Glurge
The morality plays of the 15th and 16th centuries were designed to inspire the audience to lead a more Godly life of virtue. The stage today is the Internet, and the plays are emailed stories—called "glurge"— that are pitched to bring a tear to the reader's eye and a resolve to lead a more moral life—one of more faith, kindness, forgiveness, tolerance, temperance, gratitude, dedication, and perseverance. Although the story is usually purported to be true, it rarely is. This collection of 35 stories is from the Snopes glurge gallery.
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks
pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver the couple's new daughter,
Dana Lu Blessing. At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces,
they already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor's soft words
dropped like bombs. "I don't think she's going to make it," he said,
as kindly as he could. "There's only a 10-percent chance she will live
through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her
future could be a very cruel one."
Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the
devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived. She would never
walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly
be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental
retardation, and on and on. "No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and
David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would
have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that
dream was slipping away.
But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because
Dana's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially 'raw,' the lightest kiss or
caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny
baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they
could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of
tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little
girl.
There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went
by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there.
At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in
their arms for the very first time. And two months later, though doctors
continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less
living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the
hospital, just as her mother had predicted.
Five years later, when Dana was a petite but feisty young girl with glittering
gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She showed no signs whatsoever of
any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl can
be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.
One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas,
Dana was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where
her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing. As always, Dana was
chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when
she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, little Dana asked,
"Do you smell that?" Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a
thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain." Dana closed
her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that?" Once again, her mother
replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."
Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with
her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells
like God when you lay your head on His chest."
Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana happily hopped down to play with the other
children. Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and
all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their
hearts, all along. During those long days and nights of her first two months of
her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was
holding Dana on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.
Something for Stevie
I try not to be biased, but I had
my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would
be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee
and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to
Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and
thick-tongued speech of Down syndrome. I wasn't worried about most of my trucker
customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the
meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade. The four-wheeler drivers
were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the
yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of
catching some dreaded "truckstop germ;" the pairs of white shirted
businessmen on expense accounts who think every truckstop waitress wants to be
flirted with.
I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched
him for the first few weeks. I shouldn't have worried. After the first week,
Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month
my trucker regulars had adopted him as their official truckstop mascot. After
that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was
like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please,
but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was
exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie
got done with the table. Our only problem was convincing him to wait to clean a
table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background,
shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a
table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus the
dishes and glasses onto the cart and meticulously wipe the table with a
practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow
would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly
right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he
met.
Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled
after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security
benefits in public housing two miles from the truckstop. Their social worker,
which stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between
the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was the probably the difference
between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home.
That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first
morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in
Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker
said that people with Down syndrome often had heart problems at an early age so
this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the
surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months. A ripple of
excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was
out of surgery, in recovery and doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a
war whoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.
Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of the
50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie
blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look. He grinned.
"OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked. "We just got
word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay." "I was
wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery
about?"
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth
about Stevie's surgery, then sighed. "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be
ok," she said, "but I don't know how he and his mom are going to
handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it
is."
Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of
her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and
really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that
day until we decided what to do. After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my
office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand a funny look on her face.
"What's up?" I asked. "I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer
and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony
Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said,
"This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup." She handed the napkin
to me, and three twenty dollar bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the
outside, in big, bold letters, was printed "Something For Stevie."
"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said," so I
told him about Stevie and his mom and everything, and Pete and Tony looked at
each other and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper
napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two
$50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny
eyes, shook her head and said simply "truckers."
That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is
supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said he's been counting the
days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it
was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was
coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I
arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot, and
invited them both in to celebrate his day back. Stevie was thinner and paler,
but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the
back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.
"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his
mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming
back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me." I led them toward a
large corner booth at the rear of the room. I could feel and hear the rest of
the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over
my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the
procession. We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with
coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens
of folded paper napkins.
"First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I
tried to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled
out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the
outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at
the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with
his name printed or scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. "There's more
than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking
companies that heard about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving."
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting,
and there were a few tears, as well.
But you know what was funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and
hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing
all the cups and dishes from the table.
Best worker I ever hired.
Mothers
After 21 years of marriage, my wife wanted me to take another woman out to dinner and a movie. She said, "I love you, but I know this other woman loves you and would love to spend some time with you."
The other woman that my wife wanted me to visit was my Mother, who has been a widow for 19 years, but the demands of my work and my three children had made it possible to visit her only occasionally.
That night I called to invite her to go out for dinner and a movie. "What's wrong, are you well," she asked?
My mother is the type of woman who suspects that a late night call or a surprise invitation is a sign of bad news.
"I thought that it would be pleasant to spend some time with you," I responded. "Just the two of us."
She thought about it for a moment, and then said, "I would like that very much."
That Friday after work, as I drove over to pick her up I was a bit nervous. When I arrived at her house, I noticed that she, too, seemed to be nervous about our date. She waited in the door with her coat on. She had curled her hair and was wearing the dress that she had worn to celebrate her last wedding anniversary.
She smiled from a face that was as radiant as an angel's. "I told my friends that I was going to go out with my son, and they were impressed," she said, as she got into the car. "They can't wait to hear about our meeting."
We went to a restaurant that, although not elegant, was very nice and cozy. My mother took my arm as if she were the First Lady. After we sat down, I had to read the menu. Her eyes could only read large print. Half way through the entries, I lifted my eyes and saw Mom sitting there staring at me. A nostalgic smile was on her lips. "It was I who used to have to read the menu when you were small," she said. "Then it's time that you relax and let me return the favor," I responded.
During the dinner, we had an agreeable conversation- -nothing extraordinary but catching up on recent events of each other's life. We talked so much that we missed the movie.
As we arrived at her house later, she said, "I'll go out with you again, but only if you let me invite you." I agreed.
"How was your dinner date?" asked my wife when I got home.
"Very nice. Much more so than I could have imagined," I answered. A few days later, my mother died of a massive heart attack. It happened so suddenly that I didn't have a chance to do anything for her.
Some time later, I received an envelope with a copy of a restaurant receipt from the same place mother and I had dined. An attached note said: "I paid this bill in advance. I wasn't sure that I could be there; but nevertheless, I paid for two plates—one for you and the other for your wife. You will never know what that night meant for me. I love you, son."
At that moment, I understood the importance of saying in time: "I LOVE YOU" and to give our loved ones the time that they deserve. Nothing in life is more important than your family. Give them the time they deserve, because these things cannot be put off till "some other time."
Somebody said it takes about six weeks to get back to normal after you've had a baby.... somebody doesn't know that once you're a mother, "normal" is history.
Somebody said you learn how to be a mother by instinct .... somebody never took a three-year-old shopping.
Somebody said being a mother is boring ....somebody never rode in a car driven by a teenager with a driver's permit.
Somebody said if you're a "good" mother, your child will "turn out good".... somebody thinks a child comes with directions and a guarantee.
Somebody said "good" mothers never raise their voices .... somebody never came out the back door just in time to see her child hit a golf ball through the neighbor's kitchen window.
Somebody said you don't need an education to be a mother.... somebody never helped a fourth grader with his math.
Somebody said you can't love the second child as much as you love the first.... somebody doesn't have two children.
Somebody said a mother can find all the answers to her child-rearing questions in the books.... somebody never had a child stuff beans up his nose or in his ears.
Somebody said the hardest part of being a mother is labor and delivery.... somebody never watched her "baby" get on the bus for the first day of kindergarten.... or on a plane headed for military "boot camp."
Somebody said a mother can do her job with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back.... somebody never organized seven giggling Brownies to sell cookies.
Somebody said a mother can stop worrying after her child gets married.... somebody doesn't know that marriage adds a new son or daughter-in-law to a mother's heartstrings.
Somebody said a mother's job is done when her last child leaves home.... somebody never had grandchildren.
Somebody said your mother knows you love her, so you don't need to tell her.... somebody isn't a mother.
His Father’s Eyes
A teenager lived alone with his father, and the two of them
had a very special relationship. Even though the son was always on the bench,
his Father was always in the stands cheering. He never missed a game.
This young boy was still the smallest of his class when he entered high school.
But his father continued to encourage him but also made it very clear that he
did not have to play football if he didn't want to. But the young man loved
football and decided to hang in there. He was determined to try his best at
every practice, and perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior.
All through high school he never missed a practice nor a game, but remained a
bench warmer all four years. His faithful father was always in the stands,
always with words of encouragement for him. When the young man went to college,
he decided to try out for the football team as a "walk-on." Everyone
was sure he could never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he
kept him on the roster because he always puts his heart and soul into every
practice and, at the same time, provided the other members with the spirit and
hustle they badly needed.
The news that he had survived the cut thrilled him so much that he rushed to the
nearest phone and called his father. His father shared his excitement and was
sent season tickets for all the college games. This persistent young athlete
never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play
in the game.
It was the end of his senior football season, and as he trotted onto the
practice field shortly before the big playoff game, the coach met him with a
Telegram. The young man read the telegram and became deathly silent. Swallowing
hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My father died this morning. Will it be all
right if I miss practice today?" The coach put his arm gently around his
shoulder and said, "Take the rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan
to come to the game on Saturday."
Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well. In the third quarter, when
the team was ten points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the
empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran onto the sidelines,
the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful teammate.
"Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the
young man.
