The color of the dusty towns. The unpaved streets. The pigs in the doorway of the huts. The open fires over a metal barrel top. The taste of greasy fried beans. The flour tortillas and meat smoked to perfection. In my heart there will always be a deep and abiding love for that country.

Around us were mountains. To the north they rose in a gradual ridge, coming in from the left and the right to meet in the middle, where a distinctive hump rose into the air—officially named Mt. Misoco. But to us it was simply what the locals called it: La Montaña. The Mountain. Our mountain. Which it was in ways we could not explain.

To the south lay the San Marcos Mountains. At least that’s what we called them. Those rugged, jagged peaks lying off in the distance. I never climbed those mountains, but I often roamed our mountain—or rather our side of it—from top to bottom. On its peak, looking over to the other side, you could see lines and lines of ridges running as far as the eye could see.

A party of courageous Amish boys, along with a few visiting Amish youngsters from stateside, once decided to tackle the San Marcos Mountains. They threw their forces together and allowed two days for the trip. I was much too young to go along—and probably wouldn’t have anyway. But I waited for news of their adventure with interest. They came back soon enough— defeated and full of tales of dark jungles and multiple peaks that disoriented the heart. No one even caught sight of the highest point, let alone the other side.

In the summer, around five in the morning, the Southern Cross—that symbol of Christianity—hung over the San Marcos Mountains. Its haunting figure made of stars swung low in the sky. I would stand for long minutes gazing at the sight, caught up in the glory of it.

I was eight when we arrived in Honduras. We were one of the first families there after Grandfather Stoll had purchased and settled on the Sanson ranch. Dad seemed driven to the move by motives other than adventure. He was unhappy with the ordnung rules in the Amish community at Aylmer, and he wanted change. Change that didn’t include the great sin of joining a more liberal Amish church, of course.

In time Dad came to love the land along with the rest of us. And strangely, he came to love what he didn’t expect—the old ways, imperfect though they had been. My most enduring memory of Dad in those days is hearing him sing the old German songs at the top of his voice over the roar of his machine shop motors. And in the end, it came down to that question for all of them. A choice between what they loved and what they loved the most.

I grew up surrounded by men dedicated to an old faith. I saw those men, most of them my uncles, tested to the core. I saw them wrestle with the old and with the new, trying to figure out where everything fit together. I lived among giants of faith. I saw their agony and their sacrifice. I saw their choices, and it affected me deeply. Their faith had been hammered out back in the sixteenth century, in the old town of Zurich, Switzerland. Back during the time Ulrich Zwingli thundered his sermons in the old Grossmunster Church.

But in the days of my childhood, those stories of   long ago were not mine yet. Those gallant tales of deeds done under fire and sword. Of imprisonment in noblemen’s castles. Of narrow escapes into the Swiss countryside from the murderous Berne Anabaptist hunters. Instead, my memories are of men in my own time. Men who believed that life was not worth living if you didn’t believe in something worth dying for. I was surrounded by men of passion. And if someone should make the claim that these men were misguided, I would insist the fault lay not in caring too much about religious matters. For I learned while growing up among them that this is how a person should live. That true believers follow God with all of their hearts and souls.

***Special thanks to Rick Roberson for sending me a review copy.***

Is the Great Physician

Still Practicing?
When  Larry  and  Alice Parker  visit a nondescript cemetery  in Barstow,  California, and stand beside  the grave of their son, their eyes mist with tears. They undoubtedly think, If only we had known. You see, their eleven-year-old son, Wesley, tragically died in their home on the warm morning of August 22, 1973, three days after a traveling evangelist, at a Sunday service, had pronounced him healed. In my file is a yellowing article from The Los Angeles Times telling about the family’s ordeal.
Having struggled with diabetes for five years, Wesley and his parents had believed that God could heal him. When the evangelist prayed for the boy and asked, “Wes, do you believe you are healed?” he replied, “Yes.” “I believe that you are, too,” said the evangelist. Then the parents decided to fast and pray for their son and do what proved to be a tragic mistake—no longer give him insulin. They reasoned that if God had indeed healed him, there was no longer any need to continue with the medication.
When Wes died, the world of his parents collapsed. Not only did Larry and Alice deeply grieve the loss of their son, but they were

