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标题: Stories [打印本页]

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:12
标题: Stories
Josh's Angel
 
 My wife and I have been married for 48--nearly 49 years. We've been blessed with a good marriage, four wonderful children (two of each kind), ten beautiful grandchildren and a precious great grandson. They are all the joy of our live. The story I want to tell you is a true story about our grandson Joshua, who is 24 years old now. The incident happened when Josh was about two years old--maybe less, I'm not sure. But, it happened when he was at the age where he was just learning to walk.
 
 It was shortly after lunch that day. Our daughter, Theresa, was over and she brought Joshua with her. After lunch, as I most always did, I went upstairs to brush my teeth and shave before I went to work. I worked the second shift at that time. Directly at the top of our staircase there is a window, and setting next to the window at the top of the stairs, we kept a large heavy exhaust fan during the warm weather, which we used when we went to bed. Close by the fan is the door leading into the bathroom. The fan was not running at the time since we used it only during the night. When I went upstairs, I went into the bathroom and shut the door behind me as I always did. I did not realize it at the time, but when I closed the bathroom door, Joshua decided to crawl up the steps to see me. As I said--I had no idea that he was doing this. However, right after I shut the door, I brushed my teeth and was going to start shaving. I don't remember exactly how long, maybe a minute or two--I'm not sure. However, for some reason I just decided to open the door and look out into the hallway. I had no reasons to because I hadn't shaved yet and I never opened the door until I was finished shaving. However, for some reason I felt that I should open the door. I did not hear anything that would prompt me to open the door. There was no reason in my mind. I just felt that for some reason I should open the door--something I had to do. Now, I can't explain that feeling--but it was there.
 
 And so, I did open the door. I opened it just in time to see my little grandson, Joshua, on the next to the last step reaching for the fan to hang on to so that he could pull himself up to come and see his grandpa. As he grabbed hold of the fan, it started to tip towards him. I opened the door just in time to grab Josh with my right arm and the fan with my left arm--just in time to keep Josh from rolling down the steps with the big heavy fan on top of him. Had I been one second later--had I been a half-second later--I shudder to think what would have happened. Josh could no doubt have been crippled or perhaps it could have killed him. But I wasn't too late. I was just in time.
 
 In the years that have past, Josh has grown into a fine young man. And I still often rethink that moment. I try to remember what invoked me to open the door--I still can't explain it. No, I can't explain it--but I am certain that it was either God or one of his angels telling me that I had better get out there. Either way, it was God intervening. There is just no other explanation.
 
 I am well aware that anyone can make up a story such as this. It's easy to do and it sounds good. But let me assure you that if I were to make up a story, it certainly would not be about God and His angels.
 
 
 "For the Scriptures say, 'He orders his angels to protect and guard you'." Luke 4:10 NLT
 
 
 Rooftop Angel
 
 
 
 The last thing I wanted to see that night was some teenaged guy in a baseball cap. But there he was, standing by the exit door on the roof. I looked away, trying to give off a vibe: Do Not Disturb. What did he want anyway? Guys weren't interested in fat girls like me. He wasn't scary or anything. He just stood there, staring into space. I'd never seen him before. What was he doing on my roof?
 
 I often came to the top of the parking garage at night. It was quiet. I liked being alone up there, above everyone else, feeling the cold wind off Casco Bay blowing across my face. I felt safer, closer to the stars, closer to something better.
 
 Sometimes I'd pray. All I could ever think to say was, "Help me." But after so many mixed-up years of crash diets and food binges I was beyond help. I simply didn't have faith in myself or in anything else.
 
 That night I decided to jump from the roof. The unknown had to be better than anything I knew. I didn't have a future, and this was the only way to block out the past.
 
 I had been a chubby kid. My brothers laughed at me when we went to the beach. They'd yell, "Watch out for the beached whale!" I didn't make many friends. I mostly kept to myself. Food was my secret comfort. Food never yelled at me, hurt me or called me names. Food was always there for me, something I could rely on. I kept this belief, yet somehow I hoped it would change once I was grown up.
 
 I was grown up now, just out of college. Night after night on the roof I'd tell myself, "Rosemary, act your age." I knew I should take responsibility for my actions. No one forced the food down my throat. But I could not control my behavior. People wouldn't understand. "Come on," they'd say. "Get a life." But somehow I couldn't.
 
 I stared down into the darkness and then up at the stars. This was it. It would only take a second. I stepped up onto the roof ledge. "No, no!" I heard. The kid in the baseball cap was by my side in an instant. "It's going to be okay," he said. I stood still. Dumbfounded. Angry. Get out of my face! I thought.
 
 He reached out to me, but stopped. I didn't like to be touched and he seemed to know it. He shoved his hands in his pockets. His face showed kindness, concern. "Go home," he whispered. "It's going to be all right. Really, I promise."
 
 I hesitated, but he kept his eyes on me. I glanced at the exit door. "Go on," he said. I took a deep breath and stepped down from the ledge. I walked slowly toward the door. I felt a sense of surrender, not in defeat, but in letting go.
 
 I don't know if it was to take a last look at the stars or to thank the kid, but I turned back. I was alone on the roof. Where is he? There was nowhere he could have gone.
 
 I stood there, trying to understand what had just happened to me. I knew I hadn't imagined the guy in the baseball cap. He was as real as the wind off the bay. But something had changed. The wind was still cold, yet I felt warm, as if someone had wrapped a blanket around me. The guy's words had been like that, warm and kind. I started to believe him. Maybe it was going to be okay after all.
 
 The next day I went to Overeaters Anonymous and found people like myself struggling with food issues, body image and depression. Eventually I reduced my weight significantly. I've kept it down ever since. I didn't lose the weight, I let it go. It's gone, just like the past. I believe in the future now because of a stranger who helped me surrender to a faith I didn't know I had.
 
 
 A Letter To God
 
 
 
 
 
 Dear God,
 
 Never let it be said that I won't admit it when I'm wrong or that I never apologize to people when I should. And I have been wrong about you. I thought you'd made a terrible mistake when my child was born and I said some pretty rotten things to you and about you. It seemed so unfair though. I couldn't believe that you'd given me this child as part of "the plan." I was sure you'd made a horrendous mistake and I'm sure you got pretty tired of me begging for a miracle in one breath and then turning around and saying all those mean things about you in the next breath. I'm truly sorry.
 
 I thought my view of the whole situation was right and yours was wrong. I doubted your wisdom, and yes, I even cursed you for doing what you did. Inexcusable, I know. But you have to realize that when she was born, I wasn't nearly the person I am now and in those days you could have bet me a million dollars that I never would be capable of handling everything. (And even though I'm apologizing now, didn't you sometimes doubt your decision?) Anyway, you were right. This child has changed my life. She's made me be all that I'm capable of and more than I ever imagined I could be. She's made me see things would have overlooked before.
 
 Take this compassion thing. Yeah, I knew what the word meant and I really thought I was back then, but I turned away when I saw a person with a disability and sometimes I even stared when I thought no-one was watching. What a jerk I was. My brand of compassion was more like pity for all that they weren't and I never saw them for all that they were. But.... I thought I was being truly compassionate. Thanks for teaching me that.
 
 Then there was that tolerance thing. Sure I thought they should have equal rights and opportunities, but would I have gone out of my way to make sure that happened? Probably not. Now I live with a little person who I expect others to be tolerant of. Makes you realize how tolerant you really were before and helps you to understand where other people are coming from.
 
 And the minority thing. Coming from a middle class white background doesn't even begin to prepare you for all the prejudices and oppression at you face when you become a minority yourself, via your child. Talk about a learning experience! It makes you empathize with all minorities.
 
 Now I have to thank you for all the things you've taken away from me. Pettiness is one of them. When I think of all the things I used to worry about! What a waste of time and energy. But, I have to always remember how I was and how I am now. Those who haven't experienced what I've been through won't know the difference and with all I've learned, I have to remember how I used to feel when I deal with them and I have to remember to understand.
 
 Monetary things are the next. I recently listened to a speaker at a conference and one of the questions she asked was, "If given the choice, would you choose 30 million dollars or peace and happiness?" I was in a room with close to 30 parents who had children with disabilities and not a one of them raised their hand for the 30 million. (Although I briefly thought that 30 million would buy some quality child care and help further the cause for equality.) However, I did realize that it wouldn't make my daughter see, nor would it replace things many other children needed. Ten years ago I would have been convinced that the money was my answer to happiness. Now it's secondary to what is really important.
 
 I know now that all the times I accused you of deserting me, you were, in fact, carrying me just as the FOOTPRINTS poem says. I also know that the bad times are what helps me to grow, so I don't take them so personally now. But just so you'll realize that I'm still me and that I'm still going to need a little help, (and since I've apologized so nicely) could you give me a small miracle and make my little girl see? Well, if you can't, I guess I understand. Miracles might be in short supply today, but just for the record thanks again for letting me see. Amen.
 
 
 Pat Linkhorn is the mother of two daughters with disabilities. Kimberly is 17 and has Autism and Krystal is 15 and is blind due to prematurity. Pat works as a mentor to other parents who have children with disabilities, helping them navigate the educational system.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:27
My Special Valentine
 
 
 
 It wasn't until I heard Skipper's deep, guttural bark, Chrissie and Scruffy's excited yapping, and the three geese honking--triggering the disappearance of the three preschoolers out the door that I realized what time it was. Licking my fingers, then wiping my hands on my apron, I hustled the cake into the cupboard, and the dishes into the sink.
 
 "I wonder if Dean will keep our secret," I said to myself as I rinsed the evidence off the dishes. But I hadn't long to wonder as the children burst through the door, dropping their lunch kits onto the counter, all trying to talk at once.
 
 "I didn't tell, Mommy." I heard the piercing announcement through the din of eight other youthful voices. I smiled at the four-year-old, and stood watching the excitement of the children.
 
 "I got twenty-eight valentines," piped six-year-old Dennis. To him Valentine's Day was a new experience, and clutching them all in his hand at once, he came toward me.
 
 "And I got thirty," announced eight-year-old Dale.
 
 "Look!" I cut in, "Let's all get changed out of our school clothes; then we can all share the valentines. In fact, let's save them 'til after supper. I have a surprise for you."
 
 "Mommy's got a cake," piped up three-year-old Dougie. But his announcement fell on deaf ears as the excited children scrambled into their bedrooms to change their clothes.
 
 It was then I noticed David, also eight, standing still by the door, clutching a Valentine--a favorite, I presumed. His usually smiling, moon-shaped face had a peculiar look on it, but before I could question him, he walked by me to his bedroom to change. I didn't think any more about it until suppertime. I handed the children plastic bags to put their Valentines in.
 
 And now, as the children gathered at the table for the evening meal, the excited pitch of their voices had risen to a crescendo. Daddy wouldn't be home for this special supper, as he was on the bridge crew with the Department of Highways, and was away repairing a washed out bridge.
 
 With the meal cleared away, and all the children in their pyjamas and housecoats, a habit we adopted on chilly winter evenings, we all gathered around the large dining room table. I had told the children at supper that my surprise was: we were going to have a valentine party, and that we would save our dessert until then. The excited children clutched their plastic bags in their hands and assumed their usual mealtime places. I brought out some candy I had saved for the occasion, and set the large heart-shaped cake in the middle of the table.
 
 Now it was time for us all to share the valentines the kiddies had gotten from their friends at school. They pulled the cards from the plastic bags and set them on the table in front of them. It was then I noticed that David had only one card in front of him. My heart nearly broke, but now was not the time for questioning. There would be time for that later.
 
 When it was David's turn to share his valentine, that strange look reappeared on his face. He turned the card over, and his usual smile returned to his face as he read, "To David, My Special Valentine. From your Teacher, Miss Waters." The card was not anything out of the ordinary. It was just one of the run-of-the-mill valentine cards, but to David it was special. After he read it he hugged it to his heart. It was the only one he had received.
 
 There was nothing wrong with David. That is not why he did not have friends, nor why he did not receive any valentines. He was not shunned by his peers because he was a trouble-maker. He was not shunned because he was extra stupid or extra smart. It was not because of any obnoxious behaviour, nor because he was a smart alec. No. It was just because he was a **Native Indian. Our children were all foster children, and they were all mixed-blood, Native Indian children. All except for David. He was a pure Native Indian from the Indian reservation in Atlin, British Columbia.
 
 My heart was breaking just now, breaking for a sweet little boy who was shunned by his peers because he was different. I went over beside him, looked at his valentine, and said, "Oh David, that is SO special. Let's put it on the fridge so that we can look at it every day, for as long as you want."
 
 I decided that the best thing to do was to make a big thing out of what he had, rather than showing him pity because of how much less he had than the others. And the three little ones saved the day. In unison they said, "Let's have the cake now."
 
 Relieved that the crisis was over. I gave David a big hug, and told him that he could pass out the valentines we all had made for each other. And David was equal again. He was amongst his friends and his family, where there was no prejudice, just a lot of love.
 
 ** NOTE: This story happened in the sixties. The attitude toward Native Indians (or First Nations, as they have chosen to be called now), has changed in the past 30 years. Also, now there is a much more ethnical mixture in the present-day schools, than there was when this took place.
 
 
 Faith Is Everything
 
 
 
 Michael is the kind of guy you love to hate. He is always in a good mood and always has something positive to say. He even has scripture memorized! When someone would ask him how he was doing, he would reply, "If I were any better, I would have already been raptured!"
 
 He was a natural motivator. If an employee was having a bad day, Michael was there telling the employee how to look on the positive side of the situation. And give him a bible verse.
 
 Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up to Michael and asked him, "I don't get it! You can't be a positive person all of the time. How do you do it?" Michael replied, "Each morning I wake up and say to myself, Mike, you have two choices today. You can choose to be in a good mood or you can choose to be in a bad mood. I choose to be in a good mood. Then I memorize a bible verse.
 
 Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from it. Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or I can point out the positive side of life. I always choose the positive side of life. And then I give them a bible verse.
 
 "Yeah, right, it's not that easy," I protested. "Yes, it is," Michael, said. "Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people will affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. And you choose whether God is a part of your life or not. The bottom line: It's your choice how you live life." I reflected on what Michael said.
 
 Soon thereafter, I left the Tower Industry to start my own business. We lost touch, but I often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it. And then I memorized a bible verse.
 
 Several years later, I heard that Michael was involved in a serious accident, falling some 60 feet from a communications tower. After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, Michael was released from the hospital with rods placed in his back.
 
 I saw Michael about six months after the accident. When I asked him how he was, he replied. "If I were any better, I would have already been raptured! Wanna see my scars?" And he recited a bible verse.
 
 I declined to see his wounds, but did ask him what had gone through his mind as the accident took place. "The first thing that went through my mind was the well being of my soon to be born daughter," Michael replied. "Then, as I lay on the ground, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live or I could choose to die. I chose to live. Then all these bible verses came to mind and comforted me.
 
 "Weren't you scared? Did you lose consciousness?" I asked. Michael continued, "...the paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine. But when they wheeled me into the ER and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read 'he's a dead man.' I knew I needed to take action." "What did you do?" I asked. It was then I recited the Lord's Prayer out loud for all to hear.
 
 "Well, then there was a big burly nurse shouting questions at me," said Michael. She asked if I was allergic to anything. "Yes, I replied." The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breath and yelled, "Gravity." Over their laughter, I told them, "I am choosing to live and my guardian angels are all around. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead".
 
 Michael lived thanks to God, the angels, skill of his doctors and also because of his determination and amazing faith. I learned from him that every day we have the choice how we live.
 
 Faith, after all, is everything!
 
 
 "He is my loving ally and my fortress, my tower of safety, my deliverer.
 He stands before me as a shield, and I take refuge in him."
 Psalm 144:2a (NLT)

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:31
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 Resurrection? Prove It to Me
 
 
 "Jesus raised from the dead? Sure. Right. And I have a bridge I'd like to sell you."
 
 That's how Thomas might have responded if he had lived in the year 2000. "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands, and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe it."(1) He'd seen dead people before. And Jesus was dead. He sounds like sophisticated rationalists of the Twentieth Century. "It isn't plausible," they would contend. "It didn't happen."
 
 But what if it did happen?
 
 Thomas was convinced when Jesus appeared to him, reached out his hands to Thomas, and said, "Put your finger here."
 
 Thomas dropped to his knees. "My Lord and my God!"(2)
 
 It was self-hypnosis, you counter. The disciples wanted to believe that their Lord was not dead, so they just invented it out of whole cloth.
 
 Really? Let's look at some of the evidence.
 
 First, Jesus' body was missing. If the Jews could have found it, they could have stilled the preaching of Jesus' resurrection that filled Jerusalem. But they could not.
 
 Next, the body wasn't stolen. The Romans had no motive. The Jews had no motive. Ah-ha, you say, the disciples stole it. There is the matter of the Roman guards, and the disciples' initial diS*elief when the women brought them the news early that Easter morning. This brings me to my third point.
 
 If the disciples had stolen the body, you wouldn't expect them to risk their lives. People don't die for what they know is not true. But the disciples put their lives on the line, and nearly all were eventually martyred for their faith. They certainly believed it.
 
 Followers of Jesus in the city of Jerusalem grew from a few dozen to thousands upon thousands soon after Jesus' resurrection. They believed it was true.
 
 Even contemporary documents refer to the event. Thallus the Samaritan, Suetonius, Tacitus, Pliny contain references to Jesus. Jewish historian Josephus writes about Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection. They knew something had happened.
 
 Jesus' resurrection from the dead is actually more plausible than any other explanation. That's why we Christians make such a big deal about Easter. That's why we celebrate.
 
 Jesus' resurrection means that death is not the end. That though my body may lie mouldering in the ground, Jesus, whom the Father raised from the dead, gives me eternal life. Ultimately, we Christians believe, our bodies, too, will be raised from the dead.
 
 And since Jesus is not dead, people can encounter Him today. You can know Him through a personal relationship. I could point to lots of people who can testify what Jesus has done in their lives to bring them from the brink of disaster to peace and meaning and joy. He changes people for good.
 
 If you're not sure, and can't really say you've met this risen Jesus, this Easter Sunday why don't you slip into a church to seek Him. And perhaps in the midst of our celebration, you'll find Him for yourself. I hope so -- for your sake!
 
 He's alive, you know. HE'S RISEN! That's what Easter is all about!
 
 Reference -- (1) John 20:25 (NIV), and (2) John 20:27-28 (NIV).
 
 
 A Working Holiday
 
 
 
 The grocery store is common ground for most of us. The difference is the uncommon stories we carry in our hearts as we go about the business of shopping for our daily bread.
 
 On my last visit to the local grocer, an elderly lady said, "Excuse me," and asked if I knew where she could find the ground pork. As I helped her scout the meat cooler, she told me she needed the pork to make her annual meat pies.
 
 "I'm making them early this year. My two children and their families are going away for Christmas."
 
 Our search for the pork slowed down as our conversation progressed. Her huS*and, Jack, had passed away in the spring. The children wanted to cancel their holiday vacation and stay home, but she insisted they go, and made Christmas plans of her own.
 
 "I'm not having a tree or putting up decorations. I've had more good Christmases than any one person could ever hope for. This year, I'm giving back."
 
 The week before Christmas, she's going to help a couple of organizations distribute food and gift baskets to the needy. On Christmas Day, she's going to serve food at the Downtown Mission. Her eyes were firm and clear as she spoke. No sign of the sadness you'd expect to see in the eyes of a person about to spend their first Christmas alone after forty-one years of marriage. I soon found out why.
 
 "I'm giving my own self as a Christmas present this year," she announced, and promptly burst into laughter. The sound of it was contagious. I laughed with her.
 
 Then, making me privy to a delightful conspiracy, she whispered, " Everyone pats my hand and feels sorry for me. They think I'll be all alone, that Jack won't be with me."
 
 One look at the sparkle in her eyes, and I knew Jack had never left.
 
 "He's had it pretty easy these last six months," she explained, "While he's been resting on his laurels and shootin' the breeze, I've continued to work my way through the days. Look at me right now, trudging through the grocery store looking for pork."
 
 Another round of laughter ensued.
 
 "Fair's fair. I'm putting Jack to work over the Christmas holidays."
 
 We found the pork, eventually, and parted company.
 
 So much love, life and laughter in one little lady - the memory of our encounter will stay with me always.
 
 I thought of her huS*and as I stood in the check-out line, and stifled a sudden urge to laugh. "I hope you're getting plenty of rest Jack. You're definitely working this Christmas."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:33
The Heart To Let Go
 
 
 
 It's seems like just yesterday those little notes signed, “(heart), your only daughter,” would pop up around the house for no special reason. I often wondered if she was trying to tell me something. Maybe I was giving more attention to her older brothers than to her, maybe she was feeling insecure about our relationship, or maybe she was just being the loving little girl that blessed my life everyday. Bottom line is this: I took her love for granted.
 
