Woodcraft 16: Surprise

19 09 2014

I didn’t explore the neighborhood for very long.  My mother would be returning sooner than later, so I walked around a couple of blocks, took a look at a nearby playground, and then went back to the house.

Mom was just pulling into the driveway as I came along the sidewalk.  Grandmother was at the front door of the house, wanting to know right away how things had gone.  Joanna broke out of the car and bounded over to Grandmother, anxious to give a report.  She commenced immediately in a long description of the park and the boat ride.  Mom got out at her usual speed: casual.  She walked to the front passenger side and stood waiting for Grandfather.  She did nothing to help, but she stood there just in case and so as not to be rude and leave him behind.  Grandfather struggled a bit, but managed to get out and on his crutches.  He closed the car door himself.

As he approached, Grandmother said, “Come on in, everyone.  Kurt and I have a surprise waiting.”  She meant the cupcakes, of course. They would make a nice afternoon snack.

“And I have an additional surprise for you, Grandfather,” I said.

“You do, Konrad?”

“You do?” Grandmother also asked.

“Yes.  I’ll show you after you see what Grandmother has.”

We went into the kitchen and sat at the table.  Grandmother brought the treat.  Joanna beamed with delight.  Grandmother brought milk from the refrigerator and coffee from the pot she always had ready.  She also heated some water for her own use; she liked drinking tea in the afternoon and evening.

“So tell me, Grandfather,” she said.  “What did the people at the hospital have to say?”  She called him August in the presence of peers.  Among her children, she said Father.  With grandchildren at hand, she said Grandfather.  That was family custom.

“You may be at ease, Grandmother.”

“I will be at ease when you give me some facts.”

We could all tell that Grandfather really didn’t want to talk about it.  My mother gave him one of those nudging looks, the kind that says, “Go ahead.  It’s the right thing to do.”  Joanna and I had seen it many times.

Grandfather realized that my mother would speak for him if he didn’t.  He said simply, “I have lost another pound.”  Then he reached for a cupcake.

“August!” Grandmother called, forgetting herself.

Mom shoved the platter out of his reach.

Grandmother handed him a plate with a slice of whole-grain homemade bread on it. 

Grandfather looked at it and shook his head.  “Joanna.  Open the refrigerator and get me some of Grandmother’s strawberry preserves.”  He figured my sister would be only too glad to please after all the fun she had had earlier that afternoon with him.

“August!” Grandmother called again.

“Sit still and eat your cupcake, Joanna,” Mom said.

Grandmother handed Grandfather a little tray containing what looked like butter.

Grandfather shook his head again. Looking at my mother, “Rebecca, you of all people should know that oleo isn’t fit to eat. Tell Halfrida.”  He referred to oleo-margarine, a substance that had little if any milk in it.  Since my mother had been reared on a dairy farm, and since her parents were still in the dairy business, Grandfather figured he could gain her support.  At the time, dairy farmers in Wisconsin opposed the marketing of oleo to the point of hostility.  It was bad for business.

“I know it’s not as good as butter,” Mom said, “but it’s better for you.”

Ach!  I’d rather have old-fashioned lard, then.”  In older times, country people usually collected lard in little crocks every time they cooked pork.  Especially if they were poor, country people used lard as a spread for bread. Even if they could afford to keep a cow, they would usually sell the butter made from milk and cream because they needed the money it could fetch.  Instead, they would eat the fat from the hogs they slaughtered and rendered.  Small farmers found little market for lard, even though my mother and both my grandmothers said it made the best pie crust.  National pork processing companies sold as much lard as the market would bear, which kept shrinking year after year.

“We don’t have any,” said Grandmother.  “I stopped stocking the stuff when we moved from Waupaca.”

“I know.”  Grandfather ate the bread plain. With an empty plate, he looked at me as if to ask me to get him another slice.

“And no, Grandfather, you may not have another,” Grandmother said.  “You have more pounds to lose.”

“More pounds to lose,” he repeated.  “And if I am too weak to move as a result, what then?”

“You won’t be weak,” Mom said.  “You’ll be better, stronger.”

Ja, ja…

My mother said to my grandmother, “The doctor said that August’s legs are better.  Both of them.”

“What both?” Grandfather asked.

“Oh, don’t carry on like that in front of the children,” Grandmother said.

