Kane and Abel – a short story

Kane and Abel There were once two men, Mr Kane and Mr Abel. They were cousins. Both men were very artistic. Mr Kane made beautiful sculptures, Mr Abel was a painter.

One day, Abel decided that he wanted to give something back to God. He had believed and trusted in God since he was a boy, he attended church every Sunday and spent some time each day praying, trying to live how God wanted him to. He decided to paint a beautiful portrait. He knew that he could not give the actual painting to God, but he could give some of the money to the church, to be used to help those in need and to pay for those who used their time telling others about God.

So, he went to his attic and found the best quality canvas that he had. He spent time, sketching his painting on rough paper, then carefully began to apply paint to the canvas. It took many months to paint. Sometimes he made a mistake and he had to wait for the paint to dry before he could paint over it. He painted a young Dutch girl, standing with her broom. It was a beautiful painting.

When it was finally finished and dry, Abel went to have it framed. He bought the best frame that he could afford, the one that best suited his portrait. Then, when it was finished, he stepped back and admired his work. It was probably the best painting he had ever produced. He was very tempted to keep it, it would look very nice in his lounge, where all his friends and prospective customers would see it. But he had decided that this painting was a gift, to show his love for God. So he wrapped it carefully in a thick blanket, took it in his car and showed it to an art dealer in town. The dealer hummed and hawed but gave Abel a good price.

The very next Sunday, Mr Abel was in church. When the collection plate came round, he carefully placed an envelope containing a cheque onto the plate. It was his offering. The best that he could do.

The plate was then passed to Mr Kane. Mr Kane had also been busy. He had created a beautiful sculpture that month, which he hoped to sell for a lot of money. He was hoping to buy a new car. When the offering plate was passed to him, he scrabbled around quickly in his pocket. It would look bad if he didn’t put something in, people might think he wasn’t doing his bit, might think he was mean. He pulled out a heap of change. There were some pound coins there and some fluff and a dirty hanky. Picking out the fluff and hanky, Kane put the coins on the plate. Then he sat, feeling smug, he had done what was required.

Now, God was watching those men. When he saw Kane’s offering he frowned, said, “No thanks, I don’t need your afterthought, your left-overs.”

When he saw Abel’s offering he smiled and accepted the spirit in which it had been given. God is God.

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Thank you for reading. This is a variation on the story in Genesis. So often we bring to God the dregs of our lives. We pray when we’re tired from the day, we take cheap biscuits when it’s our turn to do coffee at church (because after all, it’s ‘only church’.) We give what is left over from our money, the bits we wont miss. This story teaches us that actually, God is God. Nothing we can bring is good enough. But we should always bring our best because that shows the place that we give to God in our lives. If we give God our leftovers, the God who actually needs nothing from us, then God is very likely to say, “No thanks.”

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The Rich Man

 

     Once upon a time, there was a man. A very rich man. He was also a very holy man. He trusted God with his life and tried his best to follow what he was taught. The man was now very very old. As the man grew old and weak, he realised that soon he would die. He trusted that when that happened, he would go to Heaven. But he was worried. He did not like the idea of going empty-handed, of not taking anything with him.

     "God," he prayed, "I know that when I die you have promised to accept me in to Heaven. And I know that I am not meant to take anything. But please, could you make an exception in this case? Could you let me take a bag with me?"

      Now, God is a kind God, so he considered the man's request very carefully. He knew that the man had tried his best to follow him during his life, that he had been generous and kind, that he had shown mercy and tried to live a good life. He knew that the man was very worried about this and God didn't want him to be anxious. So he agreed, he told the man that he could take one small bag to Heaven.

      Soon after this, as expected, the man died. He arrived in Heaven, carrying one small bag.

     "Oh," said the angel at the entrance, "you cannot bring that in here. You cannot bring anything to Heaven."

     "Yes, I know," replied the man, "but God gave me special permission."

     So the angel went to check and sure enough, he discovered that this man was allowed to bring one small bag into Heaven. Now, word quickly spread amongst the angels and saints in Heaven and they all wondered, what had this man brought into Heaven? So they all came, eager to see.