also deeply confused and heartbroken. Their friends severely criticized and abandoned them. Then the district attorney filed charges of involuntary manslaughter against them. The police came and took them to jail. Anticipating this turn of events, the Parkers had arranged for friends to care for their remaining children. The child protection authorities, however, came to their home, took the children, and sent them to juvenile hall with hardened delinquents.
Imprisoned separately in the San Bernardino jail, Larry and Alice wondered if they would ever see each other again. The guards taunted them, saying, “There’s no way they’re going to let you guys out.” The court found them guilty as charged, and they were placed on probation for five years.
Before you get overly critical, realize that at the time of Wesley’s death, Larry, then age thirty-nine, had already served three years in the armed forces as an electronics technician. Larry was an electronics engineer with Bendix Field Engineering and was praised by his superiors as “an excellent employee.” The Parkers were a typical middle-class family, taking their children to church and living the California dream.
Did Larry and Alice realize at that time that Wesley’s dependence on insulin was so severe? No! Would they have withheld insulin had they known of the consequences? Absolutely not! So what, then, had truly caused Wesley’s death? Unsound theological teaching and misconceptions about God and healing—convictions about biblical teaching that were sincere but misaligned, convictions held and sincerely believed by many, even today, who teach that because God wants you healed, you should trust Him exclusively and avoid medicine because it is of the devil.
The Parkers eventually authored a book entitled We Let Our Son Die, where they admitted that they had made a “tragic error” in with- holding insulin from their son.
The Parkers are not alone in wreaking unintentional suffering and even death on minors. John O’Connor, writing for The New York Times, says, “Over the last 15 years, at least 125 children in the United States have died because their parents belong to Christian Science churches or fundamentalist sects that believed prayer alone could cure illness.” What Jesus told the religious leaders of His day aptly applies to these groups: “You are in error because you do not know the Scriptures or the power of God” (Matt. 22:29 NIV).
W here is t he Truth of Scripture?
C. S. Lewis said that when Satan sends errors into the world, he sends them in pairs—extremes. Christians today are confronted with t wo positions regarding  healing that stand in juxtaposition to each other. On the one hand, dispensationalists teach that the miracles of healing wrought by Christ, those we read about in the Gospels, were only temporal displays of His might and power, certifying His divinity, calling attention to His message, but they gradually lessened during the era of the early church. Dispensationalism teaches that after the work of redemption had been completed, after Jesus ascended to heaven and God’s Word was recorded in the Bible, to give us a full understanding of His purpose and plan, miracles gradually ceased.
On the other hand, there are segments of Christendom—extreme charismatics and Pentecostals (such as the evangelist who insisted that Wesley Parker had been healed)—who believe that it is God’s will that every Christian be healed because healing is part of the atonement. To validate their belief, they point to Isaiah 53:5 that states, “But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed” (NIV). These words were affirmed by Peter in 1 Peter

2:24: “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.” Those who hold to this belief assert that, if you as a Christian are not healed, it is because you have unconfessed sin in your life or you simply do not have enough faith.
In her book A Place of Healing, Joni Eareckson Tada, a quadriplegic as the result of a diving accident, tells of one incident after a church service when she was wheeling herself across the parking lot toward her van. A young man stopped her and asked, “Are you Joni?” He explained that he was visiting her church and was hoping that he could personally pray for her healing. “I can’t tell you how many people I’ve met over the years who’ve done the same thing,” she told him. Assuring him that she never refused a prayer for healing, she listened as the young man brought up an obviously scripted statement:
Have you ever considered that it might be sin standing in the way of your healing,” he began, quickly adding, “or that you’ve disobeyed in some way?” Before Joni could answer, he opened his Bible to Mark 2, to the story of the paralytic brought to Jesus by four men. The four companions had broken through the roof and lowered the paralyzed man into the room where Jesus was.

