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A message every adult should read,because children are watching you and doing as you do,not as you say.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, I saw you hang my first painting on the refrigerator, and I immediately wanted to paint another one.

When you thought I wasn’t looking saw you feed a stray cat, and I learned that it was good to be kind to animals.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, saw you make my favorite cake for me and I learned that the little things can be the special things in life.

When you thought I wasn’t looking I heard you say a prayer, and I knew there is a God I could always talk to and I learned to trust in God.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, I saw you make a meal and take it to a friend who was sick, and I learned that we all have to help take care of each other.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, I saw you give of your time and money to help people who had nothing and I learned that those who have something should give to those who don’t.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, I saw you take care of our house and everyone in it and I learned we have to take care of what we are given.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, I saw how you handled your responsibilities, even when you didn’t feel good and I learned that I would have to be responsible when I grow up.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, I saw tears come from your eyes and I learned that sometimes things hurt, but it’s all right to cry.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, I saw that you cared and I wanted to be everything that I could be.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, learned most of life’s lessons that I need to know to be a good and productive person when I grow up.

When you thought I wasn’t looking, I looked at you and wanted to say, “Thanks for all the things I saw when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

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Mary and Susan were friends for years. They grew up together and attended the same schools. They were now both in their 40′s, and both had great careers. They both had a similar upbringing – same education, same family values, similar support and financial position. But there was one main difference. Mary never seemed to have enough time. She watched her life long friend Susan. She had similar responsibilities and interests. Susan had a career, she had three children, she had her hobbies, one of which included golf. Over lunch, Susan was telling Mary about the golf game that she played last weekend.

“Susan, where do you find the time to play golf?” asked Mary. “I never seem to have the time, now with the children older and doing there own thing I thought I would have time to play golf like we did when we were in college.”

Susan looked at Mary and laughed, “Mary, we both have the same hours in a day. You do have the time to play golf!”

With a sigh Mary replied, “That’s easy for you to say. I never seem to have time. My work takes so much of my time. I am in the office at 7:30, I leave at 6:30 in the evening. By the time I get home and have dinner, it is 8:00! And, then I usually have a briefcase full of work. The weekends are full of more work. Just to keep up, I have to put in the hours. You know what it is like!”

“Of course, I know what it is like,” Mary said. “But what would happen tomorrow if you got sick? Who would do the work?”

“Sick. Who has time to get sick! exclaimed Mary. “But if I did get sick, someone else would do the work, I suppose.”

“You know something, Mary, I used to be like you. I worked night and day and of course on weekends. When I got home I was exhausted but I would push myself and read my children a bedtime story. By the time I went to bed, I would be more than exhausted. The boss I had was very demanding. She was there early in the morning, late at night, and she always worked weekends. I felt I had to do the same – I needed the job to help support my family – just as you did. But then I had a change of bosses. The man I worked for was older and much wiser, I might add! Of course, I continued to work the hours I had been working. One day he came to my desk and passed me a card that had a quote on it which said, ‘What I do today is important, because I will never have today again’ – then he left.

I sat there stunned. I suddenly thought of what was important to me. While my work was important, I realized my children were more important. I also realized that time for me was important. It was 4:30, the official closing time of the office. I straightened my desk, felt a twinge of guilt about leaving, but I forced myself to leave. I was home by 5:00. My children and husband were surprised. I had a wonderful evening. It was not a chore to read that bedtime story that evening.”

Mary was looking at her friend thoughtfully and then questioned Susan about the work she had left on her desk.

Susan replied, “I never thought this possible, but I actually accomplished more the next day then I had in weeks. As I was leaving the next day I stopped at my new boss’s office and thanked him for the quote. He told me a story about advice his dad had given him many years ago when he was working night and day. He referred to it as ‘Balance of Life’. His dad told him to keep balance in his work, in his family life and in time for himself. He explained to me, while all aspects of our life are important, without a balance, you become addicted and like all addictions you lose -

- no balance with your family – you lose them

- no balance with your work – you lose your perspective and you actually lose focus on the important aspects of your job.

- no balance with yourself – you forget who you are and when you retire you have nothing! Or worse than that, if you lose your job through a company sale or downsizing you lose your identity.

He went on to tell me that who we are is NOT what we do to make a living. Who we are is a balance of our family, our work, ourselves! It truly was the best advice I ever received.”

Mary took a drink of her tea and tearfully looked at her friend, “But I would never get my work done if I left at 4:30!”

Susan looked thoughtfully at her, “When you go to work on Monday, look at what you have on your desk. Make a list of everything you have to get done and beside that list write the impact of not doing it. Then focus only on the top three items that have the most impact. Do that everyday for a week. At first, you will find it difficult to leave. But, after awhile, you will find that you will have more energy, and you will be more focused in your work because you have BALANCE! There are times when we have to lose balance – a special project at work, or a family matter at home – but consciously focusing on balance keeps everything in check.”

Mary smiled at her friend, “Thanks for talking with me. We have been friends for so long. Thank heavens I have balance with your friendship! You have convinced me. I will leave the work in my briefcase this weekend. On Monday, I will make the list first thing. Perhaps next weekend, I will have the time to go golfing with you!”

“Balance of Life” – important for us ALL!

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It’s simple and powerful.

The philosophy of successful people is often easy to understand.

The more I look at how successful people got that way, the more I realize how straightforward they think.

For example, consider these comments from Mark Cuban, billionaire, mercurial owner of the Dallas Mavericks, and star of the reality TV series “The Benefactor.”

When asked the key to recognizing opportunity, he sites doing one’s homework as the most important factor.

“The hard part is doing the homework to know if the idea could work in an industry,” he says. “Then doing the preparation to be able to execute on the idea.”

He admits that he does not have original ideas. He combines existing ideas in unique ways that no one else is doing.

Of course, he knows no one else is doing it because he has thoroughly studied his industry.

He says that the characteristics of an entrepreneur are willingness to learn, focus, ability to absorb information, and no illusions about competitors’ desire to overtake you.

Cuban says that when he set the goal to retire at 35, he studied everything he could find about business and the industries that interested him. He actually considered any job as a paid opportunity to learn more about a business.

He advises young entrepreneurs to learn as much about their businesses as possible and never take shortcuts.

Over and over again, he emphasizes homework, superior knowledge, the drive to learn, and the need to get to work.

Nothing complicated in this philosophy, is there?

Anyone could adopt his ideas and do well at anything.

Regardless of your dream, if you do your homework, you greatly enhance your odds of success.

Do yourself a favor. Do your homework.

It’s simple and insures success.

And you can be your own benefactor.

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Georgia, a friend of my wife, was recently divorced and trying to raise her two sons when the Gulf War broke out. She heard about soldiers in the service who had no family and needed pen pals. Letters addressed to “Any Soldier” were distributed by commanding officers who noticed any soldiers getting little or no mail. Georgia wrote to 25 such soldiers almost daily, most of them men.

Keeping up with 25 pen pals on a daily basis almost consumed Georgia’s time and talents. She sent poems, little stories, and words of hope and encouragement. When there were time constraints, she would write one letter and copy it for everyone. Greetings were sent whenever she knew about a special event, like a birthday.

One day, Georgia received a letter from a soldier that was depressed and discouraged. She pondered as to how she could help lift his spirits. It was then that she noticed that at work there were paper clips of various colors. Georgia took one of the yellow paper clips and photo copied it in the palm of her hand. She sent this picture with the paper clip with the following message: “This yellow paper clip that you see in my hand represents a hug that I am sending to you. You can carry this paper clip in a pocket or anywhere, and whenever you feel down, you can just touch and hold it and know that somebody cares about you, and would give you a hug if she were there.” Georgia sent a copy of this picture along with a paper clip and the message to each of her other correspondents.

After the war ended, Georgia received one of the pictures of her hand holding the yellow paper clip, and on the back were over 150 signatures of people that had been given her “hug”.

During the years, Georgia named other paper clips. Pink came to mean a kiss, green was for good luck, and so on.

Years later, Georgia was giving a class as part of a seminar for positive thinking. She shared with the members of the class her paper clip symbolism, and made a bracelet of multi-colored paper clips for each of them. One of the women exclaimed “So you’re the one!” The class member told Georgia that she was visiting her brother and needed something to hold papers together. She had noticed a yellow paper clip on the refrigerator held there with a magnet. She borrowed the paper clip for her papers. When the brother saw it, he grabbed it and scolded her, and told her never to touch the yellow paper clip again. Now she knew why.

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The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, For the world was intent on dragging me down.

And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day, A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. He stood right before me with his head tilted down And said with great excitement, “Look what I found!”

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, With its petals all worn – not enough rain, or too little light. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then shifted away.

But instead of retreating he sat next to my side And placed the flower to his nose and declared with surprise, “It sure smells pretty and it’s beautiful, too. That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you.”

The weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower, and replied, “Just what I need.”

But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, He held it mid-air without reason or plan. It was then that I noticed for the very first time That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.

I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun As I thanked him for picking the very best one. “You’re welcome,” he smiled, and then ran off to play, Unaware of the impact he’d had on my day.

I sat there and wondered how he managed to see A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight? Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.

Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see The problem was not with the world; the problem was me. And for all of those times I myself had been blind, I vowed to see beauty, and appreciate every second that’s mine.

And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose And smiled as that young boy, another weed in his hand About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

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James Bender, in his book How to Talk Well (New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company, Inc., 1994) relates the story of a farmer who grew award-winning corn. Each year he entered his corn in the state fair where it won a blue ribbon. One year a newspaper reporter interviewed him and learned something interesting about how he grew it.

The reporter discovered that the farmer shared his seed corn with his neighbors. “How can you afford to share your best seed corn with your neighbors when they are entering corn in competition with yours each year?” the reporter asked.

“Why sir,” said the farmer, “didn’t you know? The wind picks up pollen from the ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbors grow inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbors grow good corn.”

He is very much aware of the connectedness of life. His corn cannot improve unless his neighbor’s corn also improves.

So it is in other dimensions. Those who choose to be at peace must help their neighbors to be at peace. Those who choose to live well must help others to live well, for the value of a life is measured by the lives it touches. And those who choose to be happy must help others to find happiness, for the welfare of each is bound up with the welfare of all.

The lesson for each of us is this: if we are to grow good corn, we must help our neighbors grow good corn

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Several years ago, a friend of mine and her husband were invited to spend the weekend at the husband’s employer’s home. My friend, Arlene, was nervous about the weekend. The boss was very wealthy, with a fine home on the waterway, and cars costing more than her house.

The first day and evening went well, and Arlene was delighted to have this rare glimpse into how the very wealthy live. The husband’s employer was quite generous as a host, and took them to the finest restaurants. Arlene knew she would never have the opportunity to indulge in this kind of extravagance again, so was enjoying herself immensely.

As the three of them were about to enter an exclusive restaurant that evening, the boss was walking slightly ahead of Arlene and her husband.

He stopped suddenly, looking down on the pavement for a long, silent moment. Arlene wondered if she was supposed to pass him. There was nothing on the ground except a single darkened penny that someone had dropped, and a few cigarette butts.

Still silent, the man reached down and picked up the penny. He held it up and smiled, then put it in his pocket as if he had found a great treasure. How absurd! What need did this man have for a single penny? Why would he even take the time to stop and pick it up? Throughout dinner, the entire scene nagged at her.

Finally, she could stand it no longer. She causally mentioned that her daughter once had a coin collection, and asked if the penny he had found had been of some value.

A smile crept across the man’s face as he reached into his pocket for the penny and held it out for her to see. She had seen many pennies before! What was the point of this?

“Look at it.” He said. “Read what it says.”

She read the words “United States of America.”

“No, not that; read further.”

“One cent?”

“No, keep reading.”

“In God we Trust?”

“Yes!”

“And?”