“Your diet is helping,” Mom said.  “Your legs are looking good now.  You can begin walking well now.”

“So they say,” Grandfather said.  He looked at me.  “What is this surprise you have for me, Konrad?”

I beamed.  “Come, Grandfather!  I’ll show you!”

“Come where, Grandson?  Where are we going?”

“Out back!”

“We are going out into the back yard,” Mom corrected.

“Yes,” I said.

Grandfather got up from the table, took up his crutches, and followed me.  The women-folk all followed him.

I held the door open, and he swung out.  He paused, looking at me.  I pointed and said, “Look!”

He did.  He stood still for a moment.  Then he swung himself along the length of the yard straight to the ash tree.  I followed.  Once there, he stopped and stood still.

The purple ash tree, its trunk all but perfect in shape, shone in the sun. The whiteness given it by the light only enhanced my handiwork.

Grandfather for a time stood speechless.  Eventually, however, he asked, “You did this, Konrad?”

“Did what?” Joanna asked.

“Hush, Granddaughter.”

“Yes, sir!”


I nodded.

Grandfather nodded.

“Dad says…  I mean, Father says that a tree must grow straight and be clean and clear if it is to produce the best wood.  I made this one better.  It’ll now produce the best wood for you, Grandfather.”

“But Kurt,” my mother began.

Grandfather glared at her with a potency that demanded, “Silence, woman!”

Mom kept silent.

“You have done quite the job here, Master Konrad,” my grandfather said.  “We shall have to keep a close watch on this tree.  A close watch.  Indeed, I believe I will go back to the patio and sit and watch for a while, even now.”  He turned and moved back toward the house.

I followed.

The women-folk followed me.

We stopped at the patio.  Grandfather took a seat.  He looked at everyone looking at him.  “What is for dinner, Grandmother?” he asked.


Grandfather looked at me.  “As you know, dinner is at 6 o’clock.  Take your sister out to the playground nearby and have some fun.”

“Sure.”  I added, “Mother lets us watch cartoons on TV in the late afternoon.  Sometimes.  Would you like to watch some with us?”

“I don’t know that we have the same programs here in Neenah that you have there in Port Edwards,” Grandmother said.  “Our signals come from Green Bay.  Yours come from Madison and Wausau.”

My favorite character was the gray and white rabbit. Joanna’s: the black and white mouse.

 “I like the woodpecker,” said Grandfather.  “If he’s on, let me know.  I could use a few laughs.”

woodcraft 3

In Beauty from the Skies

14 09 2014

The hills are clad in purple and in gold,
The ripened maize is gathered in the shock,
The frost has kissed the nuts, their shells unfold,
And fallen leaves are floating on the lock.

The flowers their many-colored petals drop;
But seed-pods full and ripe they leave behind,
A prophecy of more abundant crop,
And proof that nature in decay is kind.

But still the dahlia blooms, and pansies, too;
The golden-rod still rears its yellow crest.
The sumach bobs are now of crimson hue,
The luscious grape has donned its purple vest.

The forest trees, so long arrayed in green,
Wear now a robe like Joseph’s coat of old,
Brighter than that on eastern satrap seen,
Tho’ clad was he in purple and fine gold.

The woodbine twined about the giant oak
Blends with its purple-red a brighter shade.
Co-mingled thus our praises they evoke,
Tho’ we know well this glory soon must fade.

The fields are green with grass and new-sown wheat,
Tho’ here and there a brown stalk may appear,
A dying rag-weed, ripened by the heat,
To reproduce an hundred-fold next year.

The melon yellows in the kindly sun,
The peach puts on its blush like virtuous maid,
The gourd its snow-white band like brow of nun,
While flower and gum the air with fragrance lade.

The swallows gather on the fence and wire,
Chatter a loud farewell to barn and nest,
And then on wings which never seem to tire
They fly away in southern bowers to rest.

The thrush no longer sings its tender song
In osage thicket, or in locust hedge,
But pipes its notes the Negro boys among,
On cotton plant, or Alabama sedge.

The blackbird lingers by the flowing brook,
Or perches proudly on the shock of corn;
The lark still hovers round its meadow nook,
And soars and sings as on a vernal morn.

The robin, too, is loth to quit the lawn
And visits yet his nest beneath the eaves;
I hear his cheering notes at early dawn–
To part with these old friends my spirit grieves.