After reading the brief passage, the stranger pointed out that if Joni would only confess her sin and have faith, then she, too, like the paralytic, would be healed. Clearly he was putting the blame on the one who was in need of healing. He said, “Joni, you must have a lack of faith. I mean, look at you. You’re still in your wheelchair.” Explaining that it was not the faith of the paralyzed man but the faith of the four companions that Jesus honored, Joni bounced the ball back in his court, suggesting that if he had

the faith he thought she should have, then God would heal her.
Then Joni writes, “Does He always heal? Does He heal everyone who comes to Him in faith? Does He miraculously intervene in the lives of all who pray for release from migraine headaches . . . multiple sclerosis . . . prostate cancer . . . a bad case of the flu . . . or in my case, chronic pain? And if not, then why not? And why does He heal some and not others?
These questions echo the heart cries of many people who also ask: “Is the Great Physician still in business? Does He keep office hours? Is Jesus Christ really the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow? If Jesus healed when He walked the earth two thousand years ago, can He not do the same thing today?”
We are confronted with an issue: If the dispensationalists expect too little of God and the charismatics expect too much, where is God in relation to my need, my pain, and my need for healing in my broken life?
Let God Be God
What you believe about God profoundly affects your life, your marriage, your morality, your purpose in life, your worldview, and certainly your view as to whether or not you can count on God to walk with you through the dark valleys of life, take you out of the pit when you fall, and be your Healer in the time of need.
While nature, history, science, or philosophy tell us little about God—who He is, what He does, how much He cares about us—there is a trustworthy source of knowledge about Him: the Bible. In my book Why You Can Have Confidence in the Bible, I make the case for its authenticity, credibility, and trustworthiness. I cited the abundance of manuscript evidence, the fulfilled prophecies that  defy human explanation, the compelling testimony of archeology, the collation of what the Bible says with the facts of science, and the remarkable manner in which this book changes the lives of people.
I, therefore, accept at face value what the Bible tells us about God, about ourselves, and about Jesus. He walked the shores of Galilee, teaching as no other person has ever done, healing the sick, the lame, the suffering, even raising the dead on three occasions, among many other acts of love and power. I believe the four biographers—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—who wrote about how Jesus Christ was crucified at the hands of roman soldiers, placed in a tomb for three days, but rose again and showed Himself alive beyond reasonable doubt.
Accepting the fact that God is God puts Him in a category above humankind, above time and space, and certainly above all the human logic that defines what He can do and what He cannot do. If God is God, then you and I can accept the fact that He is supernatural— period!
I also acknowledge that this book, the Bible, which countless numbers of individuals have died for rather than repudiate, tells us much about God that has been borne out by human experience down through the centuries. If God is God, then you can accept the fact that He is supernatural—period! What He does cannot always be defined in terms that I can either understand or explain; otherwise, God would simply be a ref lection of ourselves—not the divine Creator who placed the stars in the firmament, the planets in orbit, and created Earth and those who live on it.
The supernatural, of course, embraces miracles, something many scientists and even a few theologians deny. What is a miracle? If you need a definition, you haven’t seen one; if you have seen one, you don’t need a definition.
Nonetheless, I like Lewis Smedes’s definition. He wrote:
In the biblical view a miracle is a signal that God is, for a moment and for a special purpose, walking down paths he does not usually walk. A miracle is

not a sign that a God who is usually absent is, for the moment, present. It is only a sign that God who is always present in creative power is working here and now in an unfamiliar style.4
A miracle is the suspension of the laws of cause and effect—not a denial of them. And, yes, miracles defy human explanation. If, however, God is supernatural, on occasion He may choose to do that which is entirely outside your experience and even history itself. Never forget that the greatest miracle is that God—He who is from everlasting to everlasting—should become human flesh, born of the virgin Mary, should live a sinless life, be crucified and rise from the dead the  third day. From the act of creation to the closing chapters of the book of revelation, the Bible asserts the miraculous simply because God is God, and, furthermore, the writers of Scripture assert that God is sovereign in what He does and chooses not to do.
W hat Does t he Sovereignty of God Mean in t he