“And if I trust in God, the name of God is holy, even on a coin. Whenever I find a coin I see that inscription. It is written on every single United States coin, but we never seem to notice it! God drops a message right in front of me telling me to trust Him? Who am I to pass it by? When I see a coin, I pray, I stop to see if my trust IS in God at that moment. I pick the coin up as a response to God; that I do trust in Him. For a short time, at least, I cherish it as if it were gold. I think it is God’s way of starting a conversation with me. Lucky for me, God is patient and pennies are plentiful!

When I was out shopping today, I found a penny on the sidewalk. I stopped and picked it up, and realized that I had been worrying and fretting in my mind about things I cannot change. I read the words, “In God We Trust,” and had to laugh. Yes, God, I get the message. It seems that I have been finding an inordinate number of pennies in the last few months, but then, pennies are plentiful!

And, God is patient…

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A little girl who was late coming home for supper. Her mother made the expected irate parent’s demand to know where she had been.

The little girl replied that she had stopped to help Janie, whose bicycle was broken in a fall.

“But you don’t know anything about fixing bicycles,” her mother responded.

“I know that,” the girl said. “I just stopped to help her cry.”

Not many of us know anything about fixing bicycles, either. And when our friends have fallen and broken, not their bicycles but their lives, none of us knows how to fix that. We simply cannot “fix” someone else’s life, even though that’s what we would like most to do.

But like the little girl, we can stop to help them cry. That is the best we can do. And that is a lot!

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A butcher watching over his shop is really surprised when he saw a dog coming inside the shop. He shoos him away. But later, the dog is back again.

So, he goes over to the dog and notices he has a note in his mouth. He takes the note and it reads “Can I have 12 sausages and a leg of lamb, please. The dog has money in his mouth, as well.”

The butcher looks inside and, lo and behold, there is a ten dollar Note there. So he takes the money and puts the sausages and lamb in a bag, placing it in the dog’s mouth. The butcher is so impressed, and since it’s about closing time, he decides to shut up shop and follow the dog.

So off he goes. The dog is walking down the street when he comes To a level crossing.

The dog puts down the bag, jumps up and presses the button. Then he waits patiently, bag in mouth, for the lights to turn. They do, and he walks across the road, with the butcher following him all the way.

The dog then comes to a bus stop, and starts looking at the timetable.

The butcher is in awe at this stage. The dog checks out the times, and then sits on one of the seats provided. Along comes a bus. The dog walks around to the front, looks at the number, and goes back to his seat.

Another bus comes. Again the dog goes and looks at the number, notices it’s the right bus, and climbs on. The butcher, by now, open-mouthed, follows him onto the bus.

The bus travels through the town and out into the suburbs, the dog Looking at the scenery. Eventually he gets up, and moves to the front of the bus. He stands on 2 back paws and pushes the button to stop the bus. Then he gets off, his groceries still in his mouth.

Well, dog and butcher are walking along the road, and then the dog turns into a house. He walks up the path, and drops the groceries on the step.

Then he walks back down the path, takes a big run, and throws himself against the door. He goes back down the path, runs up to the door and again, it throws himself against it. There’s no answer at the house, so the dog goes back down the path, jumps up on a narrow wall, and walks along the perimeter of the garden. He gets to the window, and beats his head against it several times, walks back, jumps off, and waits at the door.

The butcher watches as a big guy opens the door, and starts abusing the dog, kicking him and punching him, and swearing at him.

The butcher runs up, and stops the guy. “What in heaven’s name are You doing? The dog is a genius. He could be on TV, for the life of me!” to which the guy responds: “You call this clever? This is the second time this week that this stupid dog’s forgotten his key.”

Reflection:
Looks like some, people will never be satisfied with what they’ve got.

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Jack tossed the papers on my desk — his eyebrows knit into a straight line as he glared at me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He jabbed a finger at the proposal. “Next time you want to change anything, ask me first,” he said, turning on his heels and leaving me stewing in anger.

How dare he treat me like that, I thought. I had changed one long sentence, and corrected grammar — something I thought I was paid to do.

It’s not that I hadn’t been warned. The other women, who had served in my place before me, called him names I couldn’t repeat. One co-worker took me aside the first day. “He’s personally responsible for two different secretaries leaving the firm,” she whispered.

As the weeks went by, I grew to despise Jack. It was against everything I believed in — turn the other cheek and love your enemies. But Jack quickly slapped a verbal insult on any cheek turned his way. I prayed about it, but to be honest, I wanted to put him in his place, not love him.

One day, another of his episodes left me in tears. I stormed into his office, prepared to lose my job if needed, but not before I let the man know how I felt. I opened the door and Jack glanced up.

“What?” he said abruptly.

Suddenly I knew what I had to do. After all, he deserved it.

I sat across from him. “Jack, the way you’ve been treating me is wrong. I’ve never had anyone speak to me that way. As a professional, it’s wrong, and it’s wrong for me to allow it to continue,” I said.

Jack snickered nervously and leaned back in his chair. I closed my eyes briefly. God help me, I prayed.

“I want to make you a promise. I will be a friend,” I said. “I will treat you as you deserve to be treated, with respect and kindness. You deserve that,” I said. “Everybody does.” I slipped out of the chair and closed the door behind me.

Jack avoided me the rest of the week. Proposals, specs, and letters appeared on my desk while I was at lunch, and the corrected versions were not seen again. I brought cookies to the office one day and left a batch on Jack’s desk. Another day I left a note. “Hope your day is going great,” it read.

Over the next few weeks, Jack reappeared. He was reserved, but there were no other episodes. Co-workers cornered me in the break room.

“Guess you got to Jack,” they said. “You must have told him off good.” I shook my head.

“Jack and I are becoming friends,” I said in faith. I refused to talk about him. Every time I saw Jack in the hall, I smiled at him.

After all, that’s what friends do.

One year after our “talk”, I discovered I had breast cancer. I was 32, the mother of three beautiful young children, and scared. The cancer had metastasized to my lymph nodes and the statistics were not great for long-term survival. After surgery, I visited with friends and loved ones who tried to find the right words to say. No one knew what to say. Many said the wrong things. Others wept, and I tried to encourage them. I clung to hope.

The last day of my hospital stay, the door darkened and Jack stood awkwardly on the threshold. I waved him in with a smile and he walked over to my bed and, without a word, placed a bundle beside me. Inside lay several bulbs.

“Tulips,” he said.

I smiled, not understanding.

He cleared his throat. “If you plant them when you get home, they’ll come up next spring.” He shuffled his feet. “I just wanted you to know that I think you’ll be there to see them when they come up.”

Tears clouded my eyes and I reached out my hand.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Jack grasped my hand and gruffly replied, “You’re welcome. You can’t see it now, but next spring you’ll see the colors I picked out for you.” He turned and left without a word.

I have seen those red and white striped tulips push through the soil every spring for over ten years now. In fact, this September the doctor will declare me cured. I’ve seen my children graduate from high school and enter college.

In a moment when I prayed for just the right word, a man with very few words said all the right things.

After all, that’s what friends do.

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Major James Nesmeth had a dream of improving his golf game – and he developed a unique method of achieving his goal. Until he devised this method, he was just your average weekend golfer, shooting in mid- to low-nineties. Then, for seven years, he completely quit the game. Never touched a club. Never set foot on a fairway.

Ironically, it was during this seven-year break from the game that Major Nesmeth came up with his amazingly effective technique for improving his game – a technique we can all learn from. In fact, the first time he set foot on a golf course after his hiatus from the game, he shot an astonishing 74! He had cut 20 strokes off his average without having swung a golf club in ven years! Unbelievable. Not only that, but his physical condition had actually deteriorated during those seven years.

What was Major Nesmeth’s secret? Visualization. You see, Major Nesmeth had spent those seven years as a prisoner of war in North Vietnam. During those seven years, he was imprisoned in a cage that was approximately four and one-half feet high and five feet long.

During almost the entire time he was imprisoned, he saw no one, talked to no one and experienced no physical activity. During the first few months he did virtually nothing but hope and pray for his release. Then he realized he had to find some way to occupy his mind or he would lose his sanity and probably his life. That’s when he learned to visualize.

In his mind, he selected his favorite golf course and started playing golf. Every day, he played a full 18 holes at the imaginary country club of his dreams. He experienced everything to the last detail. He saw himself dressed in his golfing clothes. He smelled the fragrance of the trees and the freshly trimmed grass. He experienced different weather conditions – windy spring days, overcast winter days, and sunny summer mornings. In his imagination, every detail of the tee, the individual blades of grass, the trees, the singing birds, the scampering squirrels and the lay of the course became totally real.

He felt the grip of the club in his hands. He instructed himself as he practiced smoothing out his down-swing and the follow-through on his shot. Then he watched the ball arc down the exact center of the fairway, bounce a couple of times and roll to the exact spot he had selected, all in his mind.

In the real world, he was in no hurry. He had no place to go. So in his mind he took every step on his way to the ball, just as if he were physically on the course. It took him just as long in imaginary time to play 18 holes as it would have taken in reality. Not a detail was omitted. Not once did he ever miss a shot, never a hook or a slice, never a missed putt.

Seven days a week. Four hours a day. Eighteen holes. Seven years. Twenty strokes off. Shot a 74.

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Few weeks before Independence Day, I noticed a fireworks stand in a parking lot in our city. It reminded me of the many wonderful fireworks shows I’ve attended with my family. There’s something magical about those brilliant colors exploding against the dark sky.

But there’s a problem with fireworks. They don’t last. The same is true of many of the “fireworks” experiences in our lives. We fight and struggle for things that seem beautiful and alluring, but after we get them, their appeal disappears, just like fireworks. Maybe it’s a shiny new car or speedboat. Maybe it’s a big, impressive house. It might even be a promotion at work or a prestigious career.

So many of the things of this world are like fireworks. They promise happiness and fulfillment but can’t deliver. TV commercials play on our emotions, making us believe that if we drive a certain kind of SUV or clean our floors with their super-efficient mop, we’ll be happy at last. More often than not, all we feel is disillusioned.

If you’ve had enough of these “fireworks” experiences and the letdowns that follow, I challenge you to pursue the only thing in life that doesn’t disappoint: a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. The astounding thing about loving God is that it actually gets better every day. Once you give your heart to Jesus, you’ll have happiness and fulfillment that lasts into eternity, and you’ll never want to go back to “fireworks” experiences again.

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A parable is told of a farmer who owned an old mule. The mule fell into the farmer’s well. The farmer heard the mule ‘braying’ — or whatever mules do when they fall into wells. After carefully assessing the situation, the farmer felt sorry for the mule, but decided that neither the mule nor the well was worth saving. Instead, he called his neighbors together and told them what had happened and asked them to help haul dirt to bury the old mule in the well and put him out of his misery.

Initially, the old mule was hysterical! But as the farmer and his neighbors continued shoveling and the dirt hit his back, a thought struck him. It suddenly dawned on him that every time a shovel load of dirt landed on his back: he should shake it off and step up! This is what the old mule did, blow after blow.

“Shake it off and step up… shake it off and step up… shake it off and step up!” he repeated to encourage himself. No matter how painful the blows, or distressing the situation seemed, the old mule fought “panic” and just kept right on shaking it off and stepping up!

You guessed it! It wasn’t long before the old mule, battered and exhausted, stepped triumphantly over the wall of that well! What seemed like it would bury him, actually end up blessing him. All because of the manner in which he handled his adversity.

In addition to “shaking it off and step up,” we Christians have our heavenly Father to help get us though rough times. When the going gets rough, keep looking up, and trusting him.

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One of the most interesting Americans who lived in the 19th century was a man by the name of Russell Herman Conwell. He was born in 1843 and lived until 1925. He was a lawyer for about fifteen years until he became a clergyman.

One day, a young man went to him and told him he wanted a college education but couldn’t swing it financially. Dr. Conwell decided, at that moment, what his aim in life was, besides being a man of cloth – that is. He decided to build a university for unfortunate, but deserving, students. He did have a challenge, however. He would need a few million dollars to build the university. For Dr. Conwell, and anyone with real purpose in life, nothing could stand in the way of his goal.

