This is exactly the place I was thinking of going for a walk today. It is overlooking the Mississippi river. I took this picture a year ago today. Hopefully I will see some of the same sights.
I feel like a prisoner in my own house—apartment. I woke up this morning with the reality that I was scheduled to go to work—actually, to help a friend paint a room to be used as a church office. My pastor was sort of counting on me to help out. But I feel lousy. I hope I’m not getting the coronavirus. I’m 69 years old and ripe for the virus; old people like me are really suppose to stay home. I didn’t want to do it, but I really felt that I should—that I should text the pastor and tell him that I can’t come, that I wasn’t feeling well. So, I did, and of course he understood. A couple hours later my doctor called me and asked me not to come to my appointment tomorrow if it wasn’t an emergency. I agreed to cancel, and I also talked to her about some of my medical concerns.
Now I feel like I should just obey the President and the experts and stay home. But I’m feeling better and I don’t want too. I’m antsy. Can I really stay here in my apartment for a couple months until, as they say, this coronavirus washes out? I know I can always find things to do, like what I’m doing now, writing. But I like to get out too. I have favorite eating places, coffee shops…and I want to go there. Oh, it’s tough! I don’t think there will be anything wrong with going for a little walk outside. I need the exercise. I think I feel well enough to do that, and I won’t be around anyone…I don’t think. I will pray. I will make this day a day of prayer—for myself, for the country, and for the world.
This is a very old blurry picture, but I know who everyone is. I’m on the top right, and that’s my sister on the left. My dad is on the wagon and those little kids in front are my brother Jim and Donna. They came along later.
During harvest season there was always work to be done in the fields. Baling hay was especially fun. I would usually be on the wagon receiving the hay bales as they came off the baler. It was hard work, but fun. I would grab the bales by the twine and then turn around and stack them on the wagon. Then when the wagon was full, we would unload it and pile the bales onto a huge haystack (pictured above). If stacked properly, it would keep through the winter; but much of it we would transfer by conveyor into the barn hayloft to feed the cows. Oh, the cows loved the hay!
We also grew oats. The harvesting of the oats was entirely done by a combine, but the oat stems (straw) would be bailed up just like the hay, which was used as bedding for the cows, the pigs and the sheep. And we also used it in the garden. As a kid I much preferred straw over hay because it was less itchy and softer.
The harvesting of corn is usually all done by machine, but, for a couple seasons, we ended up doing it by hand. We dreaded it, but once we got into it, it was kind of fun. I say we because the whole family got into it. Mother would drive the tractor pulling the wagon; and the rest of us, dad and us three kids, would walk along on either side of the wagon, break off the corn, pull the shuck off, and toss the corn in the wagon. Once we got the hang of it, we could pick one ear of corn in just a few seconds. We would work at it for hours at a time, up and down the rows. At the end of the day we were bushed!
Another thing I remember doing in the corn fields is walking up and down the rows and pulling these big weeds called cockleburs. We didn’t want them in the fields because they would tend to choke out the corn. I also remember picking rocks. That was done in the early spring before planting. I suppose the main reason for getting rid of the rocks was so they wouldn’t interfere with, and break any of the machines, like the disc and the planters and the combines. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why the corn picker broke!
I don’t know if this classifies as field work, but fixing the fences was a regular task. That was kind of fun because I got to work with my dad. My dad was always happier when he was working—doing something. In the evenings when he was just sitting around the house, he tended to get upset and angry, especially when my mom would pester him about certain things. Oh, they could get into it. I hated it. I hated hearing the angry arguments. But I loved seeing dad happy and in a good mood.
In the next post I’ll talk about what I did for fun—my free time.
This isn’t me, but that ‘s how I remember it. I had a pail just like that, and a stool like that. But I never had a hat like that!
Farm chores consist of those daily duties that just have to be done, like milking the cows, feeding the animals and gathering the eggs. In our farm, my dad took charge of all the duties, but he liked to keep us kids busy too. His idea was that the whole family should work the farm. We did have some hired help from time to time, but it seemed like us kids did most of the work.
As I mentioned previously, there were two periods of time when I lived at the Montevideo farm: when I was about 7 and 8, and then again when I was about 11 and 12. When I was at the younger age I don’t think I did a lot with the animals—although I’m sure I wanted to. I was more restricted to the menial, mindless tasks like weeding the garden and hauling water from the well to the house. I hated that job! It was a long way to go and the water buckets were so heavy. I don’t know why I was always stuck with that job. I guess because there was no one else.