 As the teen years rolled around, I looked upon my budding blossom, with her modest attire, her quiet reserve, her many academic achievements, and her compliant behavior; and I could not imagine that she and I would ever be “at odds with each other.” She talked to me about everything, and she looked up to me. I went to every soccer game, track meet or special event. She and I teamed up to decorate for family birthdays, give each other pedicures, laugh and cry while watching movies with one another. We baked goodies in the kitchen, as I tried to instill in her how important it was to serve others and extend hospitality. We went shopping for clothes, and we always seemed to see eye to eye about everything. She was a “good girl” and I was a proud mama. She told me that many of her schoolmates “were either promiscuous, pregnant, drinking heavily, or worse,” adding, “You don't know how bad other parents have it, Mom.” I just assumed that she would never fall into any of those ! traps, because I was “always there;” the devoted “stay-at-home Mom,” with great kids and the badge to show for it.
 
 Then one day, it all began to fall apart, right before my eyes.
 
 I was shocked to find that our car was missing one morning, when her father got up for work. We checked our daughter's room, only to find her missing as well. Frantic, we began making phone calls; to her cell phone, her friend's homes, etc. No response. Then finally she answered, and confessed that she was “on the freeway, coming back from a party.” She had defied our rules, sneaked out of the house, took the car, and we were flabbergasted! As she entered the house that morning, the tears began to flow. She explained that she "was tired of being the good girl.” All of her friends were at that party, and she was never allowed to go, so she just decided to rebel. I remember looking at her with my mouth open, speechless for a moment. We had never had to discipline our youngest child, really. She never needed more than “a look” from either of us, to teach her right from wrong. For the first time in her young life, she was grounded.
 
 The little “heart” notes began to dwindle from sight. The times we spent in the kitchen became few and far between. Her clothing choices became more revealing and our “talks” turned into “20 questions,” as the gap between me and my daughter grew wider and wider.
 
 It was Christmas Eve, and I was busy preparing the meal, and appetizers, when I urged the kids to help out. Although our two sons were included, I always expected more out of my daughter. After all, she WAS a female!
 
 In the midst of my complaining to her, she burst out with an emotional, “Mom, I am NOT like you ... I don't like domestic duties... I am going to be a “career woman” with a maid and a cook! I don't have the same interests as you! I'm not just going to stay at home; I am going to be more than that!" Well, the lump in my throat was obvious as I responded back, in self-defense. I reminded her of the jobs I held outside the home during her childhood, working graveyard shift, so that I could be home when she and her brothers needed me. Through uncontrolled tears, I pointed out the sacrifices I’d made, and the reasons for doing so; to ensure that she would have all the necessary teaching and training I could give. How dare she make me feel like my life “was a waste” and not worth emulating. I was hurt, deeply hurt.
 
 In the days and months that followed, it was made clear to me that my counsel was “old fashioned” and my morals were “outdated,” as was my taste in clothes. My daughter no longer wanted me to shop with her, talk with her, or anything. I was losing her.
 
 My closest friends tried to console me and remind me that “this too will pass.” They confirmed that we had raised our kids in the way they should go, and God's promise to us was that “when they were older they would not depart …” But my heart was heavy, as I worried about her going too far, possibly hurting herself.
 
 When my huS*and and I were planning on moving to a new city, my daughter, who was now in college, informed us that she would not be going with us, but would be moving out on her own … with a friend. It was hard enough when my two sons ventured out into the world, but it was devastating for me to think about our little girl, our baby, doing the same. I wasn't ready for her to go; I wasn't ready for the “empty nest;” There was so much more to teach her, to give her, to prepare her, I thought. I cried to her father, “Why doesn't she need us anymore?” “How are we going to protect her?”
 
 The day we packed up her belongings and set her up in her own apartment was a painful phase for me. I must have called her cell phone five times in the first fifteen minutes after heading for home. She never answered. I sat in the middle of her empty room, once filled with pink frills, trophies, and collector dolls, and cried my eyes out.
 
 It wasn't long before her father and I learned that her “roommate” was her boyfriend. Although she had lied to us (to avoid the parental confrontation), the truth had finally come out when she called for help with her car. My huS*and was just as upset as I was. The blow of his daughter's “new roommate” was evident as he shared with me how he felt robbed of that precious experience of watching her go out on a date, with the boy coming to our home, seeking her father's approval. Sure he had “met the boy” but he definitely wasn't ready for this!
 
 Again and again, my family and friends would reassure us that our daughter was just trying to “find herself,” “to be her own person,” and “stretch her wings.” I, for one, would often wonder “what did I do wrong?” And I would pray for her safety, her life, and her heart.
 
 Then one day she announced that she was going to become an egg donor. At 20 years of age, how could she make a decision such as this? I thought. I tried to discourage her, but she was adamant about it. I made my opinion known, as I had about her living arrangements, but it seemed to matter little to her. She went ahead with the process. Not once, not twice, but three times in one year!
 
 The pivotal place for me was when she asked me to come along with her, to be there during each procedure. I knew I could have stood my ground, insisting on having NO part in this decision, with hopes that she would see things my way, and wait till she had her own children first. But I didn't. The bottom line, I decided, was that she was my daughter, and I would love and support her no matter what she did in life, or who she lived with, or how different she was from me. I began to let go.
 
 Over a year and a half has passed since that Christmas Eve when I lost connection with my youngest child; my baby girl. During that time, I observed how she called and chatted with her father about many things; career choices, vehicle maintenance, job ethics, investments, and education. He never brought up the life choices that she knew we disagreed with, but just continued to keep the door open for her. Often, the call ended without so much as a “let me talk to Mom” comment. I was hurt, but I understood, since most of our conversations always led back to “what she was doing wrong.” I realized that my reminding her of what I thought she should be doing was only pushing her away.
 
 I guess you could say it was a turning point for me. Having felt like a failure as a parent, as a role model, as a Christian woman, a heavy cloud had formed over my head. It affected every aspect of my life. I even stopped writing, assuming that there was nothing to write about since there was “no happy ending.” There were, also, other family crises that contributed to my ongoing depression, as well. I knew that God was in control, and not me, but I was angry at Him for allowing things to go the way they did.
 
 Sometimes, we just have to learn the hard way, don't we?
 
 Now, my parental plight could have been worse, and pales in comparison to others, but the concept is still the same. Accepting the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can and the wisdom to know the difference is the key. My daughter's situation remains the same; however, the phone rings now, almost every day, with her need to “just talk,” or a “quick question,” or a “how ya doing?” She may call me for a family recipe, advice about personal issues, or with a plan for the two of us to go to a play or shopping or an amusement park together, just us girls. I smile inside. It spreads to my face as I listen to her, and see her with new eyes.
 
 We are enjoying womanhood together, and although I am still her Mom, she considers me “her best friend” as well. Our relationship has flourished and she knows I want only the best for her. I thought I had lost her, but when I learned to let go, I found her heart again. When I gave up trying to control her life, I found my own peace. It's not the completed “happy ending” I was hoping for, but I trust God to take care of the rest. The empty nest is a tough transition, no doubt, but there really is life after it happens. I may not always agree with what our kids do, but I agree with who they are. Doesn’t God feel the same way about all of us?
 
 Recently, a card came in the mail from my baby girl, thanking.
 
 
 The Compassionate Stranger
 
 
 
 The stranger entered the church and took a seat near the front of the church. At first, people only noticed that his clothes did not measure up to those of the rest of the congregation, but then finally someone began to count and realized that he had chosen Mrs. Oddbody's pew.
 
 No one had sat in Mrs. Oddbody's pew in years. No one except Mrs. Oddbody, of course. No one else dared. Neighbors whispered to one another, daring to speculate about what Mrs. Oddbody would do when she made her grand entrance.
 
 They would not have long to wait for soon Mrs. Oddbody arrived at the back of the church and began her trek down the aisle without a clue as to what awaited her. As she neared the front of the church she began to count as she always did. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. When she got to eight she saw someone sitting there, so she began to count again only to come up with the same conclusion.
 
 She inched forward to where the stranger could see her, hoping he would understand and beat a hasty retreat. The stranger looked at her and smiled, but she did not return his smile.
 
 When it was obvious he had found his final resting place, at this as far as this service was concerned, she let out an indignant "Excuse me" and pushed past him into the pew.
 
 As the service began the stranger could not help but notice she was more concerned with him occupying part of her pew than she was getting anything from the service.
 
 They came to a point in the service where the pastor invited everyone to come to the altar and pray. The stranger arose and went forward. There was no need for him to hurry, because this did not seem to be a part of anyone else's exercise program that morning.
 
 He fell to his knees and began in earnest prayer. He prayed for quite some time until it seemed like someone had tapped him on the shoulder. Someone had. He raised up only to be asked by a man if he could return to his seat so the pastor could get on with the sermon.
 
 He complied and arose to return to his seat. As he arrived back at row eight he noticed that the lady had scooted over to occupy the aisle seat once occupied by him. This time she smiled a triumphant smile.
 
 He said, "Excuse me" as he moved past her into the pew. She had hoped that her sitting forward in the pew would discourage him from trying this, but her hopes were soon dashed. As he sat down he turned and to return her smile, he found out her smile had already gotten tired and had been replaced by a bad case of persimmons.
 
 The service continued and concluded at the expected hour in order to keep the congregation there as long as the pastor. Besides, this pastor had heard what happened to his predecessor. He once ran into the kickoff of a big football game and nothing hurts a congregation more than a pastor who runs into the kickoff. Of course, no pastor has done such a dastardly thing twice without being sent to a cannibalistic country as a missionary.
 
 Before the lady could leave, the stranger turned to her and reached out his hand to shake hers. Taken by surprise the stranger had managed to clasp her hand before she could pull it away.
 
 As his nail-scarred hand took hers it was as if scales fell from her eyes and for the first time she realized who this stranger was. Her tears did not flow, they gushed. He embraced her as they began to talk and after a few moments they headed toward the altar to pray. No one had noticed any of this as they were all too busy beating a hasty retreat.
 
 The next Sunday people were immersed in typical pre-service conversation when a hush fell over the crowd as Mrs. Oddbody arrived. Not only was she accompanied by the stranger, but she had stopped by the orphanage and picked up a carload of boys which she instructed into the pew ahead of her. Anyone could have heard a hymnal drop as Mrs. Oddbody looked up and everyone could see the glow on her face. She looked twenty years younger.
 
 After Mrs. Oddbody and all the boys were seated the stranger turned away and went to take a seat next to the man who had tapped him on the shoulder the week before. The puffed-up man had no idea he was about to make a newfound friend.
 
 Just as Jesus planned to do with this church, why not begin today to change the people of your church. A good place to start is with the first person in your church who reads this story. Then forward it on to the person in your church who needs to change the least. They will be more likely to read it, apply it, and forward it on to the next person.
 
 
 Addendum -- Matthew 5:44 (NKJ) "But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:36
Pearls
 
 
 
 Jenny was a bright-eyed, pretty five-year-old girl. One day when she and her mother were checking out at the grocery store, Jenny saw a plastic pearl necklace priced at $2.50. How she wanted that necklace, and when she asked her mother if she would buy it for her, her mother said, "Well, it is a pretty necklace, but it costs an awful lot of money. I'll tell you what. I'll buy you the necklace, and when we get home we can make up a list of chores that you can do to pay for the necklace. And don't forget that for your birthday Grandma just might give you a whole dollar bill, too. Okay?"
 
 Jenny agreed, and her mother bought the pearl necklace for her. Jenny worked on her chores very hard every day, and sure enough, her grandma gave her a brand new dollar bill for her birthday. Soon Jenny had paid off the pearls.
 
 How Jenny loved those pearls. She wore them everywhere-to kindergarten, bed and when she went out with her mother to run errands. The only time she didn't wear them was in the shower-her mother had told her that they would turn her neck green!
 
 Now Jenny had a very loving daddy. When Jenny went to bed, he would get up from his favorite chair every night and read Jenny her favorite story.
 
 One night when he finished the story, he said, "Jenny, do you love me?"
 
 "Oh yes, Daddy, you know I love you," the little girl said.
 
 "Well, then, give me your pearls."
 
 "Oh! Daddy, not my pearls!" Jenny said. "But you can have Rosie, my favorite doll. Remember her? You gave her to me last year for my birthday. And you can have her tea party outfit, too. Okay?"
 
 "Oh no, darling, that's okay." Her father brushed her cheek with a kiss. "Good night, little one."
 
 A week later, her father once again asked Jenny after her story, "Do you love me?"
 
 "Oh yes, Daddy, you know I love you."
 
 "Well, then, give me your pearls."
 
 "Oh, Daddy, not my pearls! But you can have Ribbons, my toy horse. Do you remember her? She's my favorite. Her hair is so soft, and you can play with it and braid it and everything. You can have Ribbons if you want her, Daddy," the little girl said to her father.
 
 "No, that's okay," her father said and brushed her cheek again with a kiss. "God bless you, little one. Sweet dreams."
 
 Several days later, when Jenny's father came in to read her a story, Jenny was sitting on her bed and her lip was trembling. "Here, Daddy," she said, and held out her hand. She opened it and her beloved pearl necklace was inside. She let it slip into her father's hand.
 
 With one hand her father held the plastic pearls and with the other he pulled out of his pocket a blue velvet box. Inside of the box were real, genuine, beautiful pearls.
 
 He had them all along. He was waiting for Jenny to give up the cheap stuff so he could give her the real thing.
 
 So it is with our Heavenly Father. He is waiting for us to give up the cheap things in our lives so that he can give us beautiful treasure.
 
 Are you holding onto things which Lord wants you to let go of? Are you holding on to harmful or unnecessary partners, relationships, habits and activities which you have come so attached to that it seems impossible to let go? Sometimes, it is so hard to see what is in the other hand but do believe this one thing....
 
 The Lord will never take away something without giving you something better in its place.
 
 
 The Angel Project
 
 
 
 I held onto the hand of my shivering granddaughter as we waited our turn to get into the huge barn-like building. We couldn't see inside because of the length of the line up and so we passed our time watching the outside lineups.
 
 Volunteers were busily placing frozen turkeys into bags at the head of one line up and in the other, families and individuals were receiving milk.
 
 The parking lot was filled with trucks and cars and still more were waiting to get onto the lot. Strangely, though vehicles were blocked, no one honked nor appeared impatient. It seemed surreal as though everyone had been touched by something magical.
 
 Finally we could see into the building and I was overcome with emotion as my eyes took in hundreds of overflowing boxes. Each box filled with care represented not only hours of time on the part of volunteers, but the generosity and caring of hundreds of people. The boxes were filled with food for empty stomachs. Some boxes sported brand new toys, gifts from anonymous individuals throughout the town and area, toys for children who might otherwise go without.
 
 I suddenly felt self-conscious, aware that tears were flowing freely down my cheeks. I was touched by the display of kindness. I turned away from the crowds of people to wipe away the tears, and just as I did I was to see everything in a kind of mist and glow-like appearance. How fitting to see the "Angel Project" in this way.
 
 It was four days before Christmas and today marked the climax of the Angel Project. This was the day that families in need could pick up food hampers and toys. Everything was donated through the generosity of strangers.
 
 Finally it was our turn at the table and I found it difficult to speak past the lump in my throat. I was overwhelmed by all that was happening around me. Every box in that massive room represented the love of others. Every toy had been carefully selected, to be given away, yet the receiver and the sender would never meet.
 
 Instead of Christmas shopping or cleaning, instead of baking cookies or decorating a tree, these people had dropped everything to sort, label and number boxes, and to hand out delivery addresses to volunteers to drop off boxes for those who had no transportation.
 
 I could feel something extraordinary there in that building. It wasn't tangible nor quite definable but there was something special, beyond friendliness and I felt privileged to be there and be a part of it all.
 
 People helped us pack the trunk and back seat of my car with food and toys for the first family and we set off to locate the address. As we drove along I felt blessed to have a tank full of gas and the opportunity to be among the delivery people in the "Angel Project."
 
 I was not prepared for the greeting we were about to receive. I located a basement suite and when no one answered after ringing the bell I ventured down a set of steps and began calling out. "Hello, is anyone home?" A lady opened a door and as soon as I mentioned who I was and why I was there the woman began to shout. She was overjoyed and was calling out to some unseen person that we were there. Next she ran ahead of me up the stairs calling out to a neighbor, "they're here, they're here, the Angel people are here."
 
 She ran up to the car, out there in the snow with only socks on her feet and began thanking us. She continued to thank us with each box we unpacked and though we gently reminded her that we were only the delivery people, she could not contain her joy and she continued thanking us again and again.
 
 At the second house there were young children and when we introduced ourselves and explained why we were there, the children were sent upstairs and were admonished not to peek. I knew then that what we were about to unload might very well be the total sum of their Christmas presents.
 
 Jani carried in the teddy bears, the huge craft set and the two other toys, all of which had been specifically chosen by Angel Project volunteers for these children. The mother helped me with the heavier food boxes and I knew this abundant supply would last a number of days.
 
 As we left we exchanged "Merry Christmas" greetings. The woman paused just before the door closed. She looked directly at me and her eyes looked misty as she said "thank you, so much."
 
 I shut my car door, fighting tears and a choked up feeling. This giant surge of emotion burst inside of me as I pictured those children on Christmas morning opening the wonderful gifts chosen by strangers. I could imagine tummies filled and good meals throughout the season. All this, because generous individuals opened their hearts and purse strings for people they did not know.
 
 For Jani and I, we got to spend a special day together being a part of something beautiful and unforgettable. And though we were delivery people that day, I drove away feeling as though I was the one who had received the gift.
 
 
 The Cross Room
 
 
 The young man was at the end of his rope.
 Seeing no way out, he dropped to his knees in prayer.
 "Lord, I can't go on," he said.
 "I have too heavy a cross to bear."
 The Lord replied,
 "My son, if you can't bear it's weight,
 just place your cross inside this room.
 Then open another door and pick any cross you wish."
 The man was filled with relief.
 "Thank you, Lord,"
 he sighed, and did as he was told.
 As he looked around the room he saw many different crosses;
 some so large the tops were not visible.
 Then he spotted a tiny cross leaning against a far wall.
 "I'd like that one, Lord,"
 he whispered. And the Lord replied,
 "My son, that's the cross you brought in."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:38
Life's Struggles
 
 
 
 One day a man found the cocoon of a butterfly, with a small opening just starting to appear. So, he sat down to watch as the butterfly struggled for several hours to force its body through the hole. Then it seemed to stop making any progress. It appeared to the man that it had gotten as far as it could.
 
 Then the man decided to help the butterfly, so he took a pair of scissors and snipped the remaining bit of the cocoon. The butterfly then emerged easily. But it had a swollen body and small shriveled wings. The man continued to watch the butterfly because he expected, at any moment, the wings would enlarge and the body would contract, so it could fly -- but neither happened. Sadly, the butterfly spent the rest of it's life crawling around with a swollen body and shriveled wings. It was never able to fly, or be a truly beautiful butterfly.
 
 What the man in his well meaning kindness and haste did not understand, was that the restricting cocoon, and the struggle required for the butterfly to get through the tiny opening, was God's way of forcing fluid from the body of the butterfly, into its wings, so that it would be ready for flight once it got out of the cocoon.
 
 Sometimes, like the butterfly, the struggles we go through in life are necessary, although we usually don't understand why. If God allowed us to go through life without any obstacles, it could hurt our growth. Then we would not be as strong as we should be -- and it could keep us from soaring to the wonderful heights that HE has planned for you and me.
 
 
 Addendum -- Hebrews 12:11 (NIV) "No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it."
 
 Teacup Story
 
 
 
 There was a couple who took a trip to England to shop in a beautiful antique store to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. They both liked antiques and pottery, and especially teacups. ?Spotting an exceptional cup, they asked "May we see that? ?We've never seen a cup quite so beautiful."
 
 As the lady handed it to them, suddenly the teacup spoke, "You don't understand. ?I have not always been a teacup. ?There was a time when I was just a lump of red clay. ?My master took me and rolled me pounded and patted me over and over and I yelled out, 'Don't do that. I don't like it! Let me alone.' But he only smiled, and gently said; 'Not yet!'" "Then. WHAM! ?I was placed on a spinning wheel and suddenly I was spun around and around and around. ?'Stop it! ?I'm getting so dizzy! ?I'm going to be sick,' I screamed. ?But the master only nodded and said, quietly; 'Not yet.'
 
 "He spun me and poked and prodded and bent me out of shape to suit himself and then? Then he put me in the oven. ?I never felt such heat. I yelled and knocked and pounded at the door. Help! ?Get me out of here! I could see him through the opening and I could read his lips as he shook his head from side to side, 'Not yet'."
 
