Inspirations...
Sunday, June 29, 2003
THE
SANDPIPER....
Raylene Boggs True Story:....
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I
live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever
the world begins to close in on me.
She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as
blue as the sea. "Hello," she said. I answered with a nod, not really in
the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said. "I see that. What is it?" I asked, not
caring. Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand." That sounds good, I
thought, and slipped off my shoes.
A sandpiper glided by. "That's a joy," the child said. "It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy." The bird
went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello
pain, and turned to walk on.
I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance. "What's your
name?" She wouldn't give up. "Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert
Peterson." "Mine's Wendy... I'm six." "Hi, Wendy." She giggled. "You're funny,"
she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle
followed me. "Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy
day."
The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly
Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother.
The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the
dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The
ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I
strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?" "What did you have in
mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance. "I don't know, she said."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk." Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness
of her face. "Where do you live?" I asked. "Over there." She pointed
toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter. "Where do
you go to school?" "I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on
vacation."
She chattered as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other
things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling
surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was
in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch
and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me,
"I'd rather be alone today." Wendy seemed unusually pale and out of
breath.
"Why?" she asked. I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother
died!" and thought, My Gosh, why was I saying this to a little child? "Oh,"
she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired. "Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with
her, with myself. "When she died?" "Of course it hurt!" I snapped,
misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't
there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I
went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door.
A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today
and wondered where she was." "Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy
spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she
was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all-she's a delightful child." I said, suddenly realizing that
I meant what I had just said. "Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She
had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you." Struck dumb, I groped for a
chair. I had to catch my breath.
"She loved this beach so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no.
She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy
days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice faltered,
"She left something for you ... if only I can find it. Could you wait a
moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, to say to this lovely
young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope, with MR. P printed in
bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues-a
yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully
printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY
Tears welled up in my eyes and a heart that had almost forgotten to
love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so
sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six
words - one for each year of her life - that speak to me of harmony,
courage ,and undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea- blue eyes and
hair the color of sand - who taught me the gift of love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. It serves as a
reminder to all of us that we need to take time to enjoy living and
life and each other.
The price of hating other human beings is loving oneself less. Life is
so complicated, the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas can make us
lose focus about what is truly important or what is only a monetary
setback or crisis.
Take a moment...even if it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the
roses. There are NO coincidences! Everything that happens to us happens
for a reason. Never brush aside anyone as insignificant. Who knows what
they can teach us? They may even teach us to love....... all over
again!!!!!
Monday, June 09, 2003
The Doll And A White Rose
I hurried into the local department store to grab some last minute Christmas gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled to myself. I would be in here forever and I just had so much to do. Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I kinda wished that I could just sleep through Christmas.
But I hurried the best I could through all the people to the toy department. Once again I kind of mumbled to myself at the prices of all these toys. And wondered if the grandkids would even play with them. I found myself in the doll aisle.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy, about 5, holding a lovely doll. He kept touching her hair and he held her so gently. I could not seem to help myself. I just kept looking over at the little boy and wondered who the doll was for. I watched him turn to a woman, and he called his aunt by name and said, "Are you sure I don't have enough money?"
She replied a bit impatiently, "You know that you don't have enough money for it." The aunt told the little boy not to go anywhere, that she had to go get some other things and would be back in a few minutes. And then she left the aisle.
The boy continued to hold the doll. After a bit I asked the boy who the doll was for.
He said, "It is the doll my sister wanted so badly for Christmas. She just knew that Santa would bring it." I told him that maybe Santa was going to bring it. He said, "No, Santa can't go where my sister is...I have to give the doll to my Mamma to take to her."
I asked him where his sister was.
He looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, "She has gone to be with Jesus. My Daddy says that Mama is going to have to go be with her."
My heart nearly stopped beating.
Then the boy looked at me again and said, "I told my Daddy to tell Mama not to go yet. I told him to tell her to wait till I got back from the store". Then he asked me if I wanted to see his picture.
I told him I would love to. He pulled out some pictures he had taken at the front of the store.
He said "I want my Mamma to take this with her so she don't ever forget me. I love my Mama so very much and I wish she did not have to leave me. But Daddy says she will need to be with my sister."
I saw that the little boy had lowered his head and had grown so very quiet. While he was not looking, I reached into my purse and pulled out a handful of bills. I asked the little boy, "Shall we count that money one more time?"
He grew excited and said "Yes, I just know it has to be enough".
So I slipped my money in with his, and we began to count it. Of course it was plenty for the doll.
He softly said, "Thank you, Jesus, for giving me enough money." Then the boy said "I just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll, so Mama can take it with her, to give to my sister. And He heard my prayer. I wanted to ask Him for enough to buy my Mama a white rose, but I didn't ask Him, but He gave me enough to buy the doll and a rose for my Mama. She loves white roses so very, very much".
In a few minutes the aunt came back, and I wheeled my cart away. I could not keep from thinking about the little boy as I finished my shopping in a totally different spirit than when I had started.
And I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper several days earlier, about a drunk driver hitting a car and killing a little girl and leaving the Mother in serious condition.The family was deciding on whether to remove the life support. Now surely this little boy did not belong with that story.
Two days later, I read in the paper where the family had disconnected the life support and the young woman had died. I could not forget the little boy, and just kept wondering if the two were somehow connected.
Later that day, I could not help myself and I went out and bought some white roses and took them to the funeral home, where the young woman was. And there she was, holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful doll, and the picture of the little boy in the store.
I left there in tears, my life changed forever. The love that little boy had for his little sister and his mother was overwhelming.
And in a split second a drunk driver had ripped the life of that little boy to pieces.
Author Unknown
The earnest prayer of a righteous person has great power and wonderful results. James 5:16
DONUTS
There was a boy by the name of Steve who was attending school in Utah. Brother Christianson taught at this particular school. He had an open-door policy and would take in any student that had been thrown out of another class as long as they would abide by his rules.
Steve had been kicked out of his sixth period and no other teacher wanted him, so he went into Brother Christianson's class.
Steve was told that he could not be late, so he arrived just seconds before the bell rang and he would sit in the very back of the room. He would also be the first to leave after the class was over.
One day, Brother Christianson asked Steve to stay after class so he could talk with him. After class, Bro. Christianson pulled Steve aside and said, "You think you're pretty tough, don't you?"