The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player
in this close playoff game. But the young man persisted, and finally, feeling
sorry for the kid, the coach gave in. "All right," he said. "You
can go in." Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands
could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before
was doing everything right.
The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked and tackled
like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied.
In the closing seconds of the game, the kid intercepted a pass and ran all the
way for the winning touchdown. The fans broke loose. His teammates hoisted him
onto their shoulders. Such cheering you've never heard!
Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the
locker room, the coach noticed that the young man was sitting quietly in the
corner all alone. The coach came to him and said,
"Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me what got into you?
How did you do it?"
He looked at the coach, with tears in his eyes, and said. "Well, you knew
my dad died, but did you know that my dad was blind?" The young man
swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Dad came to all my games, but today was
the first time he could see me play, and I wanted to show him I could do
it!"
SO REMEMBER RIGHT NOW:
Somebody is very proud of you.
Somebody is thinking of you.
Somebody is caring about you.
Somebody misses you.
Somebody wants to talk to you.
Somebody wants to be with you.
Somebody hopes you are not in trouble.
Somebody is thankful for the support you have provided.
Somebody wants to hold your hand.
Somebody hopes everything turns out all right.
Somebody wants you to be happy.
Somebody thinks you ARE a gift.
Somebody admires your strength.
Somebody can't wait to see you.
Somebody loves you for who you are.
Somebody treasures your spirit.
Somebody is glad that you are their friend.
Somebody wants to get to know you better.
Somebody wants to be near you.
Somebody wants you to know they are there for you.
Somebody would do anything for you.
Somebody wants to share their dreams with you.
Somebody is alive because of you.
Somebody needs your support.
Somebody will cry when they read this.
Somebody needs you to have faith in them.
Somebody trusts you.
Somebody hears a song that reminds them of you.
The Train
There was once a bridge that spanned a large river. During
most of the day the bridge sat with its length running up and down the river
paralleled with the banks, allowing ships to pass through freely on both sides
of the bridge. But at certain times each day, a train would come along and the
bridge would be turned sideways across the river, allowing the train to cross
it.
A switchman sat in a shack on one side of the river where he operated the
controls to turn the bridge and lock it into place as the train crossed.
One evening as the switchman was waiting for the last train of the day to come,
he looked off into the distance through the dimming twilight and caught sight of
the train lights. He stepped onto the control and waited until the train was
within a prescribed distance. Then he was to turn the bridge. He turned the
bridge into position, but, to his horror, he found the locking control did not
work. If the bridge was not securely in position, it would cause the train to
jump the track and go crashing into the river. This would be a passenger train
with MANY people aboard.
He left the bridge turned across the river and hurried across the bridge to the
other side of the river, where there was a lever switch he could hold to operate
the lock manually.
He would have to hold the lever back firmly as the train crossed. He could hear
the rumble of the train now, and he took hold of the lever and leaned backward
to apply his weight to it, locking the bridge. He kept applying the pressure to
keep the mechanism locked. Many lives depended on this man's strength.
Then, coming across the bridge from the direction of his control shack, he heard
a sound that made his blood run cold.
"Daddy, where are you?" His four-year-old son was crossing the bridge
to look for him. His first impulse was to cry out to the child, "Run!
Run!" But the train was too close; the tiny legs would never make it across
the bridge in time..
The man almost left his lever to snatch up his son and carry him to safety. But
he realized that he could not get back to the lever in time if he saved his son.
Either many people on the train or his own son must die.
He took but a moment to make his decision. The train sped safely and swiftly on
its way, and no one aboard was even aware of the tiny broken body thrown
mercilessly into the river by
the onrushing train. Nor were they aware of the pitiful figure of the sobbing
man, still clinging to the locking lever long after the train had passed. They
did not see him walking home more slowly than he had ever walked; to tell his
wife how their son had brutally died.
Now, if you comprehend the emotions that went through this man's heart, you can
begin to understand the feelings of Our Father in Heaven when He sacrificed His
Son to bridge the gap between us and eternal life.
Can there be any wonder that He caused the earth to tremble and the skies to
darken when His Son died? How does He feel when we speed along through life
without giving a thought to what was done for us through Jesus Christ?
A Father’s Choice
The old man hesitated for a moment, making eye contact with two teenagers who
were, for the first time since the service began, looking somewhat interested in
his story. He continued, "Grabbing a rescue line, the father had to make
the most excruciating decision of his life: to which boy he would throw the
other end of the line. He only had seconds to make the decision. The father knew
that his son was a Christian, and he also knew that his son's friend was not.
The agony of his decision could not be matched by the torrent of waves. As the
father yelled out, 'I love you, son!' he threw the line to his son's
friend."
"By the time he pulled the friend back to the capsized boat, his son had
disappeared beyond the raging swells into the black of night. His body was never
recovered."
By this time, the two teenagers were sitting straighter in the pew, waiting for
the next words to come out of the old man's mouth. "The father," he
continued, "knew his son would step into eternity with Jesus, and he could
not bear the thought of his son's friend stepping into an eternity without
Jesus. Therefore, he sacrificed his son. How great is the love of God that He
should do the same for us." With that, the old man turned and sat back down
in his chair as silence filled the room.
Within minutes after the service ended, the two teenagers were at the old man's
side. "That was a nice story," one of the boys started politely,
"but I don't think it was very realistic for a father to give up his son's
life in hopes that the other boy would become a Christian."
"Well, you've got a point there," the old man replied, glancing down
at his worn Bible. A big smile broadened his narrow face, and he once again
looked up at the boys and said, "It sure isn't very realistic, is it? But
I'm standing here today to tell you that THAT story gives me a glimpse of what
it must have been like for God to give up His son for me. You see . . . I was
the son's friend."
Daddy’s Day
Cheryl
Costello-Forshey
Today was Daddy's Day at school, and she couldn't wait to go.
But her mommy tried to tell her, that she probably should stay home.
Why the kids might not understand, if she went to school alone.
But she was not afraid; she knew just what to say.
What to tell her classmates of why he wasn't there today.
But still her mother worried, for her to face this day alone.
And that was why once again, she tried to keep her daughter home.
But the little girl went to school, eager to tell them all.
About a dad she never sees, a dad who never calls.
There were daddies along the wall in back, for everyone to meet.
Children squirming impatiently, anxious in their seats.
One by one the teacher called, a student from the class.
To introduce their daddy, as seconds slowly passed.
At last the teacher called her name, every child turned to stare.
Each of them was searching, for a man who wasn't there.
"Where's her daddy at?" she heard a boy call out.
"She probably doesn't have one," another student dared to shout.
And from somewhere near the back, she heard a daddy say,
"Looks like another deadbeat dad, too busy to waste his day."
The words did not offend her, as she smiled up at her Mom.
And looked back at her teacher, who told her to go on.
And with hands behind her back, slowly she began to speak.
And out from the mouth of a child, came words incredibly unique.
"My Daddy couldn't be here, because he lives so far away.
But I know he wishes he could be, since this is such a special day.
And though you cannot meet him, I wanted you to know.
All about my daddy, and how much he loves me so.
He loved to tell me stories, he taught me to ride my bike.
He surprised me with pink roses, and taught me to fly a kite.
We used to share fudge sundaes, and ice cream in a cone.
And though you cannot see him, I'm not standing here alone.
'Cause my daddy's always with me, even though we are apart
I know because he told me, he'll forever be in my heart"
With that, her little hand reached up, and lay across her chest.
Feeling her own heartbeat, beneath her favorite dress.
And from somewhere in the crowd of dads, her mother stood in tears.
Proudly watching her daughter, who was wise beyond her years.
For she stood up for the love of a man not in her life.
Doing what was best for her, doing what was right.
And when she dropped her hand back down, staring straight into the crowd.
She finished with a voice so soft, but its message clear and loud.
"I love my daddy very much, he's my shining star.
And if he could, he'd be here, but heaven's just too far.
But sometimes when I close my eyes, it's like he never went away."
And then she closed her eyes, and saw him there that day.
And to her mother's amazement, she witnessed with surprise.
A room full of daddies and children, all starting to close their eyes.
Who knows what they saw before them, who knows what they felt inside.
Perhaps for merely a second, they saw him at her side.
"I know you're with me Daddy," to the silence she called out.
And what happened next made believers, of those once filled with doubt.
Not one in that room could explain it, for each of their eyes had been closed.
But there on the desk beside her, was a fragrant long-stemmed pink rose.
And a child was blessed, if only for a moment, by the love of her shining bright
star.
And given the gift of believing, that heaven is never too far.
A Glass of Milk
As Howard Kelly left that house, he not only felt stronger physically, but his
faith in God and man was strong also. He had been ready to give up and quit.
Year's later that young woman became critically ill. The local doctors were
baffled. They finally sent her to the big city, where they called in specialists
to study her rare disease. Dr. Howard Kelly was called in for the consultation.
When he heard the name of the town she came from, a strange light filled
his eyes. Immediately he rose and went down the hall of the hospital to her
room. Dressed in his doctor's gown he went in to see her. He recognized her at
once. He went back to the consultation room determined to do his best to save
her life. From that day he gave
special attention to the case.
After a long struggle, the battle was won. Dr. Kelly requested the business
office to pass the final bill to him for approval. He looked at it, then wrote
something on the edge and the bill was sent to her room.
She feared to open it, for she was sure it would take the rest of her
life to pay for it all. Finally she looked, and something caught her attention
on the side of the bill. She read these words:
"PAID IN FULL WITH ONE GLASS OF MILK."