 "When I thought I couldn't bear it another minute, the door opened. ?He carefully took me out and put me on the shelf, and I began to cool. ?Oh, that felt so good! ?Ah, this is much better, I thought. ?But, after I cooled he picked me up and he brushed and painted me all over. ?The fumes were horrible. ?I thought I would gag. ?'Oh, please; Stop it, Stop it!' I cried. ?He only shook his head and said. 'Not yet!'."
 
 "Then suddenly he put me back in to the oven. ?Only it was not like the first one. ?This was twice as hot and I just knew I would suffocate. ?I begged. ?I pleaded. ?I screamed. ?I cried. ?I was convinced I would never make it. ?I was ready to give up. ?Just then the door opened and he took me out and again placed me on the shelf, where I cooled and waited ------- and waited, wondering "What's he going to do to me next? ? An hour later he handed me a mirror and said 'Look at yourself.'" "And I did. I said, 'That's not me; that couldn't be me. ?It's beautiful. I'm beautiful!'
 
 Quietly he spoke: 'I want you to remember, then,' he said, 'I know it hurt to be rolled and pounded and patted, but had I just left you alone, you'd have dried up. ?I know it made you dizzy to spin around on the wheel, but if I had stopped, you would have crumbled. ?I know it hurt and it was hot and disagreeable in the oven, but if I hadn't put you there, you would have cracked. ?I know the fumes were bad when I brushed and painted you all over, but if I hadn't done that, you never would have hardened. You would not have had any color in your life. ?If I hadn't put you back in that second oven, you wouldn't have survived for long because the hardness would not have held. ?Now you are a finished product. ?Now you are what I had in mind when I first began with you."
 
 The moral of this story is this: God knows what He's doing for each of us. He is the potter, and we are His clay. ?He will mold us and make us, and expose us to just enough pressures of just the right kinds that we may be made into a flawless piece of work to fulfill His good, pleasing and perfect will.
 
 So when life seems hard, and you are being pounded and patted and pushed almost beyond endurance; when your world seems to be spinning out of control; when you feel like you are in a fiery furnace of trials; when life seems to "stink", try this....
 
 Brew a cup of your favorite tea in your prettiest teacup, sit down and think on this story and then, have a little talk with the Potter.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:39
Just Keep Planting
 
 
 
 When Paul was a boy growing up in Utah, he happened to live near an old copper smelter, and the sulfur dioxide that poured out of the refinery had made a desolate wasteland out of what used to be a beautiful forest. Paul vowed that some day he would bring back the life to this land.
 
 Many years later Paul was in the area, and he went to the smelter office. He asked if they had any plans to bring the trees back. The answer was "No." He asked them if they would let him try to bring the trees back. Again, the answer was "No." They didn't want him on their land. After praying about the matter, Paul realized he needed to become more knowledgeable before anyone would listen to him, so he went to college to study botany.
 
 At the college he met a professor who was an expert in Utah's ecology. Unfortunately, Paul was told that the wasteland he wanted to bring back was beyond hope. He was told that his goal was foolish because even if he planted trees, and even if they grew, the wind would only blow the seeds forty feet per year, and that's all you'd get because there weren't any birds or squirrels to spread the seeds, and the seeds from those trees would need another thirty years before they started producing seeds of their own. Therefore, it would take approximately twenty thousand years to revegitate that six-square-mile piece of earth. His teachers told him it would be a waste of his life to try to do it. It just could not be done.
 
 So he tried to go on with his life. He got a job operating heavy equipment, got married, and had some kids. However, as a good Christian, he knew that "faith by itself, if not accompanied by action, is dead" (James 2:17). So, he kept studying about the subject, and prayed for guidance on the matter. Then one night he felt led to take action by faith alone. He would do what he could, and trust God to do the rest. This was an important turning point.
 
 Samuel Johnson wrote, "It is common to overlook what is near by keeping the eye fixed on something remote. In the same manner, present opportunities are neglected and attainable good is slighted by minds busied in extensive ranges." Paul stopped busying his mind in extensive ranges and looked at what opportunities for attainable good were right in front of him. Who among us hasn't wondered what God wants us to do in our life here on earth? Under the cover of darkness, Paul sneaked out into the wasteland with a backpack of seedlings and started planting. For seven hours he planted seedlings.
 
 He did it again a week later. And every week, he made his secret journey into the wasteland and planted trees and shrubs and grass. But most of it died. Like so many of our hopes and dreams. However, Paul had faith, and kept planting.
 
 For fifteen years he did this. When a whole valley of his fir seedlings burned to the ground because of a careless sheep-herder, Paul broke down and wept. Have any of you had this kind of set-back in your life? I sure have! But Paul got up, and kept planting.
 
 Freezing winds and blistering heat, landslides and floods and fires destroyed his work time and time again. But he kept planting. One night he found a highway crew had come and taken tons of dirt for a road grade, and all the plants he painstakingly planted in that area were gone. I don't know about you, but this sounds like the way things have gone in my life. Time for some major prayers. Then Paul kept planting.
 
 Week after week, year after year he kept at it, against the opinion of the authorities, against the trespassing laws, against the devastation of road crews, against the wind and rain and heat... even against plain common sense. He just kept planting.
 
 Slowly, very slowly, things began to take root. Then gophers appeared. Then rabbits. Then porcupines. The copper smelter eventually gave him permission, and later, as times were changing and there was political pressure to clean up the environment, the company actually hired Paul to do what he was already doing. They even provided him with machinery and crews to work with. Progress accelerated.
 
 Now the place is fourteen thousand acres of trees, grass, bushes, as well as all kinds of wildlife. Paul has now received almost every environmental award Utah has. He says, "I thought that if I got this started, when I was dead and gone people would come and see it. I never thought I'd live to see it myself!"
 
 It took him until his hair turned white, but he managed to keep that impossible vow he made to himself as a child.
 
 What was/is it you want to do, that you think is impossible? Paul's story sure gives a perspective on things, doesn't it?
 
 The way you get something accomplished in this world is to trust God for guidance, and just keep planting. He will show you the way if you have faith, and keep working. Just keep plugging away at it one day at a time for a long time, no matter who criticizes or laughs at you, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many times you fall. Get back up again, keep trusting God, and just keep planting.
 
 
 Addendum -- Mark 9:23 "Jesus said to him, 'If you can believe, all things are possible to him who believes'."
 
 
 
 
 
 Philosophy 101
 
 
 
 A freshman in college started his first day of philosophy class. His professor was clearly an atheist, and started the class by saying the following:
 
 "Students, is there anyone here who can see God? If so, raise your hand. If anyone can hear God, raise your hand." If anyone here can smell God, raise your hand."
 
 After a short pause, with no response from any of the students, he concluded, "Since no one can see, hear, or smell God -- there is no God.
 
 A student then raised his hand and asked to address the class. The student then asked, "Students, can anyone here see the professor's brain? Can anyone here hear the professor's brain? Can anyone here smell the professor's brain?"
 
 After a short pause, he concluded, "Since no one can see, hear, or smell the professor's brain -- it appears he has no brain!"
 
 
 Grace On The Tracks
 
 
 
 Once again, at the age of twelve, I had run away from the orphanage.
 
 It had not even entered my head that tomorrow was going to be Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving Day just happened to be one of the few days that we kids got to eat all that we wanted.
 
 I was headed out of Jacksonville, Florida, and I think I was westward bound -- whatever that direction was. All I knew was that someone had told me that I was born somewhere in California, and I had a mother and father out there somewhere.
 
 It was November so it was getting a little cold as the sun went down. I knew from past experience that I could not stay on the main road as the police would be looking for me. They would return me to the Duval County Juvenile Hall or worse, back to "The Orphanage".
 
 As I walked along, I came across some railroad tracks which I thought I would follow in hopes they might lead me to my mother somewhere in California. After about an hour or two of walking the tracks, I came across a large bonfire. There were several men standing around in a circle trying to stay warm.
 
 "Where you headed kid?" yelled one of the men.
 
 "Going to California to find my mom and dad," I hollered back at him.
 
 "Going the wrong way kid," he said, cupping his hands over his mouth like a bull-horn.
 
 Slowly I walked over to where the men were standing and I asked if I might get warm by the fire.
 
 "Get that empty can over there and I'll give you a cup of hot beans," said one of the men who was sitting on an old stack of tires.
 
 They sure were good beans too! I think I ate two whole cans. Sure was nice of them to give me some of their food.
 
 "Might as well stay here for the night," said the man with the sling on his arm. I know my eyes got real big and I got a little scared when he put his good arm around me.
 
 "It's gonna be ok kid. I'll look after you," said the man who had given me the beans.
 
 I slept pretty good considering how cold it was out there by the tracks. There were a few old army blankets that smelled real bad, but they sure were warm and itchy.
 
 The next morning we had beans once again for breakfast. That was the first time I ever had coffee and it was real good tasting. Made you feel real warm inside. After breakfast we cleaned up our mess and burned it all in the fire and then we poured water over the fire and made it go out.
 
 For most of the day we walked down the railroad tracks. Once in a while, we would sneak over a fence and steal some fruit to eat. I didn't like stealing but that fruit sure tasted awfully good.
 
 Right before dark one of the men went into a small store and asked if he could do some work for a loaf of white bread and some meat, but the store man told him "No." Later on, I went back into the store and when the man wasn't looking I stole that loaf of bread and two packs of meat which had bad tasting pickles in it.
 
 That night we had fruit, pickle meat sandwiches, and beans for Thanksgiving Dinner. I called it "Supper".
 
 I never knew that poor people like hobos ever said grace before they ate, especially after stealing food. But they did, and they really meant it too, because I could tell it in their voices when they all said "Amen".
 
 "How come you people always say grace when you eat. You're like me. You ain't got nothing to be thankful for," I said.
 
 "Ain't you got two arms and two legs kid?" asked one of the men.
 
 "Course I got two arms and two legs," I told him.
 
 "Then you got something to be thankful for," said the man, as he raised his pants leg and showed me his fake leg.
 
 "Did the big war do that to you?" I asked him. The man did not answer me. He just got up from his seat on the ground and walked away off into the darkness.
 
 "It's OK kid. He just takes the war harder than the rest of us. We were all in the war," said his friend.
 
 "You was in the war too?" I asked.
 
 He looked down at the ground without answering my question. Then he broke into tears and covered his face. I sat there not knowing what to say. I just sipped on my warm coffee and tried to stay warm. The next thing I remember it was morning time.
 
 The four men all told me goodbye, except the one who could not talk -- he spoke with his hands and fingers. Then they jumped on the slow moving train and left me standing all alone beside the railroad tracks.
 
 I took my two good arms and my two good legs and I walked back to the orphanage. When I saw the head matron, Mrs. Winters, I told her, with my mouth that could speak words, that I was very sorry I had run away and that I was very ashamed for not being thankful for all that God had given me.
 
 
 The Golden Chain Of Kindness
 
 
 
 Writer and philosopher Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said, "Kindness is the golden chain by which society is bound together." But I was not thinking about the golden chain of kindness one day when a dilapidated automobile, possibly held together with glue and wire, parked in front of my house. During those years, we lived in a small town just across the street from the church I served, and travelers in need constantly found their way to our home.
 
 I was growing weary of helping the numerous people who stopped by almost daily. I was frequently awakened in the middle of an otherwise good night's sleep, to get out in the cold and help someone passing through. Once our property was vandalized; once I drove through a blizzard in order to get two people to safety; many times I felt taken for granted by penniless motorists or hitchhikers who did not thank me for help they received and complained that I didn't do more. I hadn't felt a part of a "golden chain of kindness" for awhile and, though I still offered assistance where I could, sometimes I inwardly wished they would just go away.
 
 But on this day, a young man with a week-old beard climbed from the broken-down automobile. He had no money and no food. He asked if I could give him some work and I offered him gasoline and a meal. I told him that if he wanted to work, we'd be pleased if he'd cut the grass, but work wasn't necessary.
 
 Though sweaty and hungry, he worked hard. Because of the afternoon heat, I expected him to give up before the job was completed. But he persisted and, after a long while, he sat wearily down in the shade. I thanked him for his work and gave him the money he needed. Then I offered him a little extra money for a task particularly well done, but he refused. "No sank you," he said in heavily accented speech. I insisted that he take the money but he stood up and once again said, "No sank you. I want to work. Joo keep the money." I tried again and for a third time he protested, shaking his head as he walked away.
 
 I never saw him again. I'm sure I never will. And interestingly, he probably thinks I helped him out that day. But that is not the way it was. I didn't help him, he helped me. He helped me to believe in people again. He helped me to once again WANT to do something for those who are in need. I wish I could thank him for restoring some of my faith in the basic goodness of others and for giving me back a little of the optimism I had lost somewhere along the way. Because of him I once again felt part of a golden chain of kindness that binds us to one another.
 
 I may have fed his body that day. But he fed my soul.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:41
One Minute Can Change A Life
 
 
 
 He almost killed somebody, but one min璾te changed his life. The beautiful story comes from Sherman Rogers' old book, FOREMEN: LEADERS OR DRIVERS? In his true-life story, Rogers illus璽rates the importance of effective relationships.
 
 During his college years, Rogers spent a summer in an Idaho logging camp. When the super璱ntendent had to leave for a few days, he put Rogers in charge.
 
 "What if the men refuse to follow my or璬ers?" Rogers asked. He thought of Tony, an im璵igrant worker who grumbled and growled all day, giving the other men a hard time.
 
 "Fire them," the superintendent said. Then, as if reading Rogers' mind, he added, "I suppose you think you are going to fire Tony if you get the chance. I'd feel badly about that. I have been logging for 40 years. Tony is the most reliable worker I've ever had. I know he is a grouch and that he hates everybody and everything. But he comes in first and leaves last. There has not been an accident for eight years on the hill where he works."
 
 Rogers took over the next day. He went to Tony and spoke to him. "Tony, do you know I'm in charge here today?" Tony grunted. "I was going to fire you the first time we tangled, but I want you to know I'm not," he told Tony, adding what the superintendent had said.
 
 When he finished, Tony dropped the shovelful of sand he had held and tears streamed down his face. "Why he no tell me dat eight years ago?"
 
 That day Tony worked harder than ever be璮ore -- and he smiled! He later said to Rogers, "I told Maria you first foreman in deese country who ever say, 'Good work, Tony,' and it make Maria feel like Christmas."
 
 Rogers went back to school after that sum璵er. Twelve years later he met Tony again. He was superintendent for railroad construction for one of the largest logging companies in the West. Rogers asked him how he came to Califor璶ia and happened to have such success.
 
 Tony replied, "If it not be for the one mi璶ute you talk to me back in Idaho, I keel some璪ody someday. One minute, she change my whole life."
 
 Effective managers know the importance of taking a moment to point out what a worker is doing well. But what a difference a minute of af璮irmation can make in any relationship!
 
 One minute. Have you got one minute to thank someone? A minute to tell someone what you sincerely like or appre璫i璦te about her? A mi璶ute to elaborate on some璽hing he did well? One minute. It can make a difference for a lifetime.
 
 
 The Diploma (achieving a goal)
 
 
 
 PROLOG (SkyWriting.Net editor): The title of this story (The Diploma) doesn't do it justice, in my opinion. Achieving a goal is much more difficult for some than others. Try to put yourself in this persons shoes, for the goals you have gone after, and the struggles you have endured in your own life to achieve a goal. Enjoy . . .
 
 
 I was exhausted from working my two jobs over the weekend and was not looking forward to the graduation ceremony. I have been to many graduation ceremonies and I know how boring they are for most people. To top everything off, my wife and I had our two kids under the age of three with us. Both of my kids were squirming and whining, and I knew it was going to be a long afternoon. Our sole comedic relief came when Caleb, my three year old patted, and rubbed the head of a bald man we did not know in front of us. But as the ceremony dragged on I kept thinking of all the places I would rather be, and made up my mind that I wasn't going to enjoy myself....
 
 It was your ordinary graduation ceremony. A hot, sweaty auditorium filled with people fanning themselves with their programs, speech upon boring speech, and the endless calling of names as each matriculator walked across the stage to grab this piece of paper that symbolized their academic accomplishment. It was getting harder and harder to pay attention. Just as my attitude started to go sour, they began calling out the graduate's names. The classmates formed a single file line and made their way up towards the podium.
 
 That's when I caught my first close-up glimpse of Kim. She looked up at us and was trying in vain to hold back the tears. She was not doing a good job of it. Believe me, holding back emotions is not something that Kim does very well. There she was, standing in line, about to receive her diploma, and she was probably thinking about a number of things. Maybe her Dad who passed away a few years ago and didn't get to see her reach her goal, or her grandmother, who also passed away recently, and who had always wanted to attend college but her family didn't have the money....
 
 For me it was like something from a movie. You know, the dramatic slow motion scene where all the crowd noise grows quiet, and the camera slowly moves up on her face as the tears begin to fall. She was a good distance away from us, but to me it was as if she was standing in front of me. That simple act of looking up at those loved ones who had come to watch her graduate, and gently rubbing the tears of joy, accomplishment, and pride out of her eyes really got through to me. The selfishness in me melted away and I realized why I was there and not somewhere else.
 
 "KIMBERLY ANNE CONWAY, GRADUATING MAGNA CUM LAUDE" came booming over the auditoriums sound system and she walked gracefully across the huge stage and received this piece of paper that symbolized so many things to her. Then just before she walked off the stage, she turned around towards those who had come to share the day with her, and with the brightest smile on her face, waved and grinned at us like a little girl getting on the school bus for the first time....
 
 I glanced at my wife, and saw the salty drops roll gently down as the love she had for her sister manifested itself on her face....
 
 You see, Kim is not your ordinary college graduate. She is 38 years old, and has stuck with her goal of graduating from college for the past twenty years. It's not like she is going to look back on that part of her life, sigh, and say, "College.... the best twenty years of my life!"
 
 She attended college while working full time, and she studied extremely hard, especially the past couple of years as she pushed toward her goal of a college degree. Many times she felt like quitting, and if it wasn't for her support group of other nontraditional students that cared for her, she would have given up on her goal. Many times she would call one of the other students she knew and tell them she wanted to quit, and would be talked out of it. Then a while later this student would call her and say she wanted to quit and Kim would talk her out of it.... (Luckily, they both didn't want to quit at the same time!)
 
 I have the utmost respect for Kim. It takes a special person to stick with a goal as long as she has. I attended college for three years when I got out of high school, but I stopped when I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my life. Many times I have looked back and wished that I had stuck with it and went on to be a high school teacher. But if for no other reason, I wish I had finished something that I had started.
 
 I know what it feels like to walk out of that last final exam of the semester, breathe in the fresh air just outside the doors of the university, and feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off your shoulders for at least a little while. I can't even begin to imagine what it felt like for Kim after so many years....
 
 I love you, Kim, and I want you to know that I admire you for that symbolic piece of paper that will soon adorn a wall in your house.
 
 In the words of Caleb, my three year old: "HAPPY 'GRADULATION AUNT KIMMY!"
 
 
 Paid In Full
 
 
 
 A young man was getting ready to graduate from college. For many months he had admired a beautiful sports car in a dealer's showroom, and knowing his father could well afford it, he told him that was all he wanted.
 
 As Graduation Day approached, the young man awaited signs that his father had purchased the car. Finally, on the morning of his graduation, his father called him into his private study. His father told him how proud he was to have such a fine son, and told him how much he loved him. He handed his son a beautifully wrapped gift box. Curious, and somewhat disappointed, the young man opened the box and found a lovely, leather-bound Bible, with the young man's name embossed in gold.
 
 Angry, he shouted at his father and said "with all your money, you give me a Bible?" and stormed out of the house.
 
 Many years passed and the young man had become very successful in business. He had a beautiful home and wonderful family, but realized his father now was getting old, and thought perhaps he should go see him. He had not seen him since that graduation day. Before he could make arrangements, he received a telegram telling him his father had passed away, and willed all of his possessions to his son. He needed to come home immediately and take care of things.
 
 When he arrived at his father's house, sudden sadness and regret filled his heart. He began to search through his father's important papers and saw the still gift-wrapped Bible, just as he had left it years ago. With tears, he opened the Bible and began to turn the pages. His father had carefully underlined a verse, Matt.7:11, "And if ye, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Heavenly Father which is in Heaven, give to those who ask Him?"
 
 As he read those words, a car key dropped from the back of the Bible. It had a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the sports car he had wanted. On the tag was the date of his graduation, and the words PAID IN FULL.
 
 How many times do we miss God's blessings because we can't see past our own desires?