Several years before this incident, Dr. Conwell was tremendously intrigued by a true story – with its ageless moral. The story was about a farmer who lived in Africa and through a visitor became tremendously excited about looking for diamonds. Diamonds were already discovered in abundance on the African continent and this farmer got so excited about the idea of millions of dollars worth of diamonds that he sold his farm to head out to the diamond line. He wandered all over the continent, as the years slipped by, constantly searching for diamonds, wealth, which he never found. Eventually he went completely broke and threw himself into a river and drowned.

Meanwhile, the new owner of his farm picked up an unusual looking rock about the size of a country egg and put it on his mantle as a sort of curiosity. A visitor stopped by and in viewing the rock practically went into terminal convulsions. He told the new owner of the farm that the funny looking rock on his mantle was about the biggest diamond that had ever been found. The new owner of the farm said, “Heck, the whole farm is covered with them” – and sure enough it was.

The farm turned out to be the Kimberly Diamond Mine…the richest the world has ever known. The original farmer was literally standing on “Acres of Diamonds” until he sold his farm.

Dr. Conwell learned from the story of the farmer and continued to teach it’s moral. Each of us is right in the middle of our own “Acre of Diamonds”, if only we would realize it and develop the ground we are standing on before charging off in search of greener pastures. Dr. Conwell told this story many times and attracted enormous audiences. He told the story long enough to have raised the money to start the college for underprivileged deserving students. In fact, he raised nearly six million dollars and the university he founded, Temple University in Philadelphia, has at least ten degree-granting colleges and six other schools.

When Doctor Russell H. Conwell talked about each of us being right on our own “Acre of Diamonds”, he meant it. This story does not get old…it will be true forever…

Opportunity does not just come along – it is there all the time – we just have to see it.

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A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet.

She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even the total had to be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes.

Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall’s Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.

She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention, but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good.

Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!

“And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. I’m talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven’t seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.

“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He’s really, really sick…and I want to buy a miracle…”

“I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist.

“His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”

“We don’t sell miracles here, little girl. I’m sorry but I can’t help you,” the pharmacist said, softening a little.

“Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”

The pharmacist’s brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?”

“I don’t know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. I just know he’s really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can’t pay for it, so I want to use my money.”

“How much do you have?” asked the man from Chicago.

“One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly.

“And it’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”

“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents—the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.”

He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said, “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let’s see if I have the miracle you need.”

That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon, specializing in neuro-surgery. The operation was completed free of charge and it wasn’t long until Andrew was home again and doing well. Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.

“That surgery,” her Mom whispered. “was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?”

Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost….one dollar and eleven cents….plus the faith of a little child.

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Charles Plumb, a U.S. Naval Academy graduate, was a jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent 6 years in a Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons learned from that experience.

One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at another table came up and said, “You’re Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down!”

“How in the world did you know that?” asked Plumb.

“I packed your parachute,” the man replied.

Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude.

The man pumped his hand and said, “I guess it worked!” Plumb assured him, “It sure did. If your chute hadn’t worked, I wouldn’t be here today.”

Plumb couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about that man. Plumb says, “I kept wondering what he might have looked like in a Navy uniform, a white hat, a bib in the back, and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I might have seen him and not even said, “Good morning, how are you?” or anything because, you see, I was a fighter pilot and he was just a sailor.

Plumb thought of the many hours the sailor had spent on a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silks of each chute, holding in his hands each time the fate of someone he didn’t even know.

“Now,” Plumb asks his audience, “who’s packing your parachute?” Everyone has someone who provides what they need to make it through the day. Plumb also points out that he needed many kinds of parachutes when his plane was shot down over enemy territory — he needed his physical parachute, his mental parachute, his emotional parachute, and his spiritual parachute. He called on all these supports before reaching safety.

Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us, we miss what is really important. We may fail to say hello, please, or thank you, congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened to them, give a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason.

As you go through this week, this month, this year, recognize people who pack your parachute. I am sending you this as my way of thanking you for your part in packing my parachute!!!

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During my second month of nursing school, our professor gave us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had breezed through the questions, until I read the last one: “What is the first name of the woman who cleans the school?”

Surely, this was some kind of joke.

I had seen the cleaning woman several times. She was tall, dark-haired and in her 50s, but how would I know her name? I handed in my paper, leaving the last question blank.

Just before class ended, one student asked if the last question would count toward our quiz grade.

“Absolutely,” said the professor.

“In your careers, you will meet many people. All are significant. They deserve your attention and care, even if all you do is smile and say ‘hello’.”

“I’ve never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her name was Dorothy.

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There was still a steady rain when Amee trudged into the shelter at the bus stop that evening. Sitting heavily on the bench, she stared at muddy gutter, and wondered when things would ever change. So much had been wrong, she felt she was slowly being crushed inside. The physical therapy after the auto accident was only supposed to be for a couple weeks. The weeks had stretched to months, and although she could walk now, she still fought for balance on her steps, and the numbing ache still robbed her of sleep most nights. Her broken collarbone still ached, too, when it rained. Like today. Her stomach growled, and she grimaced at the thought of food. All the medications were ruining her appetite, too. She was so tired of being sick. So tired of being tired. Amee sat lost in thought, as the rain dripped steadily off the awning.

Suddenly, Amee was aware of white service shoes in front of her line of vision. Startled, she followed the sturdy uniform-clad legs up to see pudgy tan hands clasped around an ample waist within a bright blue scrub shirt. She looked up into a pair of crinkled-rimmed kind brown eyes, and realized a woman was speaking to her.

“Ya all right, honey?” she was saying. Without warning, Amee burst into tears. In seconds, the woman had stepped close, and pulled Amee’s head to her ample bosom, and held her quietly close. The moment passed, and Amee straightened up, apologizing profusely through her tears.

“Stop Amee,” said the soft voice. “God knows when we’re drowning, and need His touch. The sun will come out again for you.” Gently she kissed Amee’s forehead, and turned to walk away.

“Wait!” cried Amee, “How did you know my name?!”

“God knows all His children by name, child.”

As Amee blinked in astonishment, the bus arrived, blocking her view. As she stood up, shaking her head, the voice came again. At the same moment as the breaking sunbeams. In the mist steaming off the pavement Amee distinctly heard, “He knows you needed to be held in His arms, for just a moment. To hear His heartbeat. He sent me to wrap you in it today

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A man found a cocoon of an emperor moth. He took it home so that he could watch the moth come out of the cocoon. On the day a small opening appeared, he sat and watched the moth for several hours as the moth struggled to force the body through that little hole.

The moth seemed to be stuck and appeared to have stopped making progress. It seemed as if it had gotten as far as it could and it could go no farther. The man, in his kindness, decided to help the moth; so he took a pair of scissors and snipped off the remaining bit of the cocoon. The moth then emerged easily. But its body was swollen and small, its wings wrinkled and shriveled.

The man continued to watch the moth because he expected that, at any moment, the wings would enlarge and expand to and able to support the body, which would contract in time. Neither happened! In fact, the little moth spent the rest of its life crawling around with a small, swollen body and shriveled wings. It never was able to fly.

The man in his kindness and haste did not understand that the struggle required for the moth to get through the tiny opening was necessary to force fluid from the body of the moth into its wings so that it would be ready for flight upon achieving its freedom from the cocoon. Freedom and flight would only come after the struggle. By depriving the moth of a struggle, he deprived the moth of health.

Sometimes struggles are exactly what we need in our life. If we were to go through our life without any obstacles, we would be crippled. We would not be as strong as what we could have been. Give every opportunity a chance, leave no room for regrets, and don’t forget the power in the struggle.

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I have a jar of pennies that sits inside of me
It’s the most important thing that I longed for you to see
There were some in my life who told me it was there
They helped me keep it clean so that of its value I was aware

But then there were many that really couldn’t see
This valuable jar of pennies that sits inside of me
They filled me with words and deeds that did hurt
All the while it was covering my jar of pennies with dirt

There were one or two others that seemed to not care
And did nothing to help me see the value hidden there
The jar is forgotten it’s been long since I’ve seen
That old jar of pennies that sat inside of me

There’s so much of dirt I’m sure it’s been lost
I need someone to remind me whatever the cost
I’ll say things that hurt you and do things for fun
I’ll make my life count; that’s right, I’m number one!

I’ll do for myself what no one would do
I’ll show you my value if it’s the last thing I do
A smile from another, a wink, a kind word
Reminds me of a time when my value was heard

But I feel the dirt harden; my plan did not work
I need YOU to uncover what is under this dirt
There are so many layers it might take some time
But please let me know the true value that’s mine

It is now that I realize how hard it must be
When I look inside you and see the dirt put there by me
So layer after layer let us both make a vow
That we’ll remind each other of our value somehow

Then when we can see clearly to our knees we will fall
For the valuable jar of pennies were not pennies at all
There in the dirt each other we hold
For what sits in the jar is the dull shine of pure gold

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For the wife who says it’s hot dogs tonight, because she is home with me, not with someone else.
For the husband who is on the sofa being a couch potato, because he is home with me, and not out at the bars.
For the teenager who is complaining about doing dishes, because that means she is at home, not on the streets.
For the taxes that I pay, because it means that I am employed.
For the mess to clean after a party, because it means that I have been surrounded by friends.
For the clothes that fit a little too snug, because it means I have enough to eat. For my shadow that watches me work, because it means I am out in the sunshine.
For a lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning, and gutters that need fixing, because it means I have a home.
For all the complaining I hear about the government, because it means that we have freedom of speech.
For the parking spot I find at the far end of the parking lot, because it means I am capable of walking and that I have been blessed with transportation.
For my huge heating bill, because it means I am warm.
For the lady behind me in church that sings off key, because it means that I can hear.
For the pile of laundry and ironing, because it means I have clothes to wear.
For weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day, because it means I have been capable of working hard.
For the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours, because it means that I am alive.

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One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class was walking home from school. His name was Kyle. It looked like he was carrying all of his books. I thought to myself, “Why would anyone bring home all his books on a Friday? He must really be a nerd.”

I had quite a weekend planned (parties and a football game with my friends tomorrow afternoon), so I shrugged my shoulders and went on.

As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him. They ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt. His glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him. He looked up and I saw this terrible sadness in his eyes. My heart went out to him so I jogged over to him> As he crawled around looking for his glasses, and I saw a tear in his eye.

As I handed him his glasses, I said, “Those guys are jerks. They really should get lives.”

He looked at me and said, “Hey thanks!” There was a big smile on his face.

It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude. I helped him pick up his books, and asked him where he lived. As it turned out, he lived near me, so I asked him why I had never seen him before. He said he had gone to private school before now. I would have never hung out with a private school kid before.

We talked all the way home, and I carried his books. He turned out to be a pretty cool kid. I asked him if he wanted to play football on Saturday with me and my friends. He said yes.

We hung all weekend and the more I got to know Kyle, the more I liked him. And my friends thought the same of him. Monday morning came, and there was Kyle with the huge stack of books again. I stopped him and said, “Darn boy, you are gonna really build some serious muscles with this pile of books everyday!” He just laughed and handed me half the books.

Over the next four years, Kyle and I became best friends. When we were seniors, we began to think about college. Kyle decided on Georgetown, and I was going to Duke. I knew that we would always be friends, that the miles would never be a problem. He was going to be a doctor, and I was going for business on a football scholarship.

Kyle was valedictorian of our class. I teased him all the time about being a nerd. He had to prepare a speech for graduation. I was so glad it wasn’t me having to get up there and speak.

Graduation day, I saw Kyle. He looked great. He was one of those guys that really found himself during high school. He filled out and actually looked good in glasses. He had more dates than me and all the girls loved him!

Boy, sometimes I was jealous. Today was one of those days. I could see that he was nervous about his speech. So, I smacked him on the back and said, “Hey, big guy, you’ll be great!” He looked at me with one of those looks (the really grateful one) and smiled. “Thanks,” he said.

As he started his speech, he cleared his throat, and began.