Context of Life in t he Twenty-first Century?
Over the centuries theologians have attempted to explain what God is like, defining the attributes of God. Thus we say God is eternal, unchangeable,  all-knowing, wholly good, completely and absolutely just, all-powerful,   faithful, compassionate,  holy, among many. Yet if there is one attribute or observation about God that you need to remember especially when your body needs physical healing, it is that God is sovereign!
The first known use of the English adjective sovereign was in the fourteenth century.  This Anglo-French word was used in the Vulgate and means “over,” “above,” or “supreme.” The Greek word usually translated as sovereign is despota, which gave us the English word despot. It was used in the first century to refer to a slave owner or the master of a household. It was found in ancient manuscripts known as papyri, referring to someone who owned a ship.
Today some forty-four countries in the world are ruled by monarchs, and in these countries royalty, in various and different capacities, are considered sovereigns. Kings and queens are esteemed and enjoy rights of succession usually based on descendancy. Countries where royalty is acknowledged are considered to be kingdoms as opposed to republics, which are governed by democracy and the votes of citizens.
In order to marry the love of his life, King Edward V II of Britain abdicated the throne to marry a divorced woman, Mrs. Wallis Simpson; but normally kings and queens are there for life, unlike politicians who sometimes think the same but in reality are elected officials who can be voted out of office in the same manner they were initially elected. It is generally understood that while royalty are keenly aware of the political ramifications of what they do, they are not accountable to any save the Almighty in the same way that other government officials are.
But what of God, who has neither beginning nor end, who is the uncreated Creator, the one described as eternal God? To whom is He accountable? Have we any right to blame Him or make any demands when we don’t like what He does?
Should you have the privilege of ever being invited to have an audience with Queen Elizabeth of Britain, you would be advised of protocol—how you should approach her majesty, the proper manner in which you should bow or curtsy, the fact that you should not touch even her hand unless she first offers it to you, and  how you should make your exit. You wouldn’t expect to give her a bear hug like you would a friend or indulge in trivial nonsense as you might with an old classmate you had not seen for some time. You do not sit down and negotiate with someone who is a sovereign, suggesting, “Let’s make a deal!” as many people do with God.
In the days of the patriarchs—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—there were two kinds of covenants, or legal contracts as we would think of them today. One kind reflected an agreement between two equals— say, neighbors resolving a dispute over property boundaries, or merchants agreeing on the terms of doing business together—stipulations and consequences of failure. The other kind of covenant was that of a sovereign who blesses his subjects, giving them what they neither deserve nor could purchase. This latter kind comprises the covenants God made with Israel.
There is, however, one significant difference between your relationship with the Triune God, who sent His Son to Earth, and how you would approach a king or queen who is sovereign of an earthly kingdom. If you have been adopted into the family of God, you are God’s child. You are a new person. Your sins have been forgiven. Your past is covered with the blood of Christ; and, according to Hebrews 4, you can come boldly, unannounced, and enter into His presence any- time, anywhere. In his book Miraculous Healings, Henry Frost writes, “There are two words which would bring to me the assurance that God, from time to time, will give healing to His children, even if there was not another word in the Bible concerning the matter. I refer to the Lord’s Prayer and the words, ‘Our Father’ (Matt. 6:9).”6
An incident I watched on TV in 1962 well illustrates the privilege of God’s children in relation to our Father. The United States was then engrossed in a ferocious struggle with the USSR over the issue of Russian missiles being planted in Cuba, within easy reach of cities on the eastern seaboard. President John F. Kennedy was in the Oval Office meeting with key advisors when a side door opened and four- year-old John-John, the president’s son, came in. The president, seeing the little boy, walked over and picked him up. He sat him on his knee for a few minutes, then put the lad down, who exited as he came in, and the discussion of the serious affairs of the state continued. So, too, can we who are His children have access at any time to our Father’s presence.
But even going beyond the warmth of the term “father,” the apostle Paul uses an expression for God as Father, the Aramaic word Abba. Aramaic was the Hebrew dialect spoken in Jesus’ day. With no direct English equivalent of the word Abba, the closest term for Abba is what little children  often use for their father—Daddy or Papa.
If God is your heavenly Father, then you can come into His presence as Jesus taught, praying, “Our Father in heaven.” However, does this mean you can demand of the Sovereign God, ordering Him to do your will, holding Him accountable  when you ask for something— perhaps healing—and you don’t get what you want? Do you hold Him accountable for all sickness, suffering, and injustice in the world? Are you then entitled to think of Him as being indifferent, impotent, or far removed from your need?
Benefits of Acknowledging t hat God Is Sovereign
“Dear Teacher,” read the message on a get-well-soon card a teacher received from her class. “We wish you a speedy recovery by a vote of