(Signed)
Dr. Howard Kelly.
Tears of joy flooded her eyes as her happy heart prayed: "Thank You, God,
that Your love is shed abroad through human hearts and hands.
Information, Please
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first
telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well, the polished old case fastened
to the wall and shiny receiver on the side of the box. I was too little to reach
the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk
to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an
amazing person and her name was: "Information
Please" and there was nothing she did not know. "Information
Please" could supply anybody's number and the correct time.
My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day while my
mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement
I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem
to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I
walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the
stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and
dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor
and held it to my ear. "Information Please," I said into the
mouthpiece just above my head.
A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information." "I hurt my finger," I wailed into the phone.
The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. "Isn't your
mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's home but me," I
blubbered. "Are you bleeding?" the voice asked. "No," I
replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts." "Can you open
your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a little piece
of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.
After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her
for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me
with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk, that I had caught in the park just
the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called "Information
Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual
things grown ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. I asked her,
"Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all
families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Honey, always
remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please."
"Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell
fix?" I asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine
years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much.
"Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I
somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table
in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood
conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I
would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how
patient, understanding and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I
had about half-an-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or soon the
phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then, without thinking what I was
doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information, please."
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.
"Information." I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying,
"Could you please tell me how to spell fix?" There was a long pause.
Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by
now."
I laughed, "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you
have any idea how much you meant to me during that time." "I
wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I
never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could
call her again when I came back to visit my sister. "Please do," she
said. "Just ask for Sally."
Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered,
"Information." I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" she
said. "Yes, a very old friend," I answered. "I'm sorry to have to
tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part time the last
few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago." Before I could
hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"
"Yes." "Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you." The note
said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know
what I mean." I thanked her and hung up. I know what Sally meant.
The Gift of Love
Due to a medical mis-diagnosis she had been rendered sightless, and she was
suddenly thrown into a world of darkness, anger, frustration and self-pity. Once
a fiercely independent woman, Susan now felt condemned by this terrible twist of
fate to become a powerless, helpless burden on everyone around her. "How
could this have happened to me?" she would plead, her heart knotted with
anger.
But no matter how much she cried or ranted or prayed, she knew the painful truth
her sight was never going to return. A cloud of depression hung over Susan's
once optimistic spirit. Just getting through each day was an exercise in
frustration and exhaustion. And all she had to cling to was her husband Mark.
Mark was an Air Force officer and he loved Susan with all of his heart. When she
first lost her sight, he watched her sink into despair and was determined to
help his wife gain the strength and confidences he needed to become independent
again. Mark's military background had trained him well to deal with sensitive
situations, and yet he knew this was the most difficult battle he would ever
face.
Finally, Susan felt ready to return to her job, but how would she get there? She
used to take the bus, but was now too frightened to get around the city by
herself. Mark volunteered to drive her to work each day, even though they worked
at opposite ends of the city. At first, this comforted Susan and fulfilled
Mark's need to protect his sightless wife who was so insecure about performing
the slightest task.
Soon, however, Mark realized that this arrangement wasn't working - it was
hectic, and costly. Susan is going to have to start taking the bus again, he
admitted to himself. But just the thought of mentioning it to her made him
cringe. She was still so fragile, so angry. How would she react? Just as Mark
predicted, Susan was horrified at the idea of taking the bus again. "I'm
blind!" she responded bitterly. "How am I supposed to know where I'm
going? I feel like you're abandoning me."
Mark's heart broke to hear these words, but he knew what had to be done. He
promised Susan that each morning and evening he would ride the bus with her, for
as long as it took, until she got the hang of it. And that is exactly what
happened. For two solid weeks, Mark, military uniform and all, accompanied Susan
to and from work each day.
He taught her how to rely on her other senses, specifically her hearing, to
determine where she was and how to adapt to her new environment. He helped her
befriend the bus drivers who could watch out for her, and save her a seat. He
made her laugh, even on those not-so-good days when she would trip exiting the
bus, or drop her briefcase.
Each morning they made the journey together, and Mark would take a cab back to
his office. Although this routine was even more costly and exhausting than the
previous one, Mark knew it was only a matter of time before Susan would be able
to ride the bus on her own. He believed in her, in the Susan he used to know
before she'd lost her sight, who wasn't afraid of any challenge and who would
never, ever quit. Finally, Susan decided that she was ready to try the trip on
her own.
Monday morning arrived, and before she left, she threw her arms around Mark, her
temporary bus riding companion, her husband, and her best-friend. Her eyes
filled with tears of gratitude for his loyalty, his patience, his love. She said
good-bye, and for the first time, they went their separate ways. Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday... Each day on her own went perfectly, and Susan
had never felt better. She was doing it! She was going to work all by herself!
On Friday morning, Susan took the bus to work as usual. As she was paying for
her fare to exit the bus, the driver said, "Boy, I sure envy you."
Susan wasn't sure if the driver was speaking to her or not. After all, who on
earth would ever envy a blind woman who had struggled just to find the courage
to live for the past year? Curious, she asked the driver, "Why do you say
that you envy me?"
The driver responded, "It must feel so good to be taken care of and
protected like you are."
Susan had no idea what the driver was talking about, and asked again, "What
do you mean?"
The driver answered, "You know, every morning for the past week, a fine
looking gentleman in a military uniform has been standing across the corner
watching you when you get off the bus. He makes sure you cross the street safely
and he watches you until you enter your office building. Then he blows you a
kiss, gives you a little salute and walks away. You are one lucky lady."
Tears of happiness poured down Susan's cheeks. For although she couldn't
physically see him, she had always felt Mark's presence. She was lucky, so
lucky, for he had given her a gift more powerful than sight, a gift she didn't
need to see to believe -- the gift of love that can bring light where there had
been darkness.
A Dad's Story
On July 22nd I was in route to Washington DC for a business trip. It was all so
very ordinary, until we landed in Denver for a plane change. As I collected my
belongings from the overhead bin, an announcement was made for Mr. Lloyd Glenn
to see the United Customer Service Representative immediately. I thought nothing
of it until I reached the door to leave the plane and I heard a gentleman asking
every male if they were Mr. Glenn. At this point I knew something was wrong and
my heart sunk.
When I got off the plane a solemn-faced young man came toward me and said,
"Mr. Glenn there is an emergency at your home. I do not know what the
emergency is, or who is involved, but I will take you to the phone so you can
call the hospital."
My heart was now pounding, but the will to be calm took over. Woodenly, I
followed this stranger to the distant telephone where I called the number he
gave me for the Mission Hospital. My call was put through to the trauma center
where I learned that my three-year-old son had been trapped underneath the
automatic garage door for several minutes, and that when my wife had found him
he was dead. CPR had been performed by a neighbor, who is a doctor, and the
paramedics had continued the treatment as Brian was transported to the hospital.
By the time of my call, Brian was revived and they believed he would live, but
they did not know how much damage had been done to his brain, nor to his heart.
They explained that the door had completely closed on his little sternum right
over his heart. He had been severely crushed.
After speaking with the medical staff, my wife sounded worried but not
hysterical, and I took comfort in her calmness. The return flight seemed to last
forever, but finally I arrived at the hospital six hours after the garage door
had come down. When I walked into the intensive care unit, nothing could have
prepared me to see my little son laying so still on a great big bed with tubes
and monitors everywhere.
He was on a respirator. I glanced at my wife who stood and tried to give me a
reassuring smile. It all seemed like a terrible dream. I was filled in with the
details and given a guarded prognosis. Brian was going to live, and the
preliminary tests indicated that his heart was OK — two miracles, in and of
themselves. But only time would tell if his brain received any damage.
Throughout the seemingly endless hours, my wife was calm. She felt that Brian
would eventually be all right. I hung on to her words and faith like a lifeline.
All that night and the next day Brian remained unconscious. It seemed like
forever since I had left for my business trip the day before. Finally at two
o'clock that afternoon, our son regained consciousness and sat up uttering the
most beautiful words I have ever heard spoken, He said, "Daddy hold
me," and he reached for me with his little arms.
By the next day he was pronounced as having no neurological or physical
deficits, and the story of his miraculous survival spread throughout the
hospital. You cannot imagine our gratitude and joy.
As we took Brian home we felt a unique reverence for the life and love of our
Heavenly Father that comes to those who brush death so closely. In the days that
followed there was a special spirit about our home. Our two older children were
much closer to their little brother. My wife and I were much closer to each
other, and all of us were very close as a whole family. Life took on a less
stressful pace. Perspective seemed to be more focused, and balance much easier
to gain and maintain. We felt deeply blessed. Our gratitude was truly profound.
Almost a month later to the day of the accident, Brian awoke from his afternoon
nap and said, "Sit down mommy. I have something to tell you." At this
time in his life, Brian usually spoke in small phrases, so to say a large
sentence surprised my wife. She sat down with him on his bed and he began his
sacred and remarkable story.
"Do you remember when I got stuck under the garage door? Well it was so
heavy and it hurt really bad. I called to you, but you couldn't hear me. I
started to cry, but then it hurt too bad. And then the 'birdies' came."
"The birdies?" my wife asked, puzzled.
"Yes," he replied. "The birdies made a whooshing sound and flew
into the garage. They took care of me."
"They did?"
"Yes," he said. "One of the 'birdies' came and got you. She came
to tell you I got stuck under the door."