But soon these feathered songsters must away,
Ere winter’s frosts shall chill them thro’ and thro';
In other lands they find the summer day,
The opening flower, and the refreshing dew.

The air, tho’ chill, is not surcharged with death,
But health-inspiring germs it bears along.
We drink in vigor with our every breath,
And life appears like spring, each day a song.

God spreads a carpet for our weary feet,
Richer than those which grace the palace floor;
The rainbow hues are in it all complete,
And tints, I think, of full a thousand more.

God with His hands of wind for woof collects
The forest leaves, and weaves them with the grass,
With nap of richest hues the fabric decks,
And spreads it out for feet of every class.

A haze at times may veil the smiling sky,
The sun his golden locks exchange for gray;
But soon a western blast comes sweeping by–
The mists depart, and glory crowns the day.

The lowing cattle roam from field to field;
No more content in narrow bounds to stay;
The ozone in the autumn air has healed
Their every ill, and lo, the dull beasts play.

This season has its lesson each should learn–
The fading leaf reminds us of our doom;
But whether like the stately tree, or fern,
In hope we travel onward to the tomb.

We look not for the Winter, but the Spring,
When we shall glow in beauty from the skies;
Each now his tribute sheaf of praise should bring,
Then hear his Lord’s “Well done!” O glorious prize.

Joseph Horatio Chant

An Autumn's Work


13 09 2014

aster mass

My life’s long radiant Summer halts at last,
And lo! beside my path way I behold
Pursuing Autumn glide:    nor frost nor cold
Has heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed
Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold
Subdues the vivid colouring of bold
And passion-hued emotions.    I will cast

My August days behind me with my May,
Nor strive to drag them into Autumn’s place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
I’ll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
And call September nothing but September.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox


Woodcraft 15: Tree Surgery

12 09 2014

I wanted to do something nice for my grandfather.  Since even someone as young as I could see that his one and only tree stood in distress, and since he liked trees so much, I decided to put on my white hat and ride to the rescue.  The day after we — my mother, my sister, and I — had arrived, I got an opportunity.

My mother, not being one to waste time, went at Grandfather during breakfast, saying, “Really, August, you mustn’t sit around all day, day after day.  We’ve got to get you up and on the go.”

“And what do you propose, Rebecca? That I go out and play, say, eighteen holes of golf?”

My mother wasn’t one to be intimidated.  “That’s not a bad idea.  If you’d learn to use your prosthesis, you could do it.”

“As I’ve told your mother-in-law and your sister-in-law many times, I can’t use that thing.”

“Sure you can, August.”

“Do you contradict me, daughter-in-law?”

“Yes.  You can use that thing, but you won’t.”

Grandfather got irritated.  Actually, he was already irritated because of the loss of his leg, and his health, and his old home, and his work.  He was being aggravated.  He snarled, “What do you know, you who have been here all of, what, eighteen hours?”

“I’ve known you for more than fourteen years.  What I don’t know from you yourself, I know from your son, my husband.  I know you have walked and walked your whole life.  In and around central Wisconsin, you’ve probably walked some fifty thousand miles.  I wonder if John Muir himself walked that far.”

“More, I dare say. Much more.”

John Muir grew up in central Wisconsin, in Marquette County.  As a youngster, he exhibited innovative resourcefulness.  As a young man, though, he quit his vocation as an industrial inventor and pursued his avocation: nature.  He walked from the Midwest to the Gulf of Mexico to experience the land.  Later treks took him throughout California’s Sierra Nevada, the Glacier Bay area of Alaska, parts of Australia, and parts of South America. He devoted himself to preserving wilderness, and forests especially.  His spirit inspired the formation of this country’s national parks, national forests, and wilderness areas.

“But what about you?” my mother asked.  “Don’t you want to walk still more?”

Grandfather didn’t answer.

“You have an appointment at the hospital today,” my mother said.  “I’m taking you.  And as long as we’re there for another physical examination, let’s try some more prosthetic therapy.”

“You mean, let me try some therapy again. You don’t have to try anything of the sort.  You don’t have to put up with the pain.”  Grandfather shook his head.  “Besides, the thing is downright ugly, and it’s not me.”

I thought a sawed-off leg was ugly.