“Graduation is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings, maybe a coach … , but mostly your friends. I am here to tell all of you that being a friend to someone is the best gift you can give them. I am going to tell you a story.”

I just looked at my friend with disbelief as he told the story of the first day we met. He had planned to kill himself over the weekend. He talked of how he had cleaned out his locker so his mom wouldn’t have to do it later and was carrying his stuff home. He looked hard at me and gave me a little smile. “Thankfully, I was saved. My friend saved me from doing the unspeakable.”

I heard the gasp go through the crowd as this handsome, popular boy told us all about his weakest moment. I saw his mom and dad looking at me and smiling that same grateful smile. Not until that moment did I realize its depth.

Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture you can change a person’s life; for better or for worse. God puts us all in each other’s lives to impact one another in some way. Look for God in others.

Each day is a gift from God! Don’t forget to say, “Thank you!”

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She had been shopping with her Mom in Wal-Mart. She must have been 6 years old, this beautiful brown haired, freckle-faced image of innocence. It was pouring outside. The kind of rain that gushes over the tops of rain gutters, so much in a hurry to hit the earth, it had no time to flow down the spout. Drains in the nearby parking lot were filled to capacity and some were blocked so that huge puddles laced around parked cars.

We all stood there under the awning and just inside the door of the Wal-Mart. We waited, some patiently, others irritated… because nature messed up their hurried day. I am always mesmerized by rainfall. I get lost in the sound and sight of the heavens washing away the dirt and dust of the world. Memories of running, splashing so carefree as a child come pouring in as a welcome reprieve from the worries of my day. Oh to be young again………..

Her voice was so sweet as it broke the hypnotic trance we were all caught in. “Mom, let’s run through the rain,” she said. “What?” Mom asked. “Let’s run through the rain!” she repeated. “No, honey. We’ll wait until it slows down a bit.” Mom replied.

This young child waited about another minute and repeated “Mom, Let’s run through the rain.” “We’ll get soaked if we do,” Mom said. “No, we won’t, Mom, remember what you said this morning,” the young girl said as she tugged at her mom’s arm. “This morning, when did I say we could run through the rain and not get wet?”

“Don’t you remember? When you were talking to Daddy about his cancer, you said, “If God can get us through this, He can get us through anything!”

The entire crowd stopped dead silent. I swear you couldn’t hear anything but the rain. We all stood silently. No one came or left in the next few minutes.

Her Mom paused and thought for a moment about what she would say. Now some would laugh it off and scold her for being silly. Some might even ignore what was said. But this was a moment of affirmation in a young child’s life. A time when innocent trust can be nurtured so that it will bloom into faith.

“Honey, you are absolutely right, let’s run through the rain. If God let’s us get wet, well maybe we just needed washing.”

Then off they ran.

We all stood watching, smiling and laughing as they darted past the cars and puddles. They held their shopping bags over their heads just in case, they got soaked. They were followed by a few who screamed and laughed like children all the way to their cars.

I want to believe that some where down the road in life, this Mom will find herself reflecting back on moments they spent together, captured like pictures in the scrapbook of her cherished memories. Maybe when she watches proudly as her daughter graduates or as her Daddy walks her down the aisle on her wedding day. She will laugh again. Her heart will beat a little faster. Her smile will tell the world they love each other. But only they… will share that precious moment, when they ran through the rain believing that God would get them through.

Yes, I ran. I got wet. I too needed washing. Circumstances or people can take away your material possessions, they can take away your money, and they may even take away your health. But no one can ever take away your precious memories. So, don’t forget to make time and take the opportunities to make memories every day!

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Once you go into the elementary, high school and college levels, you are entering into the world of percentile grades, grade point averages and “ranking” in class. It’s great when your child gets good grades, and we hope that your child’s love for learning will continue. But be careful not to fall into the trap of pressuring your child into doing things solely to get a high grade.

Similarly, if your child gets an average or low grade in subjects, do not treat him with disdain. In both cases, your child will feel and think that his value as a person is tied into his grade. That’s like saying that your value as an adult, as a person, is dependent upon your salary or position in a company.

A GRADE DOES NOT MAKE YOUR CHILD. Your child is NOT a number. He is a complex being who has so many other valuable characteristics that are missed by people who are giving him the grade. Grades only reflect a cumulative score of correct answers, or the value that the teacher is willing to give you for the work you have produced.

Just as salaries simply reflect what a company can afford to give you for the service you are rendering to it, and your position reflects your scope of responsibility in the company. Grades, (or salaries and positions for that matter) do NOT reflect a person’s character, individuality, thoughts, dreams, aspirations and unrealized potential, which are far more important than just getting the right answers to a written test.

So no matter what grade your child gets, treat him the way he deserves to be treated: With a great deal of RESPECT and a whole lot of LOVE. A GRADE DOES NOT MAKE YOUR CHILD.

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Diane, a young university student, was home for the summer. She had gone to visit some friends one evening and time passed quickly as each shared their various experiences of the past year. She ended up staying longer than planned, and had to walk home alone. She wasn’t afraid because it was a small town and she lived only a few blocks away.

As she walked along under the tall elm trees, Diane asked “God” to keep her safe from harm and danger. When she reached the alley, which was a short cut to her house, she decided to take it, however, halfway down the alley she noticed a man standing at the end as though he were waiting for her.

She became uneasy and began to pray, asking for “God’s” protection. Instantly a comforting feeling of quietness and security wrapped around her, she felt as though someone was walking with her.

When she reached the end of the alley, she walked right past the man and arrived home safely. The following day, she read in the newspaper that a young girl had been raped in the same alley, just twenty minutes after she had been there.

Feeling overwhelmed by this tragedy and the fact that it could have been her, she began to weep. Thanking the Lord for her safety and to help this young woman, she decided to go to the police station. She felt she could recognize the man, so she told them her story.

The police asked her if she would be willing to look at a lineup to see if she could identify him. She agreed and immediately pointed out the man she had seen in the alley the night before. When the man was told he had been identified, he immediately broke down and confessed. The officer thanked Diane for her bravery and asked if there was anything they could do for her.

She asked if they would ask the man one question. Diane was curious as to why he had not attacked her. When the policeman asked him, he answered, “Because she wasn’t alone. She had two tall men walking on either side of her.”

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I should have been happier.
It was three days before Christmas and I was driving alone on a country road in our small mountain community delivering home-baked cookies to shut-ins.

I had spent the last couple of days with church friends, mixing dough, shaping date balls, melting chocolate, baking dozens and dozens of several varieties of Christmas cookies. We had covered every surface in my kitchen with cookies, laughing uproariously at our own jokes, singing off-key.

I was having a conversation with my Lord about the death of my mother four months earlier. We had had this conversation before and each time the Lord had provided a measure of peace.

And yet, they surfaced again and again; the same questions. Over and over and over: “Why did my saintly mother have to endure so many years of mind-numbing pain before her death? Why don’t I have peace about where she is at this moment? Why, Lord, why?”

I delivered all the cookies that were assigned to me, warmly greeting the shut-ins who had no inclination of the battle being waged within me. At my final stop, a lady, accepting a box of cookies, kissed me on the cheek and whispered “You’re an angel, do you know that?”

I was hardly an angel and I knew it.

Back in the car, I drove a short distance, then pulled over next to an old, weathered split-rail fence and parked. No farmhouses were in view. I laid my head down on the steering wheel and wept. I missed my mother. This was my first Christmas season without her. I had no peace in my heart about where she was. I knew well the verse, “to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.” Still, I wept alone on that country road, unable to accept the peace that God was so willing to give me.

Finally, in desperation, and with no thought of Biblical precedent, I asked the Lord for a sign. A sign that He cared; a sign that He heard me; a sign that He loved me.

Wiping my eyes, I returned to our country home where I quietly prepared dinner for my husband. We were alone; our sons were married and living in another part of the state.

The next morning, while dressing for church, my husband turned quickly to me in surprise and asked, “Where on earth did you find it?”

“Find what?” I asked, straightening my skirt before the mirror.

“The ruby!” he replied. “Is that your ruby there on the bedspread?”

I rushed to the bed, picked up the ruby, held it close to my breast and began to weep.

A year earlier, my husband and I had celebrated an important wedding anniversary. My siblings, pooling their resources, had presented me with a lovely ruby on a simple gold chain. The next week, the stone had inexplicably come loose from its setting and was never found, leaving me distraught beyond reason.

I had searched for nearly a year, combing the carpets, checking our closets, looking in the most unlikely places for this ruby which had lovingly tied me to my siblings with umbilical strength.

And now, on this Sunday morning, the ruby appeared from nowhere in the center of our bedspread. More curiously, the bed had been made less than a half-hour before.

My husband, sensing my suspicion, placed his hands firmly on my shoulders and assured me that, as a Christian, he could affirm that he knew nothing about the ruby’s whereabouts or how it ended up on our bedspread. Looking deeply into his eyes, I believed him.

I turned the precious stone over and over in the palm of my hand. How like God! He knew my flawed faith. He surprised me with joy.

There could be no other explanation.

And I sought none.

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My father was diagnosed with cancer almost 2 years ago and through the really, really hard times, I tried to keep my sanity by writing. Your site on grief made me cry, but also made me realize that I am definitely not alone as I’m dealing with my father’s cancer. I’d like to submit a letter that I wrote late one night when my father was going in for his 4th brain surgery.

Dear Dad,

I want to say thank you for being such a wonderful father. Though you’ve brought us many a struggle with your various ailments over the years, you’ve taught me more about life than any other experience could have. It’s been tough. You’ve thrown more at me than I ever thought my 21 years could handle. You’ve taught me that nightmares can come true.

Finding out that you have terminal stage IV cancer, out of nowhere, on Christmas Day; what does one even do with that as part of reality? But it was from that pit of desperation and fear that hope somehow sprang forth. My life did not end at that moment and neither did yours.

Dad, you’ve taught me what heroes are made of: how to go in and do what you have to do, even when it’s hard and scary and you know it’s going to be painful. As I sat at your feet through many chemo sessions, I saw an incredible person. I learned how precious life is. It was worth the toxic chemicals that were pumped into your vein. It was worth the horrible side effects including loss of hair, strength, and abscessing finger nails.

As I am constantly immersing myself in the world of medicine as a pharmacy major, you’ve taught me to always remember the personal aspect of what I will soon be calling my career; the part that seems to get lost amid the exams, labs, and lectures. This is what pharmacy is about, people like you, Dad, who are alive today because of what I read in my textbooks.

You’ve taught me that world isn’t about money. What good is a 401K that gives you 10 million at age 60 if you die at 59? Life is too precious, too unpredictable, to be put on hold for 40 years.

You’ve taught me never to give up…even when it seems that all odds are against you and medical professionals only give you a few months to live. Don’t believe in anyone who doesn’t believe in you. As long as their is a tiny chance, you can be the exception because you are like no one else. But, you’ve also taught me not to fear death. Fight the good fight, but know that you can never beat God.

Dad, you’ve taught me how amazing and resistant the human body can be. Surgeons have opened you up and touched your lungs, heart, and brain…and they are still working enough to sustain life. God has done an incredible job in creating us, why mistreat this wonderful gift? No one is made perfect though. True beauty is shown on the inside.

As I look at you now, Dad, I don’t see the pale, bald, slow man before me, I see my father; the person who taught me how to ride a two wheeler, and how to drive a standard shift car. The person who drove me to swim meets and sat there for hour upon boring hour in the hot, humid pool bleachers, never complaining. The person who built my loft freshman year at college in the hundred degree heat. The person who went to work everyday, even though he felt physically worse than I could ever imagine, to his daughter a wonderful chance at a promising future. That’s who I see–and that whom I see is the most beautiful person I can imagine.

Though it’s been hard getting through the days after learning of your diagnosis, I’m thankful that from this disease I have grown to appreciate every day of my life at such a young age.