A sweet reverent feeling filled the room. The spirit was so strong and yet
lighter than air. My wife realized that a three year-old had no concept of death
and spirits, so he was referring to the beings who came to him from beyond as
"birdies" because they were up in the air like birds that fly.
"What did the birdies look like?" she asked.
Brian answered, "They were so beautiful. They were dressed in white; all
white. Some of them had green and white. But some of them had on just
white."
"Did they say anything?"
"Yes," he answered. "They told me the baby would be
alright."
"The baby?" my wife asked, confused.
And Brian answered, "The baby laying on the garage floor." He went on,
"You came out and opened the garage door and ran to the baby. You told the
baby to stay and not leave."
My wife nearly collapsed upon hearing this, for she had indeed gone and knelt
beside Brian's body and seeing his crushed chest and unrecognizable features,
knowing he was already dead, she looked up around her and whispered, "Don't
leave us Brian, please stay if you can."
As she listened to Brian telling her the words she had spoken, she realized that
the spirit had left his body and was looking down from above on this little
lifeless form. "Then what happened?" she asked.
"We went on a trip," he said, "far, far away."
He grew agitated trying to say the things he didn't seem to have the words for.
My wife tried to calm and comfort him, and let him know it would be okay. He
struggled with wanting to tell something that obviously was very important to
him, but finding the words was difficult.
"We flew so fast up in the air. They're so pretty Mommy," he added.
"And there is lots and lots of birdies."
My wife was stunned. Into her mind the sweet comforting spirit enveloped her
more soundly, but with an urgency she had never before known.
Brian went on to tell her that the 'birdies' had told him that he had to come
back and tell everyone about the 'birdies.' He said they brought him back to the
house and that a big fire truck, and an ambulance were there. A man was bringing
the baby out on a white bed and he tried to tell the man the baby would be okay,
but the man couldn't hear him. He said, "birdies told him he had to go with
the ambulance, but they would be near him. He said, they were so pretty and so
peaceful, and he didn't want to come back. And then the bright light came. He
said that the light was so bright and so warm, and he loved the bright light so
much. Someone was in the bright light and put their arms around him, and told
him, "I love you but you have to go back."
"You have to play baseball, and tell everyone about the birdies." Then
the person in the bright light kissed him and waved bye-bye. "Then whoosh,
the big sound came and they went into the clouds."
The story went on for an hour. He taught us that "birdies" were always
with us, but we don't see them because we look with our eyes and we don't hear
them because we listen with our ears. But they are always there, you can only
see them in here (he put his hand over his heart). They whisper the things to
help us to do what is right because they love us so much. Brian continued,
stating, "I have a plan, Mommy. You have a plan. Daddy has a plan. Everyone
has a plan. We must all live our plan and keep our promises."
The "birdies help us to do that cause they love us so much." In the
weeks that followed, he often came to us and told all, or part of it again and
again. Always the story remained the same. The details were never changed or out
of order. A few times he added further bits of information and clarified the
message he had already delivered. It never ceased to amaze us how he could tell
such detail and speak beyond his ability when he spoke of his
"birdies."
Everywhere he went, he told strangers about the "birdies."
Surprisingly, no one ever looked at him strangely when he did this.
Rather, they always get a softened look on their face and smiled. Needless to
say, we have not been the same ever since that day, and I pray we never will be.
Take My Room
"Could you possibly give us a room here?" the husband asked. The
clerk, a friendly man with a winning smile, looked at the couple and explained
that there were three conventions in town.
"All of our rooms are taken," the clerk said. "But I can't send a
nice couple like you out in the rain at one o'clock in the morning. Would you
perhaps be willing to sleep in my room? It's not exactly a suite, but it will be
good enough to make you folks comfortable for the night."
When the couple declined, the young man pressed on. "Don't worry about me;
I'll make out just fine," the clerk told them. So the couple agreed.
As he paid his bill the next morning, the elderly man said to the clerk,
"You are the kind of manager who should be the boss of the best hotel in
the United States. Maybe someday I'll build one for you."
As they drove away, the elderly couple agreed that the helpful clerk was indeed
exceptional, as finding people who are both friendly and helpful isn't easy.
Two years passed. The clerk had almost forgotten the incident when he received a
letter from the old man. It recalled that stormy night and enclosed a round-trip
ticket to New York, asking the young man to pay them a visit.
The old man met him in New York, and led him to the corner of Fifth Avenue and
34th Street. He then pointed to a great new building there, a palace of reddish
stone, with turrets and watchtowers thrusting up to the sky.
"That," said the older man, "is the hotel I have just built for
you to manage."
"You must be joking," the young man said.
"I can assure you that I am not," said the older man, a sly smile
playing around his mouth.
The old man's name was William Waldorf Astor, and the magnificent structure was
the original Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The young clerk who became its first manager
was George C. Boldt.
This young clerk never foresaw the turn of events that would lead him to become
the manager of one of the world's most glamorous hotels. The Bible says that we
are not to turn our backs on those who are in need, for we might be entertaining
angels.
You Are My Sunshine
The pregnancy progressed normally for Karen. Then
the labor pains came. Every five minutes . . . every minute. But complications
arose during delivery. Hours of labor. A C-Section was required. Finally,
Michael's little sister was born, but she was in serious condition. With sirens
howling in the night, the ambulance rushed the infant to the neonatal intensive
care unit at St. Mary's Hospital in Knoxville, Tennessee.
The days inched by. The little girl got worse. The
pediatric specialist tells the parents, "There is little hope. Be prepared
for the worst." Karen and her husband contacted a local cemetery about a
burial plot. The had fixed up a special room in their home for the new baby --
now they plan a funeral. Michael, kept begging his parent to let him see his
sister, "I want to sing to her," he says.
Week two in intensive care. It looked as if a
funeral would come before the week was over. Michael keeps nagging about singing
to his sister, but kids are never allowed in Intensive Care.
Karen made up her mind. She would take Michael
whether they liked it or not. If he didn't see his sister now, he would never
see her alive.
She dressed him in an oversized scrub suit and
marched him into ICU. He looked like a walking laundry basket, but the head
nurse recognized him as a child and bellowed, "Get that kid out of here
now! No children are allowed in ICU."
The mother rises up strong in Karen, and the
usually mild-mannered lady glares steel-eyed into the head nurse's face, her
lips a firm line. "He is not leaving until he sings to his sister!"
Karen tows Michael to his sister's bedside. He
gazes at the tiny infant losing the battle to live. And he begins to sing. In
the pure-hearted voice of a 3-year-old, Michael sings:
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you
make me happy when skies are gray ---"
Instantly the baby girl responded. The pulse rate
became calm and steady.
"You never know, dear, how much I love you,
Please don't take my sunshine away ---"
The ragged strained breathing became as smooth as
a kitten's purr.
"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I
dreamed I held you in my arms . . ."
Michael's little sister relaxes as rest, healing
rest, seemed to sweep over her. Tears conquered the face of the bossy head
nurse. Karen glowed.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Please don't take my sunshine away."
Funeral plans were scrapped. The next day, the
very next day, the little girl was well enough to go home! Woman's Day magazine
called it "the miracle of a brother's song." The medical staff just
called it a miracle.
Perfection at the Plate
Rabbi Paysach Krohn
After extolling the school and its dedicated staff
he cried out, "Where is the perfection in my son Shaya? Everything God does
is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children
do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is
God's perfection?"
The audience was shocked by the question, pained
by the father's anguish and stilled by the piercing query. "I
believe," the father answered, "that when God brings a child like this
into the world the perfection that he seeks is in the way people react to this
child."
He then told the following story about his son
Shaya:
One afternoon, Shaya and his father walked past a
park where some boys whom Shaya knew were playing baseball. Shaya asked,
"Do you think they will let me play?"
Shaya's father knew that his son was not at all
athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya's father
also understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a
comfortable sense of belonging. Shaya's father approached one of the boys in the
field and asked if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his
team mates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said "We
are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be
on our team and we'll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning."
Shaya's father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled
broadly. Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out to play short centre field.
In the bottom of the eighth inning Shaya's team scored a few runs but was still
behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning Shaya's team scored again and
now, with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base,
Shaya was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this
juncture and give away their chance to win the game?
Surprisingly, Shaya was given the bat. Everyone
knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn't even know how to hold
the bat properly, let alone hit with it.
However, as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the
pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya should at least be
able to make contact. The first pitch came and Shaya swung clumsily and missed.
One of Shaya's team mates came up to Shaya and together they held the bat and
faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch.
The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss
the ball softly toward Shaya. As the pitch came in, Shaya and his team mate
swung at the ball and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The
pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the
first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game.
Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on
a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman. Everyone
started yelling, "Shaya, run to first. Run to first." Never in his
life had Shaya run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide eyed and
startled. By the time he reached first base the right fielder had the ball. He
could have thrown the ball to the second baseman who would tag out the
still-running Shaya.
But the right fielder understood what the
pitcher's intentions were so he threw the ball high and far over the third
baseman's head. Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second." Shaya
ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the
bases towards home. As Shaya reached second base the opposing short stop ran to
him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, "Run to
third." As Shaya rounded third the boys from both teams ran behind him
screaming, "Shaya run home." Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate and
all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero as he had just
hit a "grand slam" and won the game for his team.
"That day," said the father softly with
tears now rolling down his face, "those 18 boys reached their level of
God's perfection."