“Well,” Mother said, “you still have to exercise.  It’s good for your heart and lungs, good for your circulation, good for your blood.  It’ll give you better energy, in more ways than one.  Do you want to golf?  Well, fine.  You can use a cart.”

“Don’t be silly, Rebecca.  Manfred plays golf.  I know next to nothing of it.  What little I do know tells me I would spend more time on the ground than would the ball.”

“You don’t know that.”

Mother had flatly contradicted him again.  Grandfather glared at her.

She added, “You can’t know that without trying.  You can at least try.”

Grandfather looked away.

“I know that’s asking much at this point.  Maybe golf isn’t such a good idea right now.  So…”  My mother thought.  “Let’s go swimming.”

“Swimming?” Grandfather exclaimed.

“Yeah!” Joanna said.

“Yeah!” I said.

“Swimming?” Grandfather repeated.  “You must be mad.”

“No, I’m not.  Swimming is an excellent idea.  Except for drowning, you can’t hurt yourself.  There’s no slam or bang.  You float.  And you work everything: arms, legs, heart, lungs, everything.  And it’s fun.”

Grandfather said nothing.

“You do know how to swim, don’t you, Grandfather?” Joanna asked.

“Yes, I know how to swim, thank you.”

“Good,” said Mother.  “I’ll take you swimming, then.”

“You’ll not take me swimming.”

“And why not?”

Grandfather looked at my sister and me.  Then he looked at my mother.  “I am not fit to be seen at a public swimming pool.”

“So?  I’m not exactly a movie star,” my mother answered.

Grandfather glared and all but shouted, “I will not frighten the children!  Not only am I old and ugly, I am now butchered and ugly!  I will not be a monster to children!”

Joanna began to cry.  “You’re not a monster, Grandfather. You’re … Grandfather.”

“It is a good idea, August,” said Grandmother.  “The children like the water.  Take them and go swimming.”

“No,” he said immediately.  Then, after looking at Joanna, he added.  “But I will take you for a ride in a rowboat, Granddaughter.”

Joanna brightened.

“We will not go to the swimming pool.  We will go to the Fox River.  We will go to the park and rent a boat, and we will go rowing.”  Grandfather looked at Mother.  “I will get your exercise rowing.”

“Fine,” she said.  “We’ll do that after we’re finished at the hospital.”  She then looked at me.  “And you, Grandson, you will stay with your grandmother and give her some young company while we’re gone.”

Now, I would have been pleased to go for a rowboat ride on the river.  I didn’t make a fuss, however.  Both my sister and I had learned early that making a fuss — anything from frowning to throwing a tantrum — was futile.  Both parents were, as it were, charter members of UFACIF: the united front against childish ignorance and foolishness.  Though they stood together as determined as any guerrillas in any movement in the world, they sought not to rebel, but to counter any of our rebellious tendencies.

Besides, I wanted an opportunity to do something about Grandfather’s tree.  He would be gone with my mother and sister for three or four hours, maybe more if they went out to eat.

They left the house a little after 9 o’clock.  My mother whispered to me as she went out the door, “Be nice to your grandmother, Kurt.  Not that you’re mean or mischievous, of course, but don’t make one demand after another on her.  Let her slow down and relax a bit.  Let her take a break.”

Well, within a matter of minutes of their departure, Grandmother set about making cupcakes for all of us.  In anticipation of our arrival the day before, she had already baked cookies and kuchen.  She thought, though, that we would really like cupcakes.  So, that’s what she did the rest of that morning, and working from scratch, as always.

I helped.  Never mind that I thought baking a task for she-females.  I helped anyway because I liked taste-testing things as we went by licking bowls, spoons, and beaters.

By the time noon came along, I had little appetite.  I did want to eat at least one, if not two, of the fresh cupcakes, regardless.  Grandmother had made two kinds: yellow and chocolate, both frosted in chocolate.  She declared, however, there would be no cupcakes for me without my first having eaten a decent lunch.

She had been used to cooking a dinner for consumption at noon.  With Grandfather away and with us visiting, however, lunch was in order.  She made a sandwich and heated some soup for me.  She had some soup, a “crust of bread” as she called it, a couple pieces of summer sausage, and a little cottage cheese.  Then we each had a cupcake.

She just seemed to take one without thinking it over; I had to debate the matter first.  Eventually, I went with the chocolate cake and frosting.