Love,
Christine

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Year after year my brothers, sister and I would wait anxiously on Christmas morning to hear my father’s voice saying it was all right to come down. Usually I was the first one awake, (although I never admitted that I lie in bed waiting for my little brother to wake up everyone, since it was the assumed job for the baby of the family.) I can remember Christmas’ since I was probably 6 or 7. I remember every year, starting at Thanksgiving, my growing eager for the season.

Even now as I look through the boxes of Christmas decorations I see the same familiar ones; the ornaments with our birth years on it, our five stockings, four for the kids, one for the dog, and my father’s winter village that is set up on the mantle every year. It use to be easy for us to decide when to put up the decorations. But now that we all have jobs and social lives it is usually a rushed activity. I’m still not sure what year our annual watching of “White Christmas” ended.

Each year, especially as we get older, little things change and during the holiday season is when you realize them. It almost brings a pain to a little place in your heart where all your hidden feelings go. The worst was the year after two of my grandparents had passed away. Besides going to my mom’s mother’s house on Christmas Eve, and my dad’s parent’s house on Christmas Day, we just had our family over our house on Christmas Day. Now when I think back to it, I miss having my grandfather slide our presents across the floor. I even miss him calling me my nickname “Jessie”, even though I can’t stand when people call me that.

Things change, not always for the good, but not always for the bad either. And the things that don’t change have the most important meaning to us, and I’m sure they will for the rest of our lives. After all, every time I hear my father’s words “All right you guys, come on down, nice and slow” and we go down the stairs in age descending order, first my brother, then me, then my sister, then my older brother. I still get the same feelings in the pit of my stomach… The feelings of love, giving, peace, and most of all the true Christmas spirit.

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It’s just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.

It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas—oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it-overspending…the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma—the gifts given in desperation because you couldn’t think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.

Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black.

These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes.

As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler’s ears.

It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t acknowledge defeat.

Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.”

Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That’s when the idea for his present came.

That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church.

On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me.

His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.

For each Christmas, I followed the tradition—one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.

The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal it’s contents.

As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn’t end there.

You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad.

The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.

May we all remember each other, and the Real reason for the season, and His true spirit this year and always. God bless—pass this along to your friends and loved ones.

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A couple, whom we shall call John and Mary, had a nice home and two lovely children, a boy and a girl. John had a good job and had just been asked to go on a business trip to another city and would be gone for several days. It was decided that Mary needed an outing and would go along too. They hired a reliable woman to care for the children and made the trip, returning home a little earlier than they had planned.

As they drove into their home town feeling glad to be back, they noticed smoke, and they went off their usual route to see what it was. They found a home in flames. Mary said, “Oh well it isn’t our fire, let’s go home.”

But John drove closer and exclaimed, “That home belongs to Fred Jones who works at the plant. He wouldn’t be off work yet, maybe there is something we could do.” “It has nothing to do with us.” Protested Mary. “You have your good clothes on lets not get any closer.”

But John drove up and stopped and they were both horror stricken to see the whole house in flames. A woman on the lawn was in hysterics screaming, “The children! Get the children!” John grabbed her by the shoulder saying, “Get a hold of yourself and tell us where the children are!” “In the basement,” sobbed the woman, “down the hall and to the left.”

In spite of Mary’s protests John grabbed the water hose and soaked his clothes, put his wet handkerchief on his head and bolted for the basement which was full of smoke and scorching hot. He found the door and grabbed two children, holding one under each arm like the football player he was. As he left he could hear some more whimpering. He delivered the two badly frightened and nearly suffocated children into waiting arms and filled his lungs with fresh air and started back asking how many more children were down there. They told him two more and Mary grabbed his arm and screamed, “John! Don’t go back! It’s suicide! That house will cave in any second!”

But he shook her off and went back by feeling his way down the smoke filled hallway and into the room. It seemed an eternity before he found both children and started back. They were all three coughing and he stooped low to get what available air he could. As he stumbled up the endless steps the thought went through his mind that there was something strangely familiar about the little bodies clinging to him, and at last when they came out into the sunlight and fresh air, he found that he had just rescued his own children.

The baby-sitter had left them at this home while she did some shopping.

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My name is Glen Michael Robinson and I’ve been employed for the past 23 years with the Marion County Sheriff’s Office in Ocala, FL. I’ve never seen a mother respond to the death of her child the way this mother did.

Her son was killed on his third birthday when he chased a ball in the road in front of his house and was struck by a car. Her resolve to remain calm while everything around her was falling apart was an inspiration to me.

I asked her if she knew where the mother was. I’ll never forget the calm expression on her face as she looked at me and told me, “I am the mother.” She was a source of strength for me.

August 2007

Dear Friends,

Recently, I’ve started reading to my wife while we’re lying in bed before we go to sleep. We’re currently reading a book by R. T. Kendall called “Total Forgiveness.” It may be difficult to forgive when someone hurts us, but what about someone that causes the death of one of our children. In order to receive total forgiveness of our sins, we have to totally forgive someone of their trespasses against us, even if they killed one of our children.

One of the things I pray for when I go to work is that the Lord would direct my paths and prepare me to minister to people that I come in contact with.

On July 20, 2007 at 4:45 PM, I arrived at the Sheriff’s Civil Office at the Marion County Judicial Center in Ocala, FL and I was asked by my sergeant to handle a child custody order that was in another deputy’s zone. The child custody order directed the sheriff’s office to remove a child from a mother who happened to be the former girlfriend of the deputy who was originally assigned. The mother’s residence was approximately 10 miles outside my assigned zone.

While en route to the residence, I heard the dispatcher trying to make contact with another deputy on the radio who didn’t respond right away. I could tell from a voice in the background that something was wrong. I pulled up the dispatch screen on my MDT computer and saw the call where a vehicle had struck and possibly killed a 3-year-old child in the Hunters Trace subdivision. I was two blocks away, so I abandoned the child custody order and responded to the accident scene.

When I turned the corner onto the street where the accident occurred, I saw a car parked in the middle of the road. Two women were kneeling over a child’s body that was lying in the roadway. I ran over to where they were. One woman, who I later determined was the 71-year-old lady that hit the child, was upset and crying. The second woman, who appeared to be in her late-20s, was doing CPR on the child while she was on the phone with the EMS dispatcher.

I knelt on the opposite side of the woman and took over the chest compressions on the child while she handled breathing into the child’s mouth. The child was covered in blood.

When the medic unit arrived, one of the paramedics yelled for everyone to get out of the way. She ran and scooped up the child and ran to the ambulance. While the medics were working on resuscitating the child in the ambulance, I turned my attention to the woman who had been doing CPR and asked her if she knew the mother of the child.

She had a calm look on her face as she looked into my eyes and told me, “I am the mother.”

Her child’s blood was on her face and her hands as she turned and went back to her house. I saw her on the side of the house using a water spigot to wash off the blood. I walked over towards her and she told me that she still had a 4-year-old child inside the house that she had to check on and asked me if she got all the blood off. I told her that she still had some blood on her upper lip. She wiped it off and went inside the house.

I used the same spigot to wash my hands and the first woman (the driver of the vehicle) did the same thing. I later noticed the driver standing by herself near her car and crying. I went to her and hugged her and tried to reassure her.

Eventually, the mother and her 4-year-old son came outside to the driveway where we were standing. She stated that she and her son were going to do “prayer hands” and asked if we wanted to join her. She knelt down with her son, lifting her hands to the Lord, while I stood with my hand on her right shoulder and the driver stood with her hand on her left shoulder and we prayed silently. The mother then took her son inside.

The Florida Highway Patrol arrived to do the accident investigation. I spoke to the paramedic at the ambulance who shook his head and told me that the child wasn’t going to make it. I observed one of the child’s sandals lying in the street. I again saw the distraught driver standing by herself and crying. The mother came back out of the house. However, instead of going to the ambulance where her son was, she went to where the driver was standing and hugged her in an attempt to console her.

The child, Ethan Cook, was pronounced dead at the hospital. It was his third birthday.

The mother, Cathi Cook, spoke at her son’s funeral talking about her memories of him. Many tragedies like this that I’ve responded to bring out the worst in people. I saw the best come out of Cathi. Her response to her son’s death was a source of strength to me and a silent testimony of compassion to everyone who was there.

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There is an old Chinese tale about a woman whose only son died. In her grief, she went to the holy man and asked, “What prayers, what magical incantations do you have to bring my son back to life?”

Instead of sending her away or reasoning with her, he said to her, “Fetch me a mustard seed from a home that has never known sorrow. We will use it to drive the sorrow out of your life.” The woman went off at once in search of that magical mustard seed.

She came first to a splendid mansion, knocked at the door, and said, “I am looking for a home that has never known sorrow. Is this such a place? It is very important to me.”

They told her, “You’ve certainly come to the wrong place,” and began to describe all the tragic things that recently had befallen them.

The woman said to herself, “Who is better able to help these poor, unfortunate people than I, who have had misfortune of my my own?”

She stayed to comfort them, then went on in search of a home that had never known sorrow. But wherever she turned, in hotels and in other places, she found one tale after another of sadness and misfortune.

The woman became so involved in helping others cope with their sorrows that she eventually let go of her own. She would later come to understand that it was the quest to find the magical mustard seed that drove away her suffering.

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“She was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen,” recalled my grandfather.

My brother and I were sitting cross-legged on the living room floor. Doug was watching a western movie on the television, and I was idly looking through one of my grandparents’ photo albums. One of the photographs of my grandmother had caught Grandpa’s attention. His usual hearty, buoyant laughter was gone, and his demeanor was quiet and reflective. Suddenly, Grandpa’s story had our full attention.

In his earlier years, my grandfather had been a tall, big-framed and muscular man used to working outdoors. The man in front of us was still larger than life to me and my five-year-old brother, but now his shoulders were stooped and his hands knotted with arthritis. He sat on the edge of the couch and studied us both, as if trying to determine whether we were old enough to fully appreciate what he was going to tell us. His gaze then turned to our grandmother sitting a few feet away. His eyes softened as he related the story of how they met.

His first glimpse of his future bride happened while she was in the company of her father and two of her sisters. Her father was conducting business, and the girls were sitting nearby in the back of his old pickup. As he warmed up to his story, Grandma’s hands become still, and her crochet lay in a colorful fold on her lap. She listened to the familiar old story, caught up in the tale that we were hearing for the first time. She smiled warmly back at him.

“While her daddy was busy with some other gentlemen,” he said, “I was busy watching her and her two sisters. They were sitting there in the back of that old pickup, feet dangling and swinging, giggling and whispering to each other. She had the reddest hair, and she was about the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. I just couldn’t help myself…”

Grandma was beaming with pleasure by this time. It wasn’t too often Grandpa was this romantic, and she was enjoying the compliments. “…and so I just ran right over there, and bit her on the hind leg.”

A thunderous frown knitted my grandmother’s forehead, and her dainty fine eyebrows drew close together. Her mouth rounded into a horrified “Oh” as her blue eyes flashed. “Merle, you did not! Mercy, don’t you be telling stories like that to these grandkids!” But the damage was done. My brother and I clutched our middles as we rolled backwards in the floor, unable to control our laughter. Her tirade continued, to no effect. Grandpa laughed as hard as the rest of us.

Appearing miffed, Grandma picked up her crochet and started threading the yarn through her fingers, but I saw the quick look she sent my grandfather, complete with a wink. It was the same expression captured in the photograph in front of me.

I was reminded again years later of that look. It was a few months after my grandmother’s death. I was sitting in their living room once again, visiting with Grandpa. I picked up an old photo album and began flipping through the pages, and came across the same photograph of Grandma.

She must have been about eighteen in the picture. She had a little hat perched on her head, and was tossing a saucy look back over her shoulder. She was laughing, and I was struck by how beautiful she had been.

Then I noticed that Grandpa had become quiet. He was sitting next to me, leaning over to look at the photograph. He reached over and placed a callused finger on the page. He studied the image a few moments longer, before saying softly, “That there…that there’s the reason I fell in love with her.” Then he turned to me and grinned. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw her? Prettiest thing I’d ever seen…”

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In 1962, four nervous young musicians played their first record audition for the executives of the Decca Recording company. The executives were not impressed. While turning down this group of musicians, one executive said, “We don’t like their sound. Groups of guitars are on the way out.” The group was called The Beatles.