     They crowded round the man, peering over each other's shoulders, jostling for position as the man knelt down and slowly unzipped his bag. There, shining brightly, were four solid gold bars.

     There was a moment of complete silence.

     Then,perplexed, one of the angels asked, "You brought pavement?"

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      I love this story. I heard it in church, I cannot even remember who told it but I used it many time when teaching because I think it makes a good point. When we decide to follow God, we sometimes have to let go of things and this can be hard. Whether it is our ambitions, dreams, or wealth , there is actually no point in holding on to them. What God provides is always so much better.

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Letter 37

Letters to a Sister : 37

1

This is a reply to my sister’s letter, which you can read at:
http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2016/01/star-wars-handbags-and-my-word-of-year.html

Dear Ruth,

Thanks for your letter. It’s funny but I was thinking much the same things this week. I don’t think I could choose one word for the year though, for me it would be two : Nothing Lasts.

The same conclusions as you really, it is something I realise more and more as I get older. Nothing lasts. This can be sad, when it refers to friendships, when people I love move or die, when a job I enjoy finishes or a stage of life (like having toddlers. I loved parenting tiny children.) It can be good too, when something’s awful, or we’re ill, or we look at the world and it just seems black and hopeless. Nothing lasts.

I had a terrible night on Wednesday, I just couldn’t sleep. I think I spent the whole night awake and worrying. Usually I’m an excellent sleeper – 10:30 to 7am, straight through with no wake ups. If I can’t sleep I put on a story in Chinese and it distracts me enough that I sleep almost instantly. (Husband gave me headphones for Christmas. I am thinking it might not be the same for him.) But Wednesday I started worrying and then couldn’t sleep. All night.

I had all kinds of different worries bubbling around my head. Church has had lots of people move away and we can’t find enough people to fill all the gaps and I’m worried I wont cope with everything I have agreed to do. My book is on the way to being published but I’m worried that no one will buy it, that it’s not good enough, that friends will laugh at me. I hate self-promotion, I just can’t do it, so the thought of having to ask people to buy my book is terrifying. I also had agreed to drive the boys back to uni, which is a long drive, longer than I have driven since brain surgery. Worried I would get too tired, worried about staying in a motel (very scary), worried I would get lost in big Northern cities. Worry, worry, worry, buzzing round my brain.

The next morning I was reading Psalm 8 (you remember I am studying the Psalms at the moment?) Anyway, it just made me cross! It begins by talking about God, his glory, how he put the stars in place with his hands, how even tiny children praise him, etc. “That’s nice,” I thought, “but it doesn’t exactly fill up the Sunday School rota with names of willing volunteers. It doesn’t help me much.”

Then I realised that actually it did, actually it took all those worries away. If I believed in a God who placed the stars, then surely I believed that he could cope with a rota of names? Surely I could leave the problem with him? It just wasn’t MY problem, none of my worries were. They were his.

All I have to do is live each day as well as I can. To live in the present – which kind of comes back to what you were saying. I have to live each day as best as I can, which might mean editing my book or asking people to help with some job at church. But as long as I do that right, in the best way I can, then I am only answerable to God. The bigger problem is his and I can just dump it with him and get on with my day, with my ‘now’, my ‘present’.

Perhaps my word should be ‘Trust’. Except I’m not quite holy enough to do that very well, so I’ll leave it with ‘nothing lasts’.

Hope you have a good week. Hope woodpecker doesn’t destroy your house (your house is made of wood, right?)

Take care,
Anne xx

PS: News in brief:
The rats are back. More annoying than I can say. Have found new holes in the duck aviary. Have put down traps and discussed with cats.

We’ve had lots of rain. Loads of it. Makes walking dog each day very unpleasant. Squelching through sodden fields is grim. So is the amount of mud that seems to find its way into my kitchen. Hens are very cross and refuse to leave their perch some days.

I still have a Christmas tree up – the artificial one that I refuse to have anything to do with. The ornaments are gone but the tree remains. I think husband thinks I haven’t noticed. Am saving discussion for when I’ve done something wrong and need some leeway. Shouldn’t be long.