14 to 13.” Yes, indeed. That’s a democracy, where the majority decides what happens. But with God no votes are taken. Public opinion doesn’t cause Him to change His mind or thinking. His kingdom has no elected officials. Because God is sovereign, what He wills is absolute.
Since God is sovereign and I am His child, what are the benefits of believing that He—not fate or chance—rules the day? Allow me to focus on several benefits for you:
Benefit 1: The burden of bearing the responsibility for running the world—even the circumstances of your own personal life—has been lifted from your shoulders. A pundit once said if you want to get along with the king, stay off his throne. The day you resign from being the CEO of the universe will be the best day of your life. That good news is exactly what Paul was driving at when he wrote, “And we know

that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (rom. 8:28 NIV). Underline the words “we know.” Notice that the verse does not say “we hope,” not “we think,” or even “we believe.” Also underline the phrase, “God works.” The outcome isn’t dependent on your clever manipulation of the circumstances. You are not the one who has to make it happen; God is! And you can trust the Father.
This also means that the circumstances that confront you are a matter of God’s sovereign will—not His failure, weakness, or indifference—and they have been allowed in order to accomplish what may never be fully understood. The British-born evangelist and Bible teacher Allan Redpath knew both illness and deep depression. Understanding that nothing happens to us apart from the Father’s hand, he wrote, “There is no circumstance, no trouble, no testing, that can ever touch me until, first of all, it has gone past God and past Christ, right through to me. If it has come that far, it has come with a great purpose.”
Benefit 2: You will receive a sense of wholeness and peace as your inheritance. You may not understand everything God does. Whether or not you understand everything isn’t important because God has not given you the burden of understanding but the yoke of simple obedience. When we think, as we sometimes do, that nothing is happening, something of which you may be totally unaware is happening as God is quietly working in ways you cannot see. Knowing that He’s sovereign and in charge allows you to rest in the confidence that because He is in control, you can turn off the light at night and say, “God, You take over the night shift. I’m going to sleep.” I take great heart in the phrase that God neither slumbers nor sleeps (see Ps. 121:4).
The daughter of an engineer, who works in a power plant in one of Norway’s fjords, used to ride an open cable car up the steep incline of the face of the fjord to get to school. One day a visiting stranger, having been to the power plant on business, rode up with the little girl. He clutched his seat tightly. The little girl, on the other hand, appeared nonchalant. “Aren’t you afraid?” he asked her. “Oh, not at all,” she replied, adding, “Father is at the controls; and when he’s in charge, I know that everything will be all right.”
Accepting the truth that God is sovereign gives you confidence that our world is not under the control of mad men, no matter what the media tell us.
Benefit 3: A sense of security both spiritually and emotionally. Jesus told His disciples that they did not choose Him; rather, He chose them. How does that translate? If you are a believer, this means drawing from Ephesians 1—God chose you before the foundation of the world. You are no chance of fate, no accident of your parents.  You are a unique person made in the image of God, and He chose you to be His son or daughter.
Benefit 4: You will have confidence that God listens to you when you pray. Because you are God’s child, you can come boldly into the presence of the Father. He sorts out the foolish things you and I ask for and gives us what we really need. He does this because of His great love for us as His children. Take time to read romans 8, especially the last portion where Paul so beautifully says that nothing can separate us from the love of this sovereign, caring God, neither now nor for all eternity.
Benefit 5: You will have the potential of becoming the person God intended you to be. As His child you are a unique individual who can discover that your weakness can become God’s strength. Consider George Washington Carver (1864 –1943), the son of slave parents, and an American botanist who became famous for discovering more than three hundred uses for the lowly peanut. The story goes that Carver once asked God, “Lord, what is the universe?” God said, “George, that’s too big for your little head. Suppose you let me take care of the universe.” Greatly humbled, the scientist asked, “Then, Lord, if the universe is too big for me to understand, please tell me, what is a pea- nut?” And then the Lord answered, “Now George, you’ve got some- thing your own size. A peanut can understand a peanut; go to work on the peanut while I run the universe.”7
Carver was a gifted and unique individual who overcame tremendous obstacles—race, prejudice, and environmental and physical challenges. Like him each of us is confronted with different challenges, yet knowing that you are God’s  child and nothing  is beyond His power—no person, no situation, no disease, no evil—allows you then to concentrate on fulfilling His purpose for your life.
Carver discovered that if farmers would grow peanuts on the soil that had been depleted of nutrients by years and years of growing cot- ton, indispensable nitrogen would be put back into the soil. Then he went to work finding uses for the crop in order to make the growing of peanuts financially rewarding. From peanuts Carver made cheese, milk, butter, flour, ink, dyes, soap, stains, and many other substances.
Ethel Waters was right when she said, “God don’t make no junk!” As His child you are a unique individual who can discover that your weakness can become God’s strength
Benefit 6: You will have increased faith that God will honor the promises of His Word and bring healing and wholeness to your brokenness. God wills healing and restoration for your broken life—emotionally, spiritually, and physically.
The will of the Father was lived out in the life of the Son of whom John wrote, “In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:4 –5). Satan, God’s archenemy, is described as a destroyer; but God is always associated with life and healing. In John 10:10, Jesus says, “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” He also tells us, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” ( John 14:6).
It is God’s nature to bring healing to our brokenness, whether it is emotional, spiritual, or physical. A crimson thread of healing is woven throughout Scripture, beginning with the skins of animals that were slain by God Himself in the garden to provide a covering for our first parents’ nakedness, to the closing chapters of revelation—all of which reveal that healing is reflective of God’s nature and character. He stands in marked contrast to Satan, described throughout Scripture as apollyon or the destroyer.