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:43
The Heart To Let Go
 
 
 
 It's seems like just yesterday those little notes signed, “(heart), your only daughter,” would pop up around the house for no special reason. I often wondered if she was trying to tell me something. Maybe I was giving more attention to her older brothers than to her, maybe she was feeling insecure about our relationship, or maybe she was just being the loving little girl that blessed my life everyday. Bottom line is this: I took her love for granted.
 
 As the teen years rolled around, I looked upon my budding blossom, with her modest attire, her quiet reserve, her many academic achievements, and her compliant behavior; and I could not imagine that she and I would ever be “at odds with each other.” She talked to me about everything, and she looked up to me. I went to every soccer game, track meet or special event. She and I teamed up to decorate for family birthdays, give each other pedicures, laugh and cry while watching movies with one another. We baked goodies in the kitchen, as I tried to instill in her how important it was to serve others and extend hospitality. We went shopping for clothes, and we always seemed to see eye to eye about everything. She was a “good girl” and I was a proud mama. She told me that many of her schoolmates “were either promiscuous, pregnant, drinking heavily, or worse,” adding, “You don't know how bad other parents have it, Mom.” I just assumed that she would never fall into any of those ! traps, because I was “always there;” the devoted “stay-at-home Mom,” with great kids and the badge to show for it.
 
 Then one day, it all began to fall apart, right before my eyes.
 
 I was shocked to find that our car was missing one morning, when her father got up for work. We checked our daughter's room, only to find her missing as well. Frantic, we began making phone calls; to her cell phone, her friend's homes, etc. No response. Then finally she answered, and confessed that she was “on the freeway, coming back from a party.” She had defied our rules, sneaked out of the house, took the car, and we were flabbergasted! As she entered the house that morning, the tears began to flow. She explained that she "was tired of being the good girl.” All of her friends were at that party, and she was never allowed to go, so she just decided to rebel. I remember looking at her with my mouth open, speechless for a moment. We had never had to discipline our youngest child, really. She never needed more than “a look” from either of us, to teach her right from wrong. For the first time in her young life, she was grounded.
 
 The little “heart” notes began to dwindle from sight. The times we spent in the kitchen became few and far between. Her clothing choices became more revealing and our “talks” turned into “20 questions,” as the gap between me and my daughter grew wider and wider.
 
 It was Christmas Eve, and I was busy preparing the meal, and appetizers, when I urged the kids to help out. Although our two sons were included, I always expected more out of my daughter. After all, she WAS a female!
 
 In the midst of my complaining to her, she burst out with an emotional, “Mom, I am NOT like you ... I don't like domestic duties... I am going to be a “career woman” with a maid and a cook! I don't have the same interests as you! I'm not just going to stay at home; I am going to be more than that!" Well, the lump in my throat was obvious as I responded back, in self-defense. I reminded her of the jobs I held outside the home during her childhood, working graveyard shift, so that I could be home when she and her brothers needed me. Through uncontrolled tears, I pointed out the sacrifices I’d made, and the reasons for doing so; to ensure that she would have all the necessary teaching and training I could give. How dare she make me feel like my life “was a waste” and not worth emulating. I was hurt, deeply hurt.
 
 In the days and months that followed, it was made clear to me that my counsel was “old fashioned” and my morals were “outdated,” as was my taste in clothes. My daughter no longer wanted me to shop with her, talk with her, or anything. I was losing her.
 
 My closest friends tried to console me and remind me that “this too will pass.” They confirmed that we had raised our kids in the way they should go, and God's promise to us was that “when they were older they would not depart …” But my heart was heavy, as I worried about her going too far, possibly hurting herself.
 
 When my huS*and and I were planning on moving to a new city, my daughter, who was now in college, informed us that she would not be going with us, but would be moving out on her own … with a friend. It was hard enough when my two sons ventured out into the world, but it was devastating for me to think about our little girl, our baby, doing the same. I wasn't ready for her to go; I wasn't ready for the “empty nest;” There was so much more to teach her, to give her, to prepare her, I thought. I cried to her father, “Why doesn't she need us anymore?” “How are we going to protect her?”
 
 The day we packed up her belongings and set her up in her own apartment was a painful phase for me. I must have called her cell phone five times in the first fifteen minutes after heading for home. She never answered. I sat in the middle of her empty room, once filled with pink frills, trophies, and collector dolls, and cried my eyes out.
 
 It wasn't long before her father and I learned that her “roommate” was her boyfriend. Although she had lied to us (to avoid the parental confrontation), the truth had finally come out when she called for help with her car. My huS*and was just as upset as I was. The blow of his daughter's “new roommate” was evident as he shared with me how he felt robbed of that precious experience of watching her go out on a date, with the boy coming to our home, seeking her father's approval. Sure he had “met the boy” but he definitely wasn't ready for this!
 
 Again and again, my family and friends would reassure us that our daughter was just trying to “find herself,” “to be her own person,” and “stretch her wings.” I, for one, would often wonder “what did I do wrong?” And I would pray for her safety, her life, and her heart.
 
 Then one day she announced that she was going to become an egg donor. At 20 years of age, how could she make a decision such as this? I thought. I tried to discourage her, but she was adamant about it. I made my opinion known, as I had about her living arrangements, but it seemed to matter little to her. She went ahead with the process. Not once, not twice, but three times in one year!
 
 The pivotal place for me was when she asked me to come along with her, to be there during each procedure. I knew I could have stood my ground, insisting on having NO part in this decision, with hopes that she would see things my way, and wait till she had her own children first. But I didn't. The bottom line, I decided, was that she was my daughter, and I would love and support her no matter what she did in life, or who she lived with, or how different she was from me. I began to let go.
 
 Over a year and a half has passed since that Christmas Eve when I lost connection with my youngest child; my baby girl. During that time, I observed how she called and chatted with her father about many things; career choices, vehicle maintenance, job ethics, investments, and education. He never brought up the life choices that she knew we disagreed with, but just continued to keep the door open for her. Often, the call ended without so much as a “let me talk to Mom” comment. I was hurt, but I understood, since most of our conversations always led back to “what she was doing wrong.” I realized that my reminding her of what I thought she should be doing was only pushing her away.
 
 I guess you could say it was a turning point for me. Having felt like a failure as a parent, as a role model, as a Christian woman, a heavy cloud had formed over my head. It affected every aspect of my life. I even stopped writing, assuming that there was nothing to write about since there was “no happy ending.” There were, also, other family crises that contributed to my ongoing depression, as well. I knew that God was in control, and not me, but I was angry at Him for allowing things to go the way they did.
 
 Sometimes, we just have to learn the hard way, don't we?
 
 Now, my parental plight could have been worse, and pales in comparison to others, but the concept is still the same. Accepting the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can and the wisdom to know the difference is the key. My daughter's situation remains the same; however, the phone rings now, almost every day, with her need to “just talk,” or a “quick question,” or a “how ya doing?” She may call me for a family recipe, advice about personal issues, or with a plan for the two of us to go to a play or shopping or an amusement park together, just us girls. I smile inside. It spreads to my face as I listen to her, and see her with new eyes.
 
 We are enjoying womanhood together, and although I am still her Mom, she considers me “her best friend” as well. Our relationship has flourished and she knows I want only the best for her. I thought I had lost her, but when I learned to let go, I found her heart again. When I gave up trying to control her life, I found my own peace. It's not the completed “happy ending” I was hoping for, but I trust God to take care of the rest. The empty nest is a tough transition, no doubt, but there really is life after it happens. I may not always agree with what our kids do, but I agree with who they are. Doesn’t God feel the same way about all of us?
 
 Recently, a card came in the mail from my baby girl, thanking me “for always being there for her.” She added, “You raised me into a woman, a reflection of you. I cherish the times when people say, ‘you're so much like your Mom,’ yet I know I still have much to learn from you ... Thank you for being so patient … I love you.”
 
 And it was signed, (heart), your only daughter.
 
 
 Wanna Borrow A Jack?
 
 
 
 One day I went to a lawyer friend for advice.
 
 "I'm in real trouble" I said. "My neighbors across the road are going on vacation for a month; and instead of boarding their dogs they are going to keep them locked up and a woman is coming to feed them, if she doesn't forget. Meanwhile they'll be lonely and bark all day and howl all night, and I won't be able to sleep. I'll either have to call the SPCA to haul them away or I'll go berserk and go over there and shoot them and then when my neighbors return, they'll go berserk and come over and shoot me.
 
 My lawyer patted back a delicate yawn. "Let me tell you a story," he said. "And don't stop me if you've heard it because it will do you good to hear it again."
 
 "A fellow was speeding down a country road late at night and BANG! went a tire. He got out and looked but he had no jack.
 
 "Then he said to himself. 'Well, I'll just walk to the nearest farmhouse and borrow a jack.' He saw a light in the distance and said, 'Well, I'm in luck; the farmer's up. I'll just knock on the door and say I'm in trouble, would you please lend me a jack? And he'll say, why sure, neighbor, help yourself, but bring it back.'
 
 "He walked on a little farther and the light went out so he said to himself, 'Now he's gone to bed, and he'll be annoyed because I'm bothering him so he'll probably want some money for his jack. And I'll say, all right, it isn't very neighborly but I'll give you a quarter.
 
 And he'll say, do you think you can get me out of bed in the middle of the night and then offer me a quarter? Give me a dollar or get yourself a jack somewhere else.'
 
 "By the time he got to the farmhouse the fellow had worked himself into a lather. He turned into the gate and muttered. 'A dollar! All right, I'll give you a dollar. But not a cent more! A poor devil has an accident and all he needs is a jack. You probably won't let me have one no matter what I give you. That's the kind of guy you are.'
 
 "Which brought him to the door and he knocked angrily, loudly. The farmer stuck his head out the window above the door and hollered down, 'Who's there? What do you want?' The fellow stopped pounding on the door and yelled up, 'You and your stupid jack! You know what you can do with it!'"
 
 When I stopped laughing, I started thinking, and I said, "Is that what I've been doing?"
 
 "Right," he said, "and you'd be surprised how many people come to a lawyer for advice, and instead of calmly stating the facts, start building up a big imaginary fight; what he'll say to his partner, what she'll say to her huS*and, or how they'll tell the Old Man off about his will. So I tell them the story about the jack and they cool off.
 
 "The next time I hear from them, one tells me that the partner was glad to meet him halfway; the gal says she can't understand it, her huS*and was so reasonable she thought she must have gotten somebody else on the phone; the relatives found out the Old Man had already been asking a lawyer how he could give everything to them before he died, to save them inheritance tax."
 
 I thought, "How true! Most of us go through life bumping into obstacles we could easily bypass; spoiling for a fight and lashing out in blind rages at fancied wrongs and imaginary foes.
 
 "And we don't even realize what we are doing until someone startles us one day with a vivid word like a lightning flash on a dark night."
 
 Well, the other night I was driving home from the city. I was late for dinner and I hadn't phoned my wife. As I crawled along in a line of cars, I became more and more frustrated and angry. I'll tell her I was caught in the heavy weekend traffic and she'll say, "Why didn't you phone me before you left town?"
 
 Then I'll say, "What difference does it make anyway, I'm here!" And she'll say, "Yes, and I'm here, too, and I've been here all day waiting to hear from you!" And I'll say, "I suppose I haven't anything else to do but call you up every hour on the hour and make like a lovebird!" And she'll say, "You mean like a wolf, but you wouldn't be calling me!"
 
 By this time I am turning into the drive and I am plenty steamed up.
 
 As I jumped out and slammed the car door, my wife flung open the window upstairs.
 
 "All right!" I shouted up to her, "Say it!"
 
 "I will," she cooed softly. "Wanna borrow a jack?"
 
 
 The Wolves Within
 
 
 
 
 
 An old Grandfather, whose grandson came to him with anger at a schoolmate who had done him an injustice, said, "Let me tell you a story. I too, at times, have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do. But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times."
 
 He continued, "It is as if there are two wolves inside me; one is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way."
 
 "But the other wolf, ah! He is full of anger. The littlest thing will set him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit."
 
 The boy looked intently into his Grandfather's eyes and asked, "Which one wins, Grandfather?"
 
 The Grandfather solemnly said, "The one I feed."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:45
The Flat Tire
 
 
 
 My tire had a staple in it. Of all times for this to happen -- a flat tire. But when is a good time for a flat tire? Not when you are wearing a suit and you have been traveling for nearly five hours and, adding to this bleak picture, nightfall is approaching.
 
 Wait; did I mention that I was on a country road? Okay, now you have the picture. There was only one thing to do: call AAA. Yeah, right. The cell phone I bought for security and protection in moments like this isn't in range to call anyone. "No Service" it says. No kidding!
 
 I sat for a few minutes moaning and complaining. It's a male thing. Then I began emptying my trunk so that I could get at the tire and tools needed to get the job done. I carry a large plastic container filled with what I call "just-in-case-stuff." When I am training or speaking, I love to have props with me. I hate leaving anything home so I bring everything ...just in case.
 
 Cars buzz by me. A few beep sarcastically. I hear the horn saying "ha ha!" I say, "You'll get yours!" Darkness begins to settle in. It's becoming a bit difficult to see. The tire is on the passenger side, thank God, away from all the traffic, but making it difficult to benefit from the headlights of passing cars.
 
 Suddenly a car pulls off the road behind me. In the blinding light I see a male figure approaching me. "Hey, do you need any help?" "Well, it certainly isn't easy doing this with a white dress shirt and suit on," I said. Then he steps into the light. I literally was frightened.
 
 This young guy was dressed in black. Nearly everything imaginable was pierced and tattooed. His hair was cropped and poorly cut. He had leather bracelets with spikes on each wrist. "How about I give you a hand?" he said. "Well, I don't know . . . I think I can . . . " "Come on, it will only take me a few minutes." He took right over. While watching him I happened to look back at his car and noticed for the first time someone sitting in the passenger seat. That concerned me.
 
 I suddenly felt outnumbered. Thoughts of car-jackings and robberies flashed through my mind. I really just wanted to get this over and survive it.
 
 Then, without warning, it began to pour. The night sky had hidden the approaching clouds. It hit like a waterfall and made it impossible to finish the tire change. "Look, my friend, just stop what you're doing. I appreciate all your help. You better get going. I'll finish after the rain stops," I said.
 
 "Let me help you put your stuff back in the trunk. It will get ruined," he insisted. "Then get in my car. We'll wait with you," he insisted. "No, really. I'll take care of everything," I said.
 
 "You can't get in your car with the jack up like that. It will fall. Come on. Get in," he said as he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the car. Crack! Boom! Lightning and thunder roared like a freight train. I literally jumped in his car. "Oh, God, protect me!" I thought to myself.
 
 Wet and tired I settled into the back seat. Suddenly a small frail voice came from the front seat of the car. "Are you all right?" she said as she turned around to face me. "Yes, I am," I replied with much relief seeing the old woman there. It must be his Mom.
 
 "My name is Beatrice and this is my neighbor Jeff," she said. "He insisted on stopping when he saw you struggling with the tire." "I am grateful for his help," I said. "Me, too!" she said with a laugh. "Jeff takes me to visit my huS*and. We had to place him in a nursing home and it's about 30 minutes away from where we live. So, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, we have a date." She laughed and shook her head.
 
 "We're the remake of the Odd Couple," Jeff said as he joined in laughing."
 
 "Jeff, that's incredible what you do for her. I would never have guessed, well, ah, you know I . . ." I stumbled with the words.
 
 "I know. People who look like me don't do nice things," he said. Silence. I really felt uncomfortable. I never believed that I judged people by the way they dressed. I was angry with myself for being so stupid.
 
 "Jeff is a great kid. I'm not the only one he helps. He's a volunteer at our church. He also works with the kids in the learning center at the low income housing unit in our town," said Beatrice.
 
 "I'm a tutor" Jeff said quietly as he stared at my car. Silence again played a part now in a moment of reflection rather than the uncomfortable feeling that I had insulted someone. He was right. What he wore on the outside was a reflection of the world as he saw it. What he wore on the inside was the spirit of giving, caring and loving the world he wanted to see.
 
 The rain stopped and Jeff and I changed the tire. I tried to offer him money and of course he refused it. As we shook hands I began to apologize for my stupidity.
 
 He said, "I experience that same reaction often. I actually thought about changing the way I look. But then I saw this as an opportunity to make a point. So I'll leave you with the same question I ask everyone who takes time to know me. If Jesus returned tomorrow and walked among us again, would you recognize Him by what He wore or by what He did?
 
 
 1 Samuel 16:7 "But the LORD said to Samuel, 'Do not look at his appearance or at the height of his stature, because I have refused him. For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart'."
 
 
 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. The shiny receiver hung 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 - 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?" "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."
 
 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, and she told me my pet chipmunk I had caught in the park just the day before would eat fruits and nuts. And there was the time that 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. Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up 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. Then when I was 9 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 hall table. Yet 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, and 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 again the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me please how-to spell fix?" There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess that 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, just ask for Sally."
 
 Just three months later I was back in Seattle. . . A different voice answered Information, and I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" "Yes, a very old friend." "Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally has been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago." But 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. Here it is I'll read it. '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 did know what Sally meant.
 
 
 Blind Bus Passenger
 
 
 
 The passengers on the bus watched sympathetically as the attractive young woman with the white cane made her way carefully up the steps. She paid the driver and, using her hands to feel the location of the seats, walked down the aisle and found the seat he'd told her was empty. Then she settled in, placed her briefcase on her lap and rested her cane against her leg. It had been a year since Susan, thirty-four, became blind.
 
 Due to a medical misdiagnosis 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 that 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 huS*and 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 confidence she 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 huS*and, 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 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 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.
 
 God watches over us in just the same way. We may not know He is present. We may not be able to see His face, but He is there nonetheless. Be blessed in this thought: "God Loves You -- even when you are not looking."
 
 
 Addendum -- Matthew 28:20 (NKJ) "... I am with you always, even to the end of the age." Amen

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:46
The Little Raggedy Girl
 
 
 
 There was once a little raggedy girl who lived with her widowed mother in what could only be charitably called a shack, just outside of town. She had few clothes to wear and those that she had were worn and patched in many places. She was clean and tidy. Her mother saw to that. But, her schoolmates could not see past her ragged clothing and they enjoyed making fun of her.
 
 The little raggedy girl bore the insults of the other children in silence. One little boy, in particular, liked to make fun of the coat she always wore. Like the rest of her clothes, the coat had seen much better days. It was an ugly green color with pulls and rawls all over it. Some places had dark stains that no amount of washing could ever remove. But the coat was warm and it was the only one she had, so the little raggedy girl wore it to school every day.
 
 Christmas was only a few days away now, and it was the last school day before the long vacation. On her way home that day, a wet snow was falling accompanied by a biting north wind. It was cold and miserable. She was happy about her old coat and the warmth it provided. Still she wanted to get home quickly to the warmth of her house.
 
 Several blocks from the school she saw three boys standing on the sidewalk. They seemed to be arguing, but she couldn't make out the words -- just a lot of shouting. Then one of the boys suddenly snatched the coat off one the other boy's back. The boy tried to hold onto his coat, but the other one was stronger. As soon as the coat was free, he and his friend ran off with it, laughing. The boy started to run after them but, in his haste, slipped and fell in the slushy snow, landing heavily on the sidewalk. The raggedy girl ran up to the boy on the ground. She was startled to find it was the very same boy who had always taunted her about her coat at school.
 
 "What happened?" she shouted.
 
 The boy on the ground was crying, tears streaming down his face. "They took my coat," he wailed. "Now I'll freeze to death."
 
 The little raggedy girl smiled. "I doubt that," she said, "but you're going to get mighty cold before you get home. You might catch a bad cold and that's no good around Christmas.
 
 Then the boy felt a gentle, soft hand wiping the tears from his cheek. "Don't cry," she said. "Here. Wear my coat until you get home."
 
 "But you'll freeze."
 
 "No I won't," the little raggedy girl answered as she took off the coat. "Mama always makes me wear this old sweater under my coat for extra protection. It's not much, but it's better than nothing. Now put on my coat and we'll walk over to your house. If we hurry, it won't be so bad."
 
 Ten minutes later, the pair arrived at the boy's house and stepped onto the porch. "Can you come in with me?" he asked. "You look positively frigid. Mom always has some hot chocolate and cookies for me when I get home on days like this."
 
 The little raggedy girl felt funny going into such a fine house, but before she knew it the little boy had taken her by the hand and was dragging her through the front door. Inside, the house looked just as nice as it had from the outside. Just as the boy was taking off the ragged coat to return to the girl, his mother met them in the vestibule. "Who is this?" she asked. "And just where is your coat, young man?"
 
 The little boy then told his mother all that had happened. When he finished, she smiled at the little raggedy girl and said, "You are welcome here. Come into the kitchen. I have some hot chocolate and fresh Toll House cookies. Eat with Mike and warm up before you go home. We'll worry about getting his coat back later."
 