Steve's answer was, "Yeah, I do."
Then Brother Christianson asked, "How many push-ups can you do?" Steve said, "I do about 200 every night."
"200? That's pretty good, Steve," Brother Christianson said. "Do you think you could do 300?"
Steve replied, "I don't know... I've never done 300 at a time."
"Do you think you could?" Again asked Brother Christianson.
"Well, I can try," said Steve.
"Can you do 300 in sets of 10? I need you to do 300 in sets of ten for this to work. Can you do it? I need you to tell me you can do it," Brother Christianson said.
Steve said, "Well... I think I can... yeah, I can do it."
Brother Christianson said, "Good! I need you to do this on Friday."
Friday came and Steve got to class early and sat in the front of the room. When class started, Brother Christianson pulled out a big box of donuts.
Now these weren't the normal kinds of donuts, they were the extra fancy BIG kind, with cream centers and frosting swirls. Everyone was pretty excited-it was Friday, the last class of the day, and they were going to get an early start on the weekend.
Bro. Christianson went to the first girl in the first row and asked, "Cynthia, do you want a donut?" Cynthia said, "Yes." Bro. Christianson then turned to Steve and asked, "Steve, would you do ten push-ups so that Cynthia can have a donut?"
Steve said, "Sure," and jumped down from his desk to do a quick ten. Then Steve again sat in his desk. Bro. Christianson put a donut on Cynthia's desk.
Bro. Christianson then went to Joe, the next person, and asked, "Joe do you want a donut?" Joe said, "Yes." Bro. Christianson asked, "Steve would you do ten push-ups so Joe can have a donut?" Steve did ten push-ups; Joe got a donut.
And so it went, down the first aisle, Steve did ten pushups for every person before they got their donut. And down the second aisle; till Bro. Christianson came to Scott.
Scott was captain of the football team and center of the basketball team. He was very popular and never lacking for female companionship.
When Bro. Christianson asked, "Scott do you want a donut?" Scott's reply was, "Well, can I do my own pushups?" Bro. Christianson said, "No, Steve has to do them." Then Scott said, "Well, I don't want one then."
Bro. Christianson then turned to Steve and asked, "Steve, would you do ten pushups so Scott can have a donut he doesn't want?" Steve started to do ten pushups.
Scott said, "HEY! I said I didn't want one!" Bro. Christianson said, "Look, this is my classroom, my class, my desks, and my donuts. Just leave it on the desk if you don't want it." And he put a donut on Scott's desk.
Now by this time, Steve had begun to slow down a little. He just stayed on the floor between sets because it took too much effort to be getting up and down. You could start to see a little perspiration coming out around his brow.
Bro. Christianson started down the third row. Now the students were beginning to get a little angry. Bro. Christianson asked Jenny, "Jenny, do you want a donut?" Jenny said, "No." Then Bro. Christianson asked Steve, "Steve, would you do ten pushups so Jenny can have a donut that she doesn't want?" Steve did ten; Jenny got a donut.
By now, the students were beginning to say "No" and there were all these uneaten donuts on the desks. Steve was also having to really put forth a lot of effort to get these pushups done for each donut.
There began to be a small pool of sweat on the floor beneath his face, his arms and brow were beginning to get red because of the physical effort involved.
Bro. Christianson asked Robert to watch Steve to make sure he did ten pushups in a set because he couldn't bear to watch all of Steve's work for all of those uneaten donuts. So Robert began to watch Steve closely.
Bro. Christianson started down the fourth row. During his class, however, some students had wandered in and sat along the heaters along the sides of the room.
When Bro. Christianson realized this; he did a quick count and saw 34 students in the room. He started to worry if Steve would be able to make it.
Bro. Christianson went on to the next person and the next and the next. Near the end of that row, Steve was really having a rough time. He was taking a lot more time to complete each set.
Steve asked Bro. Christianson, "Do I have to make my nose touch on each one?" Bro. Christianson thought for a moment, "Well, they're your pushups. You can do them any way that you want." And Bro. Christianson went on.
A few moments later, Jason came to the room and was about to come in when all the students yelled, "NO! Don't come in! Stay out!" Jason didn't know what was going on.
Steve picked up his head and said, "No, let him come." Bro. Christianson said, "You realize that if Jason comes in you will have to do ten pushups for him." Steve said, "Yes, let him come in."
Bro. Christianson said, "Okay, I'll let you get Jason's out of the way right now. Jason, do you want a donut?" "Yes." "Steve, will you do ten pushups so that Jason can have a donut?" Steve did ten pushups very slowly and with great effort. Jason, bewildered, was handed a donut and sat down.
Bro. Christianson finished the fourth row; then started on those seated on the heaters. Steve's arms were now shaking with each pushup in a struggle to lift himself against the force of gravity. Sweat was dropping off of his face and, by this time, there was not a dry eye in the room.
The very last two girls in the room were cheerleaders and very popular. Bro. Christianson went to Linda, the second to last, and asked, "Linda, do you want a doughnut? Linda said, very sadly, "No, thank you."
Bro. Christianson asked Steve, "Steve, would you do ten pushups so that Linda can have a donut she doesn't want?" Grunting from the effort, Steve did ten very slow pushups for Linda.
Then Bro. Christianson turned to the last girl, Susan. "Susan, do you want a donut?" Susan, with tears flowing down her face, asked, "Bro. Christianson , can I help him?" Bro. Christianson, with tears of his own, said, "No, he has to do it alone, Steve, would you do ten pushups so Susan can have a donut?"
As Steve very slowly finished his last pushup, with the understanding that he had accomplished all that was required of him, having done 350 pushups, his arms buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor.
Brother Christianson turned to the room and said. "And so it was, that our Savior, Jesus Christ, plead to the Father, "Into thy hands I commend my spirit."
With the understanding that He had done everything that was required of Him, he collapsed on the cross and died. And like some of those in this room, many of us leave the gift on the desk, uneaten."
Author Unknown
VALUE OF A SOUL
"What is the value of a soul?" I asked the Lord one day. "What is its worth upon the earth? How much does one soul weigh?" Then He showed me a set of scales, in perfect balance, there. And, as I watched, he filled one side, with wealth beyond compare.