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Letter to My Sister 36 : Handbags and Mothers

Letters to a Sister : 36

2

You can read my sister’s letter at:

http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.ca/2015/12/swearing-soap-and-2-minute-meals.html

Here is my reply:

Dear R,

I miss you too at Christmas. I also can’t believe it has gone already, I love it, it makes me remember being little again.

When I was a little girl, I loved looking through people’s handbags – do you remember? If we had visitors, I would sometimes sneak out of the room with their bag, so I could search it in peace. It was possibly embarrassing for Mum, though I never took anything, I was just very curious (I refuse to use the ‘nosey’ word.) The bag I remember the most clearly was the midwife’s bag when she came after brother was born. It was black and VERY heavy and Mum shouted at me for hiding behind the sofa with it. I was misunderstood as a child.

Then we were given handbags by Great Aunt Nell one Christmas. Her presents were always slightly on the unexpected side weren’t they. I remember being given old Christmas cards one year. We loved her dearly (I’m sure not just because she gave us sixpences) but her gifts were somewhat random. So Mum (very naughtily) used to unwrap them before Christmas day, to check what was inside. I found this very exciting, especially as she always told me to not tell Dad (hence confirming it was completely against the rules. Mum has never really done rules.)

Anyway, that year it was handbags. Not sure if they had belonged to Aunty Nell or to one of her long deceased friends. I was very excited by the brown knobbly one with the snappy clip at the top but that was addressed to you (I did try to persuade Mum to switch the name labels but she didn’t break the rules that much.) I was given a basket. With no snappy top.

Mum has not, as far as I remember, ever used a handbag. Perhaps because I always searched it. Or maybe her lack of bag accounts for my fascination with them. Her pockets always have the same things in: a short pencil, an old shopping list, a tissue, some coins and now – which is my reason for writing this – those plastic coins from Waitrose.

Do you know what I mean? -Those plastic counter things that Waitrose have by the door, so you can vote for your favourite charity and then Waitrose will donate money to the one with the most votes? (Not sure if they have these the other side of the Atlantic but you may have noticed them when you were here.) I believe the aim is that every shopper has one vote, uses one counter with each load of shopping, dropped through the slot into the clear plastic container, watching the charity of their choice collect votes. I am sure the aim is NOT for old ladies, who happen to know that a charity of their choice is soon to be appearing, to hoard the plastic counters in their pockets. Nor to collect them from other stores and save them until they are next in their own one. I just hope she never finds a shop that sells the same kind of counter – even Waitrose staff might notice if two thousand extra counters suddenly appear. I have broached this subject with her but I feel it needs reinforcement – when are you next here?

Actually, Waitrose has been brilliant for Mum. She loves the free coffee that you get with their loyalty card and the free ‘samples’ of cakes that sometimes are left on the counter. (I wont mention the unfortunate incident when the baker left a tray of freshly baked muffins on the same counter and someone tucked in thinking they were free….)

I like our supermarkets. I like that they reduce food towards the end of the day. All the students learn what time this happens and loiter near the door waiting for the ‘Half Price Man’ to do his rounds so they can snaffle up the bargains. I like that they sell lots of ethnically diverse foods (the US supermarkets only really stocked US food) and that they donate left over food to charities for the homeless.

I am finding the 5p carrier bags bit of a challenge (they recently stopped providing free ones.) – I like the idea in principle but I do find it hard to remember to take a bag with me when I shop, too many years of being lazy/wasteful. My own bags are now stuffed with reuseable bags, just in case. Which with old receipts and pens that don’t work, just about fills my bag. Not very exciting should a child want to explore.

Take care,
Anne xxx

PS: I always show these to people who are mentioned before I post them, just in case they will be embarrassed/sue me. Mum assures me that it was Great Aunt Queenie, not Nell, who gave us the handbags. (I am not entirely sure if I have spelt Queenie correctly, or even if that was her real name or just what we called her. I have certainly never met another Queenie – have you? It wasn’t one of our name choices when we had daughter, though I quite like Nell as a name.)

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Thank you for reading.

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