By
Ada Brownell
What could I imagine I would be
like when I grew up?
Here I was, a scrawny freckled-face redhead, poor, wearing
my brother’s hand-me-downs. My brother’s union-alls had a button up flap in the
back that had to be unbuttoned by one of the big people in the family before I
could go to the outhouse. I think I had a flower sack dress or two to wear to
church.
We wouldn’t have had enough to eat had we not had a cow, a
huge irrigated garden and raised chickens and pigs
.
When I started school, Daddy gave Mama permission to buy me three
new little cotton dresses from Montgomery Ward. The new pair of shoes had to
last until the next school year.
I always knew my parents didn’t have an extra penny, and
being the eighth child I often felt a little guilty for barging my way into the
already crowded house, among four sisters and three brothers who weren’t that
excited about another mouth to feed.
Yet, that wonderful family helped me to catch an eye for the
future at a young age. I watched the excitement in the house when my oldest sister,
Marjorie, went to church with a high school friend and became a Christian. One
by one all the older siblings, and finally my parents, accepted Jesus as Savior
and I soon learned Jesus loved me, too, and God had a plan for my life.
God's love was a little secret I held close to my heart even
while being ridiculed by other children because of my freckles and my red hair.
The pretty little girls in frilly dresses never wanted to be my friend.
But all this time something wonderful grew inside me: an
intense desire to learn in school, to know how to sing and play the piano (all
my siblings were musicians), and tell the world the message of John 3:16, “For
God so loved the world he gave his only Son, that whosoever believeth in him
should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
Our family squeezed every drop of joy from each day, but we
always thought about tomorrow in the backs of our minds. My siblings were all
achievers. I saw myself playing the piano for church someday and singing in
gospel groups like my sisters did.
I had no grandiose ideas about what else I would do, except
someday I would meet my Savior and live forever because He died and rose again.
I wanted to tell everybody.
I studied the Bible, listened to our pastor’s sermons and
teachings, and found myself in my early teens teaching children, and then
leading youth. I hadn’t expected those
opportunities. I prepared. God opened doors.
My writing career started like that. I had no idea I would
become a writer, but I had something to say I thought needed sharing and
discovered editors thought it was worth reading.
Working as a newspaper reporter showed me there still was
much to share. In gathering news a journalist touches almost every aspect of
society. We report on the achievers, reveal life’s disasterous complications,
and what happens when wickedness grips the heart and threatens to blow apart
the hope of the eternal soul.
My burden is for the youth of America. So much potential! So
much opportunity! But Satan lurks everywhere seeking whom he may devour.
How can I not show them the path to wonderful tomorrows? How
can I not show them how to prepare for the exciting journey of abundant life?
How can I not show them how to avoid those who would steal their faith, rob
them of their health and talents, and destroy their loved ones and eternal
future?
So, I have a book filled with practical helps on developing
your talents, being and looking your best, making the right connections,
guarding your name’s fame, and much more, with many inspiring examples and
illustrations.
Jesus said not to worry about tomorrow, but we’re told to
prepare for what is ahead. The theme of my book is close to Solomon’s advice
quoted here from The Message: “Don’t
for a minute envy careless rebels; soak yourself in the Fear-of-God— That’s where
your future lies. Then you won’t be left with an armload of
nothing” (Proverbs 23: 17.
©Ada
Brownell May 2014
Imagine the Future You audiobook is
available at www.Audible.com Free book with new Audible membership.
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