Year: December 16, 1875
Amy Carmichael: 8 year old
From Amy's Journal
As a proper Irish girl growing up in the 1880's, I had to sit with my mother and learn how to hand sew. Nothing could be more boring. It wasn't sitting with mom that bothered me. She kept me busy with conversation. It was my brothers shouts of happy play outside in the fresh fallen snow that tugged at my real spirit.
My baby sister let out a cry announcing she'd woken from her nap. I love the sound! No, I'm not crazy. Mom always said, "Go out and play with your brothers while I take care of the baby," when this happened.
It took only seconds for me to bundle up in my coat, boots, gloves, and hat. I whipped opened the door. My brothers shouted, "Yeah, Amy's here to play."
They showed me their snow fort and the need for ammunition. Hah, we made and threw snowballs until mom called us in for family worship time. I can't believe how fast the time flew.
As I ran to the door, though, a strange sound came from the water bucket on the porch. I looked inside and saw a mouse struggling. "Oh, you poor thing." Without help, it would die.
My brothers looked in the bucket. "Come on, Amy. We gotta get inside or Dad will punish us for not coming when called. The mouse looks dead, anyway."
"You go inside. I'll be there in just a second."
They opened the door. I took off a glove and tenderly reached into the freezing water. The mouse climbed up my hand and onto my dry arm, shivering. The poor thing was soaked and so cold I couldn't leave him outside to die. I dried his soaking fur and put him in my dress pocket to get warm. "There you go, little one."
He wiggled a little then settled into my pocket. His cold came through to me. I knew that my warmth went to him. I flung opened the door and whipped off my coat, hat, and boots then ran to the sitting room.
"Well, Miss Amy, so nice of you to join us for worship time," said Dad. He wasn't pleased. His eyebrows pointed down as he spoke.
I sat in my seat and listened to the Bible reading. Part way through, the mouse made a squeak.
"Did you say something, Amy?"
I shook my head and set my hand on the pocket to quiet the mouse. He did quiet for about a minute then squeaked again. The little guy must have warmed enough to want to escape. He poked his head out of my pocket.
My mother screamed. Dad let out a sound. My brothers laughed. "I'm sorry, Dad. He fell into the bucket and was drowning. I only put him in my pocket to warm him up." I stood. "I think he's ready to go back to his family outside."
"We'll talk about this after worship time, young lady."
Sigh. We did. I managed to get myself into many talks with Dad as I grew up.
Some might call the younger me precocious, which is an awfully big word for managing to find trouble instead of doing what I should be doing. I think God thought of it as a good sign I would survive on the mission field.
Resources used for this series:
Benge, Janet, and Geoff Benge. Amy Carmichael: Rescuer of Precious Gems. Seattle, WA: YWAM Pub., 1998. Print.
Davis, Rebecca Henry. With Daring Faith: A Biography of Amy Carmichael. Greenville, SC: Bob Jones UP, 1987. Print.
Dick, Lois Hoadley. Amy Carmichael: Let the Children Come. Chicago: Moody, 1984. Print.
Meloche, Renee Taft., and Bryan Pollard. Amy Carmichael: Rescuing the Children. Seattle, WA: YWAM Pub., 2002. Print.
Wellman, Sam. Amy Carmichael: A Life Abandoned to God. Uhrichville, OH: Barbour Pub., 1998. Print.
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