Jesus Christ— God in t he Flesh—Is A lso Sovereign

In his seminal book Life in the Trinity, Don Fairbairn, a Ph.D. from

Cambridge, points out that what is true of the Father is true of the Son,

And what is true of the Father and the Son is true of the Holy Spirit as the third person of the trinity. We do not worship three gods but one, and the life that was lived by Jesus for some thirty-three years on Earth was a ref lection of the Father’s heart and character. “Whoever has seen me,” Jesus told Philip, “has seen the Father” ( John 14:9).
Christ’s sovereignty in healing was expressed in various ways, such as the following:
1. He chose whom He healed. No, Jesus did not heal everyone who was sick during His brief ministry of thirty-six to forty-two months, yet several times we are told that He healed everyone who came to Him. More about this in subsequent chapters.

2. He chose the manner in which the healings took place and the conditions attached to them. “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam,” He told the blind man ( John 9:7). He healed this man by applying mud on his eyes but healed another by spitting on his eyes and laying His hands on them. Why? Most responses to that question are simply conjectures. Because Jesus did nothing without reasons, what He did not reveal cannot always be explained.
3. He healed sicknesses physicians of the first century could not cure. (Yes, there were doctors in Jesus’ day, including Luke the physician, the author of the Gospel that bears his name as well as the book of Acts.) There are no records of Jesus healing illnesses such as a cold or the flu, toothaches, bruises, or upset stomachs. It wasn’t that He could not, but the writers of Scripture focused on His bringing healing to ailments for which there were no human cures, thus demonstrating that He cured what only God could cure.
4. He chose a total of eighty-four individuals—twelve disciples and the seventy-two who were empowered to heal the sick and cast out demons. Then in the book of Acts we find four more who were thus empowered—Stephen, Barnabas, Philip, and Paul.9  Mark tells us that when Jesus began His ministry, He “called to him those whom he desired” (Mark 3:13). The Greek text is even more emphatic, stating that “he called unto himself those whom he himself wanted.” Then again in the Upper room, immediately before His crucifixion Jesus reiterated, “You did not choose me, but I chose you” ( John 15:16).
So W ho Is Really In Charge—You or God?
Ask yourself a question: “Which of us, Lord, shall really be sovereign—You or me?” I seriously doubt that you will ever hear someone voice that line in his prayers, yet this issue has confronted almost everyone at some point in his or her spiritual walk. It is the issue of control, the question of who really is in charge—God or you?
Jesus, praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, sweating as it were great drops of blood, struggled with this tremendous issue. Never before had He been separated from the presence of the Father. Seeing the black cloud overshadowing the cross, He prayed, “Let this cup pass from Me; nevertheless, not My will but Yours be done!”