In 1944, Emmeline Snively, director of the Blue Book Modeling Agency, told modeling hopeful Norma Jean Baker, “You’d better learn secretarial work or else get married.” She went on and became Marilyn Monroe.

In 1954, Jimmy Denny, manager of the Grand Ole Opry fired a singer after one performance. He told him, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere son. You ought to go back to drivin’ a truck.” He went on to become the most popular singer in America, named Elvis Presley.

When Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone in 1876, it did not ring off the hook with calls from potential backers. After making a demonstration call, President Rutherford Hayes said, “That’s an amazing invention, but who would ever want to use one of them?”

When Thomas Edison invented the light bulb, he tried over 2000 experiments before he got it to work. A young reporter asked him how it felt to fail so many times. He said, “I never failed once. I invented the light bulb. It just happened to be a 2000-step process.”

In the 1940′s, another young inventor named Chester Carlson took his idea to 20 corporations, including some of the biggest in the country. They all turned him down. In 1947 – after seven long years of rejections! He finally got a tiny company in Rochester, New York, the Haloid Company, to purchase the rights to his invention, an electrostatic paper-copying process. Haloid became Xerox Corporation we know today.

Wilma Rudolph was the 20th of 22 children. She was born prematurely and her survival was doubtful. When she was 4 years old, she contacted double pneumonia and scarlet fever, which left her with a paralyzed left leg. At age 9, she removed the metal leg brace she had been dependent on and began to walk without it. By 13 she had developed rhythmic walk, which doctors said was a miracle. That same year she decided to become a runner. She entered a race and came in last. For the next few years every race she entered, she came in last. Everyone told her to quit, but she kept on running. One day she actually won a race. And then another. From then on she won every race she entered. Eventually this little girl, who was told she would never walk again, went on to win three Olympic gold medals.

The moral of the above Stories: Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experiences of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved.

You gain strength, experience and confidence by every experience where you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing you cannot do. And remember, the finest steel gets sent through the hottest furnace. A winner is not one who never fails, but one who NEVER QUITS! In LIFE, remember that you pass this way only once! Let’s live life to the fullest and give it our best.

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I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day

my big sister dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa Claus,” she jeered. “Even dummies know that!”

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her “world-famous” cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. “No Santa Claus?” she snorted….”Ridiculous! Don’t believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let’s go.”

“Go? Go where, Grandma?” I asked. I hadn’t even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun. “Where” turned out to be Kerby’s General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. “Take this money,” she said, “and buy something for someone who needs it. I’ll wait for you in the car.” Then she turned and walked out of Kerby’s.

I was only eight years old. I’d often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping.

For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church.

I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock’s grade-two class. Bobby Decker didn’t have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn’t have a cough; he didn’t have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.

“Is this a Christmas present for someone?” the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. “Yes, ma’am,” I replied shyly. “It’s for Bobby.”

The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn’t get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, “To Bobby, From Santa Claus” on it.

Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker’s house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa’s helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby’s house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. “All right, Santa Claus,” she whispered, “get going.”

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.

Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven’t dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering beside my Grandma in Bobby Decker’s bushes. That night I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were — ridiculous. Santa was alive and well and we were on his team.
I still have the Bible with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.

May you always have LOVE to share,

HEALTH to spare and FRIENDS that care…

And may you always believe in the magic of Santa Claus!

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Mary and her husband Jim had a dog named “Lucky”. Lucky was a real character. Whenever Mary and Jim had company come for a weekend visit, they would warn their friends to not leave their luggage open because Lucky would help himself to whatever struck his fancy. Inevitably, someone would forget and something would come up missing.

Mary or Jim would go to Lucky’s toy box in the basement and there the treasure would be, amid all of Lucky’s other favorite toys. Lucky always stashed his finds in his toy box and he was very particular that his toys stay in the box.

It happened that Mary found out she had breast cancer. Something told her she was going to die of this disease… In fact, she was just sure it was fatal. She scheduled the double mastectomy, fear riding her shoulders.

The night before she was to go to the hospital she cuddled with Lucky. A thought struck her, what would happen to Lucky? Although the three-year-old dog liked Jim, he was Mary’s dog through and through. If I die, Lucky will be abandoned, Mary thought. He won’t understand that I didn’t want to leave him. The thought made her sadder than thinking of her own death.

The double mastectomy was harder on Mary than her doctors had anticipated and Mary was hospitalized for over two weeks. Jim took Lucky for his evening walk faithfully, but the little dog just drooped, whining and miserable.

Finally the day came for Mary to leave the hospital. When she arrived home, Mary was so exhausted she couldn’t even make it up the steps to her bedroom. Jim made his wife comfortable on the couch and left her to nap.

Lucky stood watching Mary but he didn’t come to her when she called. It made Mary sad. but sleep soon overcame her and she dozed.

When Mary woke, for a second she couldn’t understand what was wrong. She couldn’t move her head and her body felt heavy and hot. But panic soon gave way to laughter when Mary realized the problem. She was covered, literally blanketed, with every treasure Lucky owned!

While she had slept, the sorrowing dog had made trip after trip to the basement bringing his beloved mistress all his favorite things in life. He had covered her with his love.

Mary forgot about dying. Instead, she and Lucky began living again, walking further and further together every day.

It’s been 12 years now and Mary is still cancer-free. Lucky? He still steals treasures and stashes them in his toy box but Mary remains his greatest treasure.

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If you woke up this morning with more health than illness – you are more blessed than the million who will not survive this week.

If you have never experienced the danger of battle, the loneliness of imprisonment, the agony of torture, or the pangs of starvation – you are ahead of 500 million people in the world.

If you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead and a place to sleep – you are richer than 75% of this world.

If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish someplace – you are among the top 8% of the world’s wealthy.

If your parents are still alive and still married – you are very rare, even in the United States.

If you hold up your head with a smile on your face and are truly thankful – you are blessed because the majority can, but most do not.

If you prayed yesterday and today – you are in the minority because you believe God does hear and answer prayers.

If you can read now, you are more blessed than over two billion people in the world that cannot read at all.

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During my childhood, the beautiful Appalachian mountains of Southern West Virginia served as the playground of my friends and me. We were rugged outdoor kids who simply loved adventure. We didn’t sit indoors like most kids today, playing video games and surfing the Net; we were too busy out playing ball, swinging on grapevines, catching crawdads and minnows, hiking, swimming or fishing at the old pond, camping, or anything else that would get us out of the house. Had our parents only known a fraction of what we were doing, they would have surely maintained a fuller prayer life.

We especially loved to play games. We’d play hide-and-seek, tag, and tackle-the-man-with-the-football, as well as make-believe games like cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers. In the world of make-believe, guns were created by sticking your thumb straight up and extending your index finger straight out while curling the other three fingers around a make-believe pistol grip. If someone pointed his “gun” at you and shouted “Bang!” or “Pow!” you were considered dead and were obligated to fall to the ground immediately without moving.

One day in particular we were playing cowboys and Indians deep in the mountains. Envisioning myself as John Wayne, better known as the Duke, I had my “five-shooters” out and ready for action. I decided to climb a huge tree to get a better view of where the “bad-guys” were hiding. Climbing higher and higher, I saw no sign of anyone until I was six to eight feet off the ground. It was from there I noticed Gary Browning (my cousin) quietly sneaking along, ready to shoot the first thing that moved. I allowed him to move in a little closer before taking aim and shooting; however, I was distracted by a noise from the other side of the tree.

Turning to investigate, I found myself staring straight down the index finger of Curtis Gibson. “Pow!” he shouted from the ground. Panicked that I was so far up the tree, I began climbing down as fast as I could. “The Duke has been shot in the foot!” I screamed. Remember, I was obligated to fall, but I was eight feet off the ground in a tree! “Bang!” shouted Gary, who was now aware of my hiding place. “The Duke has been shot in the shoulder!” I screamed as I kept climbing down. “Pow, Pow!” A double shot came from Curtis. “The Duke has been shot twice in the calf!” I squalled, nearly reaching the ground. Then as I was dangling from the lowest limb, Curt and Gary emptied their imaginary ammo into me. “Pow! Bang-Bang! Pow, Pow-Pow! Bang!” From just about a foot I finally fell to the ground and announced, “The Duke is dead!”

Just like the make-believe bullets of childhood games, Satan’s fiery darts cannot make you fall. His blistering trajectories usually whiz toward us in the form of stinging words…words like “I want a divorce.” or “You have cancer,” maybe even “You’re fired!”, all of which can be painful, and sometimes even enough to make you want to give up, but none have the power to make you fall.

In Romans 8:38-39 the apostle Paul wrote: For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

No matter what Satan throws at you, it will never be enough to make you fall. Remember, he can shoot all he wants, and even scream “Bang!” until he’s blue in the face, but the truth remains: if you do happen to fall, you will be forced to live with the fact that you had been shot down with blanks.

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Louise Redden, a poorly dressed lady with a look of defeat on her face, walked into a grocery store. She approached the owner of the store in a most humble manner and asked if he would let her charge a few groceries. She softly explained that her husband was very ill and unable to work, they had seven children and they needed food. John Longhouse, the grocer, scoffed at her and told her to leave his store.

Visualizing the family needs, she said: “Please, sir! I will bring you the money just as soon as I can.”

John told her he could not give her credit, as she did not have a charge account at his store. Standing beside the counter was a customer who overheard the conversation between the two. The customer walked forward and told the grocer-man that he would stand good for whatever she needed for her family.

The grocer-man said in a very reluctant voice, “Do you have a grocery list?” Louise replied, “Yes sir.” “Okay” he said, “put your grocery list on the scales and whatever your grocery list weighs, I will give you that amount in groceries.”

Louise, hesitated a moment with a bowed head, then she reached into her purse and took out a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. She then laid the piece of paper on the scale carefully with her head still bowed. The eyes of the grocer-man and the customer showed amazement when the scales went down and stayed down. The grocer-man staring at the scales, turned slowly to the customer and said begrudgingly, “I can’t believe it.”

The lady smiled and the grocer-man started putting the groceries on the other side of the scales. The scale did not balance so he continued to put more and more groceries on them until the scales would hold no more.

The grocer-man stood there in utter disgust. Finally, he grabbed the piece of paper from the scales and looked at it with greater amazement. It was not a grocery list, it was a prayer which said: “Dear Lord, you know my needs and I am leaving this in your hands.”

The grocer-man gave her the groceries that he had gathered and placed on the scales and stood in stunned silence. Louise thanked him and left the store.

The customer handed a fifty-dollar bill to John as he said, “It was worth every penny of it.” It was sometime later that John Longhouse discovered the scales were broken; therefore, only God knows how much a prayer weighs.

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The older I get, the more I enjoy Saturday mornings. Perhaps it’s the quiet solitude that comes with being the first to rise, or maybe it’s the unbounded joy of not working. Either way, the first few hours of a Saturday morning are most enjoyable.

A few weeks ago I was shuffling toward my office downstairs with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other. This was before Reinee’s knee surgery. What began as a typical Saturday morning, turned into one of those lessons that life seems to hand you from time to time.

I turned the computer on in order to listen to a Saturday morning voice chat room. Along the way I came across an older-sounding chap with a tremendous golden voice. You know the kind, he sounded like he should be in the broadcasting business. He was telling whoever he was talking with something about “a thousand marbles.” I was intrigued and stopped to listen to what he had to say.

“Well, Tom, it sure sounds like you’re busy with your job. I’m sure they pay you well, but it’s a shame you have to be away from home and your family so much. Hard to believe a young fellow should have to work sixty or seventy hours a week to make ends meet.

Too bad you missed your daughter’s dance recital.” He continued, “Let me tell you something, Tom, something that has helped me keep a good perspective on my own priorities.”

And that’s when he began to explain his theory of a “thousand marbles.”