When I was at the older age, I filled in much more with the chores. My sister, two years older, helped out some too, and so did my younger brother. The chore I liked the most was milking the cows, which had to be done twice a day: in the early morning and again in the evening at about 6. Most of the milking was done by hand; I think we did have one milk machine. My dad milked most of the cows, but I did my share of the milking too—for every three cows he milked, I probably milked one; not bad for a kid. We had about 30 cows to milk, so it took us a while. And it was a real workout, especially for your fingers and forearms.
You know, I don’t even remember what happened during the school months. Did us kids help out with the chores before and after school? Or maybe that’s when we had hired-help, or maybe mom filled in. Some things, like school were just a blur. Other things I do remember quite vividly.
Yea, I remember the dirty, stinky jobs like cleaning the gutters in the barn. That job definitely had to be done every day after the cows went out to pasture, and sometime even while they remained in the barn—when it was too cold to let them go out. We would scoop out the manure with a flat shovel into a wheel barrow, and then wheel it out the barn door. And that took some strength and skill. You had to steer it on these planks all the way to the end of the manure pile, and then dump it. And if you would go off the plank—that usually didn’t happen—it would be a disaster and a mess! Can you imagine sinking hip deep in manure, while struggling to keep the wheel barrow afloat?
Sometimes I was charged with bringing the cows home from the pasture. Usually, they would come in by themselves; but sometimes, for some reason, they just didn’t show up. So my dad would say, go find those cows!
I didn’t always like all the walking, but, at the same time it was sort of fun and adventurous: walking across the creek, up the hill and through the trees, all the while following the cow paths. If you stayed on the cow paths you would usually find the cows. Often, I would run right into them, walking slowly home. Yea, they knew their way home. They were just slow and lazy in coming…so I would hurry them along by gently swatting them with a stick.
I would also be tasked with herding the sheep, and basically just watching them. If they would get into the alfalfa fields, that’s bad news because they can get bloated and die—and that happed a couple times. And there were also cases when wild dogs or coyotes would attack and kill the lambs. All kinds of things can happen. Sheep don’t have a lot of good sense, and if one gets in trouble, other will follow. So, we had to watch them, especially when we let them roam around.
I can’t remember too much about feeding the animal; but that is, of course, the most important chore which my dad handled—but I know I help out.
Here’s one thing I vividly remember doing in the fall and winter months: I helped dad keep coal and wood in our furnace. It was a large furnace located in the basement. And since it was the only source of heat available for our two-story house, it was important that we kept it going constantly. My dad would get these old boards—I’m not sure where he got them—and we would break them up by resting them against a wall or something, and then jumping on them until they broke. And he would also chop down small trees with an ax; he also let me use the ax. Great fun! I didn’t mind the work at all. Using the ax was worth all the callouses.
When it would get especially cold, we had to work extra hard to keep the furnace going. But apparently, there are things you are not supposed to do—like overload the furnace. I guess we managed not to do that, but I heard from my dad years after we moved away, that the next resident had overloaded the furnace and the house burnt down! I never heard whether everyone got out alive or not.
My church has canceled worship services today because of the coronavirus. Many churches around the nation are doing the same thing. I was thinking that we should take this off day to pray. In fact, that was also on the President’s mind. I received a letter from Franklin Graham yesterday declaring today to be a National Day of Prayer, and I want to pass that letter on to you.
Dear Friend,
Our President has declared tomorrow, Sunday, March 15, to be a National Day of Prayer. He reminded the entire country that throughout its history, the United States has looked to God for strength and protection in times like these.
I am thankful to President Trump for recognizing the power of prayer and showing faith in the Lord to intervene on our behalf. With so much uncertainty surrounding the coronavirus at home and around the world, people are afraid. Now is the time for Christians to be strong and courageous, knowing that Almighty God is with us. As His Word instructs, we are to cast our cares upon Him, because He cares for us (1 Peter 5:7).
We need to pray for those who are sick and their families, for those who are living in fear and anxiousness, for the professionals who are providing medical care, for those working on treatments and a vaccine for COVID-19, and for our leaders to act with wisdom and courage as they make vital decisions that impact each of our lives. Please also lift up the President and our nation’s coronavirus task force headed by Vice President Mike Pence in prayer as they work closely and diligently with the myriad of issues related to this pandemic.
Some churches are not meeting in person for worship this Sunday to avoid possibly spreading the virus. But that doesn’t prevent us as the Body of Christ from coming before the Lord, kneeling in prayer, and pouring our hearts out to Him. “Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:16).
I ask that you contact your friends and family and ask them to join in prayer tomorrow, whether gathered together in person, or in their homes.
This is our tractor and barn in the background. I don’t know some of these people, but I think that’s my sister behind the tractor steering wheel. She looks to be about two or three, so that would put me at one, or maybe not even born yet.