There was silver, gold and jewels, so beautiful and rare. The different treasures of the world, he quietly placed them there. My heart began to tremble as I watched His nail scarred hands, For on the other side of that great scale, I saw one single man.
"Who is that man?" I asked Him, " that he should have such worth?" He surely must be famous and the greatest man on earth. "Step closer, now, and take a look," Jesus said to me. As I drew near, I recognized a man I'd often seen.
His clothes were old and ragged; in his hand he held a glass. He was our city's poorest drunk, a man of lower class. "Lord, you don't know that man," I said. "He's lived his life in vain. He'll bring disgrace into the church and reproach upon your name."
"I'd like to know him," Jesus said, "but he does not know me. But if you'll help me reach him, then what a change you'll see. I'll take that wretched, sinful life and cleanse it with my blood. And when he gives his heart to me, I'll fill it with my love."
"His soul cannot be purchased with the wealth you've seen today. But I was sent to die for him; my blood has paid the way. He's my lost sheep," the Savior said, "And I love you both the same, But if you think he's worthless, then I surely died in vain."
"So when you look upon someone whose life is wrecked by sin, If you'll just have compassion, then you'll share your brother's pain. You must not look upon his past or what he seems to be. But look beyond his many faults and know, I'll set him free."
"Don't look at him as just a man and only see his shame, But see him as a precious soul that I have died to save." "This earthly wealth," the Savior said, "cannot draw men to me. But I paid a price upon the cross, to set this whole world free.
Author Unknown
The Lord makes poor and makes rich; He brings low and lifts up. He raises the poor from the dust And lifts the beggar from the ash heap, To set them among princes And make them inherit the throne of glory. "For the pillars of the earth are the Lord's, And He has set the world upon them. He will guard the feet of His saints, But the wicked shall be silent in darkness. "For by strength no man shall prevail.
1 Samuel 2:7-10
We Are Not Alone
After my husband died suddenly from a heart attack on the tennis court, my world crashed around me. My six children were 10, nine, eight, six, three and 18 months, and I was overwhelmed with the responsibilities of earning a living, caring for the children and just plain keeping my head above water.
I was fortunate to find a wonderful housekeeper to care for the children during the week, but from Friday nights to Monday mornings, the children and I were alone, and frankly I was uneasy.
Every creak of the house, every unusual noise, any late-night phone call-all filled me with dread. I felt incredibly alone.
One Friday evening I came home from work to find a big beautiful German shepherd on our doorstep. This wonderful strong animal gave every indication that he intended to enter the house and make it his home. I, however, was wary.
Where did this obviously well-cared-for dog come from? Was it safe to let the children play with a strange dog? Even though he seemed gentle, he still was powerful and commanded respect. The children took an instant liking to "German" and begged me to let him in.
I agreed to let him sleep in the basement until the next day, when we could inquire around the neighborhood for his owner. That night I slept peacefully for the first time in many weeks.
The following morning we made phone calls and checked lost-and-found ads for German's owner, but with no results. German, meanwhile, made himself part of the family and good-naturedly put up with hugs, wrestling and playing in the yard. Saturday night he was still with us, so again he was allowed to sleep in the basement.
On Sunday I had planned to take the children on a picnic. Since I thought it best to leave German behind in case his owner came by, we drove off without him. When we stopped to get gas at a local station, we were amazed to see German racing to the gas station after us.
He not only raced to the car, he leaped onto the hood and put his nose on the windshield, looking directly into my eyes. No way was he going to be left behind. So into the station wagon he jumped and settled down in the back for the ride to the picnic. He stayed again Sunday.
Monday morning I let him out for a run while the children got ready for school. He didn't come back. As evening came and German didn't appear, we were all disappointed. We were convinced that he had gone home or been found by his owners, and that we would never see him again.
We were wrong. The next Friday evening, German was back on our doorstep. Again we took him in, and again he stayed until Monday morning, when our housekeeper arrived.
This pattern repeated itself every weekend for almost 10 months. We grew more and more fond of German and we looked forward to his coming. We stopped thinking about where he belonged-he belonged to us.
We took comfort in his strong, warm presence, and we felt safe with him near us. When we saw German come to attention and perk up his ears, and heard that low growl begin deep in his throat, we knew we were protected.
As German became part of the family he considered it his duty to check every bedroom to be sure each child was snug in bed. When he was satisfied that the last person was tucked in, he took up his position by the front door and remained there until the morning.
Each week, between German's visits, I grew a little stronger, a little braver and more able to cope; every weekend I enjoyed his company. Then one Monday morning we patted his head and let him out for what turned out to be the last time. He never came back. We never saw or heard from German again.
I think of him often. He came when I needed him the most and stayed until I was strong enough to go on alone. Maybe there is a perfectly natural explanation for German's visits to our house-maybe his owner went away on weekends-maybe.
I believe German was sent because he was needed, and because no matter how abandoned and alone we feel, somehow, somewhere, someone knows and cares. We are never really alone.
Mary Miller
The Baggy Yellow Shirt
by Patricia Lorenz
The baggy yellow shirt had long sleeves, four extra large pockets trimmed in black thread and snaps up the front. Not terribly attractive, but utilitarian without a doubt. I found it in December 1963 during my freshman year in college when I was home on Christmas break.
Part of the fun of vacation at home was the chance to go through Mom's hoard of rummage, destined for the less fortunate. She regularly scoured the house for clothes, bedding and house wares to give away, and the collection was always stored in paper bags on the floor of the front hall closet.
Looking through Mom's collection one day, I came across this oversized yellow shirt, slightly faded from years of wear but still in decent shape.
Just the thing to wear over my clothes during art class!" I said to myself.
"You're not taking that old thing, are you?" Mom said when she saw me packing it. "I wore that when I was pregnant with your brother in 1954!"
"It's perfect for art class, Mom. Thanks!" I slipped it into my suitcase before she could object.
The yellow shirt became a part of my college wardrobe. I loved it. All during college, it stayed with me, always comfortable to throw over my clothes during messy projects. The underarm seams had to be reinforced before I graduated, but there was plenty of wear in that old garment.
After graduation I moved to Denver and wore the shirt the day I moved into my apartment. Then I wore it on Saturday mornings when I cleaned. Those four large pockets on the front-two breast pockets and two at hip level-made a super place to carry dust cloths, wax and polish.