Corporate Angel Network
As the Coast Guard Falcon 20 jet was beginning its takeoff, it blew both front
tires, causing the jet to veer off the runway and run into a fence line.
The pilots of the Coca-Cola plane watched the events and slowly began to hear
reports over their cockpit radio about the other jet's mercy mission. The CEO
and his passengers witnessed the scene, and asked the pilots what was going on.
Once the CEO had learned of the situation, he asked to be taken to the Coast
Guard Station so he could speak with the Station Commander.
Once there, he asked the Commander if there was anything he could offer or do.
The Commander said, in a frustrated voice, "Yeah, can you make miracles
happen. We need a jet and we need one fast."
The CEO just smiled and said, "You've got one," pointing to his
company jet. Within two hours the Coca-Cola jet was on its way to Memphis and
the situation seemed under control.
But - unknown to them - a similar scene was playing out in San Diego, where the
donor organ was being prepared for transport to Houston.
The aircraft lined up to take it to Houston had lost its ability to pressurize
its cabin and a similar scramble was under way to find a replacement. Calls went
out and everyone in San Diego made excuses - from corporate CEO's to airline
managers - as to why they just couldn't help out.
Word of the dilemma made its way to Elisabeth City. The situation was reaching
its last window of opportunity for the surgeons. Time was now becoming an enemy.
Again, the CEO of Coca-Cola was called to help out. He jumped on the phone and
contacted his pilots, who were now in Houston. They told him there was just no
way they could go from Houston to San Diego, retrieve the organ, and then return
to Houston in time for the operation to take place.
The CEO began to consider what would be speedy enough to retrieve it in time.
The answer came to him like a miracle. A call was placed to the Governor of
Georgia, and he in turn placed a call to the Governor of California requesting
help.
On that day, sitting on the ramp at the Miramar Naval Air Station in San Diego,
were eight brand new F18 Fighters wearing the colors of the "Blue
Angels." They were waiting for their debut at an 'Air Show' November 6th.
It took four phone calls to reach the Air Station Commander, and two more to
reach the Commander of the "Blue Angels." In less than an hour, Navy
Lt. Tony Less, in Blue Angel No. 8, was gear-up and East-bound. His precious
cargo was in the rear seat, securely strapped in place by four dress belts.
In Houston, neither the family nor anyone else knew what events had been
unfolding.
Without the family or anyone else knowing, the local media had interviewed
little Crystal moments before she was placed into the prepping room for her
surgery. A reporter asked her if she were scared. Crystal said, "No, I'm
not worried. My mommy told me that my Angel would watch over me."
It was an ironic statement indeed. At that moment, Blue Angel No. 8 was
disengaging from an Air National Guard refueling tanker over New Mexico and
making a mad dash for Houston. The clock was still ticking, and each movement of
the hand went further against the surgeons.
With only 90 minutes to spare, Angel No. 8 landed on Houston's Hobby Runway 4L
and rolled out to a stop surrounded by police cars and an ambulance to rush the
organ to the hospital.
The transplant was successful, and Crystal returned home to Memphis in time for
Thanksgiving.
The CEO of Coca-Cola lobbied the Fortune 100 companies to create "Corporate
Angel Network," the name inspired by the event involving Coca Cola and the
Blue Angels. To this day Blue Angel No.8 wears a small silhouette of an Angel
praying on the canopy rail and the name "Crystal" written underneath.
A little over a month after the surgery the "Blues" made a planned
detour to Memphis to say hello to a little girl named Crystal. And it was on
that day, December 18, 1986, that Crystal met her Angel, the Angel who saved her
life.
That was fourteen years ago. Today, Crystal Grant is 24, and every year she is
personally invited by the Blue Angels to attend a show near her home in Memphis
as the guest of honor.
Easy Eddie
As he was returning to the mother ship, he could see a squadron of Japanese
Zeroes heading toward the fleet to attack. And with all the fighter planes gone,
the fleet was almost defenseless. His was the only opportunity to distract and
divert them. Single-handedly, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes and
attacked them. The American fighter planes were rigged with cameras, so that as
they flew and fought, pictures were taken so pilots could learn more about the
terrain, enemy maneuvers, etc. Butch dove at them and shot until all his
ammunition was gone, then he would dive and try to clip off a wing or tail or
anything that would make the enemy planes unfit to fly. He did anything he could
to keep them from reaching the American ships. Finally, the Japanese squadron
took off in another direction, and Butch O'Hare and his fighter, both badly shot
up, limped back to the carrier.
He told his story, but not until the film from the camera on his plane was
developed, did they realize the extent he really went to, to protect his fleet.
He was recognized as a hero and given one of the nation's highest military
honors. And as you know, the O'Hare Airport was also named after him.
Prior to this time in Chicago, there was a man named Easy Eddie. He was working
for a man you've all heard about, Al Capone. Al Capone wasn't famous for
anything heroic, but he was notorious for the murders he'd committed and the
illegal things he'd done. Easy Eddie was Al Capone's lawyer, and he was very
good. In fact, because of his skill, he was able to keep Al Capone out of jail.
To show his appreciation, Al Capone paid him very well. He not only earned big
money, he would get extra things, like a residence that filled an entire Chicago
city block. The house was fenced, and he had live-in help and all of the
conveniences of the day.
Easy Eddie had a son. He loved his son and gave him all the best things while he
was growing up: clothes, cars, and a good education. And because he loved his
son he tried to teach him right from wrong. But one thing he couldn't give his
son was a good name, and a good example.
Easy Eddie decided that this was much more important than all the riches he had
given him. So, he went to the authorities in order to rectify the wrong he had
done. In order to tell the truth, it meant he must testify against Al Capone,
and he knew that Al Capone would do his best to have him killed.
But he wanted most of all to try to be an example and to do the best he could to
give back to his son, a good name. So he testified. Within the year, he was shot
and killed on a lonely street in Chicago. This sounds like two unrelated
stories. But Butch O'Hare was Easy Eddie's son.
Do you think Easy Eddie was able to pass the value of integrity on to his son?
You're
Safe Now
I was walking down a dimly lit street late one
evening when I heard muffled screams coming from behind a clump of bushes.
Alarmed, I slowed down to listen and panicked when I realized that what I was
hearing was the unmistakable sounds of a struggle: heavy grunting, frantic
scuffling and tearing of fabric.
Only yards from where I stood, a woman was being
attacked. Should I get involved? I was frightened for my own safety and cursed
myself for having suddenly decided to take a new route home that night. What if
I became another statistic? Shouldn't I just run to the nearest phone and call
the police?
Although it seemed an eternity, the deliberations
in my head had taken only seconds, but already the cries were growing weaker. I
knew I had to act fast.
How could I walk away from this? No, I finally
resolved, I could not turn my back on the fate of this unknown woman, even if it
meant risking my own life.
I am not a brave man, nor am I athletic. I don't
know where I found the moral courage and physical strength -- but once I had
finally resolved to help the girl, I became strangely transformed. I ran behind
the bushes and pulled the assailant off the woman.
Grappling, we fell to the ground, where we
wrestled for a few minutes until the attacker jumped up and escaped.
Panting hard, I scrambled upright and approached
the girl, who was crouched behind a tree, sobbing.
In the darkness, could barely see her outline, but
I could certainly sense her trembling shock.
Not wanting to frighten her further, I at first
spoke to her from a distance.
"It's OK," I said soothingly, "The
man ran away. You're safe now."
There was a long pause and then I heard the words,
uttered in wonder, in amazement.
"Dad, is that you?" And then, from
behind the tree, stepped my youngest daughter, Judy.
The High Dive
Finally the day came that I put a question to him. I asked if he realized his
own need of a redeemer and if he was ready to trust Christ as his own Saviour. I
saw his countenance fall and the guilt in his face. But his reply was a strong
"no."
In the days that followed he was quiet and often I felt that he was avoiding
me, until I got a phone call and it was Charles. He wanted to know where to look
in the New Testament for some verses that I had given him about salvation. I
gave him the reference to several passages and asked if I could meet with him.
He declined my offer and thanked me for the scripture. I could tell that he was
greatly troubled, but I did not know where he was or how to help him.
Because he was training for the Olympic games, Charles had special privileges
at the University pool facilities. Some time between 10:30 and 11:00 that
evening he decided to go swim and practice a few dives. It was a clear night in
October and the moon was big and bright. The University pool was housed under a
ceiling of glass panes so the moon shone bright across the top of the wall in
the pool area. Charles climbed to the highest platform to take his first dive.
At that moment the Spirit of God began to convict him of his sins. All the
scripture he had read, all the occasions of witnessing to him about Christ
flooded his mind. He stood on the platform backwards to make his dive, spread
his arms to gather his balance, looked up to the wall and saw his own shadow
caused by the light of the moon. It was the shape of a cross. He could bear the
burden of his sin no longer. His heart broke and he sat down on the platform and
asked God to forgive him and save him. He trusted Jesus Christ twenty some feet
in the air.
Suddenly, the lights in the pool area came on. The attendant had come in to
check the pool. As Charles looked down from his platform he saw an empty pool
which had been drained for repairs. He had almost plummeted to his death, but
the cross had stopped him from disaster.
Faith to Move Mountains
A small congregation in the foothills of the Great Smokies built a new
sanctuary on a piece of land willed to them by a church member. Ten days before
the new church was to open, the local building inspector informed the pastor
that the parking lot was inadequate for the size of the building.