My most pleasant childhood memories, up to about age 12, was my life on the farm. As I mentioned in a previous blog, we moved around a lot as a family, so it has been hard to keep all the memories straight in my mind, as far as how long we lived at each place. But the farm near Montevideo, Minnesota was the most memorable to me. And I think we lived there at three different times: from my birth to about age thee (which I don’t remember at all), then from age 7 to 8, and then also at a later time when I was about 11 or 12. In between those times we lived at 3 or 4 different houses. Don’t ask me why. But the farm near Montevideo was by far the best place, the best farm.
The Montevideo farm house and buildings were located in an area where, they say, use to be an Indian camp. If you were to look down from above on the area, you would see the farm house and buildings in the middle, surrounded by a winding creek. Then, beyond the creek, in a larger circle, the elevation steeply rises until it reaches the top, where it levels off into beautiful alfalfa and oat fields.
Actually, the creek only goes three-quarters of the way around, to leave room for the long narrow driveway which went out to the main gravel road. To the right, a little way down the road there is a bridge, under which the creek runs. To the left of the driveway the road sharply ascends and then branches off to the left and right to other nearby farms. (I should explain that none of the buildings, including the house are still there. I’m not sure about the driveway, but I’m pretty sure the creek remains. Yes, the last time I looked at a satellite map the creek was still in the same general area.)
The large, dirty white house was built on a small hill. The area was level in front, but lower in the back. It was a two-story house, but in spite of its size it didn’t have many rooms. The kitchen and dining area were all one room. The rest of the main floor was open with just one small adjoining room, like maybe a pantry or a sewing room.
And there was no bathroom in the house, but we had a three-hole outhouse outside; and in the wintertime we used a large pot with a toilet seat on top. We put Lysol in it to cover the stink. Nobody complained.
We also didn’t have running water. Oh, there was plenty of water, but not in the house. We had to walk down by the barn to get it from an artesian well. Hauling the water was usually my job. For a little guy, it was a big chore, especially since it was a long way to go, about 60 or 70 yards.
The second story of the house was where us kids would sleep. It was a large open area. Okay, I guess it was really the attic. The rafters were showing and nothing was painted; it was all bare wood. I suppose for a country house it was normal. Anyway, in the winter time it was cold up there, with only one small vent to let the warm air come up from below. I remember in the morning, after getting up, we would huddle around that opening to get warm.
The barn (pictured above) was a great place to hang out, especially in the morning when the cows were all in their stanchions, eating hay and being milked. Ah, to see those contented cows gave me a feeling that all was well in the world. Our dog brownie and the cats hung out there too, waiting to get some fresh cow’s milk. Everyone was happy in the barn, and busy. The cows had to be milked and fed; and later, after they went out to pasture, the gutters, full of manure, had to be cleaned out—scooped out and hauled outside. We had nothing fancy. We just wheeled it out the barn door into a wheel barrel and dumped it outside in a big pile. Later we loaded some of it up in a manure spreader and spread it around on the fields. We even used it on the garden—and boy did that work. We had the best watermelons you ever saw—until the pigs got into it. But that’s another story.
As with most farms, we had a silo adjacent to the barn, which we used mostly to store silage. When it was empty, sometimes we climbed up the ladder on the silo, even though we weren’t supposed to. I don’t think any of us ever got all the way up; it was a long way up.
Above the lower part of the barn, where the cows were milked and fed, was the hay loft. It was a great place to play. But I can’t remember playing there much; we had too much work to do—the chores! I will get to that later.
I want to tell you about the other places. Sort of across from the house was a shed we called a grainery, where oats were stored—mounds and mounds of oats. Sometimes we would jump around in there and get buried up to our waste. And sometimes we would see mice in there, crawling around in the oats. I never liked seeing mice…anywhere, except in a mouse trap.
Between the house and the barn, we planted a large vegetable garden. My dad and mom planted it, and it was my job to pull the weeds. Some days I worked at it for hours. I didn’t mind it too much, but my mom would feel sorry for me. I remember one time she said to me, “Oh, you’re such a good son, you’ll get your reward in heaven.” From that point on I started to think a lot about what heaven might be like. My mom probably wasn’t aware of it, but her words at that moment became a turning point in my life; and in just a few years I would give my life to Christ.
From the garden going toward the creek was a muddy pig pen—where I remember one time my sister jumped in and was coated with black mud from head to foot. I don’t know why she did that. And she was the smart one! Next to the pig pen was the chicken coop with chickens, and then down the hill to the left was a large rickety sheep barn. At one time we had, I think, over 500 sheep.