Afterward, Grandmother announced, “I’m going to lie down for a while now, Konrad.”  She always did that after the noon meal.  It lasted an hour or so.  “Go out in the yard and play.  Or, if you’d like, you may go to the park nearby.  Perhaps some of the local children will let you play a game of baseball with them.”  Baseball was a big deal among boys when I was a child, more popular than football, basketball, and hockey combined.

Back then, parents had no need to serve as recreational directors for their kids, and kids would rarely if ever think to ask their parents for help in finding something to do.  If a kid uttered the words, “I’m bored,” he or she did so in the presence of other kids, not any adults.  Saying such a thing to an adult ran the risk of being told in response either to study something for school or church, or to do some job or chore.

No, it was usually eat breakfast and charge out the door with a mother’s words following, “Be back for lunch.”  It was eat lunch and charge out the door with a mother’s words following, “Be back for dinner.”  Or supper, depending.  It was eat supper and charge out the door with a mother’s words following, “Be back before dark.”

At the time, mothers worried more about a nuclear missile landing nearby than about kidnappings, sexual molestation, drug dealers and dealing, and gang violence.

I thought more about Grandfather’s ash tree than about handling a bat made of ash.  Grandmother went to her bedroom.  I went out to the garage.

As expected, Grandfather had everything decent and in order, as if prepared for a military inspection.  His 1953 Studebaker pickup truck stood ready, and so, too, Grandmother’s new 1961 Studebaker Lark.

Certainly, not everything that Grandfather had owned in the way of tools made the move from Waupaca to Neenah.  He did retain an assortment for lawn and garden use, though, among a few others of general practical value.  I doubted that I would have any trouble locating something that I could use.

Finding a rasp, I said as if speaking to my father, “This’ll do.”

I went out to the purple ash tree, looked it over again, and then set to work.  My father had taught me that, to obtain the highest grade hardwood, a tree must grow straight and round, and a tree trunk must be as clear as possible.  I took the rasp in hand — both hands, actually — and started abrading up and down and all around.

I worked steadily.  I paused only long enough to check what I had done and what needed yet to be done.  Filing away all the bumps and bulges, in time I got that beat up tree trunk as round and as straight as a good rake handle.  It wasn’t that thin, of course, but I did have to remove much material to get a good shape.

I put the rasp on the ground and ran into the house.  I checked on Grandmother first; she had fallen asleep.  I went to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and selected a big knife.  I took that out to the tree and proceeded to go over my work, shaving the rasp marks off the trunk.

That done, I went back into the garage to search for sandpaper and pruning shears.  Obtaining both, I carried them to the tree.  I cut off a number of the lower branches so as to make a trunk without branches as high as I could reach.  Those went into the garbage cans near the alley. I filed and carved some more at the places on the tree where I had cut.  Then I sanded.  Using three grades of sandpaper, I went over the tree’s trunk until I had it as smooth as a good baseball bat.

I gathered up the shears, sandpaper, rasp, and knife, and backed away.  The first items went back into the garage, exactly where I had found them.  The last item went back into the kitchen, exactly where I had found it.  Grandmother continued her nap, so I decided to go out and explore the neighborhood.

woodcraft 7


Morning Glories

9 09 2014


They bloom up the fresh, green trellis
In airy, vigorous ease,
And their fragrant, sensuous honey
Is best beloved of the bees.

Oh! the rose knows the dainty secret
How the morning-glory blows,
For the rose told me the secret,
And the jessamine told the rose.

And the jessamine said at midnight,
Ere the red cock woke and crew,
That the fays of queen Titania
Came there to bathe in the dew.

And the merry moonlight glistened
On wet, long, yellow hair,
And their feet on the flowers drowsy
Trod softer than any air.

And their petticoats, gay as bubbles,
They hung up every one
On the morning-glories’ tendrils
Till their moonlight bath were done.

But the red cock crew too early,
And the fays left hurriedly,
And this is why in the morning
Their petticoats there you see.

Madison Julius Cawein

morning glories

Farming: An Act of Love

8 09 2014

“How do you take the first step to
become a farmer? You act out of

This quote appeared at the
end of an article by Shannon Hayes,
and it struck me as absolute truth.
So much of what we do in farming is
an act of love. Bringing milk to the
pigs, cultivating the carrots,
delivering food to our members,
feeding and watering chickens,
cutting hay, harvesting flowers, and
working the soil are all motions that
we go through because we love: we
love the earth, we love real food, we
love working outside, we love
putting food on people’s tables, we
love animals, and we love the fact
many of our decisions are informed
by our values.