The next year, I married. When I became pregnant, I found the yellow shirt tucked in a drawer and wore it during those big belly days.
Though I missed sharing my first pregnancy with Mom and Dad and the rest of my family, since we were in Colorado and they were in Illinois, that shirt helped remind me of their warmth and protection. I smiled and hugged the shirt when I remembered that Mother had worn it when she was pregnant.
By 1969, after my daughter's birth, the shirt was at least 15 years old. That Christmas, I patched one elbow, washed and pressed the shirt, wrapped it in holiday paper and sent it to Mom. Smiling, I tucked a note in one of the pockets saying: "I hope this fits.
I'm sure it will look great on you!" When Mom wrote to thank me for her "real" gifts, she said the yellow shirt was lovely. She never mentioned it again.
The next year, my husband, daughter and I moved from Denver to St. Louis and we stopped at Mom and Dad's house in Rock Falls, Illinois, to pick up some furniture. Days later, when we uncrated the kitchen table, I noticed something yellow taped to its bottom. The shirt! And so the pattern was set.
On our next visit home, I secretly placed the shirt between the mattress and box springs of Mom and Dad's bed. I don't know how long it took her to find it, but almost two years passed before I got it back.
By then our family had grown.
This time Mom got even with me. She put it under the base of our living?room lamp, knowing that as a mother of three little ones, housecleaning and moving lamps would not be everyday events. . .
~ . When I finally got the shirt, I wore it often while refinishing "early marriage" furniture that I found at rummage sales. The walnut stains on the shirt simply added more character to all its history.
Unfortunately, our lives were full of stains, too.
My marriage had been failing almost from the beginning. After a number of attempts at marriage counseling, my husband and I divorced in 1975. The three children and I prepared to move back to Illinois to be closer to the emotional support of family and friends.
As I packed, a deep depression overtook me. I r wondered if I could make it on my own with three small children to raise. I wondered if I would find a job. Although I hadn't read the Bible much since my Catholic school days, I paged through the Good Book, looking for comfort.
In Ephesians, I read, "So use every piece of God's armor to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, you will be standing up."
I tried to picture myself wearing God's armor, but all I saw was me wearing the stained yellow shirt. Of course! Wasn't my mother's love a piece of God's armor? I smiled and remembered the fun and warm feelings the yellow shirt had brought into my life over ~ the years. My courage was renewed and somehow or the future didn't seem so alarming.
Unpacking in our new home and feeling much better, I knew I had to get the shirt back to Mother. The next time I visited her, I carefully tucked it in her bottom dresser drawer, knowing that sweater weather was months away.
Meanwhile my life moved splendidly. I found a good job at a radio station and the children thrived in their new environment.
A year later during a window-washing spurt, I found the crumpled yellow shirt hidden in a rag bag in my cleaning closet. Something new had been added. Emblazoned across the top of the breast pocket were the bright green newly embroidered words, "I BELONG TO PAT." Not to be outdone, I got out my own embroidery materials and added an apostrophe and seven more letters. Now the shirt proudly proclaimed, "I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER."
Once again, I zigzagged all the frayed seams. Then I enlisted the aid of a dear friend, Harold, to help me get it back to Mom. He arranged to have a friend mail the shirt to Mom from Arlington, Virginia.
We enclosed a letter announcing that she was the recipient of an award for her good deeds. The award letter, on official looking stationery printed at the high school where Harold was assistant principal, came from "The Institute for the Destitute."
This was my finest hour. I would have given anything to see Mom's face when she opened the "award" box and saw the shirt inside. But, of course, she never mentioned it.
On Easter Sunday the following year, Mother managed a coup de grace. She walked into our home with regal poise, wearing that old shirt over her Easter outfit, as if it were an integral part of her wardrobe.
I'm sure my mouth hung open, but I said nothing. During the Easter meal, a giant laugh choked my throat. But I was determined not to break the unbroken spell the shirt had woven into our lives.
I was sure that Mom would take off the shirt and try to hide it in my home, but when she and Dad left, she walked out the door wearing, "I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER" like a coat of arms.
A year later, in June 1978, Harold and I were married. The day of our wedding, we hid our car in a friend's garage to avoid the usual practical jokers.
After the wedding, while my husband drove us to our honeymoon suite in Wisconsin, I reached for a pillow in the car so I could rest my head. The pillow felt lumpy. I unzipped the case and discovered a gift, wrapped in wedding paper.
I thought it might be a surprise gift from Harold. But he looked as stunned as I. Inside the box was the freshly pressed yellow shirt.
Mother knew I'd need the shirt as a reminder that a sense of humor, spiced with love, is one of the most important ingredients in a happy marriage. In a pocket was a note: Read John 14:27?29. I love you both, Mother."
That night I paged through a Bible I found in the hotel room and found the verses: "I am leaving you with a gift: peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives.
So don't be troubled or afraid. Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come back to you again. If you really love me, you will be very happy for me, for now I can go to the Father, who is greater than I am. I have told you these things before they happen so that when they do, you will believe in me."
The shirt was Mother's final gift.
She had known for three months before my wedding that she had a terminal disease, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's disease). Mother died 13 months later, at age 57.
I must admit that I was tempted to send the yellow shirt with her to her grave. But I'm glad I didn't, because it is a vivid reminder of the love filled game she and I played for 16 years.
Besides, my older daughter is in college now, majoring in art . . . and every art student needs a baggy yellow shirt with big pockets for art class!
I Married Her Sunshine
By Miriam Goldbrenner
Like many young newlyweds, I often found myself verbally sparring with my mother-in-law.
My own willingness to argue with her disturbed me. I had been raised from infancy to be respectful of my elders, so why was I behaving so differently now? It was a worrisome situation.
But one Passover night, everything changed. All the men had gone to synagogue, and she and I were left alone for a very long while. I will remember for a lifetime what she said to me that night. It was as if a floodgate had opened up inside her, and a torrent of words came pouring out.
She began by describing the beautiful life she led before World War II. Raised in affluence by loving parents, she was surrounded by an enormous extended family who doted on her, the "baby" of the clan. "
They were hard-working, kind, generous and exalted," she said of her family. The smile on her face as she told of this wonderful time in her life made me realize that at that moment she was back in their comforting embrace.