“You see, I sat down one day and did a little arithmetic. The average person lives about seventy-five years. I know, some live more and some live less, but on average, folks live about seventy-five years.”

“Now then, I multiplied 75 times 52 and I came up with 3900 which is the number of Saturdays that the average person has in their entire lifetime. Now stick with me, Tom, I’m getting to the important part.”

“It took me until I was fifty-five years old to think about all this in any detail,” he went on, “and by that time I had lived through over twenty-eight hundred Saturdays. I got to thinking that if I lived to be seventy-five, I only had about a thousand of them left to enjoy.”

“So I went to a toy store and bought every single marble they had. I ended up having to visit three toy stores to round up 1000 marbles. I took them home and put them inside of a large, clear plastic container right here next to my gear. Every Saturday since then I have taken one marble out and thrown it away.”

“I found that by watching the marbles diminish, I focused more on the really important things in life. There is nothing like watching your time here on this earth run out to help get your priorities straight.”

“Now let me tell you one last thing before I signoff with you and take my lovely wife out for breakfast. This morning I took the very last marble out of the container. I figure if I make it until next Saturday, then I have been given a little extra time. And the one thing we can all use is a little more time.”

“It was nice to meet you Tom. I hope you spend more time with your family, and I hope to meet you again here on this computer chat room.”

You could have heard a pin drop when this fellow signed off.

I had planned to work on the computer that morning, and then I was going to meet up with a few buddies for tennis. Instead, I went upstairs and woke my wife up with a kiss.

“C’mon honey, I’m taking you to breakfast.”

“What brought this on?” she asked with a smile.

“Oh, nothing special, it’s just been a long time since we spent a Saturday together. Hey, can we stop at a toy store while we’re out? I need to buy some marbles.

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Sally jumped up as soon as she saw the surgeon come out of the operating room. She said: “How is my little boy? Is he going to be all right? When can I see him?”

The surgeon said, “I’m sorry. We did all we could, but your boy didn’t make it.”

Sally said, “Why do little children get cancer? Doesn’t God care any more? Where were you, God, when my son needed you?”

The surgeon asked, “Would you like some time alone with your son? One of the nurses will be out in a few minutes, before he’s transported to the university.”

Sally asked the nurse to stay with her while she said good-bye to son. She ran her fingers lovingly through his thick red curly hair.

“Would you like a lock of his hair?” the nurse asked.

Sally nodded yes. The nurse cut a lock of the boy’s hair, put it in a plastic bag and handed it to Sally. The mother said, “It was Jimmy’s idea to donate his body to the university for study. He said it might help somebody else. “I said no at first, but Jimmy said, ‘Mom, I won’t be using it after I die. Maybe it will help some other little boy spend one more day with his Mom.” She went on, “My Jimmy had a heart of gold. Always thinking of someone else. Always wanting to help others if he could.”

Sally walked out of Children’s mercy Hospital for the last time, after spending most of the last six months there. She put the bag with Jimmy’s belongings on the seat beside her in the car. The drive home was difficult. It was even harder to enter the empty house. She carried Jimmy’s belongings, and the plastic bag with the lock of his hair to her son’s room. She started placing the model cars and other personal things back in his room exactly where he had always kept them. She laid down across his bed and, hugging his pillow, cried herself to sleep.

It was around midnight when Sally awoke. Laying beside her on the bed was a folded letter. The letter said:

“Dear Mom,

I know you’re going to miss me; but don’t think that I will ever forget you, or stop loving you, just ’cause I’m not around to say I LOVE YOU. I will always love you, Mom, even more with each day. Someday we will see each other again. Until then, if you want to adopt a little boy so you won’t be so lonely, that’s okay with me. He can have my room and old stuff to play with. But, if you decide to get a girl instead, she probably wouldn’t like the same things us boys do. You’ll have to buy her dolls and stuff girls like, you know. Don’t be sad thinking about me. This really is a neat place. Grandma and Grandpa met me as soon as I got here and showed me around some, but it will take a long time to see everything. The angels are so cool. I love to watch them fly. And, you know what? Jesus doesn’t look like any of his pictures. Yet, when I saw Him, I knew it was Him. Jesus himself took me to see GOD! And guess what, Mom? I got to sit on God’s knee and talk to Him, like I was somebody important. That’s when I told Him that I wanted to write you a letter, to tell you good-bye and everything. But I already knew that wasn’t allowed. Well, you know what Mom? God handed me some paper and His own personal pen to write you this letter. I think Gabriel is the name of the angel who is going to drop this letter off to you. God said for me to give you the answer to one of the questions you asked Him ‘Where was He when I needed him?’ “God said He was in the same place with me, as when His son Jesus was on the cross. He was right there, as He always is with all His children.

Oh, by the way, Mom, no one else can see what I’ve written except you. To everyone else this is just a blank piece of paper. Isn’t that cool? I have to give God His pen back now. He needs it to write some more names in the Book of Life. Tonight I get to sit at the table with Jesus for supper. I’m, sure the food will be great.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I don’t hurt anymore. The cancer is all gone. I’m glad because I couldn’t stand that pain anymore and God couldn’t stand to see me hurt so much, either. That’s when He sent The Angel of Mercy to come get me. The Angel said I was a Special Delivery! How about that?

Signed with Love from: God, Jesus & Me.”

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I didn’t cry when I learned I was the parent of a mentally handicapped child. I just sat still and didn’t say anything while my husband and I were informed that two-year-old Kristi was – as we suspected – retarded.

“Go ahead and cry,” the doctor advised kindly. “Helps prevent serious emotional difficulties.”

Serious difficulties notwithstanding, I couldn’t cry then nor during the months that followed.

When Kristi was old enough to attend school, we enrolled her in our neighborhood school’s kindergarten at age seven.

It would have been comforting to cry the day I left her in that room full of self-assured, eager, alert five-year-olds. Kristi had spent hour upon hour playing by herself, but this moment, when she was the “different” child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had ever known.

However, positive things began to happen to Kristi in her school, and to her schoolmates, too. When boasting of their own accomplishments, Kristi’s classmates always took pains to praise her as well: “Kristi got all her spelling words right today.” No one bothered to add that her spelling list was easier than anyone else’s.

During Kristi’s second year in school, she faced a very traumatic experience. The big public event of the term was a competition based on a culmination of the year’s music and physical education activities. Kristi was way behind in both music and motor coordination. My husband and I dreaded the day as well.

On the day of the program, Kristi pretended to be sick. Desperately I wanted to keep her home. Why let Kristi fail in a gymnasium filled with parents, students and teachers? What a simple solution it would be just to let my child stay home. Surely missing one program couldn’t matter. But my conscience wouldn’t let me off that easily. So I practically shoved a pale, reluctant Kristi onto the school bus and proceeded to be sick myself.

Just as I had forced my daughter to go to school, now I forced myself to go to the program. It seemed that it would never be time for Kristi’s group to perform. When at last they did, I knew why Kristi had been worried. Her class was divided into relay teams. With her limp and slow, clumsy reactions, she would surely hold up her team.

The performance went surprisingly well, though, until it was time for the gunnysack race. Now each child had to climb into a sack from a standing position, hop to a goal line, return and climb out of the sack.

I watched Kristi standing near the end of her line of players, looking frantic.

But as Kristi’s turn to participate neared, a change took place in her team. The tallest boy in the line stepped behind Kristi and placed his hands on her waist. Two other boys stood a little ahead of her. The moment the player in front of Kristi stepped from the sack, those two boys grabbed the sack and held it open while the tall boy lifted Kristi and dropped her neatly into it. A girl in front of Kristi took her hand and supported her briefly until Kristi gained her balance. Then off she hopped, smiling and proud.

Amid the cheers of teachers, schoolmates and parents, I crept off by myself to thank God for the warm, understanding people in life who make it possible for my disabled daughter to be like her fellow human beings.

Then I finally cried.

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A store owner was tacking a sign above his door that read “Puppies For Sale.” Signs like that have a way of attracting small children, and sure enough, a little boy appeared under the store owner’s sign. “How much are you going to sell the puppies for?” he asked.

The store owner replied, “Anywhere from $30 to $50.”

The little boy reached in his pocket and pulled out some change. “I have $2.37,” he said. “Can I please look at them?”

The store owner smiled and whistled and out of the kennel came Lady, who ran down the aisle of his store followed by five teeny, tiny balls of fur. One puppy was lagging considerably behind. Immediately the little boy singled out the lagging, limping puppy and said, “What’s wrong with that little dog?”

The store owner explained that the veterinarian had examined the little puppy and had discovered it didn’t have a hip socket. It would always limp. It would always be lame. The little boy became excited. “That is the puppy that I want to buy.”

The store owner said, “No, you don’t want to buy that little dog. If you really want him, I’ll just give him to you.”

The little boy got quite upset. He looked straight into the store owner’s eyes, pointing his finger, and said, “I don’t want you to give him to me. That little dog is worth every bit as much as all the other dogs and I’ll pay full price. In fact, I’ll give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents a month until I have him paid for.”

The store owner countered, “You really don’t want to buy this little dog. He is never going to be able to run and jump and play with you like the other puppies.”

To his surprise, the little boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left leg supported by a big metal brace. He looked up at the store owner and softly replied, “Well, I don’t run so well myself, and the little puppy will need someone who understands!”

We ALL need someone who Understands!

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Rocks and Sand

A philosophy professor stood before his class and had some items in front of him. When class began, wordlessly he picked up a large empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with rocks, rocks about 2″ in diameter.

He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. So the professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles, of course, rolled into the open areas between the rocks.

He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The students laughed. The professor picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else.

“Now,” said the professor, “I want you to recognize that this is your life. The rocks are the important things – your family, your partner, your health, your children – anything that is so important to you that if it were lost, you would be nearly destroyed.

“The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, your car.

“The sand is everything else. The small stuff.

“If you put the sand into the jar first, there is no room for the pebbles or the rocks. The same goes for your life. If you spend all your energy and time on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

“Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out dancing. There will always be time to go to work, clean the house, give a dinner party and fix the disposal.

“Take care of the rocks first – the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

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Sandra felt as low as the heels of her Birkenstocks as she pushed against a November gust and the florist shop door. Her life had been easy, like spring breeze. Then in the fourth month of her second pregnancy, a minor automobile accident stole her ease.

During this Thanksgiving week she would have delivered a son. She grieved over her loss. As if that weren’t enough, her husband’s company threatened a transfer. Then her sister, whose holiday visit she coveted, called saying she could not come. What’s worse, Sandra’s friend infuriated her by suggesting her grief was a God-given path to maturity that would allow her to empathize with others who suffer.

“She has no idea what I’m feeling,” thought Sandra with a shudder.

Thanksgiving? Thankful for what? She wondered. For a careless driver whose truck was hardly scratched when he rear-ended her? For an air bag that saved her life but took that of her child?

“Good afternoon, may I help you?” The shop clerk’s approach startled her.

“I….I need an arrangement,” stammered Sandra.

“For Thanksgiving? Do you want beautiful but ordinary, or would you like to challenge the day with a customer favorite I call the Thanksgiving “Special?” asked the shop clerk. “I’m convinced that flowers tell stories,” she continued. “Are you looking for something that conveys ‘gratitude’ this Thanksgiving?”

“Not exactly!” Sandra blurted out. “In the last five months, everything that could go wrong has gone wrong.”

Sandra regretted her outburst, and was surprised when the shop clerk said, “I have the perfect arrangement for you.”

Then the door’s small bell rang, and the shop clerk said, “Hi, Barbara…let me get your order.”

She politely excused herself and walked toward a small workroom, then quickly reappeared, carrying an arrangement of greenery, bows, and long-stemmed thorny roses; Except the ends of the rose stems were neatly snipped: there were no flowers.

“Want this in a box?” asked the clerk.

Sandra watched for the customer’s response. Was this a joke? Who would want rose stems with no flowers! She waited for laughter, but neither woman laughed.