Some contend, mistakenly I believe, that because God is sovereign, He is going to do exactly what He pleases. To pray, therefore, about a situation would be an exercise in futility. They believe that even before the world was created, God had decreed that certain things would happen and those things will happen regardless of my prayers or my human will. This thinking can have a chilling effect on my health and happiness, especially when I am on the receiving end of illness.
Others believe that by pleading and even demanding, they can get their way. Both beliefs are incorrect. Do you want to be like Jesus? Then pray as though everything depends on God, and live as though everything depends on you. Understand that God is a good God and He wills His best for you as His child. remember that Jesus asked, “What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will instead of a fish give him a serpent; or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion?” (Luke 11:11–12). When you understand God’s nature and His design and plan for your life, the issue of “which of us is going to be in control—you or me?” dissipates in the light of His love and care.
Prayer doesn’t change God’s mind, but it changes our minds, bringing our stubborn, rebellious, sometimes selfish wills into harmony with the will of a sovereign Father so that we can pray with faith and fervency: “Lord, may Your will be done.”
W hat You Need to K now
• Acknowledge that God is God, but along with that an understanding of what His Word says is vital. Sincerity is not the issue—truth is! Today Larry and Alice Parker, the couple described at the beginning of this chapter, would surely acknowledge that if they had not been influenced by erroneous teaching, they would have handled their son’s physical need differently.
• Accepting the fact that God is sovereign is not implying that He is disinterested, impotent, or out of touch with the needs of your life. The compassion of the Father was lived out in the life of the Son who touched the untouchables, who lifted up the fallen, who treated the down-and-out with dignity and respect. The fact that He is sovereign means He is greater than any need you shall ever experience.
• Because God is sovereign, you do not order Him to do your will; rather you yield your will to His, understanding that doing the will of God is the highest form of faith.
• Keep in mind that supernatural miracles, while they may be rare, reflect the consistency of an all-knowing, loving, and compassionate God. Supernatural miracles go far beyond the lame walking or the deaf hearing but also extend to the orderly process by which our world and our bodies function.

***Special thanks to Ginger Chen for sending me a review copy.***

Jerusha Springer reached behind the quilting frame with her left hand and pushed the needle back to the surface of the quilt to complete her final stitch. Wearily she pulled the needle through, quickly knotted the quilting thread, and broke it off.

Finished at last. She leaned back and let out a sigh of satisfaction. It had taken months to complete, but here it was—the finest quilt she had ever made.

Thousands of stitches had gone into the work, seventy every ten inches, and now the work was finished. It had been worth it. The quilt was a masterpiece. Her masterpiece…and Jenna’s.

She grabbed a tissue and quickly wiped away an unexpected tear.

If only Jenna were here with me, I could bear this somehow.

But Jenna wasn’t there. Jenna was gone forever.

Jerusha glanced out the window as the November sun shone weakly through a gray overcast of clouds. The pale light made the fabric in the quilt shimmer and glow. A fitful wind shook the bare branches of the maple trees, and the few remaining leaves whirled away into the light snow that drifted down from the gunmetal sky.

Winter had come unannounced to Apple Creek, and Jerusha hadn’t noticed. Her life had been bound up in this quilt for so many months—since Jenna’s death, really—that everything else in her life seemed like a shadow. She stared at the finished quilt on the frame, but there was no joy in her heart, only a dull ache and the knowledge that soon she would be free.