As she continued her story, her serene appearance began to change and was replaced by a look of great pain. She became detached and remote, as if she were recounting the events of someone else's life rather than her own.
The little girl she was all but disappeared when the German tanks came rolling through Poland in 1939. "My grandmother, after watching her beloved husband and eldest daughter being dragged away in the middle of the night, was determined to save what remained of their family.
For six long years 'Mama' used her considerable wealth to 'rent' space under a barn from a kind, Gentile farmer, who was an old family friend."
These were the six years of life when a young girl should have blossomed into womanhood. Yet, she explained, she spent those six years in total darkness and in near silence.
At a time when the giggles of school friends sharing secrets were the only hushed words she should have heard, the fear of being discovered was so crippling that she and her mother could not speak above a whisper.
The only companions she had were the field mice who came in at night, and as she listened to the chickens above her head being fed their daily fare, she wondered why her food rations were so meager. And like a flower robbed of the nurturing sunlight and water she began to wither away.
And then finally liberation. AS she emerged from the cave that had become her home the brightness was blinding, and yet she drank it all in as a parched desert traveler would absorb the waters of a running brook.
But, just as the bud began to blossom again, the clouds rolled once again, robbing it of the precious sunshine.
You see, the peasants who had been occupying her home during the war were not pleased to discover that the former tenants had miraculously survived. Angry at the prospect of having to leave their lush surroundings, they became increasingly hostile.
One evening, as her mother peeked out of the window, she saw an angry mob heading towards the house. Quickly, she pushed her daughter into the cold pot-bellied stove to spare her from whatever was to come.
As the crowd gathered, the young girl watched through the window of the oven even as her mother argued for her property, and then, as she begged for her life. But her words were to no avail, and as her young daughter looked on, she was shot, along with her sons, in cold blood.
When the group dispersed she quietly emerged from her hiding place. Although her mother had meant to spare her certain death, the young girl wished in her despair and heartbreak that she, too, had met her mother's fate. At that moment, she swore to leave behind the land of her birth forever.
Somehow she was placed in a foundling home and eventually found her way to America to live with a distant relative. From the outside, she looked like any young girl, energetic, vivacious, attractive. But on the inside something had died. Something that she thought would never live again.
Then one day she met a handsome young man, who swept her off her feet. And once again she began to experience love. What had died on that horrible day in Europe just a few years before was reborn on the sidewalks of New York. She and her Prince Charming married and after one year they were blessed with a beautiful son.
And then she turned to me and in broken English spoke the most eloquent sentence I have ever heard. "From the moment the war began, until the moment I gave birth to your husband, the sun did not shine for me."
And at that moment I understood. I understood why she was obsessed with her children. I understood why her children were the "most" beautiful and brilliant. I understood why her children could do no wrong. I even understood why she constantly pushed them to eat.
Strong feelings of shame began to overwhelm me. How could I not have accorded the proper respect to a woman who had endured unspeakable hardships, and yet had the courage and faith in God to rebuild her own life, and bring a new one into the world?
How could I have not seen the signs of a woman so deeply scarred that the only joy she derived from life involved her family? Why had I silently ridiculed her when her overprotective tendencies appeared? How could I have been so blind?
Then and there, I resolved to change the way I looked at her. Never again could I peer into her face and not see the little girl hiding in the oven. Never again could I stare into her eyes and not see the vision of death and destruction that she so vividly described.
Never again could I eat at her table and not imagine the pangs of hunger that must have enveloped her. And never again could I hear her voice and not think of the hushed whispers of her lost youth.
Now, when I see a woman who thinks her children are the "most" everything, I ask myself, 'Why shouldn't she think so?' Now, when I see a woman who loves so unconditionally that in her eyes her children can do no wrong, I admire her conviction.
I no longer see a woman who is pushy at mealtime, but a generous and giving human being. And now I can even see why I seemed unworthy of her son's hand in marriage. For after all, who would be worthy of marrying her "sunshine"?
The Harbinger
By Bill Walker
It wasn't noon yet, but the temperature was already approaching ninety-five degrees on the morning I started my flight training at Fort Wolters.
It was warm for May, even for Texas, and since the base was intended to be a training ground for Vietnam, the heat just made the experience all the more authentic.
We knew that the lucky few who made it through the grueling nine-month warrant officer flight-training course would soon be off to a destination even hotter than Texas.
As nearly two hundred of us stood at attention, we were flushed with excitement. On this day, we would finally begin the "hands on" portion of flight school.
We had been through nine tough weeks of basic training in Louisiana and four weeks of continuous harassment from our tactical officers while we began the ground school portion of our classes.
The purpose of the harassment, we knew, was to shake out anyone from the program who couldn't handle the pressure of intimidation and confusion. The ability to remain focused during combat is critical to survival.
That morning, however, no amount of harassment could have taken away from the excitement of climbing into the cockpit of the TH-55 training helicopter to actually begin learning to fly.
Although it was common knowledge that only a portion of those who began flight school would actually end up with wings, each of us was convinced that we would soon fly "above the best."
Lunch, and our tactical officers, were all that stood between us and our first flight. We knew from experience that the tac officers could be brutal, so we wondered, uneasily, what they would throw at us during this portion of our training.
As we stood rigidly facing the tac officer, waiting for instructions, a tiny robin hopped out in front of our formation. It seemed confused and a little frightened. Suddenly, its mother flew a low swoop across the lawn, as if encouraging her youngster to take to the air.
Despite our efforts to remain focused on the men in command in front of us, everyone's eyes followed the birds. Even our officers turned to watch, mesmerized by the scene.
Over and over, the tiny bird ran as fast as its little legs could move, taking off after its mom. But despite its best efforts, gravity kept it tethered to the earth.
Again and again, the little ball of feathers raced across the grass, flapping its wings, only to hop up on a stone at the end of its long run.
Completely ignoring the crowd of staring bystanders, the mother robin swooped down after her baby's attempts to fly, cajoling and chiding it. "Like this," she seemed to be saying. "Try again."
All two hundred of us watched breathlessly, silently praying for the little bird to succeed. Each time it flapped and hopped its way across the lawn in front of us, we'd groan at its failure.