Until the church doubled the size of the parking lot, they would not be able
to use the new sanctuary. Unfortunately, the church with its undersized parking
lot had used every inch of their land except for the mountain against which it
had been built. In order to build more parking spaces, they would have to move
the mountain out of the back yard.
Undaunted, the pastor announced the next Sunday morning that he would meet
that evening with all members who had "mountain moving faith." They
would hold a prayer session asking God to remove the mountain from the back yard
and to somehow provide enough money to have it paved and painted before the
scheduled opening dedication service the following week.
At the appointed time, 24 of the congregation's 300 members assembled for
prayer. They prayed for nearly three hours. At ten o'clock the pastor said the
final "Amen." "We'll open next Sunday as scheduled," he
assured everyone. "God has never let us down before, and I believe He will
be faithful this time too."
The next morning as he was working in his study there came a loud knock at
his door. When he called "come in," a rough looking construction
foreman appeared, removing his hard hat as he entered.
"Excuse me, Reverend. I'm from Acme Construction Company over in the
next county. We're building a huge new shopping mall over there and we need some
fill dirt. Would you be willing to sell us a chunk of that mountain behind the
church? We'll pay you for the dirt we remove and pave all the exposed area free
of charge, if we can have it right away. We can't do anything else until we get
the dirt in and allow it to settle properly."
The little church was dedicated the next Sunday as originally planned and
there were far more members with "mountain moving faith" on opening
Sunday than there had been the previous week!
Information, Please
The Reader’s Digest
Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing
person -- her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she
did not know. "Information Please" could supply anybody's number and
the correct time.
My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day while
my mother was visiting a neighbour. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the
basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there
didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give
sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally
arriving at the stairway.
The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlour and dragged it
to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlour and held it
to my ear. "Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above
my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information."
"I hurt my finger. . ." I wailed into the phone. The tears came
readily enough now that I had an audience. "Isn't your mother home?"
came the question.
"Nobody's home but me." I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?"
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it
hurts."
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then
chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.
After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked
her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She
helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the
park just the day before would eat fruits and nuts. Then, there was the time
Petey, our pet canary died. I called "Information Please" and told her
the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe
a child. But I was un-consoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should
sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of
feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul,
always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt
better. Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please."
"Information," said the now familiar voice.
"How do you spell 'fix'?" I asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine
years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much.
"Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home, and
somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table
in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood
conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I
would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how
patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I
had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the
phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then, without thinking what I was
doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information, Please."
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well,
"Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying,
"Could you please tell me how to spell 'fix'?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your
finger must have healed by now."
I laughed. "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if
you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time." "I
wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I
never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls." I told
her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call
her again when I came back to visit my sister.
"Please do, she said. "Just ask for Sally."
Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered
"Information." I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" she
asked. "Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this", she said. "Sally had
been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five
weeks ago."
Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Is your name
Paul?"
"Yes."
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you
called. Let me read it to you. The note says, 'Tell him I still say there are
other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean.'"
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant. Never underestimate the
impression you may make on others. On that note I would like to ask you to
remember how much difference one person can make in someone's life.
The Tablecloth
Once long ago it had flourished. Famous men had preached from its pulpit and
prayed before its altar. Rich and poor alike had worshipped there and built it
beautifully. Now the good days had passed from the section of town where it
stood. But the pastor and his young wife believed in their run-down church. They
felt that with paint, hammer, and faith they could get it in shape. Together
they went to work.
However late in December a severe storm whipped through the river valley and
the worst blow fell on the little church -- a huge chunk of rain-soaked plaster
fell out of the inside wall just behind the altar. Sorrowfully the pastor and
his wife swept away the mess but they couldn't hide the ragged hole. The pastor
looked at it and had to remind himself quickly, "Thy will be done!"
But his wife wept, "Christmas is only two days away!"
That afternoon the dispirited couple attended an auction held for the benefit
of a youth group. The auctioneer opened a box and shook out of its folds a
handsome gold and ivory lace tablecloth. It was a magnificent item, nearly 15
feet long; but it, too, dated from a long vanished era. Who, today, had any use
for such a thing?
There were a few halfhearted bids. Then the pastor was seized with what he
thought was a great idea. He bid it in for $6.50. He carried the cloth back to
the church and tacked it up on the wall behind the altar. It completely hid the
hole! And the extraordinary beauty of its shimmering handwork cast a fine,
holiday glow over the chancel. It was a great triumph. Happily he went back to
preparing his Christmas sermon.
Just before noon on the day of Christmas Eve as the pastor was opening the
church, he noticed a woman standing in the cold at the bus stop. "The bus
won't be here for 40 minutes!" he called and invited her into the church to
get warm. She told him that she had come from the city that morning to be
interviewed for a job as governess to the children of one of the wealthy
families in town but she had been turned down. A war refugee, her English was
imperfect.
The woman sat down in a pew and chafed her hands and rested. After a while
she dropped her head and prayed. She looked up as the pastor began to adjust the
great gold and ivory cloth across the hole. She rose suddenly and walked up the
steps of the chancel. She looked at the tablecloth. The pastor smiled and
started to tell her about the storm damage but she didn't seem to listen. She
took up a fold of the cloth and rubbed it between her fingers. "It is
mine!" she said. "It is my banquet cloth!" She lifted up a corner
and showed the surprised pastor that there were initials monogrammed on it.
"My husband had the cloth made especially for me in Brussels! There could
not be another like it."
For the next few minutes the woman and the pastor talked excitedly together.
She explained that she was Viennese and that she and her husband had opposed the
Nazis and decided to leave the country. They were advised to go separately. Her
husband put her on a train for Switzerland. They planned that he would join her
as soon as he could arrange to ship their household goods across the border. She
never saw him again. Later she heard that he had died in a concentration camp.
"I have always felt that it was my fault -- to leave without him," she
said. "Perhaps these years of wandering have been my punishment!" The
pastor tried to comfort her and urged her to take the cloth with her. She
refused. Then she went away.
As the church began to fill on Christmas Eve, it was clear that the cloth was
going to be a great success. It had been skillfully designed to look its best by
candlelight. After the service, the pastor stood at the doorway. Many people
told him that the church looked beautiful. One gentle-faced middle-aged man --
he was the local clock-and-watch repairman -- looked rather puzzled. "It is
strange," he said in his soft accent. "Many years ago my wife -- God
rest her -- and I owned such a cloth. In our home in Vienna, my wife put it on
the table" -- and here he smiled -- "only when the bishop came to
dinner."
The pastor suddenly became very excited. He told the jeweler about the woman
who had been in church earlier that day. The startled jeweler clutched the
pastor's arm. "Can it be? Does she live?"
Together the two got in touch with the family who had interviewed her. Then
in the pastor's car they started for the city. And as Christmas Day was born,
this man and his wife who had been separated through so many saddened Yule tides
were reunited.
To all who hear this story, the joyful purpose of the storm that had knocked
a hole in the wall of the church was now quite clear. Of course, people said it
was a miracle; but I think you will agree it was the season for it!
A Simple Gesture
Chicken
Soup for the Soul
John W. Schlatter
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, "Damn 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, 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 smiles 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.
The Fireman
Chicken
Soup for the Soul
John W. Schlatter
But she still wanted her son's dreams to come true. She took her son's hand
and asked, "Billy, did you ever think about what you wanted to be once you
grew up? Did you ever dream and wish what you would do with your life?"
"Mommy, I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up." Mom smiled
back and said, "Let's see if we can make your wish come true."
Later that day she went to her local fire department in Phoenix, Arizona,
where she met Fireman Bob, who had a heart as big as Phoenix. She explained her
son's final wish and asked if it might be possible to give her six year old son
a ride around the block on a fire engine. Fireman Bob said, "Look, we can
do better than that. If you'll have your son ready at seven o'clock Wednesday
morning, we'll make him an honorary fireman for the whole day. He can come down
to the fire station, eat with us, go out on all the fire calls, the whole nine
yards! "And if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real fire uniform for
him, with a real fire hat — not a toy one — with the emblem of the Phoenix
Fire Department on it, a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber boots. They're
all manufactured right here in Phoenix, so we can get them fast."
Three days later Fireman Bob picked up Billy, dressed him in his fire uniform
and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck.
Billy got to sit on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the fire
station. He was in heaven. There were three fire calls in Phoenix that day and
Billy got to go out on all three calls. He rode in the different fire engines,
the paramedic's van, and even the fire chief's car. He was also videotaped for
the local news program.Having his dream come true, with all the love and
attention that was lavished upon him, so deeply touched Billy that he lived
three months longer than any doctor thought possible.
One night all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head
nurse, who believed in the hospice concept that no one should die alone, began
to call the family members to the hospital. Then she remembered the day Billy
had spent as a fireman, so she called the Fire Chief and asked if it would be
possible to send a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Billy as he
made his transition. The chief replied, "We can do better than that. We'll
be there in five minutes. Will you please do me a favor? When you hear the
sirens screaming and see the lights flashing, will you announce over the PA
system that there is not a fire? It's just the fire department coming to see one
of its finest members one more time. And will you open the window to his room?
About five minutes later a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital,
extended its ladder up to Billy's third floor open window and 16 firefighters
climbed up the ladder into Billy's room. With his mother's permission, they
hugged him and held him and told him how much they loved him. With his dying
breath, Billy looked up at the fire chief and said, "Chief, am I really a
fireman now?" "Billy, you are," the chief said. With those
words, Billy smiled and closed his eyes one last time.