 The little raggedy girl had never tasted anything so good as the cookies and cocoa in her life. Her mother was far too poor to buy such luxuries. Just before she finished, the mother walked into the kitchen with a huge box wrapped in shiny red ribbon. She placed the box in front of the little raggedy girl. "Go on and open it, honey," she said. "It's for you."
 
 The little raggedy girl opened the box. Her heart leaped into her throat. There, folded neatly inside, was a brand new coat. She looked up at the boy's mother. "Go on," the mother urged. "It's yours. Try it on. See if it fits."
 
 The little raggedy girl took the coat from the box and held it out in front of her. It was beautiful -- bright red with a warm liner and a thick, soft fur hood. And there wasn't a spot on it. She had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life. She looked up at the boy's mother. She was smiling broadly. "I had bought that coat for my niece for Christmas, but I think you deserve it much more," she said.
 
 Then the mother drove the little raggedy girl to her own front door. She thanked the woman, then ran into the house to show her Mama the new coat. After she had finished telling her story, she saw that her mother was crying. She put a small arm around her mother's thin shoulders.
 
 "I thought you would be happy, Mama," she said softly. "But if you want, I'll take the coat back. See? I still have my old one."
 
 The mother gathered her little daughter on her lap and hugged her. "I"m not unhappy, honey," she sniffed. "I'm overcome with joy. I knew that I would never be able to buy you a new coat for Christmas. Even used coats down at the mission cost too much for me. So I prayed to God that he would provide you with a new coat. And He did -- and a finer coat than I ever imagined."
 
 The mother kissed her daughter on the cheek. The little girl could feel the warm wetness of her mother's tears against her dry, cool skin. "You know," the little ragged girl said as she hugged her mother, "I really am so very rich to have a mother like you."
 
 
 
 "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
 (Romans 8:28 NIV)
 
 
 <img src="http://skywriting.net/images/pelicans2.jpg" border="0" onclick="javascript:window.open(this.src);" alt="" style="CURSOR: pointer" onload="javascript:if(this.width>screen.width-500)this.style.width=screen.width-500;" />
 
 Two Pelicans
 
 
 
 I watched as two pelicans were gliding just above the water out where the waves begin to break. There were only two, not the more typical five or six. Why only two? I have a theory.
 
 Perhaps there were two because this was a training flight. The lead pelican was the older, wiser, more experienced pelican. The second one was being trained in the fine art of pelicaning. I imagined the instructions going something like this: "Okay, Junior, you stick with me and I’ll show you how to do it," said the older pelican. In seconds they were airborne. "First, flap your wings like this. Not so fast. Slower. Smoother. Now, stop flapping and glide. Be sure to make it look effortless. That guy on the beach is taking notes. Now, here’s how you hover. Good! Now flap! Stop flapping! Flap! Stop flapping! Remember, smooth and leisurely. Excellent! Now let’s glide right down over the water where we can almost touch it, but not quite. Those humans go nuts when we do this. They wish they could do it. You’re doing great kid, but we’re not finished. This is our big moment. Ready? Stop! Drop! Splash! Up! We’re outta here! You’re doing great! Just keep doing what I do and you’ll be fine."
 
 Those two pelicans have gone on down the coast, but I see similar scenes everyday. There is the mother who sits with her daughter sharing her years of experience as a wife, a mother, and a lady. There’s the father showing his son how to hold a baseball bat and how to stand at the plate. An older mechanic patiently explains the strange noise under the hood to the new guy. An experienced teacher illustrates her technique of classroom discipline to the recent graduate. The long-time student of the Word explains a text to his disciple. Jesus when he asked Peter, "Do you love me?" People taking time to share their wisdom, explain their success, and reveal their failures. Both benefit from the experience. Many others will reap the fruit of their time together.
 
 A little later I saw the two pelicans on their way back down the coastline (I’m not absolutely sure it was the same two pelicans, but they looked like them.) This time they have switched places. I heard the older one say, "Okay, son. Your turn to lead. Take off!" Look around you. See any young pelicans wanting to learn to fly. There may be someone who needs the wisdom and experience you have. The new guy on the job, the new couple at church, that young mother who seems to have her hands full, or the young man who has just begun his walk with the Lord. You have the knowledge, you have the wisdom, and you have the gift they need. Don’t waste the opportunity! Take time and teach someone to fly!
 
 
 The Perfect Mistake
 
 
 
 My Mother's father worked as a carpenter. On this particular day, he was building some crates for the clothes his church was sending to orphanages in China. On his way home, he reached into his shirt pocket to find his glasses, but they were gone. When he mentally replayed his earlier actions, he realized what had happened; the glasses had slipped out of his pocket unnoticed and fallen into one of the crates, which he had nailed shut. His brand new glasses were heading for China!
 
 The Great Depression was at its height and Grandpa had six children. He had spent $20 for those glasses that very morning. He was really upset by the thought of having to buy another pair. "It's not fair," he told God as he drove home in frustration. "I've been very faithful in giving of my time and money to your work, and now this."
 
 Months later, the director of the orphanage was on furlough in the United States. He wanted to visit all the churches that supported him in China, so he came to speak one Sunday at my grandfather's small church in Chicago.
 
 The missionary began by thanking the people for their faithfulness in supporting the orphanage. "But most of all," he said, "I must thank you for the glasses you sent last year. You see, the Communists had just swept through the orphanage, destroying everything, including my glasses. I was desperate. Even if I had the money, there was simply no way of replacing those glasses. Along with not being able to see well, I experienced headaches every day, so my coworkers and I were much in prayer about this. Then your crates arrived. When my staff removed the covers, they found a pair of glasses wedged between two blankets.
 
 The missionary paused long enough to let his words sink in. Then, still gripped with the wonder of it all, he continued: "Folks, when I tried on the glasses, it was as though they had been custom made just for me! I want to thank you for being a part of that."
 
 The people listened, happy for the miraculous glasses. But the missionary surely must have confused their church with another, they thought. There were no glasses on their list of items to be sent overseas. But sitting quietly in the back, with tears streaming down his face, an ordinary carpenter realized the Master Carpenter had used him in an extraordinary way.
 
 There are times we want to blame God instead of thanking him! Perhaps it is something we ought to try more often, "Thank you, God, for not allowing my car to start this morning." He may have been saving your life from a car accident. "Lord Jesus, thank you for letting me lose my glasses; I'm sure they'll be put to good use or there is a lesson to be learned."
 
 I have to remember this in these times of trial with my own family.
 
 May GOD bless your week. Look for the perfect mistakes.
 
 God shall supply all your needs according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus. - Phil 4:19

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:48
"Mrs. Waterford"
 
 
 
 Everyone has a best friend in High School. It's as compulsory as taking maths. Well, my best friend was Alicia Waterford. We did the usual best-friend things: sat around talking about boys, learning to blow smoke-rings, visiting each other's houses.
 
 I loved visiting Alica. Alicia was the eldest of ten children. You would think that would make her house rather hectic. Well, it was. But it was such a nice hectic. I only had the one sister, so seeing so many siblings in the one house was like a new and different world.
 
 The best thing about the Waterford family was you could almost see the love in that house. You could certainly sense it. Until then, I thought families that really cared for each other only existed in American sitcoms. Here was the proof that they actually existed.
 
 But their obvious love for each other didn't mean they didn't have time for strangers. On the contrary. I felt more welcome in that home than I had in any other house (including my Mum and Dad's). This was over ten years ago and even now I think back to that home with a touch of nostalgia. They didn't have big hi-fi systems. The place didn't look like it belonged in a home designer magazine. But it was special. If I had the choice of having love or spotless matching linen in my house, I know which one I'd choose.
 
 And then there was Mrs Waterford (Alicia's mum). Before I go any further, I should mention that the Waterfords were strict Catholics. (You may have guessed that around the time I said "ten children"). So when I met Mrs Waterford I expected a preachy judgmental woman who considered me a bad influence on her daughter. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the exact opposite applied. Mrs Waterford welcomed me into her home as if I were her own daughter. She was not only beautiful on the outside, but inside where it really counted.
 
 After I had known Alicia for a while, Alicia suggested I accompany her to Antioch (her youth church group). I readily agreed, partly because it sounded like fun, partly because there were boys involved, but mostly because I had an earnest desire to improve my relationship with God. Mrs Waterford was a living example of why I should do so. Speeches, flyers and door-knocks don't hold nearly as much power as knowing a Christian you greatly admire.
 
 So I went along, but unfortunately good intentions aren't always enough. Soon Alicia and I grew into the habit of missing mass completely and only turning up for the social event afterwards. Predictably enough, someone said something.
 
 As far as they were concerned, I was corrupting a good Catholic girl. I was a bad influence. They never actually said any of this to me. They said it all to Mrs Waterford. I imagine they sounded somewhat like that imaginary person I thought Mrs Waterford would be before I actually met her. Anyway, I can't say for certain how the conversation went but I do know how it ended. I was banned from Antioch.
 
 I wouldn't have blamed Mrs Waterford if she'd chosen that moment to turn on me. I had kept her daughter from church. I had even introduced her to smoking. I wouldn't have blamed her if she agreed with everything the church leaders said, gave me a lecture and insisted on no uncertain terms that I was never to speak to Alicia again. Did I mention strict catholic?
 
 I wouldn't have blamed her, but it didn't happen like that. Mrs Waterford stood up for me. As I said, I wasn't there, but I know the gist of the conversation. She said they shouldn't ban me, I know that. She also mentioned something about turning away someone who may finally be turning towards God. Words to that effect, anyway. She sided with a sinner.
 
 How did Mary Magdelene feel when Jesus sided with her? I don't know. I can't imagine it. But I do know how it feels when someone good is on your side, even though you're someone bad. It's amazing.
 
 I'd like to say the church leaders changed their mind. They didn't. I never went to Antioch again. I still remained friends with Alicia, but eventually, as many high-school friendships do, we lost contact. I never see Alicia anymore. I never see Mrs Waterford. I never see anyone from that wonderful Waterford family. But I think of them every day.
 
 Mrs Waterford, if you ever see this, I'd like to tell you something. I'd like to thank you for being such a wonderful person. I'd like to thank you for remaining on my side. But most of all, I'd like to thank you for showing me what true Christians are like. You are my hero.
 
 The Church The Bible Built
 
 
 
 Many years ago the Rev. Robert Burris, now 92 years of age, worked for four and one-half years as a missionary in South China. As part of his ministry he journeyed into the mountains carrying copies of the Scriptures in Chinese for distribution. In this way, although he could not speak fluent Chinese, the people were given God's word.
 
 Toward the end of his term Mr. Burris and three companions began a 180- mile journey with 4,000 copies of the Chinese New Testament. In the first ten days about half of these New Testaments had been distributed. Then, in the remote countryside, they were stopped by five armed bandits who took everything--money, clothing, shoes--- and the remaining 2,000 copies of the New Testament. Mr. Burris and friends limped home barefooted in their shirts and trousers, glad to be alive.
 
 Approximately 25 years later when Mr. Burris was the pastor of a church in Ohio, he and his wife attended a lecture with slides presented by a missionary to South China. Among the slides shown was a picture of the very place in which he had been robbed by the bandits."Now," the missionary said,"we come to the most important slide in my collection.
 
 I call it The Miracle Church." The picture on the screen showed a large rough empty building."This is The Miracle Church," the missionary continued,"Because no one knows who started it, or how, every Sunday, 400 people attend, each with a copy of The New Testament in Chinese.
 
 No one knows were they got these New Testaments. So far as is known, no missionary or distributor ever went into these mountains which are infested with bandits and robbers. Yet today, the church is there and the people have God's Word".
 
 Mr. Burris smiled in gratitude. God's Word, taken from him that day by bandits had been building it's own church in China for 25 years.
 
 
 Robby's Special Piano Recital For His Mother
 
 
 
 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 prodigy 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 refer 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 all right. 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'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 prodigy but that night I became a prodigy... 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.
 
 
 We can all make a difference. We have thousands of opportunities a day to help realize God's plan. So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice: Do we pass along a spark of the Divine? Or do we pass up that opportunity, and leave the world a bit colder in the process? Please forward this story to the people you care about. Thank you for reading this....
 
 
 I am my neighbor's Bible
 He reads me when we meet....
 He may not even know my name,
 Yet he's reading me when we greet.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:49
Clover Alert
 
 
 
 Since childhood, I have had this special "gift" of finding four leaf clovers wherever they may be lurking.
 
 One sweet summer vacation day, several of my childhood friends and I were playing in a field filled with daisies, when I discovered a four leaf clover -- and then another, and another.
 
 The hunt was on.
 
 While my friends were unsuccessful, it wasn't long before I had bagged several four leaf clovers and a five leaf clover! Then I found a six leaf, then to my surprise and delight, a seven, an eight, and a nine.
 
 Many years later, upon opening my childhood Bible, dozens of dried, brittle memories of that day fell out bringing a smile to my face. I'd forgotten putting the clovers there for safe keeping.
 
 After marrying Roy, my second huS*and (another stroke of "luck") and moving to the house we live in now, he was working on his motorcycle in the front yard. When I took him out a glass of iced tea, I discovered he and the bike were practically rolling in a bed of four leaf clovers.
 
 Up to this point, Roy had never found a four leaf clover. Here was a prefect chance. How could he miss? Four leaf clovers were popping up everywhere. All he had to do was reach down and pick a clover, any clover. But try as he might, he couldn't see even one!
 
 Finally, I pointed my toe at the biggest one in the lot. At last, now he could say he'd at least picked one.
 
 Another time, while Roy and I were "flying" along the break down lane of Route 2 on our ten speed bikes, I squealed, "Hey, there's a four leaf clover!" He had the audacity to question my ability to recognize a four leaf clover while riding a bike.
 
 "As if you can see a four leaf clover doing forty miles an hour!"
 
 "Oh yeah, well let's turn around right now," I demanded and pedaled back to where I'd seen the clover.
 
 Standing there triumphantly, I crowed, "Here it is. Just like I said. Come see!"
 
 Looking down to where I held it between my fingers, Roy relented, "That's unbelievable!" He never questioned my unique talent after that.
 
 Last year, I spied a four leaf clover by the walkway as we carried groceries into the house.
 
 "Clover alert!" I chirped, and pointed in the general vicinity of where it was nestled among a host of threes. After staring at the ground for what seemed like an eternity, Roy finally "found" the four leaf clover.
 
 I am still hoping for the day when I can claim finding a ten leaf clover, and Roy finds a four leaf all on his own, without the assistance of the "lucky eye" he married.
 
 Do I believe in luck or coincidence? No way!
 
 Every good and perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights (James 1 :17).
 
 He puts the opportunity out there for us. It is up to the "lucky ones" to take advantage of this seeming serendipity.
 
 
 
 The Wedding Dress
 
 
 
 When a mother dreams of her daughter's wedding day she has visions of the flowing white gown and a beautiful bouquet. She pictures her huS*and, the father of the bride, walking their daughter down the aisle, arm in arm while tears of happiness blur her view.
 
 Never in those days of anticipating her daughter's Cinderella day did she once think about something equally important - the shopping for the wedding dress. But, as the mother of the bride soon learns there are many tedious steps that need to be taken before the glorious event of walking down the aisle.
 
 As a newcomer to the bridal scene I pretty much thought that if you've seen one white wedding dress you've pretty much seen them all. Did I not learn anything from the past experience of shopping for Prom gowns? This, I was to learn, would be an experience like no other. The hangers each held a variety of styles. There were the poofy-foo-foo dresses with yards and yards of material. There were A-lines, straight lines and mermaid styles for the slimmest of the slim. Organza, tulle, satin, silk and lace were just the tip of the fashion fabric iceberg.
 
 Patiently, I sat and watched as my darling daughter modeled a medley of gorgeous gowns, one prettier than the next. Any one of them could have been the perfect one. Whether fancy lace or simple satin - they all looked flawless on her petite size 6 frame. Fear of commitment seemed to be what spurned her on to visit other bridal salons.
 
 It wasn't too long ago I had been in a similar situation, but that was senior prom and I thought that was cause for an ultimate Tylenol moment! I can tell you now that shopping for a prom gown pales in comparison, and rightly so. This is a big day; one that will not only live on as a memory in our hearts but that will also live forever on the wall in the form of a framed photograph of this merry milestone in all our lives. So, it was, with minimal complaint from me, that we searched and searched some more.
 
 I was becoming quite good at going with the flow and I began to enjoy the outings. Oohing and ahhing became as natural as breathing as my daughter modeled these fantasy gowns before me. Finally she had it narrowed down to three. All were similar in style, all looked stunning and beautiful but still no commitment from the bride to be. I was now in the 'going with the flow' mode and knew she would eventually find what she was looking for.
 
 And, it did indeed happen, quite by chance. Browsing through a salon she chose a dress from the rack that I wouldn't have guessed she'd take a second look at. Her decision to try it on would change the course of our shopping adventures. It would also signal the beginning of the we ddingplanning. No sooner had she slipped into this creative vision of splendor and we both knew this was thee dress for her.
 
 There was my little girl, standing there in a white wedding gown; a white wedding veil with tiny sparkles of crystal and bugle beads trimming the edges that softly caressed her shoulders. The sight brought tears to my eyes.
 
 The message hit home as I watched her gracefully step in front of the long triple wide mirrors. My baby girl is getting married! There is no turning back only going forward, toward a new life with the man she loves.
 
 Time is flying by so fast! We've reserved the church, we have the reception hall, the DJ has been booked and the photographer has been hired. And as the date draws ever near I know the hardest part for me will be accepting that my little girl will be leaving home to make her own home and family with the man she will soon marry. For her, finding the perfect wedding dress signals the excitement of new beginnings. For me this a lesson in learning to let go, slowly and gracefully as the sound of wedding bells ring out in her not so distant future.
 
 
 
 A Lesson for a Lifetime
 
 
 
 When I arrived at 6 a.m. in the large hospital kitchen, Rose was already checking name tags on the trays against the patient roster. Stainless steel shelves held rows of breakfast trays which we would soon be serving.
 
 "Hi, I'm Janet." I tried to sound cheerful, although I already knew Rose's reputation for being impossible to work with. "I'm scheduled to work with you this week."
 
 Rose, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, stopped what she was doing and peered over her reading glasses. I could tell from her expression she wasn't pleased to see a student worker.
 
 "What do you want me to do? Start the coffee?"
 
 Rose sullenly nodded and went back to checking name tags.
 
 I filled the 40-cup pot with cold water and began making the coffee when Rose gruffly snapped, "That's not the way to make coffee." She stepped in and took over.
 
 "I was just doing it the way our supervisor showed us to do it," I said in astonishment.
 
 "The patients like the coffee better the way I do it," she replied curtly.
 
 Nothing I did pleased her. All morning her eagle eyes missed nothing and her sharp words stung. She literally trailed me around the kitchen.
 
 Later, after breakfast had been served and the dishes had been washed, I set up my share of trays for the next meal. Then I busied myself cleaning the sink. Certainly Rose couldn't criticize the way I did that.
 
 When I turned around, there stood Rose, rearranging all of the trays I had just set up!
 
 Totally exhausted, I trudged the six blocks home from the University of Minnesota Hospital late that June afternoon. As a third year university student working my way through school, I had never before encountered anyone like Rose.
 
 Fighting back tears, I wrestled with my dilemma alone in my room. "Lord, what do you want me to do? I can't take much more of Rose."
 
 I turned the possibilities over in my mind. Should I see if my supervisor would switch me to work with someone else? Scheduling was fairly flexible. On the other hand, I didn't want to be a quitter. I knew my older co-workers were watching to see if my actions matched my words.
 
 The answer to my prayer caught me completely by surprise -- I needed to love Rose.
 
 Love her? No way! Tolerate, yes, but loving her was impossible.
 
 "Lord, I can't love Rose. You'll have to do it through me."
 
 Working with Rose the next morning, I ignored the barbs thrown in my direction and did things Rose's way as much as possible to avoid friction. As I worked, I silently began to surround Rose with a warm blanket of prayers. "Lord, help me love Rose. Lord, bless Rose."
 
 Over the next few days an amazing thing began to happen. As I prayed for this irritating woman, my focus shifted from what she was doing to me, and I started seeing Rose as the hurting person she was. The icy tension began to melt away.
 
 Throughout the rest of the summer, we had numerous opportunities to work together. Each time she seemed genuinely happy to see me. As I worked with this lonely woman, I listened to her--something no one else had done.
 
 I learned that she was burdened by elderly parents who needed her care, her own health problems, and an alcoholic huS*and she was thinking of leaving.
 
 The days slipped by quickly as I finished the last several weeks of my summer job. Leaves were starting to turn yellow and red, and there was a cool, crispness in the air. I soon would be returning as a full-time university student.
 