Finally, after we had stood at attention for what seemed like hours just watching, those tiny wings took hold of the air, and the baby bird became airborne for a few feet.
You could almost see the little bird swell with pride. Then, on one last run across the front of our formation, the gray piece of fluff rose into the air. Two hundred would-be warrant officers burst into wild cheers. We watched, ecstatic, as the little bird followed its mother to the horizon.
Our tac officers turned back to us, smiling. What could they add? It had been the ultimate flight lesson.
Reflections from a New Father
By David Skidmore
My second daughter was born on September 11, 2001, at 4:41 P.M. I wrote the following article for our church bulletin.
I have looked forward to writing this article for about nine months, and I hoped that it would be filled with joyous words devoted totally to my gratitude to the Father for bestowing the same title upon me...again.
Indeed, I am thankful that Anna Belle Skidmore was born on September 11, 2002 (seven pounds, thirteen ounces and twenty inches long, with red hair and blue eyes like her sister), but my heart is heavy that as our family added a member, so many other people lost those who they had brought into this world.
Although the world Anna Belle was welcomed into is a different world than the one that awaited her a day earlier, let's reflect on the words of the doctor as she held my daughter on her first unaided breath while a nearby television relayed the unfolding tragedy. Turning to everyone in the room, the doctor said, "May this child be a reminder of who is really in control of our world."
The day of my daughter's birth will always be connected with memories and memorials of death, but on 4:41 P.M. on Tuesday, as images of death engulfed our minds, God made his way into the world...in our midst...among us...as he did so many years ago...in the image of a child.
My friend shared a very poignant thought, reminding me that although the date of Anna Belle's birth might forever be associated with the events of that day, it would be a blessing to know that it might also be the same day that marked the beginning of a rebirth of an awareness of God in our nation, in our schools and in our homes.
On the way to the church to write these words, I heard "The Star-Spangled Banner" being played on the radio. Flags hung on the front doors of many houses on both sides of the road – one was even hand-drawn by a child.
I have to trust that we gained a greater allegiance not only to the flag this day, but that we also became aware of our need as a nation to truly be "under God."
If July 4 is our Independence Day, perhaps September 11 should become our "Dependence Day" – a day in which we as a nation come to realize that our collective hope, future and lives were placed more securely in his hands.
I, too, began a new life on Tuesday, just as my daughter, Anna Belle, began a new life.
And just as Anna Belle, I was pulled from a place of safety, security and peace into a tragic, scary, unpredictable and hostile world.
Even though Anna Belle was born into uncertainty, she was immediately placed into the hands of a father whose main desire is to protect her, provide for her and promise her a rich future. Her story is my story...and yours.
We are all frail, tiny and vulnerable, and our physical lives come with no guarantees. Yet that part of us most carefully created in his image is safe in the hands of a protecting, providing and promising Father.
September 11 will always, in one special way, be a celebration of life for this particular father. My prayer is that history will look back and one day celebrate it as a day of renewed life toward our Father.
Another friend sent me these words in a simple but powerful note:
On a day in which everyone is asking, "Why would God ever let this happen?" perhaps we should look at you holding your daughter and ask the very same question.
THE TABLECLOTH
A young minister had been called to serve at an old church that at one time had been a magnificent edifice in a wealthy part of town. Now the area was in a state of decline and the church was in bad shape. Nevertheless, the pastor and his wife were thrilled with the church and believed they could restore it to its former magnificence.
When the minister took charge of the church early in October 1948, he and his wife immediately went to work painting, repairing and attempting to restore it. Their goal was to have the old edifice looking its best for Christmas Eve services.
Just two days before Christmas, however, a storm swept through the area, dumping more than an inch of rain. The roof of the old church sprung a leak just behind the altar. The plaster soaked up the water as if it were a sponge and then crumbled, leaving a gaping hole in the wall.
Dejected, the pastor and his wife looked at the defaced wall. There was obviously no chance to repair the damage before Christmas. Nearly three months of hard work had been washed way. Yet the young couple accepted the damage as God’s will and set about cleaning up the damp debris.
It was a depressed minister and his wife who attended a benefit auction for the church youth group that afternoon. One of the items put of for bid was an old gold-and-ivory-colored lace tablecloth, nearly fifteen feet long.
Seized with an inspiration, the pastor was the high bidder at $6.50. His idea was to hang the orange cloth behind the altar to cover the ragged hole in the wall.
On the day before Christmas, snowflakes mingled with the howling wind. As the pastor unlocked the church doors, he noticed an older woman standing at the nearby bus stop. He knew the bus wouldn’t be there for at least half an hour, so he invited her inside to keep warm.
She wasn’t from the neighborhood, she explained. She had been in the area to be interviewed for a job as a governess to the children of a well-known wealthy family. She had been a war refugee, her English was poor and she didn’t get the job.
Head bowed in prayer, she sat in the pew near the back of the church. She paid no attention to the pastor, who was hanging the tablecloth across the unsightly hole. When the woman looked up and saw the cloth she rushed to the altar.
“It’s mine!” she exclaimed. “It’s my banquet cloth!”
Excitedly she told the surprised minister its history and even showed him her initials embroidered in one corner.
She and her husband had lived in Vienna, Austria, and had opposed the Nazis before the Second World War. They decided to flee to Switzerland, but her husband said they must go separately. She left first. Later she heard that he had died in a concentration camp.
Touched by her story, the minister insisted that she take the cloth. She thought about it for a moment but said no, she didn’t need it any longer, and it did look pretty hanging behind the altar. Then she said good-bye and left.
In the candlelight of the Christmas Eve services, the tablecloth looked even more magnificent. The white lace seemed dazzling in the flickering light of the candles, and the golden threads woven through it were like the brilliant rays of a new dawn.
As members of the congregation left the church, they complimented the pastor on the services and on how beautiful the church looked.
One older gentlemen lingered, admiring the tablecloth, and as he was leaving he said to the minister:
“It’s strange. Many years ago my wife -- God rest her -- and I owned such a tablecloth. She used it only on very special occasions. But we lived in Vienna then.”
The night air was freezing, but the goosebumps on the pastor’s skin weren’t caused by the weather. As calmly as he could, he told the man about the woman who had been to the church that very afternoon.
“Can it be,” gasped the old man, tears streaming down his cheeks,” that she is alive? How can I find her?”