Well, that’s enough for this post. Next time I will tell you about the chores, mainly my chores.
(Washington, D.C.) — Panic is wrong. We need to stay calm. We need to turn to the Scriptures and prayer and trust the Lord to protect us. We would do well to start with Psalm 57:1, which a Christian leader in France just sent me. “Be gracious to me, O God, be gracious to me.…
My school looked almost identical to this one, except there was only one door.
Life on the farm was far different than life in the city. I don’t remember too much about my life in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The main thing I remember is that I went to kindergarten there, and there were paved streets and sidewalks. I don’t recall moving to the farm near Montevideo, but I remember first grade. The little schoolhouse was white and there were two outhouses in the back on each side, one for the girls and one for the boys.
The inside of the schoolhouse was all open—one big room. And it had a large wood burning stove or furnace near the front. That’s funny, I don’t remember ever having to get wood for the furnace. I guess the teacher did that before all the kids arrived in the morning, and maybe she added wood during recess and lunch breaks. Who knows? But I know she never called on me to help. Maybe because I was only a kid—in the first grade.
I vividly remember what the inside of the school looked like. There were about four or five rows of student desks. I’m not sure how many grades of kids there were, just that there were three in my grade: Rollie, Cheryl, and me. Cheryl sat in the middle of our row and Rollie and me were in the front and back. I know that because I remember how me and Rollie would always be poking Cheryl and pulling her hair. I would pull her hair from the back, and then when she turned around to hit me, Rollie would get her from the front. But it was all in fun!
You know, I don’t remember ever getting in trouble, at least not in the first grade. I really liked the teacher. I think everyone did. I wish I cold remember her name. I do have a very old picture of her. She looks to be about 25.
I learned a lot in the first grade: how to read, write and do arithmetic. And then after the first grade I have no memories of school until 7th or 8th grade. It’s all a blank. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because as a family we moved a lot. From age 6 to age 13, I would say we moved about six times to different houses and schools. So, I had so many different teachers and class mates. I really can’t tell you what happened to me, but my guess is that all the mental confusion of moving, along with family troubles, caused me to just shut down.
I do have one school memory—a very unpleasant one. I can’t tell you what school or grade it was, but I was sitting, looking out the window, and the teacher came over and grabbed me by my ear and almost pulled it off. She didn’t like that I was day dreaming instead of paying attention to her teaching. So, I have a feeling that that was what my school life was like all the time: sitting in class, but wishing I was somewhere else, anywhere but school.
Oh, one more thing I remember about first grade. Walking there. I don’t remember ever getting a ride to school. The three of us kids always had to walk. My sister Diane was two years older than me, and my brother Mark was one year younger. Anyway, it was a long way to walk for us kids, more than a mile I’m sure. It was a gravel road all the way, and rarely would we see cars on the road. So we usually just walked down the middle of the road. I don’t know why I did it, but I can remember picking up rocks from the road and throwing them toward, and even at, my sister. I guess at that age I didn’t have much of a sense that little rocks could actually hurt someone. I know I wasn’t especially close to my sister, but still, throwing rocks at her was a terrible thing to do, and I regret it.
As I ponder the task before me of telling my life story, I have decided that the best place to start is to recount my earliest memories. I suppose most of us can’t recall too much before the age of three or four. I think my earliest memories were when I was about four or five. Here are five vivid early memories—and I will do my best to explain why I think I have those memories.
Walking to school. I was five years old and in kindergarten. I don’t remember too much about the routine of walking or even how far I had to walk. What I remember most clearly is meeting and walking with a little black girl. And it was a pleasant memory. I suppose the memory has stayed fixed in my mind because she was black and different than me, and because I enjoyed her company. At that age I suppose we have no prejudice. We see the differences but we don’t care. I think that was true for me. Later on in life, unfortunately, I came to be afraid of the differences—as most people do. That was true especially at that time in history—in the 1950’s. I thank God that over the years I have grown to be less fearful of people. I just wish we could all get along and accept each other.
Trying to be the class clown. This memory isn’t as vivid. In fact, my mom told me what happened and then I seemed to recall it. In my kindergarten class I would stand on the tables and would basically do crazy things in an attempt to get attention: like make faces, crazy noises and dance around—anything that I could get a laugh out of. But the most significant part of it was when my mother very seriously and firmly told me that I had to stop doing it. That I was disrupting the class. And, according to my mother’s recollection—and I seem to slightly remember it—after that talk I was like a different person. I sometimes wonder what happened there. If she wouldn’t have said anything, would I be a more outgoing person. Or maybe what she said to me changed me in a positive way, like kept me from being a life-long rebel. I don’t know.