“Yes, please,” Barbara replied with an appreciative smile. “You’d think after three years of getting the special, I wouldn’t be so moved by its significance, but I can feel it right here, all over again,” she said as she gently tapped her chest.

“Uh,” stammered Sandra, “that lady just left with, uh….she just left with no flowers!”

“Right, said the clerk, “I cut off the flowers. That’s the Special. I call it the Thanksgiving Thorns Bouquet.”

“Oh, come on, you can’t tell me someone is willing to pay for that!” exclaimed Sandra.

“Barbara came into the shop three years ago feeling much like you feel today,” explained the clerk. “She thought she had very little to be thankful for. She had lost her father to cancer, the family business was failing, her son was into drugs, and she was facing major surgery.”

“That same year I had lost my husband,” continued the clerk, “and for the first time in my life, had just spent the holidays alone. I had no children, no husband, no family nearby, and too great a debt to allow any travel.”

“So what did you do?” asked Sandra.

“I learned to be thankful for thorns,” answered the clerk quietly. “I’ve always thanked God for good things in life and never to ask Him why those good things happened to me, but when bad stuff hit, did I ever ask! It took time for me to learn that dark times are important. I have always enjoyed the ‘flowers’ of life, but it took thorns to show me the beauty of God’s comfort. You know, the Bible says that God comforts us when we’re afflicted, and from His consolation we learn to comfort others.”

Sandra sucked in her breath as she thought about the very thing her friend had tried to tell her. “I guess the truth is I don’t want comfort. I’ve lost a baby and I’m angry with God.”

Just then someone else walked in the shop.

“Hey, Phil!” shouted the clerk to the balding, rotund man.

“My wife sent me in to get our usual Thanksgiving arrangement…twelve thorny, long-stemmed stems,” laughed Phil as the clerk handed him a tissue-wrapped arrangement from the refrigerator.

“Those are for your wife?” asked Sandra incredulously. “Do you mind me asking why she wants something that looks like that?”

“No…I’m glad you asked,” Phil replied. “Four years ago my wife and I nearly divorced. After forty years, we were in a real mess, but with the Lord’s grace and guidance, we slogged through problem after problem. He rescued our marriage. Jenny here (the clerk) told me she kept a vase of rose stems to remind her of what she learned from “thorny” times, and that was good enough for me. I took home some of those stems. My wife and I decided to label each one for a specific “problem” and give thanks for what that problem taught us.”

As Phil paid the clerk, he said to Sandra, “I highly recommend the Special.”

I don’t know if I can be thankful for the thorns in my life,” Sandra said to the clerk. “It’s all too…fresh.”

“Well,” the clerk replied carefully, “my experience has shown me that thorns make roses more precious. We treasure God’s providential care more during trouble than at any other time. Remember, it was a crown of thorns that Jesus wore so we might know His love. Don’t resent the thorns.”

Tears rolled down Sandra’s cheeks. For the first time since the accident, she loosened her grip on resentment.

“I’ll take those twelve long-stemmed thorns, please,” she managed to choke out.

“I hoped you would,” said the clerk gently. “I’ll have them ready in a minute.”

“Thank you. What do I owe you?” Sarah asked.

“Nothing; nothing but a promise to allow God to heal your heart. The first year’s arrangement is always on me.” The clerk smiled and handed a card to Sandra. “I’ll attach this card to your arrangement, but maybe you would like to read it first.”

It read:

“My God, I have never thanked You for my thorns. I have thanked You a thousand times for my roses, but never once for my thorns. Teach me the glory of the life I bear; teach me the value of my thorns. Show me that I have climbed closer to You along the path of pain. Show me that, through my tears, the colors of Your rainbow look much more brilliant.”

Praise Him for your roses, thank him for your thorns.

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In 1883, a creative engineer named John Roebling was inspired by an idea to build a spectacular bridge connecting New York with the Long Island. However bridge building experts throughout the world thought that this was an impossible feat and told Roebling to forget the idea. It just could not be done. It was not practical. It had never been done before.

Roebling could not ignore the vision he had in his mind of this bridge. He thought about it all the time and he knew deep in his heart that it could be done. He just had to share the dream with someone else. After much discussion and persuasion he managed to convince his son Washington, an up and coming engineer, that the bridge in fact could be built.

Working together for the first time, the father and son developed concepts of how it could be accomplished and how the obstacles could be overcome. With great excitement and inspiration, and the headiness of a wild challenge before them, they hired their crew and began to build their dream bridge.

The project started well, but when it was only a few months underway a tragic accident on the site took the life of John Roebling. Washington was injured and left with a certain amount of brain damage, which resulted in him not being able to walk or talk or even move.

“We told them so.”

“Crazy men and their crazy dreams.”

“It`s foolish to chase wild visions.”

Everyone had a negative comment to make and felt that the project should be scrapped since the Roeblings were the only ones who knew how the bridge could be built. In spite of his handicap Washington was never discouraged and still had a burning desire to complete the bridge and his mind was still as sharp as ever.

He tried to inspire and pass on his enthusiasm to some of his friends, but they were too daunted by the task. As he lay on his bed in his hospital room, with the sunlight streaming through the windows, a gentle breeze blew the flimsy white curtains apart and he was able to see the sky and the tops of the trees outside for just a moment.

It seemed that there was a message for him not to give up. Suddenly an idea hit him. All he could do was move one finger and he decided to make the best use of it. By moving this, he slowly developed a code of communication with his wife.

He touched his wife’s arm with that finger, indicating to her that he wanted her to call the engineers again. Then he used the same method of tapping her arm to tell the engineers what to do. It seemed foolish but the project was under way again.

For 13 years Washington tapped out his instructions with his finger on his wife’s arm, until the bridge was finally completed. Today the spectacular Brooklyn Bridge stands in all its glory as a tribute to the triumph of one man’s indomitable spirit and his determination not to be defeated by circumstances. It is also a tribute to the engineers and their team work, and to their faith in a man who was considered mad by half the world. It stands too as a tangible monument to the love and devotion of his wife who for 13 long years patiently decoded the messages of her husband and told the engineers what to do.

Perhaps this is one of the best examples of a never-say-die attitude that overcomes a terrible physical handicap and achieves an impossible goal.

Often when we face obstacles in our day-to-day life, our hurdles seem very small in comparison to what many others have to face. The Brooklyn Bridge shows us that dreams that seem impossible can be realized with determination and persistence, no matter what the odds are.

MORAL OF THE STORY:
Even the most distant dream can be realized with determination and persistence.

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I heard a story about an older woman who stood in line at the Post Office. She struck up a conversation with a young man next to her. He noticed that she had no packages to mail, and asked why she was standing in line. She said that she just needed a few stamps.

“Ma’am, you must be tired standing here. Did you know there’s a stamp machine over there in the corner?” He pointed to the machine built into the wall.

“Why yes, thank you,” the lady replied, “but I’ll just wait here a little while longer. I’m getting close to the window.”

The customer became insistent.

“But it would be so much easier for you to avoid this long line and buy your stamps from the machine.”

The woman patted him on the arm and answered, “Oh, I know. But that old machine would never ask me how my grandchildren are doing.”

She had a need greater than the need for postage stamps – a need to feel connected to other people. And it was a need that could not be met by a stamp machine.

When Harry Truman was thrust into the U.S. presidency at the death of Franklin Roosevelt, a colleague and friend – Congressman Sam Rayburn of Bonham, Texas – gave Truman some fatherly advice.

Rayburn said, “Harry, from here on out, you’re going to have lots of people around you. They’ll try to put a wall around you and cut you off from any ideas but theirs. They’ll tell you what a great man you are, Harry. But you and I both know you ain’t.” Friends can say those things to each other.

Later, when Sam Rayburn discovered that he was seriously ill, he told his friends in Congress that he was going home to Bonham for medical tests. “But there are excellent doctors and medical facilities in Washington D.C.” some of them argued. “Why would you want to go to Bonham?”

“Because,” the congressman replied, “Bonham is a place where people know it when you’re sick, and where they care when you die.”

Rayburn had a need greater than good medical assistance. He needed friends. Someone to ask how his grandchildren were doing. Someone to sit by him and stop by his home. Someone to care. A few close friends meant more than the best medical facilities in the world.

Who is such a friend to you? That person is more valuable than your greatest possession.

Have you said … thanks?

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Some things you keep; like good teeth, warm coats and bald husbands. They’re good for you, reliable and practical and so sublime that to throw them away would make the garbage man a thief.

So you hang on, because something old is sometimes better than something new, and what you know often better than a stranger.

These are my thoughts. They make me sound old; old and tame and dull at a time when everybody else is risky and racy and flashing all that’s new and improved in their lives.

New spouses, new careers, new thighs, new lips.

The world is dizzy with trade-ins. I could keep track, but I don’t think I want to.
I grew up in the fifties with practical parents – a mother, God bless her who washed aluminum foil after she cooked in it, then re-used it- and still does. A father who was happier getting old shoes fixed than buying new ones.

They weren’t poor, my parents, they were just satisfied. Their marriage was good, their dreams focused. Their best friends lived barely a wave away.

I can see them now; Fifties couples in Bermuda shorts and Banlon sweaters, lawn mower in one hand, tools in the other. The tools were for fixing things – a curtain rod, the kitchen radio, screen door, the oven door, the hem in a dress. Things you keep.

It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy. All that re-fixing, re-heating, re-newing, I wanted just once to be wasteful. Waste meant affluence. Throwing things away meant there’d always be more.

But then my father died, and on that clear autumn night, in the chill of the hospital room, I was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn’t any ‘more’. Sometimes what you care about most gets all used up and goes away, never to return.

So, while you have it, it’s best to love it and care for it and fix it when it’s broken and heal it when it’s sick. That’s true for marriage and old cars and children with bad report cards and dogs with bad hips.

You keep them because they’re worth it, because you’re worth it.

Some things you keep.

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In my office at home, there is an old oak desk. It sat for many years in my grandfather’s office. After he passed on, it sat in my sister’s house for many years until she gave it to me.

I finally decided to refinish the old desk, and make it look more respectable. After carefully stripping away over 80 years of accumulated grime and varnish, the old oak desk revealed its beauty once again, and I marveled at the glow of the newly found wood. The top had been marred by the years of daily use, so I carefully began to sand it smooth.

There were many deep scratches and nicks that testified to the use and abuse that the old desk had endured. Moving finally to the right rear corner, I saw a faint mark and bent down to examine the damage. Catching the light, I saw two faint initials, “CY”.

“CY” was Carl, one of my father’s three older brothers. He had grown up, gone off to war, fathered five children, and retired as a vice-president of a large oil company. He had truly made many more important marks in his life.

I had buried my father three years earlier, and my uncle Carl had passed away five years before that. Their father had been gone for over twenty years. But in that single instant, all their memories came flooding back to me.

I can only imagine what was going through my uncle Carl’s mind that day long ago in his childhood when he made his mark on his father’s big oak desk. I’m sure that his father gave him a stern lecture, and probably inflicted a quick swat to his behind. There may have even been a missed dinner imposed.

But the initials were never removed. By the time I came along, there was a thick sheet of glass covering the top of the old desk, which prevented further damage to a well worn top.

The old oak desk survived my grandfather, grandmother, and all four of their sons. They are all gone, but here was this old desk, reaching across the years to remind me of a time when they were young, and suddenly I connected with the family long gone. Gone, but still teaching me the ways of fathers and sons.

When I was a small child, there was a poem under that thick glass cover on the old desk. On yellowed newsprint my grandfather had cut and saved, there were eight little lines:

I’ve four and twenty golden hours
To spend just as I choose,
With no one but myself to blame
For minutes that I lose,
Oh, but then I must remember
Those lost minutes for I see,
There is nothing I can ever do
To bring them back to me.

In my office at home, there is an old oak desk. It has sat for many years in my office. And carved into the right rear corner, there are still two faint initials, “CY”, that remind me of who I am, where I came from, and about fathers and sons, and the marks they make on each others’ lives. It reminds me of the marks my son and I make on each others’ lives. And I must remember….