The pastor remembered the name of the family who had interviewed the woman. With the trembling old man at his side, he telephoned the family and learned her name and address.
In the pastor’s old car they drove to her home on the other side of town. Together they knocked on her apartment door. When she opened it, the pastor witnessed the tearful, joyful and thrilling reunion of husband and wife.
Some people would call it an extremely lucky chance happening, the result of a hole in the church wall, an old tablecloth, a pastor’s ingenuity in solving a problem and so on. But the combination of events was far too complex for it to have been merely “coincidence.”
If one link in the fragile chain of events had been broken, the husband and wife might never have found each other. If the rain hadn’t come, if the church roof hadn’t leaked, if the pastor had decided not to go to the auction, if the woman hadn’t been looking for a job or standing on that corner at just the right time…the list of ifs is virtually endless.
It was simply God’s will. And, as it has been said many times, He works in mysterious ways.
By Richard Bauman
Husband 1.0
To: Tech Support
RE: Your program titled "Husband 1.0"
Last year I upgraded from Boyfriend 5.0 to Husband 1.0 and noticed that the new program began making unexpected changes to the accounting software, severely limiting access to wardrobe, flower and jewelry applications that operated flawlessly under Boyfriend 5.0.
No mention of this phenomenon was included in the product brochure. In addition, Husband 1.0 uninstalls many other valuable programs such as Dinner-Dancing 7.5, CruiseShip 2.3 and Opera-Ballet Night 6.1 and installs new and undesirable programs such as PokerNight 1.3, ESPN 3.0, Golf 2.4 and ClutterEverywhere 4.5
Conversation 8.0 runs only intermittently and invariable crashes the system. Under no circumstances will it run Diaper Changing 6.1 or Housecleaning 2.6. It will occasionally run CarWash 1.0, but only after running Nagging 5.3, and this all-purpose utility is of limited effectiveness. Can you help please?!?!?!
Signed,
Jane
Dear Jane:
This is a very common problem women complain about , but it is mostly due to a primary misconception. Many people upgrade from Boyfriend 5.0 to Husband 1.0 with no idea that Boyfriend 5.0 is merely and ENTERTAINMENT package, while Husband 1.0 is an OPERATING SYSTEM and was designed by it's creator to run as few applications as possible.
Further, you cannot purge Husband 1.0 and return to Boyfriend 5.0, because Husband 1.0 is not designed to do this. Hidden operating files within your system would only cause Boyfriend 5.0 to emulate Husband 1.0 and nothing is gained.
It is impossible to uninstall, delete or purge the program files from the system, once installed. Any new program files can only be installed once per year, as Husband 1.0 has severely limited memory. Error messages are common, and should be expected from Husband 1.0.
In desperation to play some of the "old time" favorite applications, or to get new applications to work, some women have tried to install Boyfriend 6.0 of Husband 2.0. BEWARE: these women end up with more problems than encountered with Husband 1.0.
Look in your manual under "Warnings: Divorce/Child Support." You will notice that this program runs very poorly and comes bundled with HeartBreak 1.3. I highly recommend you keep Husband 1.0 and just learn the quirks of this strange and illogical system.
Having Husband 1.0 installed myself, I might also suggest you read the entire section regarding General Partnership Faults (GPF's). This is a wonderful feature of Husband 1.0, secretly installed by the parent company as an integral part of the operating system.
Husband 1.0 must assume ALL responsibility for ALL faults and problems, regardless of the root cause. To activate this great feature, enter the command "C: I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME." Sometimes Tears 6.2 must be run simultaneously while entering the command. Husband 1.0 should then run the applications Apologize 12.3 and FlowersChocolate 7.8.
TECH TIP: Avoid excessive use of this feature. Overuse can create additional and more serious GPF's. and ultimately YOU may have to give a C:I APOLOGIZE command before the system will return to normal operations.
Overuse can also cause Husband 1.0 to default to GrumpySilence 2.5, or worse yet, Beer 6.0. Beer 6.0 is a VERY BAD program that causes Husband 1.0 to create FatBelly files and SnoringLoudly wave files that are very hard to delete. Save yourself some trouble by following this Tech Tip!
Husband 1.0 is a great program, but it does have limited memory and cannot learn new applications quickly. Consider buying additional software to improve performance. I personally recommend HotFood 3.0, Lingerie 5.3 and Patience 4.1. Used in conjunction, these utilities can really help Husband 1.0 running smoothly.
After a few years of use, Husband 1.0 will become familiar to you and you will find many valuable embedded features such as FixBrokenThings 2.1, Snuggling 4.2 and BestFriend 7.6.
A FINAL WORD OF CAUTION: DO NOT under ANY circumstances install MotherInLaw 1.0!!! This is not a supported applicaiton and will cause selective shutdown of the operation system. Husband 1.0 will run only Fishing 8.4 and Hunting 5.2 until MotherInLaw 1.0 is uninstalled.
I hope these notes have helped. Thank you for choosing to install Husband 1.0 and we here at Tech Support wish you the best in the coming years. We trust you will learn to fully enjoy this product!
Sincerely,
Tech Support
A Change of Heart
By George Mapson
It was the tail end of the depression, and things were tough. Mum had a hard time raising us kids on her own in our small community of New Westminster, BC. My Dad had drowned in Pitt Lake, five years earlier - I still remember it like it was yesterday.
Because Dad had no pension, or benefits, there was not much money so we went on relief, now called social assistance. We relied on the Salvation Army to keep us clothed, and although our clothes were second hand, we thought they were beautiful.
Looking back, I realize what Mum went through sending us kids to school. Every morning she would tuck a new piece of cardboard in our shoes, because our soles were worn out. When we got home, Mum would have "French Toast" ready for us.
This was bread deep-fried in lard. Constant moving was typical for my family in these times. Rent was twenty-five dollars a month, but Mum couldn't pay it, and we knew we would be evicted right after Christmas on the first of January. These were hard and sad years, but we never complained.
Christmas was approaching, and we were entitled to a twenty-five dollar Christmas fund for social services. The Inspector came to our house, and searched it from top to bottom to be sure we didn't have any food hidden away. When he didn't find any, he issued the cheque for Mum.