Music to My Ears
At the prodding of my friends, I am writing this story. My name is Mildred
Hondorf. I am a former elementary school music teacher from DeMoines, Iowa.
I've always supplemented my income by teaching piano lessons - something I've
done for over 30 years. Over the years I found that children have many levels of
musical ability. I've never had the pleasure of having a protégé though I have
taught some talented students.
However I've also had my share of what I call "musically
challenged" pupils. One such student was Robby. Robby was 11 years old when
his mother (a single mom) dropped him off for his first piano lesson. I prefer
that students (especially boys!) begin at an earlier age, which I explained to
Robby. But Robby said that it had always been his mother's dream to hear him
play the piano. So I took him as a student.
Well, Robby began with his piano lessons and from the beginning I thought it
was a hopeless endeavor. As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and
basic rhythm needed to excel. But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some
elementary pieces that I require all my students to learn.
Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed and tried to
encourage him. At the end of each weekly lesson he'd always say, "My mom's
going to hear me play some day." But it seemed hopeless.
He just did not have any inborn ability. I only knew his mother from a
distance as she dropped Robby off or waited in her aged car to pick him up. She
always waved and smiled but never stopped in. Then one day Robby stopped coming
to our lessons.
I thought about calling him but assumed, because of his lack of ability, that
he had decided to pursue something else. I also was glad that he stopped coming.
He was a bad advertisement for my teaching!
Several weeks later I mailed to the student's homes a flyer on the upcoming
recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked me if he could be in
the recital. I told him that the recital was for current pupils and because he
had dropped out he really did not qualify. He said that his mom had been sick
and unable to take him to piano lessons but he was still practicing.
"Miss Hondorf . . . I've just got to play!" he insisted. I don't
know what led me to allow him to play in the recital. Maybe it was his
persistence or maybe it was something inside of me saying that it would be
alright.
The night for the recital came. The high school gymnasium was packed with
parents, friends and relatives. I put Robby up last in the program before I was
to come up and thank all the students and play a finishing piece. I thought that
any damage he would do would come at the end of the program and I could always
salvage his poor performance through my "curtain closer."
Well the recital went off without a hitch. The students had been practicing
and it showed. Then Robby came up on stage. His clothes were wrinkled and his
hair looked like he'd run an egg-beater through it. "Why didn't he dress up
like the other students?" I thought. "Why didn't his mother at least
make him comb his hair for this special night?"
Robby pulled out the piano bench and he began. I was surprised when he
announced that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #21 in C Major. I was not
prepared for what I heard next. His fingers were light on the keys, they even
danced nimbly on the ivories.
He went from pianissimo to fortissimo; from allegro to virtuoso. His
suspended chords that Mozart demands were magnificent! Never had I heard Mozart
played so well by people his age. After six and a half minutes he ended in a
grand crescendo and everyone was on their feet in wild applause.
Overcome and in tears I ran up on stage and put my arms around Robby in joy.
"I've never heard you play like that Robby! How'd you do it?" Through
the microphone Robby explained:
"Well, Miss Hondorf . . . remember I told you my mom was sick? Well
actually she had cancer and passed away this morning. And well . . . she was
born deaf so tonight was the first time she ever heard me play. I wanted to make
it special."
There wasn't a dry eye in the house that evening. As the people from Social
Services led Robby from the stage to be placed into foster care, I noticed that
even their eyes were red and puffy and I thought to myself how much richer my
life had been for taking Robby as my pupil.
No, I've never had a protégé but that night I became a protégé . . . of
Robby's. He was the teacher and I was the pupil. For it was he that taught me
the meaning of perseverance and love and believing in yourself and maybe even
taking a chance on someone and you don't know why.
This is especially meaningful to me since after serving in Desert Storm Robby
was killed in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in
Oklahoma City in April of 1995, where he was reportedly . . . playing the piano.
The Wooden Bowl
The old man's hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered.
The family ate together at the table.
But the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and failing sight made eating
difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass,
milk spilled on the tablecloth. The son and daughter-in-law became irritated
with the mess.
"We must do something about Grandfather," said the son. I've had
enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor.
So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner.
There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner. Since
Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl.
When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction, sometimes he had a tear in
his eye as he sat alone.
Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he
dropped a fork or spilled food.
The four-year-old watched it all in silence. One evening before supper, the
father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor. He asked the child
sweetly, "What are you making?"
Just as sweetly, the boy responded, "Oh, I am making a little bowl for you
and Mama to eat your food from when I grow up."
The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.
The words so struck the parents that they were speechless. Then tears started to
stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be
done.
That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the
family table.
For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family.
And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a
fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth got soiled.
Children are remarkably perceptive. Their eyes ever observe, their ears ever
listen, and their minds ever process the messages they absorb. If they see us
patiently provide a happy home atmosphere for family members, they will imitate
that attitude for the rest of their lives.
Dead at Seventeen
by
John Berrio
I found no sympathy. I saw only thousands of others whose bodies were as badly
mangled as mine. I was given a number and placed in a category. The category was
called "Traffic Fatalities."
The day I died was an ordinary school day. How I wish I had taken the bus! But I
was too cool for the bus. I remember how I wheedled the car out of Mom.
"Special favor," I pleaded. "All the kids drive." When the
2:50 p.m. bell rang, I threw my books in the locker . . . free until tomorrow
morning! I ran to the parking lot, excited at the thought of driving a car and
being my own boss.
It doesn't matter how the accident happened. I was goofing off — going too
fast, taking crazy chances. But I was enjoying my freedom and having fun. The
last thing I remember was passing an old lady who seemed to be going awfully
slow. I heard a crash and felt a terrific jolt. Glass and steel flew everywhere.
My whole body seemed to be turning inside out. I heard myself scream.
Suddenly, I awakened. It was very quiet. A police officer was standing over me.
I saw a doctor. My body was mangled. I was saturated with blood. Pieces of
jagged glass were sticking out all over. Strange that I couldn't feel anything.
Hey, don't pull that sheet over my head. I can't be dead. I'm only 17. I've got
a date tonight. I'm supposed to have a wonderful life ahead of me. I haven't
lived yet. I can't be dead.
Later I was placed in a drawer. My folks came to identify me. Why did they have
to see me like this? Why did I have to look at Mom's eyes when she faced the
most terrible ordeal of her life? Dad suddenly looked very old. He told the man
in charge, "Yes, he's our son."
The funeral was weird. I saw all my relatives and friends walk toward the
casket. They looked at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen. Some of my
buddies were crying. A few of the girls touched my hand and sobbed as they
walked by.
Please, somebody — wake me up! Get me out of here. I can't bear to see Mom and
Dad in such pain. My grandparents are so weak from grief they can barely walk.
My brother and sister are like zombies. They move like robots. In a daze.
Everybody. No one can believe this. I can't believe it, either.
Please, don't bury me! I'm not dead! I have a lot of living to do! I want to
laugh and run again. I want to sing and dance. Please don't put me in the
ground! I promise if you give me just one more chance, God, I'll be the most
careful driver in the whole world. All I want is one more chance. Please, God,
I'm only 17.
The Price of a Miracle
Only a very costly surgery could save her brother now and it was looking like
there was no one to loan them the money. She heard her Dad say to her Mom,
"Only a miracle can save him now."
Tess went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place
in the closet. She poured all the change out on the floor and counted it
carefully. She counted it three times. 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.
Tess waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention but he
was too intently talking to another man to be bothered by an eight year old at
this moment. She 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 stooped down and asked the little girl, "What
kind of a miracle does you 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 pharmacist's brother.
"One dollar and eleven cents," Tess answered barely audible.
"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." Then
he said "Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet
your parents. Let's see if I have the kind of miracle you need."
The pharmacist's brother was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon from Chicago
who specialized in neuro-surgery. The operation was completed without charge and
it wasn't long until Andrew was home again and doing well. Later, mom and dad
were talking about the chain of events that had led them to this.
Her mom said, "That surgery 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.
The Red Rose
His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library.
Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of
the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting
reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he
discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort
he located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter
introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped
overseas for service in World War II. During the next year and one month the two
grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a
fertile heart. A romance was budding.
Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really
cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like. When the day finally came for
him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting -- 7:00 PM at the
Grand Central Station in New York. "You'll recognize me," she wrote,
"by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel."
So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but
whose face he'd never seen. A young woman was coming toward him, her figure long
and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes
were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale
green suit she was like springtime come alive. He started toward her, entirely
forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As he moved, a small,
provocative smile curved her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she
murmured. Almost uncontrollably he made one step closer to her, and then he saw
Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well
past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump,
her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes.
The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. He felt as though he
were being split in two, so keen was he desire to follow the girl, yet so deep
was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned and upheld his
own. And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray
eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. He did not hesitate. His fingers gripped the
small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify him to her. This
would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even
better than love, a friendship for which he had been and must ever be grateful.
He squared his shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even
though while he spoke he felt choked by the bitterness of his disappointment.
"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must by Miss Maynell. I am so glad
you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what
this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green
suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said
if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is
waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some
kind of test!"
It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell's wisdom. The true
nature of a heart is seen in its response to the unattractive. "Tell me
whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "and I will tell you who you
are."
