“There is no lack of power in the church today, but there is a lack of turning on the power.”
—Wolton Wollrams, in a sermon at the Tollgate Seventh-day Adventist Church in West Virginia
It was a cold, winter Friday afternoon. After school we had one mile to walk home.
Our sister Marie kept prodding us, “Hurry up. We have to get home before sunset.” Her prodding had little effect; it was the cinnamon rolls.
Every Friday there would be the smell of cinnamon rolls—on the road homeward (imaginary); at the doorway (real). That’s what propelled us homeward.
We crowded around the pans, reached for a roll, sat down, and performed the ritual:
Slowly, oh, so slowly, we unrolled the roll, smelled deeply the cinnamon and the sweetness, felt the hot dough caressing our cheeks, and prolonged the ultimate enjoyment of chewing the rolls, then licking our fingers.
What an introduction to another Sabbath!
—Caesar Nawalkowski, Ponoka, Alberta, Canada
After my husband’s death I moved from our home in Collegedale, Tennessee, into a nearby duplex. One rainy Sabbath morning I walked out of my door to go to early church. Immediately I realized the door had locked behind me and I had forgotten my keys. I had an extra car key in my purse but no house key.
Hearing of my predicament after the church service, Pastor Derek Morris told me that he and his wife would meet me at my house after Sabbath school. When I arrived home, he was already trying to open the door with a credit card. After several minutes with no success, he suggested that I go to my lunch appointment, and he would go find something a little stronger than plastic and try again. About an hour later Morris called the home where I was eating to say that the door was unlocked. I asked my host how he did it. He answered, “I asked him and he said he didn’t—God did.”
The next time I saw Morris, I asked him what he meant by God opening my door. He explained, “I tried a long time to open the door and nothing helped. Finally, I bowed my head and prayed, ‘Lord, this woman needs to get into her home. Please open this door for her.’” Then he added: “The very next time I tried, the door opened!”
—Ruby Sorenson, Warrington, Pennsylvania
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