A lady came into the store one day and said, “Your sign offends me.”
I was not about to apologize for the sign. Since we started doing business here on the Birch Bay Lynden Road, we have held up the name of Jesus on the sign at the end of our driveway. I have changed the words on the sign as directed by the Holy Spirit. Sometimes it changes every week, once I left the same words there for a whole year. We have had very few complaints about it. But this lady complained.
“Oh,” I answered.
“I’m a Jew,” she said, “your sign offends me.”
Again, I answered, “Oh.”
When I did not respond to her complaint, she shrugged her shoulders, then said, “Anyway, I am here because a friend of mine has a sick baby. We have heard that goat milk might help her.”
“It might,” I answered. “We know of several babies that have been helped by drinking goat milk.”
“Well this baby is so sick her mom can’t put her in a car seat and take her anywhere. She vomits up everything her mom tries to feed her. That’s why I said I would come and get some goat milk for her. Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that this works.”
I started getting the goat milk out of the refrigerator. The lady again said, “Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that this works.”
Talking to the Lord in my head, I said, “If she says that once more, I am going to say something.”
Sure enough, as I rang up the sale, she said it again. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”
“We are not going to keep our fingers crossed,” I said. “We are going to pray.”
“Oh, I have been praying,” she said.
“No. I mean right now. You and I are going to pray for this baby.”
“Oh, I don’t know how to do that!” she said.
“That’s okay,” I said, “I do.”
I put my hand on her shoulder and prayed. When I got ready to close the prayer, I knew that the name of Jesus would offend her, so I turned my face toward hers and said, “In the name of the Lord, Amen.”
She shrugged her shoulders again and said, “Okay, I can handle that.”
A few days later the mother and child we had prayed for came into the store. The child still looked weak, the mom looked exhausted, but she was full of praise! From the first sip of the goat milk the baby had stopped vomiting. Praise God!
Later that day I told my seven-year-old granddaughter, Ryleigh, the story. At the end of the story I said, “I don’t know if it was the goat milk or the prayer that healed the baby.”
Ryleigh, stood up straight, put her hands on her hips, then pointed right up at me, “Grandma!” she scolded, “it was NOT the prayer OR the goat milk! It was Jesus!”