A scary lady. I don’t remember what the lady across the street looked like. All I remember is that she was constantly yelling at us kids and telling us to stay on our own side of the street. We actually thought she was a witch. Her house was black with a picket fence around it, and with a gate that no one dared enter. I remember that at Halloween we would dare each other to go up to her house. We were surprised that she was actually friendly and gave us treats. But we were very suspicious. Maybe the candy was injected with poison.
Why have I held on to that memory? Maybe Satan is using it to enforce any fears he wants to instill in me; fears of dark and wicked things, fears of angry people, fears of the unknown. But I keep taking my fears to God and He continues to give me victory over them.
Saturday morning TV. Let’s see, the memory had to be in the year 1956. I think we had just gotten the television. The screen was very small and black and white. I remember that especially on Saturday morning the three of us kids, and maybe a couple neighbor kids, would set around the TV and watch cartoons. But the most vivid memory was when my dad got very angry and yanked the TV cord out of the electrical socket and even out of the back of the TV. I can’t remember what he said to us, only that he was very angry that we were watching TV. I think he said that it was a waste of time and that we should be doing something more constructive.
That whole memory was centered only on my dad’s out of control anger. That’s the way he was, and we never knew when it would flare up. More fears from the devil. I think he was using my dad’s problems to make me fearful. At times I still have fearful memories and dreams of my dad. Right now I’m thinking that maybe it was like David’s strained relationship with Saul. Saul had a mental problem, as did my dad. And like David, I seek the Lord constantly in prayer.
When my uncle came to visit. If my calculations are right, I was about four years old and my uncle Lyle was about 25. I don’t remember many details about his visits, except just seeing him, and seeing his shinny gold watch. I also remember feeling so good about being around him. He was so cool. That’s the only word I can think of to describe him. He was nothing like my dad. He never got angry. I always have thought of him as being cool and rich and smart. He lived on the farm with our grandpa and grandma, and with our younger uncle Mike. Mike was cool too. Both of them had their own horses. But it was Lyle who had the brains and who kept the tractors and machinery running. Lyle could do anything. We all knew that about uncle Lyle.
This will be the last of my book promotions—for a while. I have to tell you about my other six books on prayer. These books actually are of the same content as my Prayer A to Z, but arranged differently. My idea was to give the buyer a smaller and less expensive choice. Instead of putting the chapters in alphabetical order, I arranged them under topics.
Book 1, entitled Basics of Prayer (see above), has 10 topics that I thought were related to the basics of prayer. And I really like the photo I took for this book.
Book 2, entitled Purpose of Prayer, has only nine chapters, two of which are my personal favorites, on the Lord’s Prayer and on Answers to prayer.
Book 3, entitled Principles of Prayer, has eleven chapters, all loaded with great prayer teachings.
Book 4, entitled Joy of Prayer, I’m sure is a favorite of many. The titles Aroma of Prayer and Xanadu will bring a delight to your soul.
Book 5, entitled Service of Prayer, is the longest of the six books. Five of its chapters contain all the prayers of the bible.
Book 6, entitled Zenith of Prayer, is basically the same as the last chapter of my book Prayer A to Z, and was meant to be a summary, or a condensed version, of that book.
How to Buy Any of These Books
As you can see above, each title has a link on it and it will take you to the Lulu book page.
You can also see them all together in two different places to order any of them you want:
If you want to see them at Amazon, you can go to Amazon books, and then type in “Books on prayer by Stephen Nielsen” to see all of my prayer books displayed. Or Just click HERE.
If you want to see all of my books at my personal Lulu store just click on the link HERE. Pay no attention to those free e-books. I will make no money on those. Just kidding!
Note: If you want to read some of the content of the books I would go to the Amazon link. Click on the book you want; it will take you to a bigger book; click on that book to see a few pages of content.
In the last post on this subject I wrote about what the Bema is—a place where Christians will be judged according to their works. In this post I will continue with this discussion, focusing on the time, the place, and the subjects of the Bema.
THE TIME OF THE BEMA
Most agree that the time of the Bema will be immediately after the Rapture and will occur at the same instant that we see Him and are transformed. This is substantiated in the following verses:
In 1 Corinthians 4:5, the term “until the Lord comes,” indicates when the Bema will be—at His coming.
In 2 Timothy 4:8, we see that the Bema will be “on that day.”
In 1 Peter 5:4, the term is, “when the chief Shepherd [Christ] appears.”
Besides the above references, there is also proof of the aforementioned time in Revelation 4:4. Here we see in John’s…
Stephen Nielsen 