 One day, while I was working alone in one of the hospital kitchens, Rose entered the room. Instead of her blue uniform, she was wearing street clothes.
 
 I looked at her in surprise. "Aren't you working today?"
 
 "I got me another job and won't be working here no more," she said as she walked over and gave me a quick hug. "I just came to say good-bye." Then she turned abruptly and walked out the door.
 
 Although I never saw Rose again, I still remember her vividly. That summer I learned a lesson I've never forgotten. The world is full of people like Rose--irritating, demanding, unlovable - yet hurting inside. I've found that love is the best way to turn an enemy into a friend.
 
 
 "Love your enemies! Do good to them! Lend to them! And don't be concerned that they might not repay. Then your reward from heaven will be very great, and you will truly be acting as children of the Most High, for he is kind to the unthankful and to those who are wicked."
 Luke 6:35 NLT

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:50
The Leaf and the Wind
 
 
 
 Leaf looked out across the broad, dawn-pink sky and down over the beautiful spring garden. The dewy breeze grazed it and left it shimmering, fluttering.
 
 As it moved, Leaf saw all the corners of the garden with its flowers, bushes, trees and animals. Leaf stretched to catch every sight and sound. It was a new leaf at the top of a very old tree.
 
 Leaf adored all the elements - wind, sun and rain. But it was in love with the wind.
 
 Wind gave it the freedom of motion. Without the breeze it would never have seen the world below or from side to side. Wind rocked Leaf to sleep and shook it awake. Wind made Leaf dance.
 
 Wind whistled haunting tunes through the branches, it whispered and sometimes it even sang.
 
 On many days, Wind told Leaf of the places it had been. "All across the Rivers and down to the sea have I been," whispered Wind. On that day, Leaf could even smell the scent of the water and salty places of which Wind spoke.
 
 "High up the mountain to the very door of Heaven today," Wind told, as the fresh clean smells settled down upon Leaf. "I have seen where the Blue-sky ends and birds cease to wing. I have heard the voice of Life itself and it is so beautiful."
 
 Leaf shuddered with the thought of having Life speak to it as it did to Wind. "When will life speak to me?" Leaf asked Wind.
 
 The breeze warmed as it blew over Leaf and Wind said softly, "You can Hear Life's voice in me."
 
 Whenever it blew past, be it a breeze or gale, the little green leaf waved a joyful greeting to Wind - like the hand of a happy child to a loved one.
 
 "I will love you for all time," Leaf whispered to the moving air around it. "I could not be happier."
 
 Hearing this promise Tree itself shook and emitted a deep chuckle. "I am glad you are happy now," the tree said. "Enjoy your youth and beauty while you can, for soon enough you will be withered and brown, dry as dust and blown away with by the same breeze that stirs your heart today."
 
 Leaf stiffened at these words. The other leaves said nothing. One or two fell like tears before their time, so stricken were they by the sadness.
 
 "That is not so!" Leaf cried.
 
 Tree shook again and said, "Oh but it is true. I have seen many, many leaves from many trees fall and crumble. Your time will come to curse the wind and the way of things. Wind is old and you are young. Ask Wind sometime."
 
 The tree said no more. Leaf tried not to think about what Tree had said. Of course it had heard the stories of how leaves grow old and die, but still it would never be hateful.
 
 That very day, Leaf made a decision. It shouted to the world, "I will Never hate Wind. I will not give in to fear or unhappiness."
 
 Still, the next time Wind came to call, Leaf could not help but ask. "When I become old, dry and brittle will you destroy me as Tree says," Leaf asked.
 
 Wind was silent for a long moment. "I will not destroy you my dear one," Wind said. "All Earthly things grow old and dry. That is not my doing."
 
 Leaf was shaking and Wind could see the fear beginning to overtake Leaf. Wind added, "Keep your promise not to give in to hate and sorrow and when the time comes for you to fall, I will be there to catch you. It will be a beginning and not and end for you."
 
 Again Leaf felt strong. "Tell me of your travels," Leaf said. Wind spoke well into the night.
 
 Time passed. Leaf grew and changed. At first it became very big and strong. Then, as the air grew chill, Leaf began to take on the most magnificent colors. First a yellow cast and then little patches of red and gold began to creep across it.
 
 "You are most beautiful today," whispered Wind. "I do not think that of all the leaves in the world there is one to match you."
 
 Leaf shook a bit, knowing full well that many of the others had also begun to change and take on different hues. Still, the words brought joy.
 
 "It is the beginning of the end for you and all your kind," Tree said. "Soon now, oh so soon, you will be nothing but a speck in the dirt."
 
 All the other leaves began to droop and some even tumbled from their homes early as the weight of that unhappy thought dragged them down to Earth.
 
 Not Leaf. "Words, words, words," Leaf laughed. "You cannot harm me with words. I choose to be happy with my fate. Others choose to be sad. The only one who will be sad when I am gone is you old tree for then who will you talk to?"
 
 Tree shook with frustration and anger. "You will see," Tree bellowed. "You will be dirt!"
 
 As days passed Leaf began to feel thin and tired. The bright colors that covered Leaf darkened to brown and Leaf knew its time grew short. Still it would not be sad because each day now Wind told Leaf of the wonderful adventures that were to come.
 
 Just seeing Leaf cling to happiness while all those around it fell made Tree angry. One day it could stand it no more and when Wind came to call, Tree shook for all it was worth and Leaf snapped away from its branch and began to fall.
 
 Tree watched and waited for Leaf to scream and cry, to realize what horror had just befallen it. Instead Tree heard the sound of laughter.
 
 One moment Leaf was held fast to Tree and the next it was falling, flipping end over end. "I am flying!" Leaf laughed in pure joy.
 
 "You are falling! Plunging," shouted Tree.
 
 "I am soaring like a little bird," Leaf sang out. "See how I go!"
 
 Leaf felt something lift it up. It was Wind come to keep its promise. "I cannot take you far right now, just to rest on the ground. No matter what happens, do not be afraid. I will return for you."
 
 Wind carried Leaf ever so gently to the ground and allowed it to rest there. Leaf could feel the rumble of the roots from Tree as it laughed and said," You see? Now you are ready to become like all the others. It is all just as I said. Just give up now."
 
 Leaf was not stirred to sadness by Tree's words. It did not answer, but lay quietly looking up at the world. It all looked so different now. After a time, Leaf nodded off to sleep and a long time passed before it woke.
 
 Instead of feeling old, stiff and papery, Leaf felt suddenly free to move about. It could hear wind singing softly through the trees and felt itself being lifted and spun higher and higher.
 
 "Did I not promise all would be well," crooned Wind. "You have become the dust of the Earth, so light and so fine that I can carry you anywhere with me."
 
 And so Wind did carry the dust of Leaf and scattered it over fields, onto the backs of birds that flew to mountains and into streams that led to oceans. Finally Wind seeded the clouds with the last few tiny grains that were once Leaf and Leaf came back to Earth with rains and snows.
 
 Everywhere it fell the remains of Leaf brought a grain of pure joy, a drop Of hope and touch of love for wind and life.
 
 One day in springtime Wind rustled past Tree and heard Tree telling all the young leaves about the Leaf that had loved the Wind and perished in the dirt.
 
 Wind came back through Tree singing a breezy tune, "Listen my children, but not to those who tell you that your fate is in the dirt. Listen to me instead. I will tell the tale of how you will become Heaven's Dust. Believe and you will never dread."
 
 If ever you wonder which leaves listen to Wind and not Tree, look up on a stormy day and see, which ones wave, a joyous greeting and which fall down in sorrow.
 
 
 Life Inside the Womb
 
 
 
 Once upon a time, twin boys were conceived in the womb. Seconds, minutes, hours passed as the two embryonic lives developed. The spark of life grew and each tiny brain began to take shape and form. With the development of their brain came feeling, and with feeling, perception -- a perception of surroundings, of each other, and their own lives. They discovered that life was good and they laughed and rejoiced in their hearts.
 
 One said to the other, "We are sure lucky to have been conceived and to have this wonderful world."
 
 The other chimed in, "Yes, blessed be our mother who gave us life and each other."
 
 Each of the twins continued to grow and soon their arms and fingers, legs and toes began to take shape. They stretched their bodies and churned and turned in their little world. They explored it and found the life cord which gave them life from their mother's blood. They were grateful for this new discovery and sang, "How great is the love of our mother -- that she shares all she has with us!"
 
 Weeks passed into months and with the advent of each new month, they noticed a change in each other and in themselves.
 
 "We are changing," one said. "What can it mean?"
 
 "It means," said the other, "that we are drawing near to birth."
 
 An unsettling chill crept over the two. They were afraid of birth, for they knew that it meant leaving their wonderful world behind.
 
 Said the one, "Were it up to me, I would live here forever."
 
 "But we must be born," said the other. "It has happened to all the others."
 
 Indeed, there was evidence inside the womb that the mother had carried life before theirs. "And I believe that there is life after birth, don't you?"
 
 "How can there be life after birth?" cried the one. "Do we not shed our life cord and also the blood tissue when we are born? And have you ever talked to anyone that has been born? Has anyone ever re-entered the womb after birth to describe what birth is like? NO!" As he spoke, he fell into despair, and in his despair he moaned, "If the purpose of conception and our growth inside the womb is to end in birth, then truly our life is senseless." He clutched his precious life cord to his breast and said, "And if this is so, and life is absurd, then there really can be no mothers!"
 
 "But there is a mother," protested the other. "Who else gave us nourishment? Who else created this world for us?"
 
 "We get our nourishment from this cord -- and our world has always been here?" said the one. "And if there is a mother -- where is she? Have you ever seen her? Does she ever talk to you? No! We invented the mother when we were young because it satisfied a need in us. It made us feel secure and happy."
 
 Thus, while the one raved and despaired, the other resign himself to birth and placed his trust in the hands of his mother. Hours turned into days, and days into weeks. And soon it was time. They both knew their birth was at hand, and they both feared what they did not know. As the one was first to be conceived, so he was the first to be born, the other following.
 
 They cried as they were born into the light. The coughed out fluid and gasped the dry air. And when they were sure they had been born, they opened their eyes -- seeing life after birth for the very first time. What they saw was the beautiful eyes of their mother, as they were cradled lovingly in her arms. They were home.
 
 "No eye has seen, no ear had heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him" (1 Corinthians 2:9).
 
 
 
 White Rose Wreath
 
 
 
 Vernal rebirth to our small coastal island seemed to come much later than any where else in the state of Maine.
 
 By Memorial Day, April showers had not yet kept its promise of May flowers.
 
 Due to this annual shortage, ingenious island women made up this deficit by spending days with scissors in hand, crafting miles of crepe paper into floral facsimiles fit to grace cemetery lots of their deceased loved ones.
 
 Grammie was master of this art form.
 
 She would cut stacks of pink, red, yellow, and white petal shapes. With her nimble fingers, she pulled and puffed them into lush fullness. With a rolling motion of the scissors, she fluted the petals' tips. By attaching and overlapping those petals to green paper wrapped wire stems, roses magically burst into full bloom. Or sometimes, small buds.
 
 My favorites though were the single petaled white flowers with the long yellow stamen. Grammie told me they were calla lilies. Years later, I saw my first real calla in a florist's shop and recognized it immediately. I still marvel over their simple elegance. Several of these exotic beauties have a home in my garden window.
 
 Patiently, Grammie taught me the fine art of petal arranging. My first attempts weren't very professional, but when mine were combined with hers in vases, they became breathtaking bouquets.
 
 After the flowers were completed, Grammie dipped them in melted paraffin. Instantly, they were transformed into translucent splendor that rivaled the real thing. With a bit of imagination one could almost smell their fragrant scent. I'm not so sure that Grammie didn't drop a bit of her Evening in Paris perfume from the cobalt bottle into the melted wax.
 
 As Memorial Day approached, our teachers explained its significance as a special time to honor and show appreciation to fallen American soldiers. In the mid 50s, WWII was still a haunting memory to many.
 
 To commemorate Memorial Day, students and teachers marched from school to the nearest wharf. One of the teachers offered a prayer of thankfulness for soldiers who willingly paid the ultimate sacrifice for their country. After singing God Bless America, a student solemnly tossed the wreath of white roses onto the waters of the Atlantic Ocean in honor of those buried or lost at sea.
 
 Seeing those white flowers floating on the cold, dark ocean waters left me with an indelible memory and a feeling of sadness for parents who'd never be able to welcome their loved ones home. In profound silence, we returned to school to be excused.
 
 Island women no longer painstakingly make their paper roses. Plastic Memorial flowers became a much easier alternative. The school's tradition of tossing the white wreath into the ocean ended as well. I do not know why.
 
 But I do know how my entire being filled with awe, knowing I was part of a small band of children and teachers to remember and honor the brave men who gave their lives to keep America a place where freedom rings.
 
 May they never be forgotten.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:51
 
 <img src="http://skywriting.net/images/Jesuscomfort.jpg" border="0" onclick="javascript:window.open(this.src);" alt="" style="CURSOR: pointer" onload="javascript:if(this.width>screen.width-500)this.style.width=screen.width-500;" />
 
 
 My Child . . . .
 
 
 
 
 You may not know me, but I know everything about you... Psalm 139:1
 
 
 I know when you sit down and when you rise up... Psalm 139:2
 
 
 I am familiar with all your ways... Psalm 139:3
 
 
 Even the very hairs on your head are numbered... Matthew 10:29-31
 
 
 For you were made in my image... Genesis 1:27
 
 
 In me you live and move and have your being... Acts 17:28
 
 
 For you are my offspring... Acts 17:28
 
 
 I knew you even before you were conceived... Jeremiah 1:4-5
 
 
 I chose you when I planned creation... Ephesians 1:11-12
 
 
 You were not a mistake, for all your days are written in my book... Psalm 139:15-16
 
 
 I determined the exact time of your birth and where you would live... Acts 17:26
 
 
 You are fearfully and wonderfully made... Psalm 139:14
 
 
 I knit you together in your mother's womb... Psalm 139:13
 
 
 And brought you forth on the day you were born... Psalm 71:6
 
 
 I have been misrepresented by those who don't know me... John 8:41-44
 
 
 I am not distant and angry, but am the complete expression of love... 1 John 4:16
 
 
 And it is my desire to lavish my love on you... 1 John 3:1
 
 
 Simply because you are my child and I am your father... 1 John 3:1
 
 
 I offer you more than your earthly father ever could... Matthew 7:11
 
 
 For I am the perfect father... Matthew 5:48
 
 
 Every good gift that you receive comes from my hand... James 1:17
 
 
 For I am your provider and I meet all your needs... Matthew 6:31-33
 
 
 My plan for your future has always been filled with hope... Jeremiah 29:11
 
 
 Because I love you with an everlasting love... Jeremiah 31:3
 
 
 My thoughts toward you are countless as the sand on the seashore... Psalm 139:17-18
 
 
 And I rejoice over you with singing... Zephaniah 3:17
 
 
 I will never stop doing good to you... Jeremiah 32:40
 
 
 For you are my treasured possession... Exodus 19:5
 
 
 I desire to establish you with all my heart and all my soul... Jeremiah 32:41
 
 
 And I want to show you great and marvelous things... Jeremiah 33:3
 
 
 If you seek me with all your heart, you will find me... Deuteronomy 4:29
 
 
 Delight in me and I will give you the desires of your heart... Psalm 37:4
 
 
 For it is I who gave you those desires... Philippians 2:13
 
 
 I am able to do more for you than you could possibly imagine... Ephesians 3:20
 
 
 For I am your greatest encourager... 2 Thessalonians 2:16-17
 
 
 I am also the Father who comforts you in all your troubles... 2 Corinthians 1:3-4
 
 
 When you are brokenhearted, I am close to you... Psalm 34:18
 
 
 As a shepherd carries a lamb, I have carried you close to my heart... Isaiah 40:11
 
 
 One day I will wipe away every tear from your eyes... Revelation 21:3-4
 
 
 And I'll take away all the pain you have suffered on this earth... Revelation 21:3-4
 
 
 I am your Father, and I love you even as I love my son, Jesus... John 17:23
 
 
 For in Jesus, my love for you is revealed... John 17:26
 
 
 He is the exact representation of my being... Hebrews 1:3
 
 
 He came to demonstrate that I am for you, not against you... Romans 8:31
 
 
 And to tell you that I am not counting your sins... 2 Corinthians 5:18-19
 
 
 Jesus died so that you and I could be reconciled... 2 Corinthians 5:18-19
 
 
 His death was the ultimate expression of my love for you... 1 John 4:10
 
 
 I gave up everything I loved that I might gain your love... Romans 8:31-32
 
 
 If you receive the gift of my son Jesus, you receive me... 1 John 2:23
 
 
 And nothing will ever separate you from my love again... Romans 8:38-39
 
 
 Come home and I'll throw the biggest party heaven has ever seen... Luke 15:7
 
 
 I have always been Father, and will always be Father... Ephesians 3:14-15
 
 
 My question is... Will you be my child?... John 1:12-13
 
 
 I am waiting for you... Luke 15:11-32
 
 
 Love,
 
 Your father - God!

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:54
The Harvest
 
 
 
 There was once a spider who lived in a cornfield. He was a big spider and he had spun a beautiful web between the corn stalks. He got fat eating all the bugs that would get caught in his web. He liked his home and planned to stay there for the rest of his life.
 
 One day the spider caught a little bug in his web, and just as the spider was about to eat him, the bug said, "If you let me go I will tell you something important that will save your life." The spider paused for a moment and listened because he was amused. "You better get out of this cornfield," the little bug said, "The harvest is coming!"
 
 The spider smiled and said, "What is this harvest you are talking about? I think you are just telling me a story." But the little bug said, "Oh no, it is true. The owner of this field is coming to harvest it soon. All the stalks will be knocked down and the corn will be gathered up. You will be killed by the giant machines if you stay here."
 
 The spider said, "I don't believe in harvests and giant machines that knock down corn stalks. How can you prove this?" The little bug continued, "Just look at the corn. See how it is planted in rows? It proves this field was created by an intelligent designer." The spider laughed and mockingly said, "This field has evolved and has nothing to do with a creator. Corn always grows that way." The bug went on to explain, "Oh no. This field belongs to the owner who planted it, and the harvest is coming soon." The spider grinned and said to the little bug, "I don't believe you," and then the spider ate the little bug for lunch.
 
 A few days later, the spider was laughing about the story the little bug had told him. He thought to himself, "A harvest! What a silly idea. I have lived here all of my life and nothing has ever disturbed me. I have been here since these stalks were just a foot off the ground, and I'll be here for the rest of my life, because nothing is ever going to change in this field. Life is good, and I have it made."
 
 The next day was a beautiful sunny day in the cornfield. The sky above was clear and there was no wind at all. That afternoon as the spider was about to take a nap, he noticed some thick dusty clouds moving toward him. He could hear the roar of a great engine and he said to himself, "I wonder what that could be?"
 
 
 "In the last days mockers will come, following their own lusts, and saying, 'Where is the promise of His coming?'"
 2 Peter 3:3-4
 
 
 "The Lord is not slow concerning His promise, as some count slowness, but He is patient toward you, not wanting anyone to perish, but for all to come to repentance."
 2 Peter 3:9
 
 
 Frank Riddick's Bicycles
 
 
 
 Clinton, KY -- When Frank Riddick was growing up on a farm in western Tennessee, having a bicycle seemed as remote a possibility as owning a new car. One of six children, he always had plenty to eat and wear, but there wasn't much left for luxuries.
 
 Remembering those childhood longings, two years ago he decided to provide bicycles to youngsters whose families couldn't afford to buy them one for Christmas.
 
 To initiate the effort, he turned to the county mission house. Supported by various churches, the Clinton-based ministry provides food and clothing to low-income residents of the area.
 
 In October, he posted a sign there reading, "If your child doesn't have a bike and wants one, see me or Lula Bell (Puckett, the director)."
 
 "I gave a few bikes away and told children if it broke down or they had a flat to call me," said Riddick, who retired from farming in 1995. "I didn't dream anything like this would happen."
 
 What happened is a Christmas tale to touch the hardest of Scrooges. After buying 40 new bicycles and placing a classified ad seeking used ones, word quickly circulated. Donations of bikes started pouring in to his farm three miles north of town.
 
 To date he has given away nearly 200 and has 100 more in his workshop. Each carries a license plate reading, "Jesus Loves You."
 
 But he didn't stop with free bikes. Riddick gave the children his heart.
 
 Although he had built a 1.5-acre playground on his farm for his grandchildren, three of the five now live out of state. After getting acquainted with youngsters in the community, he invited them out to the homemade attraction.
 
