My husband and I had raised registered Hereford cattle in the
beautiful Annapolis Valley for five years.  Those years were the
best years of my life, and although I only weighed 104 lbs, I
was a driven workaholic looking after the cattle, the farm,
cutting pulpwood, whatever it took to keep my dream alive.

The best years of my life ended when my husband

moved to Halifax with another woman.

I had continued to look after the 60 head of cattle and harvest
my forest on my 600 acres, but I was finally forced - by lack of
money - to give up.  (I learned later that all across North
America, the cattle bust was known as the Crash of '75.  It
wasn't just me alone who lost my cattle, but it felt like it.)

I could have moved in with my parents, but I wanted solitude to
try to sort out my life.  I made a deal with the trustees of an
abandoned Baptist church that I would paint the outside of the
church in lieu of paying rent.  The building had no water or
heat or plumbing, but it was a good place for me to reach out to
God in my agony over my losses.

I slept in the upstairs balcony and at night the moonlight shone
through the six arched windows and I lay in my bed and wept.
One night I cried out to God, "It's not enough to just believe
You love me.  I need You to put Your arms around me

and tell me that You love me."

Of course, there was no response, no miracle.  The moon was soon
hidden by clouds and I was in darkness.

Shortly thereafter, the church I attended announced a women's
retreat would be held soon.  My mother encouraged me to go.  I
angrily retorted that I had nothing in common with women who
could talk about nothing but scrubbing floors and raising
babies.

But I was desperate and I went to that Retreat.  As the weekend
wore on, I realized there was depth in the 72 women attending,
and that they also did soul searching.

Towards the end of the Retreat, I walked up to the front of the
room and leaned against the piano and started to talk.  I told
the women how tough I was, how I could carry 100-lb. calves in
my arms, cut pulpwood like a man and castrate bulls.  But that
my husband had left me, I had lost my beloved farm, and now I
needed their prayers to help me work out a new life.

As I finished speaking, all 72 women stood as one and lined up
to get to me.  Not only did they all say that they would pray
for me, but each and every one of them put their arms around me
and said that they loved me. 

And the sunlight streamed in the windows of that Retreat hall -

like the Holy Spirit was hovering there.

Later that night, as I lay in my bed in the abandoned church
that was my home, I thanked God for that tremendous outpouring
of love that been given to me by women, whom I normally avoided.
And then it hit me!  I hadn't asked those women to tell me that
they loved and put their arms around me.  I had asked that of
God weeks previous.

And God had answered my prayer - 72-fold,

and from a source I would never have expected.

That response, which did not fit my criteria,

made an impression on me that will last my whole life.

The lesson is to let the giver give what he has to give. 

It may be much less than you want,

but it also may be a great deal more than you expect.
 Gwynn Alcorn