She had searched without success for several months to find just the right fabric to make this quilt, and then she stumbled upon it quite by accident. A neighbor told her of an estate sale at an antique store in Wooster, and she asked Henry, the neighbor boy, to drive her over to see what she could find. The Englisch had access to many things from the outside world, and she had often looked in their stores and catalogs to find just the right materials for her quilting.

On that day in Wooster she had been poking through the piles of clothing and knickknacks scattered around the store when she came upon an old cedar chest. The lid was carved with ornate filigree, and several shipping tags were still attached. The trunk was locked, so she called the proprietor over, and when he opened it, she drew in her breath with a little gasp. There, folded neatly, were two large pieces of fabric. One was blue—the kind of blue that kings might wear—and as she lifted it to the light, she could see that it seemed to change from blue to purple, depending on how she held it. The other piece was deep red…like the blood of Christ or perhaps a rose.

The fabric was light but strong, smooth to the touch and tightly woven.

“I believe that’s genuine silk, ma’am,” the owner said. “I’m afraid it’s going to be expensive.”

Jerusha didn’t argue the price. It was exactly what she was looking for, and she didn’t dare let it slip through her fingers. Normally, the quilts that she and the other women in her community made were from plainer fabric, cotton or sometimes synthetics, but lately she didn’t really care about what the ordnung said.

So, pushing down her fear of the critical comments she knew she would hear from the other women about pride and worldliness, she purchased it and left the store. As she rode home, the design for the quilt began to take form in her mind, and for the first time since Jenna’s death, she felt her spirits lift.

When she arrived home, she searched through her fabric box for the cream-colored cotton backing piece she had reserved for this quilt. She then sketched out a rough design and in the following days cut the hundreds of pieces to make the pattern for the top layer. She sorted and ironed them and then pinned and stitched all the parts into a rectangle measuring approximately eight and a half feet by nine feet. After that she laid the finished top layer out on the floor and traced the entire quilting design on the fabric with tailor’s chalk. The design had unfolded before her eyes as if someone else were directing her hand. This quilt was the easiest she had ever pieced together.

The royal blue pieces made a dark, iridescent backdrop to a beautiful deep red rose-shaped piece in the center. The rose had hundreds of parts, all cut into the flowing shapes of petals instead of the traditional square or diamond-shaped patterns of Amish quilts. Though the pattern was the most complicated she had ever done, she found herself grateful that it served as a way to keep thoughts of Jenna’s absence from overwhelming her.

Next she laid out the cream-colored backing, placed a double layer of batting over it, and added the ironed patchwork piece she had developed over the past month.

On her hands and knees she carefully basted the layers together, starting from the center and working out to the edges. Once she was finished, she called Henry for help. He held the material while she carefully attached one end to the quilting frame, and then they slowly turned the pole until she could attach the other end. After drawing the quilt tight until it was stable enough to stitch on, she started to quilt. Delicate tracks of quilting stitches began to make their trails through the surface of the quilt as Jerusha labored day after day at her work. The quilt was consuming her, and her despair and grief and the anger she felt toward God for taking Jenna were all poured into the fabric spread before her.

Often as she worked she stopped and lifted her face to the sky.

“I hate You,” she would say quietly, “and I’m placing all my hatred into this quilt so I will never forget that when I needed You most, You failed me.” Then she would go back to her work with a fierce determination and a deep and abiding anger in her heart.

And now at last the quilt was finished—her ticket out of her awful life.

“I will take this quilt to the Dalton Fair, and I will win the prize,” she said aloud. “Then I will leave Apple Creek, and I will leave this religion, and I will leave this God who has turned His back on me. I will make a new life among the Englisch, and I will never return to Apple Creek.”

She stared at the quilt. I will call this quilt the Rose of Sharon. Not for You, but for her, my precious girl, my Jenna. The quilt shone in the soft light from the window, and Jerusha felt a great surge of triumph.

I don’t need You—not now, not ever again.

And Jerusha turned off the lamp and went alone to her cold bed.