It was four days before Christmas, and Mum said that instead of buying food, she would use the money to pay back rent, assuring us all of a roof over our heads for a little while longer. She told us then there would be nothing for Christmas.
Unknown to Mum, I had been selling Christmas trees, shoveling snow, and doing odd jobs to earn enough money to buy a new pair of boots. Boots that weren't patched, boots with no cardboard in the soles. I knew exactly which boots I wanted. They were ten-inch Top Genuine Pierre Paris and they had a price of twenty-three dollars.
Well, the big day came on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I was very excited, as I hurried up the road to catch the bus. It was only half a mile walk, but on the way I noticed a house with Christmas lights and decorations. It was then I realized that at our house, we had no lights, no decorations, nor any money for Christmas goodies.
I knew then that we would have no turkey or ham for Christmas, and I felt sad. But I knew for certain that we would have French toast.
As I continued walking I began to feel bewildered. I was eleven years old, and I was feeling a strange sense of guilt. Here I was going to buy a new pair of boots while Mum was home in tears. She would be trying to explain to us why there were no presents.
As I arrived at the bus stop, the driver opened his big manual hinged door. I stood there for what seemed an eternity, until eventually the driver asked, "Son, are you getting on this bus or not?" I finally blurted out, "No thanks Sir, I've changed my mind."
The bus drove off without me, and I stood alone in a daze, but feeling as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My mind was made up and I realized what I had to do.
Across the street from the bus stop was a big grocery store called the Piggly Wiggley. Into the store I went, brimming with happiness and excitement. I realized that the twenty-five dollars I had worked so hard for went a long way for groceries.
I bought a turkey, ham, oranges and all the Christmas treats. I spent every dime of my hard-earned money. The owner of the grocery store said, "Son, you can't pack all those groceries and carry them home yourself."
So I asked two boys with carriers on their bicycles to run them the half-mile down to our house. As I walked behind the delivery boys, I whispered for them to quietly unload the groceries on the porch and pile them against the door.
Once they had done this, with great excitement and tears in my eyes, I knocked on the door. I could hardly wait to see my mother's face!
When Mum opened the door, some of the groceries fell inside onto the floor, and she just stood there dumbfounded. Holding back the tears, I hollered, "Merry Christmas Mother!! There really is a Santa Claus!"
I had a lot of explaining to do as we unpacked all the food and put it away. That day I got enough hugs and kisses from Mum to last two lifetimes. To see my Mother's prayers answered more than made up for the boots I never got. It was a Merry Christmas for us after all!
Do Something You WANT To......
Too many people put off something that brings them joy just because they haven't thought about it, don't have it on their schedule, didn't know it was coming or are too rigid to depart from their routine.
I got to thinking one day about all those women on the Titanic who passed up dessert at dinner that fateful night in an effort to cut back. From then on, I've tried to be a little more flexible.
How many women out there will eat at home because their husband didn't suggest going out to dinner until after something had been thawed? Does the word "refrigeration" mean nothing to you?
How often have your kids dropped in to talk and sat in silence while you watched 'Jeopardy' on television?
I cannot count the times I called my sister and said, "How about going to lunch in a half hour?" She would gasp and stammer, "I can't. I have clothes on the line. My hair is dirty. I wish I had known yesterday, I had a late breakfast,It looks like rain." And my personal favorite, "It's Monday."She died a few years ago. We never did have lunch together.
Because Americans cram so much into their lives, we tend to schedule our headaches. We live on a sparse diet of promises we make to ourselves when all the conditions are perfect!
We'll go back and visit the grandparents when we get Stevie toilet-trained. We'll entertain when we replace the living-room carpet. We'll go on a second honeymoon when we get two more kids out of college.
Life has a way of accelerating as we get older. The days get shorter, and the list of promises to ourselves gets longer. One morning, we awaken, and all we have to show for our lives is a litany of "I'm going to," "I plan on," and "Someday, when things are settled down a bit."
When anyone calls my 'seize the moment' friend, she is open to adventure and available for trips. She keeps an open mind on new ideas. Her enthusiasm for life is contagious. You talk with her for five minutes, and you're ready to trade your bad feet for a pair of Rollerblades and skip an elevator for a bungee cord.
My lips have not touched ice cream in 10 years. I love ice cream. It's just that I might as well apply it directly to my stomach with a spatula and eliminate the digestive process. The other day, I stopped the car and bought a triple-decker. If my car had hit an iceberg on the way home, would have died happy.
Now...go on and have a nice day. Do something you WANT to......not something on your SHOULD DO list.
If you were going to die soon and had only one phone call you could make, who would you call and what would you say? And why are you waiting?
Make sure you read this to the end; you will understand why I sent this to you.
Have you ever watched kids playing on a merry go round or listened to the rain lapping on the ground? Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight or gazed at the sun into the fading night?
Do you run through each day on the fly? When you ask "How are you?" Do you hear the reply?
When the day is done, do you lie in your bed with the next hundred chores running through your head?
Ever told your child, "We'll do it tomorrow." And in your haste, not see his sorrow?
Ever lost touch? Let a good friendship die? Just call to say "Hi"?
When you worry and hurry through your day, It is like an unopened gift....Thrown away... Life is not a race. Take it slower. Hear the music before the song is over.
-Author Unknown
Lessons of Life
I feared being alone until I learned to like myself.
I feared failure until I realized that I only fail when I don't try.
I feared success until I realized that I had to try in order to be happy with myself.
I feared people's opinions until I learned that people would have opinions about me anyway.
I feared rejection until I learned to have faith in myself.
I feared pain until I learned that it's necessary for growth.
I feared the truth until I saw the ugliness in lies.
I feared life until I experienced its beauty.
I feared death until I realized that it's not an end, but a beginning.
I feared my destiny, until I realized that I had the power to change my life.
I feared hate until I saw that it was nothing more than ignorance.
I feared love until it touched my heart, making the darkness fade into endless sunny days.
I feared ridicule until I learned how to laugh at myself.
I feared growing old until I realized that I gained wisdom every day.
I feared the future until I realized that life just kept getting better.
I feared the past until I realized it could no longer hurt me.
I feared the dark until I saw the beauty of the starlight.
I feared the light until I learned that the truth would give me the strength.
I feared change until I saw that even the most beautiful butterfly had to undergo a metamorphosis before it could fly.