The Sandpiper Story
The Reader’s Digest
Mary Sherman Hilbert
"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 really 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: 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, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
"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 little girl talk 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."
She seemed unusually pale and out of breath. "Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, My
God, 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.
Teddy Stoddard
Home
Life Magazine
Elizabeth Silance Ballard
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t
play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he
constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant.
It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking
his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X’s and then putting a big F at
the top of his papers.
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each
child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last.
However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.
Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready
laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be
around."
His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well-liked
by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness
and life at home must be a struggle."
His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother’s death has been hard on him.
He tries to do his best but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home
life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken."
Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t
show much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and sometimes
sleeps in class."
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She
felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in
beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s.
His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a
grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other
presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone
bracelet with some of the stones missing and a bottle that was one quarter full
of perfume.
But she stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the
bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.
Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs.
Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to."
After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she
quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach
children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy.
As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive The more she encouraged
him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of
the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all
the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher’s pets."
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she
was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he
had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher
he ever had in his whole life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been
tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon
graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that
she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained
that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a little further.
The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever
had. But now his name was a little longer. The letter was signed, Theodore F.
Stoddard, M.D.
The story doesn’t end there. You see, there was yet another letter that
spring. Teddy said he’d met this girl and was going to be married. He
explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if
Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually
reserved for the mother of the groom.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one
with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume
that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear,
"Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me. Thank you so much for
making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy,
you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a
difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."
The White Rose
Nonetheless, I made my way to the toy section, and there I started to curse
the prices, wondering if kids really play with such expensive toys. While
looking in the toy section, I noticed a small boy about five years old, pressing a
doll against his chest. He kept on touching the hair of the doll and looked so
sad. I wondered who this doll was for.
Then the little boy turned to the old woman next to him: "Granny, are
you sure I don't have enough money?"
The old lady replied: "You know that you don't have enough money to buy this
doll, my dear."
Then she asked him to stay here for five minutes while she went to look around.
She left quickly. The little boy was still holding the doll in his hand.
Finally, I started to walk towards him and asked who he wanted to give this doll
to.
"It is the doll that my sister loved most and wanted so much for this
Christmas. She was so sure that Santa Claus would bring it to her."
I replied to him that maybe Santa Claus will bring it to her after all, and
not to worry. But he replied to me sadly, "No, Santa Claus cannot bring it
to her where she is now. I have to give the doll to my mother so that she can
give it to her when she goes there."
His eyes were so sad while saying this, "My sister has gone to be with
God. Daddy says that Mommy will also go to see God very soon, so I thought that
she could bring the doll with her to give it to my sister."
My heart nearly stopped. The little boy looked up at me and said, "I
told daddy to tell mommy not to go yet. I asked him to wait until I come back
from the supermarket." Then he showed me a very nice photo of him where he
was laughing. He then told me, "I also want mommy to take this photo with
her so that she will not forget me. I love my mommy and I wish she didn't have
to leave me but daddy says that she has to go to be with my little sister."
Then he looked again at the doll with sad eyes, very quietly. I quickly
reached for my wallet and took a few bills and said to the boy. "What if we
checked again, just in case if you have enough money?"
"Ok" he said, "I hope that I have enough."
I added some of my money to his without him seeing and we started to count
it. There was enough for the doll, and even some spare money.
The little boy said, "'Thank you God for giving me enough money".
Then he looked at me and added, "I asked yesterday before I slept for God
to make sure I have enough money to buy this doll so that mommy can give it to
my sister. He heard me. I also wanted to have enough money to buy a white rose
for my mommy, but I didn't dare to ask God too much. But He gave me enough to
buy the doll and the white rose. You know, my mommy loves white roses."
A few minutes later, the old lady came again and I left with my shopping
cart. I finished my shopping in a totally different state from when I started. I
couldn't get the little boy out of my mind. Then I remembered a local newspaper
article two days ago, which mentioned of a drunk man in a truck who hit a car
where there was one young lady and a little girl. The little girl died right
away, and the mother was left in a critical state. The family had to decide
whether to pull the plug on the life-support machine, because the young lady
would not be able to get out of the coma. Was this the family of the little boy?
Two days after this encounter with the little boy, I read in the newspaper
that the young lady had passed away. I couldn't stop myself and went to buy a
bunch of white roses and I went to the funeral home where the body of the young
woman was lying in state for people to see and make a last wish before burial.
She was there, in her coffin, holding a beautiful white rose in her hand with
the photo of the little boy and the doll placed over her chest. I left the place
crying, feeling that my life had been changed forever.
The love that this little boy had for his mother and his sister is still, to
this day, hard to imagine. And in a fraction of a second, a drunk man had taken
all this away from him.
Crabby Old Man
When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near
Tampa, Florida, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions,
they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.
One nurse took her copy to Missouri . The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News
Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent,
poem. And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this "anonymous" poem winging across the Internet.
Crabby Old Man
What do you see nurses? ......What do you see?
What are you thinking......when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, .....not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .......with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food.......and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice....."I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice .....the things that you do.
And forever is losing .............. a sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not...........lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding ....... the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse......you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am ....... as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .......as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten......with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .......who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen ...........with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now. ..........a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty .........my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows........that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now .......... I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide ........ and a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty ........ my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other ......... with ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons ........have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me........to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, .......... babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children ......... my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me .......... my wife is now dead.
I look at the future .............I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing ........young of their own.
And I think of the years...... and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man.........and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age .......look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles..........grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone........where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass ...... a young guy still dwells,
And now and again .........my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys.............. I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living.......... ...life over again.
I think of the years ...all too few......gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact........that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people ..........open and see..
Not a crabby old man. Look closer....see........ME!!
Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within.....we will all,
one day, be there, too!
The Pickle Jar
The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor
beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would
empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.
As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were
dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost
empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was
filled.
I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and
silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through
the bedroom window. When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen
table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank.
Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly
in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat
of his old truck.
Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully.
”Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're
going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you
back.”
Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter
at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly “These are for my son's
college fund. He’ll never work at the mill all his life like me.”
We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I
always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk at the
ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled
in his palm. ”When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again.”
He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they
rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. ”You'll
get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,” he said. ”But
you'll get there. I'll see to that”
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once,
while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that
the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed.
A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the
jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me
on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The pickle jar had
taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words
could have done. When I married, I told my wife Susan about the
significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In
my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me.
No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins
into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and
Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken
from the jar.
To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my
beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a
way out for me. ”When you finish college, Son,” he told me, his eyes
glistening, “you’ll never have to eat beans again—unless you want to.”
The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday
with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the
sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper
softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. “She probably needs to be
changed,” she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her.
When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.
She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the
room. ”Look,” she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the
floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been
removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I
walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful
of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into
the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped
quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same
emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.
This truly touched my heart. I know it has yours as well. Sometimes
we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our blessings.
The Lists
One day a teacher asked her students to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed in the papers.That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday she gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" she heard whispered. "I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!" and, "I didn't know others liked me so much," were most of the comments.
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. She never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another. That group of students moved on.
Several years later, one of the students was killed in Viet Nam and his teacher attended the funeral of that special student. She had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature. The church was packed with his friends. One by one those who loved him took a last walk by the coffin. The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin. As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to her. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. She nodded: "yes." Then he said: "Mark talked about you a lot."
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates went together to a luncheon. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting to speak with his teacher. "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it." Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. The teacher knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which she had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him. "Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."
All of Mark's former classmates started to gather around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary" Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said and without batting an eyelash, she continued: "I think we all saved our lists"
That's when the teacher finally sat down and cried. She cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again.
The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be. So please, tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.
The Runt of the Litter
A farmer had some puppies he needed to sell. He painted a sign
advertising the four pups and set about nailing it to a post on the edge of his
yard. As he was driving the last nail into the
post, he felt a tug on his overalls. He looked down into the eyes of little boy.
"Mister," he said, "I want to buy one of your puppies."
"Well," said the farmer, as he rubbed the sweat off the back of his
neck, "These puppies
come from fine parents and cost a good deal of money."
The boy dropped his head for a moment. Then reaching deep into his pocket, he
pulled out a handful of change and held it up to the farmer. "I've got
thirty-nine cents. Is that enough to take a look?"
"Sure," said the farmer, and with that he let out a whistle.
"Here, Dolly!"' he called.
Out from the doghouse and down the ramp ran Dolly followed by four little balls
of fur.
The little boy pressed his face against the chain link fence. His eyes danced
with delight. As the dogs made their way to the fence, the little boy noticed
something else stirring inside the doghouse.
Slowly another little ball appeared, this one noticeably smaller. Down the ramp
it slid. Then in a somewhat awkward manner, the little pup began hobbling toward
the others, doing its best to catch up....
"I want that one," the little boy said, pointing to the runt.
The farmer knelt down at the boy's side and said, "Son, you don't want that
puppy. He will never be able to run and play with you like these other dogs
would."
With that the little boy stepped back from the fence, reached down, and began
rolling up one leg of his trousers. In doing so he revealed a steel brace
running down both sides of his leg attaching itself to a specially made shoe.
Looking back up at the farmer, he said, "You see, sir, I don't run too well
myself, and he will need someone who understands."
With tears in his eyes, the farmer reached down and picked up the little pup.
Holding it carefully, he handed it to the little boy.
"How much?" asked the little boy.
"No charge," answered the farmer. 'There's no charge for love."