Farming keeps us
rooted in the present while
constantly asking us to look back at
what we learned last year. Then,
we are asked to look forward so that
we can prepare for the season to
come. This continual need to view
things from all sides, from past
through future, keeps us focused on
what’s important in the present. In
farming, we need to reflect, to be
humble, to keep learning new things
every single day, to roll with the
punches and to be creative in our
solutions. One would not be up for
this work if LOVE was not at the
root of it! Maybe that’s why I feel
so much. A lovely sky can stop me
in my tracks, overwhelming me
with beauty. It is a gift that makes
me feel love. Therein lies the first
step to becoming a farmer.

Danielle Boerson


From a photograph, courtesy of the United States National Park Service.

True Love

6 09 2014

Before the JESUS film can be dubbed into any language, the essential work of translation into the mother tongue must occur. Our partners at Wycliffe Bible Translators are instrumental in the work of helping us translate JESUS into new languages. Because nearly every word that Jesus says in the JESUS film is taken from the Biblical book of Luke, we take seriously the importance of communicating clearly and accurately what Scripture says. The pursuit of just the right term for a theological concept is critical for a culture truly to understand the Gospel. Sometimes the treasure is present, but prayer and God’s directing hand reveal the awaiting gem.

Lee Bramlett and his wife are Wycliffe Bible translators in Cameroon who have been working on Scripture and the JESUS film translation into the Hdi language. Lee was confident that God had left His mark on the Hdi culture somewhere *, but though he searched, he could not find it. Where was the footprint of God in the history or daily life of these Cameroonian people? What clue had God planted to let the Hdi know who He is and how He wants to relate to them?

Then one night in a dream, God prompted Lee to look again at the Hdi word for love. Lee and his wife had learned that verbs in Hdi consistently end in one of three vowels. For almost every verb, they could find forms ending in i, a, and u. But when it came to the word for love, they could only find i and a. Why no u?

Curious, Lee asked the Hdi translation committee, which included the most influential leaders in the community, “Could you ‘dvi’ your wife?”

“Yes,” they said. That would mean that the wife had been loved, but the love was gone.

“Could you ‘dva’ your wife?” Lee asked.

“Yes,” they said. That kind of love depended on the wife’s actions. She would be loved as long as she remained faithful and cared for her husband well.

“Could you ‘dvu’ your wife?” Lee asked.

Everyone laughed. “Of course not!” they said. “If you said that, you would have to keep loving your wife no matter what she did, even if she never got you water, never made you meals. Even if she committed adultery, you would be compelled to just keep on loving her. No, we would never say ‘dvu.’ It just doesn’t exist.”

Lee sat quietly for a while, thinking about John 3:16, and then he asked, “Could God ‘dvu’ people?”

There was complete silence for three or four minutes, and then tears started to trickle down the weathered faces of these elderly men. Finally they responded. “Do you know what this would mean?” they asked. “This would mean that God kept loving us over and over, millennia after millennia, while all that time we rejected His great love. He is compelled to love us, even though we have sinned more than any people.”

One simple vowel, and the meaning was changed from “I love you based on what you do and who you are,” to “I love you based on who I am. I love you because of Me and not because of you.”

God had encoded the story of His unconditional love right into their language. For centuries, the little word was there—unused but available, grammatically correct and quite understandable. When the word was finally spoken, it called into question their entire belief system. If God was like that, did they need the spirits of the ancestors to intercede for them? Did they need sorcery to relate to the spirits? Many decided the answer was no, and the number of Christ-followers quickly grew from a few hundred to several thousand. One word. One vowel. All the difference.

Praise God for His Unconditional Love.

Reprinted from a prayer letter recently issued by Bryan Augsburger, Cru studio technician for The Jesus Film Project.


John 3:16  King James Version (KJV)

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

* For more on this concept, see Don Richardson’s book entitled Eternity In Their Hearts: Startling Evidence of Belief in the One True God in Hundreds of Cultures Throughout the World, published by Regal Books in 1981 and in revised form in 1984.

D. Raymond-Wryhte


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