Posted on 01/12/2015 11:13:16 AM PST by ChildOfThe60s
I would like you to imagine something with me.
I would like you to imagine that you are in your kitchen, preparing the evening meal for your family. It's something you've done countless times before, and will do countless times again.
And as you stand there, cutting carrots, your eyes drift up again to the spot.
That spot.
Every house has them - tiny scars of documented memory, incidents of life written in wood and plaster. In some houses it's the scratched door where an over-eager dog always begs to go out. In others a series of pencil marks on a door frame, documenting a child's path to adulthood.
In this house, that spot is a hole.
Right up there, behind the cellar door.
It's small - about the size of a man's thumb.
And if you were Elizabeth Russell, it marks the day when your life changed forever.
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On April 19, 1775, the King's soldiers ran a ragged retreat through Menotomy.
Elizabeth's husband Jason went to meet them. He'd been warned. He knew exactly what was coming. He had to know the odds of a man standing against an army.
But still he insisted - "a man's home is his castle."
He sent his family away - built a defense behind stone walls and piled shingles. Soon he was joined by neighboring militia, and together they awaited the approaching storm.
When the British flankers came in behind them, Jason Russell and the militia were overrun. Routed, they looked for the only safety they could find - Jason's house. This house.
And inside these walls they died.
If you were Elizabeth Russell, returning to your home that April 19th, you would walk through your front door to find your kitchen stacked with war dead. Your husband of thirty five years would be one of them.
And so this would be your home, for the last long ten years of your life.
Every time you walk through the front door, you would step over the spot where British soldiers bayonetted your husband, as he lay breathing his last on your doorstep.
Every time you took fresh linens to the bedrooms, you'd see the bullet hole in the stair steps - splinters blown out from a skirmish in your own kitchen.
And every time you stood over the stained floorboards in the kitchen, you'd look up and see - that spot.
The kitchen is still there.
You can still stand at a kitchen table.
And look up.
And see the spot.
Should the time ever come, I hope I have the courage to do what is right.
I pray for Jesus’s forgiveness if I don’t have the courage if the time came to lie to the mozlums.
How can lying to scum be a sin?
bmp
If the muslims are having a conversation with you, tell them about Jesus. If the muslims are attacking you, blast ‘em through the head.
No lies told.
Thinking about the long icy ride home today......you made my day. I will think about them all the way home. Citizens today are lacking starting with me. I often think about how scary Rev war must have been but they fought. Most in their 30s!!!
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