In His Own Time

By Sandra Helzerman

Annie tragically loses both parents, and when an aunt and uncle come forward to claim her, the choice seems obvious, but is it? They are young and will now have double the children to care for. The desire has been planted in Sandy's mind to take Annie (whose real mother, while alive, had become closer through their mutual church and its activities) into her own home. However, Annie goes to live with her relatives, and the vision is smashed for this kind friend who feels certain that God has planted the idea in her heart. For what reason then? Is it just to be disappointed at last? Is God not in it after all? Why does even a scripture verse stand out to assure her seemingly? Many aspects of God's will are clear in the scripture, and we follow as best we can. Other specific paths are not quite so easy to see. We pray, we read, and we sense what He is saying to us. Then by faith, we act. This is the true story of a little girl's journey . . . from living with her own dear family to being orphaned at a young age, to finally finding a permanent loving home from where she will grow up to serve the Lord with her life. It is also the tale of patience and answered prayer. God always answers, but His time is not always our time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640793699

Book preview

302812-ebook.jpg

In His

Own Time

Sandra Helzerman

ISBN 978-1-64079-368-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64079-369-9 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Sandra Helzerman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

1

A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.

—Proverbs 16:9 (KJV)

You don’t want any kids, do you? The little imp with her head in my lap looked up at me as though expecting a negative response, yet perhaps hoping for the opposite one. How could I tell her that we longed to have her be our own daughter . . . that amazingly we loved her and needed her in our lives? Perhaps I would be giving her false hope. How did one explain to a child that the decision was not any longer ours . . . that a judge in a black robe held the power to mold her future and ours? I answered vaguely that it was not that we did not want children . . .

She let my words suffice, but the question in her mind, I knew, was not settled. I could not promise what I was not able to bring about.

Annie was a loving and lovable little six-year-old who had lost both parents, and was aware that she now needed a place to live . . . a home and someone to love and take care of her. I knew she was considering whether or not my husband and I might be the ones who would give her what she yearned for—a place to belong . . . a haven in the midst of the confusion a young child experiences when tragedy strikes and the adults around her cannot even bring themselves to explain to her what has happened and why. They themselves do not understand and are filled with their own loss and their own questions.

My mind flashed over the last year or two. How long had it actually been since I first became acquainted with our church pianist, Annie’s mother? At first I had been interested in her because of her musical ability. She was far above me in virtuosity. Since she gave piano lessons at the church all day long, I had been overheard practicing there myself once; we had no piano at that time. She gave me a compliment, but I knew that there was something special about her music that was far removed from my efforts. I could only step back in appreciation of and sensitivity to her God-given gift.

I remember to this day her student recital at the end of which she played a Chopin piece for her pupils and their parents. I had just arrived in time for that selection. I had sneaked into the back pew, not even dressed up for the occasion. It was worth the trip just to hear that one song. She touched the keys with a brilliant professionalism and emotion that I had rarely heard. My eyes inexplicably filled with tears. I cannot say whether it was only the hauntingly beautiful music that caused my reaction or some sort of real-life foreshadowing of the events that would follow, that God sometimes allows us, while we do not understand it clearly until later. Whatever the stimulus, I was truly moved and impressed. Her heavenly playing inspired me to go on with my own music; I had largely neglected it since college, and of course since being married, I no longer had the old family piano with which I grew up.

This purely selfish motive spurred my first interest in Annie’s whole family, but there was to be a closer relationship than I had ever dreamed. My husband, it is true, taught one of her brothers in Sunday school, and we at that time were telling stories to the children in junior church each week, which connected us to Annie. I recall a vibrant, alert little girl with big, sparkling brown eyes set in a dimpled, square face with short, straight brown hair wreathing her grinning, full-cheeked countenance. With a gruff little whisper, she would beg in her own confidential yet teasing way, What’s the story going to be about today? if I sat down beside her waiting to tell my missionary story. Annie and her mother would unfailingly be sitting together in a second or third pew at practically every church service even when the rest of the family was absent.

Since it was the duty of the kitchen committee to care for the needs of the sick or incapacitated, and I was one of that group, it became my responsibility to arrange for meals to be brought when Annie’s mother, June, had been in the hospital for surgery. (We had also visited her there during her stay.) It was rewarding to be of some help, and I knew that she truly appreciated what all the ladies of the church did.

Although it was unlike me, sad to say, to really become involved with others for very long (I have that touch of the phlegmatic temperament to overcome, which keeps me focused on my own life most of the time), I found myself covering the miles between our homes quite often. How unusual, I had marveled as I enjoyed the country scenery of summer from the driver’s seat of my car, that God has laid a burden on me to care more than casually about this sister in Christ. It really had become a privilege, not a chore at all. It was amazing to me that I was the one who ended up taking June to her doctor for a follow-up appointment. We had a friendly enjoyable talk together, and during her examination I took Annie outside to play on the swing set that had been thoughtfully provided for just such occasions. I thought her a beautiful little girl but enjoyed her responsive hugs and winning ways with a certain detachment . . . that care not to overstep the bounds of friendship. When a child belongs to someone else, you guard your heart a little in that way, even though you have that unfulfilled motherly instinct when childless yourself. It is understood that you cannot take that place that is meant only for a parent, but still you treasure the part of her heart that child gives to you.

On a later day, when several of us went out for a cleaning party to June’s house, one of my jobs was to wash Annie’s hair. I remember that she lay very still on the kitchen counter with her head over the sink and seemed to thoroughly enjoy this attention given to her. It was a new experience for me, and drew us a little closer, which I also enjoyed. Since June had a rare disease called lupus, it was the loss of cartilage in her hand that had required the operation, and we were praying with her that this disorder would not eventually hinder her piano playing. Duties like those we were performing that day were difficult because for the time being, she was not to allow her hand to get wet.

Before too long, however, June was again playing for our services, and the rest of us would not have suspected there had ever been a problem, had we not known. She was still fighting this, though, and I am certain there were private frustrations as she slowly worked the stiffness out. She seemed to meet this trial with great patience.

Sometimes when visiting their home, I felt that I was sensing a certain forlornness there, even a kind of despair about the house. Perhaps it was only that June was unable to do those normal little tasks that mothers do to transform four plastered walls and a ceiling into a homey refuge from the world. Maybe it was the pervading knowledge that her disease could only finally creep into every vestige of cartilage in her body. I am not sure, but I remember being saddened that even the service we, her Christian friends, had offered could not change that atmosphere completely. Was it more in looking back that the house itself seemed charged with a grave and inescapable sentence? That is what I remember.

2

Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.

—John 11:25 (KJV)

I am ashamed to record that for a while, Annie’s family and their problems, which were surely now financial as well as physical because of prolonged hospital stays for both father and mother, slipped to the back of our minds. We continued to see June at church, but the Christmas season, with its family gatherings, a new year, our responsibilities as Christian schoolteachers . . . they all claimed our attention. I did not continue to visit there as I had done previously.

One cold day toward the end of February, the telephone rang in our home. Doug answered