 It includes a cable ride the length of a football field, with capacity for four riders; a 50-foot-high tree swing and a 61-foot slide. The latter is more than four times the length of conventional slides.
 
 Among other features is a merry-go-round-like device that holds three small children. A group of high school seniors took pictures of the cable ride for their photo albums and some children have said they enjoy it as much as the old Opryland amusement park.
 
 "It's a joy to know the Lord had in mind for these needy kids to come out," he said. "A lot of these children I'm dealing with are below poverty level. They live in bad environments, some are mistreated and, without the mission house, most would be without clothes.
 
 "I'm sure every community has children like this, but I didn't know how bad it was until I started doing this," he noted.
 
 Riddick's involvement also led him to buy a 15-passenger van. Though he uses it to shuttle children to Team Kid, he primarily got it to bring them to the playground.
 
 Looking back, the member of First Baptist Church of Clinton appreciates how God spared his life three times. In the past decade he survived a bout with kidney cancer, getting electrocuted by a 7,200-volt power line, and a brain tumor that doctors thought was cancerous but turned out to be stress-related.
 
 Still, he doesn't want any acclaim for what he does, saying the glory belongs to God.
 
 "I cannot say I had a vision to do this," he said. "I had a longing in my heart. I constantly feel a need to help the needy in our community. I can look back and see how everything happening was directed by God. I just didn't have enough spiritual knowledge to know it."
 
 
 Jeremy's Egg
 
 
 
 Jeremy was born with a twisted body, a slow mind and a chronic, terminal illness that had been slowly killing him all his young life. Still his parents had tried to give him as normal a life as possible and had sent him to St. Theresa's Elementary School.
 
 At the age of 12, Jeremy was only in second grade, seemingly unable to learn. His teacher, Doris Miller, often became exasperated with him. He would squirm in his seat, drool and make grunting noises. At other times, he spoke clearly and distinctly, as if a spot of light had penetrated the darkness of his brain. Most of the time, however, Jeremy irritated his teacher.
 
 One day, she called his parents and asked them to come to St. Theresa's for a consultation. As the Forresters sat quietly in the empty classroom, Doris said to them, "Jeremy really belongs in a special school. It isn't fair to him to be with younger children who don't have learning problems. Why, there is a five-year gap between his age and that of the other students!"
 
 Mrs. Forrester cried softly into a tissue while her huS*and spoke. "Miss Miller," he said, "there is no school of that kind nearby. It would be a terrible shock for Jeremy if we had to take him out of this school. We know he really likes it here."
 
 Doris sat for a long time after they left, staring at the snow outside the window. Its coldness seemed to seep into her soul. She wanted to sympathize with the Forresters. After all, their only child had a terminal illness. But it wasn't fair to keep him in her class. She had 18 other youngsters to teach and Jeremy was a distraction. Furthermore, he would never learn to read or write. Why waste any more time trying?
 
 As she pondered the situation, guilt washed over her. "Oh God," she said aloud, "here I am complaining when my problems are nothing compared with that poor family! Please help me to be more patient with Jeremy."
 
 From that day on, she tried to ignore Jeremy's noises and his blank stares. Then one day he limped to her desk, dragging his bad leg behind him. "I love you, Miss Miller," he exclaimed loudly enough for the whole class to hear. The other children snickered, and Doris's face turned red. She stammered, "Wh-Why, that's very nice, Jeremy. Now please take your seat."
 
 Spring came, and the chidden talked excitedly about the coming of Easter. Doris told them of the story of Jesus, and then to emphasize the idea of new life springing forth, she gave each of the children a large plastic egg. "Now," she said to them, "I want you to take this home and bring it back tomorrow with something inside that shows new life. Do you understand?"
 
 "Yes, Miss Miller!" the children responded enthusiastically - all except for Jeremy. He just listened intently, his eyes never left her face. He did not even make his usual noises. Had he understood what she had said about Jesus' death and resurrection? Did he understand the assignment? Perhaps she should call his parents and explain the project to them.
 
 That evening, Doris's kitchen sink stopped up. She called the landlord and waited an hour for him to come by and unclog it. After that, she still had to shop for groceries, iron a blouse and prepare a vocabulary test for the next day. She completely forgot about phoning Jeremy's parents.
 
 The next morning, 19 children came to school, laughing and talking as they placed their eggs in the large wicker basket on Miss Miller's desk. After they completed their Math lesson, it was time to open the eggs. In the first egg, Doris found a flower. "Oh yes, a flower is certainly a sign of new life," she said. "When plants peek through the ground we know that spring is here." A small girl in the first row waved her arms. "That's my egg, Miss Miller," she called out.
 
 The next egg contained a plastic butterfly, which looked very real. Doris held it up, "We all know that a caterpillar changes and grows into a beautiful butterfly. Yes that is new life, too." Little Judy smiled proudly and said, "Miss Miller, that one is mine."
 
 Next, Doris found a rock with moss on it. She explained that the moss, too, showed life. Billy spoke up from the back of the classroom. "My Daddy helped me!" he beamed.
 
 Then Doris opened the fourth egg. She gasped. The egg was empty! Surely it must be Jeremy's she thought, and of course, he did not understand her instructions. If only she had not forgotten to phone his parents. Because she did not want to embarrass him, she quietly set the egg aside and reached for another. Suddenly Jeremy spoke up.
 
 "Miss Miller, aren't you going to talk about my egg?" Flustered, Doris replied, "but Jeremy - your egg is empty!" He looked into her eyes and said softly, "Yes, but Jesus' tomb was empty too!"
 
 Time stopped. When she could speak again, Doris asked him, "Do you know why the tomb was empty?" "Oh yes!" Jeremy exclaimed. "Jesus was killed and put in there. Then His Father raised Him up!"
 
 The recess bell rang. While the children excitedly ran out to the school yard, Doris cried. The cold inside her melted completely away.
 
 Three months later Jeremy died. Those who paid their respects at the mortuary were surprised to see 19 eggs on top of his casket, all of them empty.
 
 
 The Visitor
 
 
 
 One day, a man went to visit a church. He arrived early, parked his car, and got out. Another car pulled up near him, and the driver told him, "I always park there. You took my place!"
 
 The visitor went inside for Sunday School, found an empty seat, and sat down. A young lady from the church approached him and stated, "That's my seat! You took my place!"
 
 The visitor was somewhat distressed by this rude welcome, but said nothing. After Sunday School, the visitor went into the church sanctuary and sat down. Another member walked up to him and said, "That's where I always sit. You took my place!"
 
 The visitor was even more troubled by this treatment, but still said nothing. Later, as the congregation was praying for Christ to dwell among them, the visitor stood, and his appearance began to change. Horrible scars became visible on his hands and on his sandaled feet.
 
 Someone from the congregation noticed him and called out, "What happened to you?" The visitor replied, "I took your place."
 
 
 Addendum -- "Christ himself carried our sins in His body to the cross, so that we might die to sin and live for righteousness. It is by His wounds that you have been healed."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:56
Fallen Angel
 
 A fallen angel came to Satan and asked him for an assignment. Satan asked what kind of angel he was and he said "I am destruction, I teach foul language, anger, and indifference. I cause strife among people, especially believers, which is my specialty."
 
 "I can get them fighting over all kinds of different beliefs and idea's. I have many, many people walking around with hate in their hearts who once loved."
 
 "It is really easy, I can get them angry over money, positions, knowledge. It is almost like they are ready to get upset over how someone else lives or believes."
 
 "Just yesterday I had 2 men who are neighbors and are Christians fighting over healing and prayer. You should have seen them, I had God crying over those two. I am really glad I came when I did because one of the men's boys got to see the argument and he was really close to asking Jesus into his life, that was a close one."
 
 "Then the other day {I should get a medal for this} this 'fella Jack took one of his friends at work to church with him. This man almost decided to ask Jesus into his heart, BOY, what a struggle I had and I hate being in church. Well, this man pondered all 'nite about Jesus, but the next day while at work when Jack was near him I got another man to get into an argument with him, and man did Jack lose it, well needless to say I got his friend back, another close call."
 
 "I did lose one though, this lady just would not give up on her boy, I had him into drugs and drinking and living it up, but she just wouldn't get off her knees for him and one of God's angels got another kid to talk to him and he got saved."
 
 "Get this, that other kid loved that boy so much he even was crying with him. How do you fight someone like that? Maybe I can make his life miserable and get him back. Well, I got years to work on him. I just can't believe how easy it is to cause people to fall away from God now days. It used to be maybe 1 of every 15, today I am getting over half to be lukewarm. It is just awesome how I can cause them to lose their love, that love that would get them to die even for an enemy if it would save them."
 
 "We are winning, Satan, because even though they talk about loving one another, they don't live it!"
 
 "I am amazed at how God thinks these people would care about others like the first church did -- those people are long gone, thanks to us." As he and Satan walked away he said, "I need a real challenge -- you got anybody who thinks they are really strong?"
 
 
 
 
 Luther's Lumber
 
 
 Luther had been home from the war nearly four months, now, and worked at the Carnation Milk plant in Mt. Vernon where his wife, Jenny, worked.
 
 This morning he was in the little Miller cafe next door to the post office waiting for the mail to be "put up". Sitting across from him in the booth was his old friend, Fred Hill. They were discussing the war which was still going on in the Pacific Theatre. Recruitment posters still lined the walls of the little cafe.
 
 Fred had not been in the service, because when the war started in 1941, his parents had been in very poor health; his father with a bad heart, and his mother with cancer. He was needed at home to care for them and operate the farm. His parents had since died, and the farm was now his -- his and Maggie's.
 
 When Luther, Fred's best friend since childhood, had flown over Miller in the B-17, and when the bodies of the Hobbs boys and Billie Martin had been shipped home, and when Perry came home with hooks where his hands should have been, Fred felt guilty. He felt he had not done his part for the war effort, and in his own eyes, he was diminished.
 
 But today, it was Luther who seemed depressed. Fred asked him what was bothering him. "You seem down in the dumps, today, Luther," he said. "I can't see what could be botherin' you. You came through the war without a scratch, you got a beautiful wife and a baby on the way, you got a good job, what's the problem?"
 
 "Jenny's mother is in bad shape," said Luther. "We're going to have to take her in, and with the baby coming we don't have the room."
 
 "Can't build a room on?" asked Fred.
 
 "No lumber available," said Luther. "I've tried here, Mt. Vernon, Springfield, Joplin, and there won't be any more shipments for the duration. Who knows how long that will be?"
 
 "Tried Will's sawmill?"
 
 "Yeah, but he just saws oak, and it's green. The baby'll be here in August, and we can't wait for the lumber to dry. Besides, you can't build a whole room out of oak, anyway."
 
 "Wouldn't want to," said Fred. "Reckon the mail's up?"
 
 "Probably."
 
 The two young men left the cafe and went into the post office next door. Buford Patten, the postmaster, had raised the door to the service window, signaling that the mail was in the boxes. Luther and Fred retrieved their mail and left -- Luther to work at Mt. Vernon, and Fred back to the farm.
 
 That evening, Fred finished the milking and sat on the front porch with Maggie. "Days are gettin' longer," he said. "Man could get half a day's work done after five o'clock."
 
 "Better put your Pa's car up," said Maggie. "Radio says rain tonight."
 
 Fred's father had bought a new 1941 Ford just before his first heart attack, and the car was now Fred's. He had built a new garage for it just before Christmas, and tonight he congratulated himself on getting it built before the lumber ran out. He didn't even know it had, until Luther told him this morning.
 
 Fred drove the car into the new garage and latched the door. He walked back around the house to the front porch. Something was nagging at his mind, but he couldn't define it. He shook it off and sat on the porch with Maggie until darkness fell. They could see heat lightning in the West, and the wind started to rise. They went in the house to listen to the news of the war on the radio, and shortly went to bed.
 
 The next morning, Fred again drove his pickup into Miller for the mail. The air was fresh and clear now, the rain having washed it clean. The sun was shining, and he felt good. When he reached the cafe, Luther was there ahead of him.
 
 "Still haven't found any lumber, I guess?"
 
 "No, I asked everybody at work, and nobody knows of any. I don't know what we'll do."
 
 Now the nagging in Fred's mind defined itself. "I found the lumber for you," he said.
 
 "You did? Where?" Luther was delighted.
 
 "Fella I know. He'll let you have it free, you bein' a veteran and all. He doesn't seem to want you to know who he is, so I'll have to haul it in for you. It's good lumber, fir and pine, cut different lengths and got nails in it, but that's no problem. Tell you what, you get your foundation poured, and I'll bring you a pickup load everyday and help you build it. We'll have it done before the baby gets here."
 
 "That's a friend for you," Luther said to himself, as he drove to Mt. Vernon. That evening he came home with sacks of cement in his pickup.
 
 Luther dug and poured the foundation, and when it was ready for the footings, he told Fred.
 
 "Fine," said Fred, "I'll bring the first load over and be there when you get home from work."
 
 Fred appeared every evening with a load of lumber, and the two men worked until it was too dark to see. Sometimes Maggie came too, and the women sat in the house listening to the radio or talking about babies or Jenny's ailing mother, their sentences punctuated by the sound of the hammers outside.
 
 Over the next few weeks the new room took shape and was finished and roofed. "Where did you get the shingles?" asked Luther.
 
 "Same fella," answered Fred. "He's got all kinds of stuff."
 
 Luther didn't push. Lots of older folks liked to help out the young veterans anonymously. It was common.
 
 It was done! The women fixed the room up inside, and moved Jenny's mother in. The men went back about their business.
 
 At supper one evening, Luther told Jenny he would like to do something nice for Fred and Maggie, since they had been so helpful with the new room. "I know," said Jenny, brightly. "Maggie likes those big wooden lawn chairs like Aunt Birdie has on her lawn. Why not get them a couple of those?"
 
 "Good idea," agreed Luther, and the next Saturday he bought a couple at Callison's hardware and loaded them into his pickup.
 
 When he got out to Fred's farm, there was no one home, Fred and Maggie having gone into Springfield, shopping. "That's ok," Luther thought, "I'll just put them in the garage in case it rains."
 
 He drove around the house and into the driveway that led to Fred's new garage.
 
 The garage was gone. Only the foundation remained to show where it had been.
 
 Luther put the chairs on the front porch and drove home, tears in his eyes.
 
 The two men are now in their mid-seventies, and are still the best of friends. They never spoke of the incident. How could they?
 
 There was nothing to say.
 
 
 
 A Tug
 
 
 In some circles it is not "politically correct" to be considered a "bloody" Christian who believes in eternal salvation, but I am guilty of believing that once saved, always saved. I have been cleansed by and washed in the blood of Jesus. Knowing this, gives me a peace of God and peace with God to pillow my head every night knowing that whether I go or whether I stay, I'm a winner either way.
 
 Because I don't deserve His salvation and did not do anything to earn it, sometimes, though, I wake up not feeling saved and wondering why God it would please God to bruise His Son for me. When I do, I am reminded of a young boy, an older man, and an out-of-sight kite.
 
 The story goes of a young boy flying a kite in the park one windy afternoon. The kite was so small and so high that an elderly man sitting on a bench watching him could not see the kite high in the heavens. After watching him a few minutes, he walked over asking the young boy what he was doing.
 
 "Flying my kite." he replied.
 
 "Are you sure. I don't see anything in the sky? Perhaps, the string broke and the kite is gone."
 
 "Nope." the boy said. "I still feel a tug."
 
 That is the way it is with me. Those mornings when I wake up questioning my salvation, I feel a Heavenly tug in my heart assuring me God's Spirit has removed all condemnation and made me to sit in Heavenly places.
 
 As long as I feel that Heavenly tug, He assures me I am His and He is mine.
 
 
 
 Teddy Bear's Call
 
 
 I was on the outskirts of a little Southern town, trying to reach my destination before the sun went down. The old CB was blaring away on channel 1-9, when there came a little boy's voice on the radio line. He said, "Breaker 1-9, is anyone there? Come on back, truckers, and talk to Teddy Bear."
 
 I keyed the mike and said, "You got it, Teddy Bear."
 
 The little boy's voice came back on the air, appreciate the break. "Who we got on the other end?"
 
 I told him my handle and then he began.
 
 "Now I'm not supposed to bother you guys out there. Mom says you're busy and for me to stay off the air. But you see, I get lonely and it helps to talk cause that's about all I can do. I'm crippled and cannot walk."
 
 I came back and told him to fire up that mike, I'd talk to him as long as he'd like.
 
 "This was my dad's radio," the little boy said, "but I guess it's mine and Mom's now cause my daddy's dead. Dad had a wreck about a month ago. He was trying to get home in a blinding snow. Mom has to work now to make ends meet. I'm not much help with my crippled feet. She says not to worry that she'll make it all right. But I hear her crying sometimes late at night.
 
 "You know, there's one thing I want more than anything else to see. Ah, I know you guys are too busy to bother with me. But, you see, my dad used to take me for rides when he was home. But I guess that's all over now since my daddy's gone."
 
 Not one breaker came in on that CB as that little crippled boy talked to me. I tried hard to swallow the lump, it just would not stay down as I thought about my boy at home in my hometown.
 
 He continued, "Dad was going to take Mom and me with him later on this year. I remember him saying, 'Someday this old truck will be yours, Teddy Bear.' But I know I will never get to ride in an 18-wheeler again. But this old base will keep me in touch with all my trucker friends. Teddy Bear's going to back out now and leave you alone, 'cause it's almost time for Mom to come home. But you give me a shout when you're passing through and I'll be happy to come back to you."
 
 Well I came back and said, "Before you 10-10, what's your home 20, little CB friend?"
 
 He gave me his home address and I didn't hesitate one second because this hot load of freight was just 'gonna have to wait. I turned that truck around on a dime and headed for Jackson Street 229.
 
 As I rounded the corner, I got one heck of a shock, 18-wheelers lined up for three city blocks. I guess every trucker from miles around had caught Teddy Bear's call, and that little boy was having a ball. For as fast as one driver would carry him in, another would carry him to his truck and they'd take off again. Well you better believe I took my turn at riding Teddy Bear. And then I carried him back in and put him down in his chair. Buddy, if I never live to see happiness again, I want you to know I saw it that day in the face of that little man. We took up a collection before his mom came home. Each driver said goodbye and then they were gone. He shook my hand with a mile-long grin and said, "So long trucker, I'll catch you again."
 
 I hit that interstate with tears in my eyes. I turned on my radio and got another surprise. "Breaker 1-9," came a voice on the air, "just one word of thanks from Mom Teddy Bear. We wish each and every one a special prayer for you, 'cause you just made my little boy's dream come true."
 
 I'll sign off now before I start to cry. "May God ride with you; 10-4 and goodbye."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:58
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 The Doll and a White Rose
 
 (Love and Sadness)
 
 
 
 I hurried into the local department store to grab some last minute Christmas gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled to myself. I would be in here forever and I just had so much to do. Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I kind of wished that I could just sleep through Christmas. But I hurried the best I could through all the people to the toy department. Once again I kind of mumbled to myself at the prices of all these toys.
 
 And wondered if the grand-kids would even play with them. I found myself in the doll aisle. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy about 5 holding a lovely doll. He kept touching her hair and he held her so gently. I could not seem to help myself. I just kept looking over at the little boy and wondered who the doll was for. I watched him turn to a woman and he called his aunt by name and said, "Are you sure I don't have enough money?". She replied a bit impatiently, "You know that you don't have enough money for it."
 
 The aunt told the little boy not to go anywhere, that she had to go get some other things and would be back in a few minutes. And then she left the aisle. The boy continued to hold the doll. After a bit I asked the boy who the doll was for. He said, "It is the doll my sister wanted so badly for Christmas. She just knew that Santa would bring it". I told him that maybe Santa was going to bring it. He said, "No, Santa can't go where my sister is...I have to give the doll to my Mamma to take to her". I asked him where his sister was. He looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, "She has gone to be with Jesus.
 
 My Daddy says that Mamma is going to have to go be with her." My heart nearly stopped beating. Then the boy looked at me again and said, "I told my Daddy to tell Mamma not to go yet. I told him to tell her to wait till I got back from the store." Then he asked me if I wanted to see his picture. I told him I would love to. He pulled out some pictures he'd had taken at the front of the store.
 
 He said, "I want my Mamma to take this with her so she won't ever forget me. I love my Mamma so very much and I wish she did not have to leave me. But Daddy says she will need to be with my sister." I saw that the little boy had lowered his head and had grown so very quiet.
 
 While he was not looking I reached into my purse and pulled out a handful of bills. I asked the little boy, "Shall we count that money one more time?". He grew excited and said, "Yes, I just know it has to be enough." So I slipped my money in with his and we began to count it. Of course it was plenty for the doll. He softly said, "Thank you Jesus for giving me enough money." Then the boy said, "I just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll so Mamma can take it with her to give to my sister. And he heard my prayer. I wanted to ask him for enough to buy my Mamma a white rose, but I didn't ask him, but he gave me enough to buy the doll and a rose for my Mamma.
 
 She loves white roses so very, very much." In a few minutes the aunt came back and I wheeled my cart away. I could not keep from thinking about he little boy as I finished my shopping In a totally different spirit than when I had started. And I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper several days earlier about a drunk driver hitting a car and killing a little girl and the Mother was in serious condition. The family was deciding on whether to remove the life support. Now surely this little boy did not belong with that story.
 
 Two days later I read in the paper that the family had disconnected the life support and the young woman had died. I could not forget the little boy and just kept wondering if the two were somehow connected. Later that day, I could not help myself and I went out and bought some white roses and took them to the funeral home where the young mother was.
 
 And there she was holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful doll, and the picture of the little boy in the store. I left there in tears, my life changed forever. The love that little boy had for his little sister and his mother was overwhelming. And in a split second a drunk driver had ripped the life of that little boy to pieces.
 
 
 
 Thank God For Pain
 
 
 
 
 
 Sometimes a very unexpected blessing can come out of pain - if we only look for it and see it for what it is. Thank you to Besty for this reminder!
 
 
 Thank God for pain. I have thanked God for many, many blessings throughout my lifetime, but never for pain. Until now.
 
 This particular pain began in February 2000. It was sharp, constant, on my left side, and the left side of my back. Little did I know it would be the life I would know for over two years.
 
 I went to doctors, who did many tests and never found the true problem. Then, just a few months later, that pain would be accompanied by a high fever, nausea, vomiting two to three times a week, and would last for 3 months. More tests. Again, nothing was found, so one doctor decided it was all in my head. (I have found out that some doctors like to say that to a patient when they cannot figure out what is wrong).
 
 Eventually, after 2 rounds of antibiotics that I had to practically beg, borrow and steal from this same skeptical doctor, I had no more pain, fever or nausea. For two more months, I would remain pain, fever and nausea free. Then it returned.
 
 By this time, however, my huS*and, Dale, had developed more problems with one of his two blood diseases, eventually having to have chemotherapy (I have written for 2TheHeart about Dale's story) in 2001. My concentration remained focused on my huS*and's health, all the while, my sharp pain, occasional fever and nausea were ever present. Despite that, for the next several months, God, Dale's doctors and I would all work together to get him successfully into remission.
 
 Still having pain this time last year, I had made a promise to Dale once he was in remission, that I would finally go back to the doctor. This time, a new doctor, who not only believed the problems I had were real, he immediately set me up with a local gastroenterologist. A colonoscopy was done, revealing Diverticulosis (the cause of the sharp pain, nausea, fever and vomiting, as it had become infected and turned into Diverticulitis). Having the mystery of the few years of intense pain and all other symptoms cleared up was a HUGE relief. However...
 
 I had this colonoscopy for another reason...a reason that I could not have possibly known about, nor, until the procedure was done, could the doctor have known. For there amidst the Diverticulosis, were several polyps. The doctor was very surprised to find so many of them in someone my age (I was 37 at the time of the exam last year). The doctor removed and biopsied one large polyp and burned the rest. The biopsy revealed that the polyps were PRE-CANCEROUS. A follow-up appointment with the gastroenterologist confirmed that it was quite possible that in a year...approximately now...I could have indeed had full blown colon cancer. Had I not had the pain, I would not have had the immediate need for a colonoscopy. Had I not had the colonoscopy when I did, the pre-cancer would not have been found soon enough.
 
 God works in mysterious ways, and I truly DO thank God for pain.
 
 
 
 Three Cows
 
 
 
 It was a year I will never forget! 1988 would see my family move back to the States after spending eight of the most rewarding years of our lives in the mission field of Thailand. Our departure was more sudden than we had anticipated, as there were problems in our home congregation and the money just was not there. Paula and I prayed for wisdom, and the answer came loud and clear. Yet, we had made so many friends; and it was difficult to pack up eight years into shipping crates and footlockers, get on a train which would take us to an airplane, and just leave!
 
 But we did!
 
 However, before we left, we spent several weeks traveling all over the country saying good bye to those we loved so much. It was a difficult assignment, but God provided the grace we all needed.
 
 I remember one particular good bye that will stay with me forever, or I hope it does. His name was Paw Phim. Paw in the Thai language is a term of respect and endearment for older men. It is equivalent to our "Father."
 
 Paw Phim had become like a second father to me, for it was in his village that I preached my first sermon in Thai. On that particular day, I knew no one understood, but Paw Phim took my hand after the sermon and told me it was one of the finest sermons he had ever heard.
 
 Years later I would ask Paw Phim if he really understood what I said, and he told me, "Of course not, but what your face and heart said on that day spoke much louder than what came out of your mouth. I knew then that you loved the Thai people, and it was then I became to love you like a son."
 
 WOW! Aren't I a lucky man?
 
 Paw Phim was the last stop on my circuit of "good byes." It was the most difficult. I didn't usually bring food when I went to visit him because it offended him. But I was tired of seeing him get up at 4:00 in the morning and walk over a mile on those swollen, beaten up knees, to go to a small pond to seine a few little fish for me to have in my soup and rice for breakfast. I was tired of seeing his family do without so I could have a little meat with my rice and vegetables at the evening meal. For my last visit, I brought two chickens and a bag full of vegetables and fruit. He didn't like it one bit and accepted it begrudgingly.
 
 However, I was not to outdo Paw Phim! At our last meal, we had roasted beef along with a host of other delicacies. It was unbelievable! We never had beef -- there just wasn't any to be had -- water buffalo, yes, but not real beef from a cow! Yet there it was.
 
 I asked him where he got it and he told me not to worry about it. I was to eat it and enjoy it for this was the least he could do for me before we had to say our good byes. I kept digging, because I wanted to know what he had just done for me. It was then that my heart began to break, for I found out that Paw Phim had slaughtered his only cow, which gave milk to his grand-kids, so I could have beef at our last meal.
 
 I gently rebuked him and offered to give him money to buy another cow. It was then that these words poured out of his weather-beaten face, "Joe, I didn't give my cow to you, I gave it to God. Do you think I would do that for you?"
 
 Again, WOW! How does God make people like this? I don't know, but everyone should have a Paw Phim in his or her life!
 
 This story came to its powerful conclusion three years later. I went back to visit my second home in Thailand. Of course I went to see Paw Phim. His health was bad, but his mind and heart were the same. He asked me if I remembered that cow he had slaughtered, and I said that I had. He then took my hand and led me to the back of his house. Standing there were three beautiful cows!
 
 I asked Paw Phim where he got them, and his answer? "Where do you think I got them, Joe? God delivered them to me three weeks after you left!" No, I didn't buy those cows, but someone did! How God provided those three cows I'll never know, but I don't need to know!
 
 The point of this story is not about the cows, but about the faith and trust of a Thai Christian named Paw Phim who lives on the other side of the world, yet still teaches us that faith and trust will always win the day! Thank you Paw Phim! I'll see you soon.
 ~ By: Joe Bagby ~
 
 
 Now I want to tell you, dear brothers and sisters, what God in his kindness has done for the churches in Macedonia. Though they have been going through much trouble and hard times, their wonderful joy and deep poverty have overflowed in rich generosity. For I can testify that they gave not only what they could afford but far more. And they did it of their own free will. They begged us again and again for the gracious privilege of sharing ... (2 Corinthians 8:1-4).

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-24 23:59
Yard Sale Salvation
 
 
 
 I learned something new yesterday -- yes, it occasionally happens!
 
 Want to know what I learned? I learned that yard sales are a world unto themselves, a veritable counterculture of deal-seeking bargain hunters. Yep, it's a yard-eat-yard world out there, where unsuspecting amateurs have nary a chance!
 
 Yesterday we had a yard sale as a fund raiser for our youth group. What a wonderful experience! We met some great people! Some of them were obviously part of the yard scene. Others were curious tourists -- mere dabblers in the sport of yardery. The hardened yardalists were easy to spot in the crowd. They showed up out of nowhere, a half an hour before the sale was scheduled to start. Like locusts off the dry prairie, they descended upon the tables to pick and plunder. When they were done, all that was left were the carcasses of a few nondescript nicknacks and a pile of clothes destined for that great rag shop in the sky.
 
 And what were they looking for? It can be summed up in one word -- BARGAINS! They were after the rare, the treasured, the missing piece to a set. Some specialized in clothes, others on records, still more on books. Bottom line, people have only so much money and yard sales can be a great place to find what you're looking for at the price you want to pay.
 
 So, what's the spiritual bargain in this deal? One person's junk is another's treasure. One person's clutter is another's collectible. Let me state it this way -- the value we place on something is subjective. I no longer value something enough to keep it around; you on the other hand value it enough to pay for it -- that's the law of the yard sale.
 
 So the question is: What about you? What are you worth? Again, the answer's going to be subjective, isn't it? You might be worth a lot to your family, but zip to the neighbor across the street who doesn't like the dandelion count on your lawn. You may be worth lots to a car salesman until you sign on the dotted line. Then . . . You may have been worth something to your employer, but then in this day of cutbacks and downsizing: "I'm sorry, I'm afraid your position has been deemed obsolete. In this crazy world that values baby seals more than human lives, there's nothing that can guarantee our desirability or worth.
 
 But in God's Kingdom, things are different. 1 Corinthians 6:20 says, "you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body." We were bought at a price. What price? The price of God's own Son. The price of blood shed on a cross. Let's face it. You and I were on display at the cosmic yard sale, gathering dust because our sin, our weakness, our rebellion had left us so tarnished that no one would consider us valuable. No one that is, except God. He valued us enough to send His Son to pay our price. Amazing!
 
 The next time your neighbor, your family, your employer, the world in general, or your own heart tells you that you're worthless, just look up. Look up and thank God for once and for all determining your eternal worth to be far greater than the life or comfort of His own Son. Now, you tell me, who got the better end of this bargain?
 
 
 Four Seasons of a Tree
 
 
 
 Don't judge a life by one difficult season.
 
 There was a man who had four sons. He wanted his sons to learn to not judge things too quickly. So he sent them each on a quest, in turn, to go and look at a pear tree that was a great distance away.
 
 The first son went in the winter, the second in the spring, the third in summer, and the youngest son in the fall.
 
 When they had all gone and come back, he called them together to describe what they had seen.
 
 The first son said that the tree was ugly, bent, and twisted. The second son said no - it was covered with green buds and full of promise.
 
 The third son disagreed, he said it was laden with blossoms that smelled so sweet and looked so beautiful, it was the most graceful thing he had ever seen.
 
 The last son disagreed with all of them; he said it was ripe and drooping with fruit, full of life and fulfillment.
 
 The man then explained to his sons that they were all right, because they had each seen but one season in the tree's life.
 
 He told them that you cannot judge a tree, or a person, by only one season, and that the essence of who they are - and the pleasure, joy, and love that come from that life - can only be measured at the end, when all the seasons are up.
 
 If you give up when it's winter, you will miss the promise of your spring, the beauty of your summer, fulfillment of your fall. Don't let the pain of one season destroy the joy of all the rest.
 
 
 
 Parable Of The Pencil
 
 
 
 The Pencil Maker took the pencil aside, just before putting him into the box. "There are 5 things you need to know," he told the pencil, "Before I send you out into the world. Always remember them and never forget, and you will become the best pencil you can be."
 
 "One: You will be able to do many great things, but only if you allow yourself to be held in Someone's hand."
 
 "Two: You will experience a painful sharpening from time to time, but you'll need it to become a better pencil."
 
 "Three: You will be able to correct any mistakes you might make."
 
 "Four: The most important part of you will always be what's inside."
 
 "And Five: On every surface you are used on, you must leave your mark. No matter what the condition, you must continue to write."
 
 The pencil understood and promised to remember, and went into the box with purpose in its heart.
 
 
 Now replacing the place of the pencil with you. Always remember them and never forget, and you will become the best person you can be.
 
 One: You will be able to do many great things, but only if you allow yourself to be held in God's hand. And allow other human beings to access you for the many gifts you possess.
 
 Two: You will experience a painful sharpening from time to time, by going through various problems, but you'll need it to become a stronger person.
 
 Three: You will be able to correct any mistakes you might make.
 
 Four: The most important part of you will always be what's on the inside.
 
 And Five: On every surface you walk through, you must leave your mark. No matter what the situation, you must continue to do your duties.
 
 By understanding and remembering, let us proceed with our life on this earth having a meaningful purpose in our heart.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:01
<img src="http://skywriting.net/images/sun-clouds2.jpg" border="0" onclick="javascript:window.open(this.src);" alt="" style="CURSOR: pointer" onload="javascript:if(this.width>screen.width-500)this.style.width=screen.width-500;" />
 
 A Day at Work
 
 
 
 Some folks have a tendency to believe a bad day fishing is better than a good day at work. Then along comes a day like today. The two inch snow that was predicted had turned in to a six incher, and more in some of the drifts. And at three AM, it made for a pretty interesting trip to work. A half-hour later, I had the windshield cleared and backed up to the door to load. By five, the bread was loaded and ready to roll.
 
 Everything went pretty well, considering the parking lots were far from being cleared. Everything that was taken in was either packed or dragged. Around seven o'clock, it started getting light. I was headed down a two-lane highway, going to the "country" part of the route, and just starting to see the beauty of the first snowfall. Just a few more stops, then I'd turn and head North, to the top end of the route.
 
 Just a few miles out of town, the countryside starts changing. The rolling hills and valleys are considered to be the foothills of the Ozarks. With the snowfall fresh on the landscape, it was a quite a sight. The hilltops were capped with snow, and the valleys were blanked with a deep white layer, drifting sometimes even deeper. The trees were laden with snow, their limbs drooping under the weight. As I topped the highpoint, I stopped the truck just to look out over the landscape. The winter scene spread out before me like a giant painting. With the white trees, and everything covered, and the gray sky background, it gave everything a quiet and peaceful setting.
 
 I was surprised to see a beam of sunshine break through the clouds, and shine in to the crystals of ice and snow. The light broke into thousands of tiny rainbows from the natural prisms. A small stream wound it's way down and around the hills, it's crystal water bubbling over the stones and gravel, and ran by close to the road. Just down and off to the right, a deer had stopped for a drink from the stream, and was staring, unafraid. The whole scene was like a moment suspended in time, not moving, just there to be appreciated, savored.
 
 At that particular moment, it was easy to feel very small, almost insignificant. And I realized that all of this, no matter how large or small, is Gods creation. And that nothing he created is insignificant or unimportant to him. Everything has its space and reason for being, a purpose. Everything. A snowflake, an ice crystal, a rainbow that dances like the laughter of a child. Everything . . .
 
 
 
 <img src="http://skywriting.net/images/hug-me-bear2.jpg" border="0" onclick="javascript:window.open(this.src);" alt="" style="CURSOR: pointer" onload="javascript:if(this.width>screen.width-500)this.style.width=screen.width-500;" />
 
 
 It was there waiting for me. I knew the moment I walked up to it, that I had to connect.
 
 "Hug me!" the small sign read on the teddy bear, so I did.
 
 Music played. A wonderful melody unlike any other I've ever heard before.
 
 "I didn't think that worked anymore," someone said.
 
 She startled me.
 
 "I didn't think anyone was around," I said smiling. I felt foolish standing there hugging a bear.
 
 "That's been sitting there for years. I don't know why we don't throw it out," she said.
 
 "I'm guessing that's because there's still music left inside. What a waste that would be. To throw something away that still had music left inside."
 
 I knew the moment I said that, there was a point to be made here.
 
 The year is coming to a close and I was searching for a message to share with you.
 
 How'd you do? I mean, really, how did you do?
 
 Isn't it that time to reflect back over the past year and think about all the good, bad and indifferent?
 
 In the wee small hours of the evening on that last day of the year, we begin to think about all we accomplished or all we didn't accomplish.
 
 We listen to the sirens, horns, and noisemakers of the people around the world celebrating the coming of the new year. We've come far enough in life to wonder what it will bring this time.
 
 Permit me to remind you that one year ago, I was sitting in my living room scared out of my mind.
 
 Marianne had just found out she had breast cancer and 2005 was frightening.
 
 Now look how far we've come. The year I feared turned out to be a year of hope, faith and love.
 
 Hope for the future, strengthened by faith and encouraged by the love of thousands of friends I've never met. You.
 
 I can also remember all too many new years when I saw nothing but emptiness ahead. I was hopeless and lost.
 
 I thought there was no music left in me.
 
 But God knew better. He always sent someone into my life who sensed that need to connect. Pausing for a moment on their own journey, their kind words, loving concern and gentle touch brought me to life.
 
 They brought out the music in my soul.
 
 It was as though I had a sign on me that said..."Hug me."
 
 I am a hugger, you know.
 
 I believe that there is music left inside of you that needs to play again.
 
 There is a song, your song, unlike any other. It was written just for you. It cannot be played by anyone else, at any other time in the history of the world.
 
 You are sitting there tonight waiting for someone to remind you.
 
 Here I am. God sent me with these words.
 
 2006. Your music. The world needs your music.
 
 I see a sign in front of you that says, "Hug me!"
 
 Consider yourself hugged! Now listen to the music.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:03
Who's Your Daddy?
 
 
 
 A number of years ago a seminary professor was vacationing with his wife in Gatlinburg, Tennessee where they were eating breakfast at a little restaurant, hoping to enjoy a quiet family meal.
 
 While they were waiting for their food, they noticed a distinguished looking, white-haired man moving from table to table visiting with the guests. The professor leaned over and whispered to his wife:
 
 "I hope he doesn't come over here." But sure enough, the man did come over to their table.
 
 "Where are you folks from?" he asked in a friendly voice.
 
 "Oklahoma," they answered.
 
 "Great to have you here in Tennessee," the stranger said. "What do you do for a living?"
 
 "I teach at a seminary," he replied.
 
 "Oh, you teach preachers how to preach? Well, I've got a really great story for you." And with that, the gentleman pulled up a chair and sat down at the table with the couple.
 
 "See that mountain over there?" (pointing out the restaurant window). Not far from the base of that mountain, there was a boy born to an unwed mother. He had a hard time growing up, because every place he went, he was always asked the same question:
 
 'Hey boy, Who's your daddy?'
 
 Whether he was at school, in the grocery store or drug store, people would ask the same question, "Who's your daddy?" He would hide at recess and lunchtime from other students. He would avoid going into stores because that question hurt him so bad.
 
 When he was about 12 years old, a new preacher came to his church. He would always go in late and slip out early to avoid hearing the question, "Who's your daddy?" But one day, the new preacher said the benediction so fast he got caught and had to walk out with the crowd.
 
 Just about the time he got to the back door, the new preacher not knowing anything about him, put his hand on his shoulder and asked him,
 
 "Son, who's your daddy?"
 
 The whole church got deathly quiet. He could feel every eye in the church looking at him. By now, everyone knew the answer to the question, 'Who's your daddy?'
 
 This new preacher, though, sensed the situation around him and using discernment that only the Holy Spirit could give, said the following to that scared little boy...
 
 'Wait a minute!' he said, 'I know who you are. I see the family resemblance now. You are a child of God.'
 
 With that he patted the boy on his shoulder and said:
 
 'Boy, you've got a great inheritance. Go and claim it.'
 
 With that, the boy smiled for the first time in a long time and walked out the door a changed person. He was never the same again. Whenever anybody asked him, 'Who's your Daddy?' he'd just tell them,
 
 'I'm a Child of God.'
 
 The distinguished gentleman got up from the table and said, "Isn't that a great story?"
 
 The professor responded that it really was a great story! As the man turned to leave, he said,
 
 "You know, if that new preacher hadn't told me that I was one of God's children, I probably never would have amounted to anything!" And he walked away.
 
 The seminary professor and his wife were stunned. He called the waitress over and asked her,
 
 "Do you know who that man was who just left who was sitting at our table?" The waitress grinned and said,
 
 "Of course. Everybody here knows him. That's Ben Hooper. He's the former governor of Tennessee!"
 
 [ by Dr. Fred Craddock (Emory University) -- from JC, via (InspiredBuffalo@lighthouse.net) ]
 
 
 
 
 The Right One
 
 
 My grandma and grandpa celebrated their 55th anniversary surrounded by their children, grandchildren, and a lifetime collection of friends. I thought that Grandma had forgotten anything she may have known about being single. I was wrong.
 
 As she was getting ready for the party, arranging her long white hair in a French twist, my grandma commented, "I'm always surprised when I look in the mirror and see all these wrinkles." Holding her hand over her heart, she added, "In here, I'm still a young woman." She applied bright red lipstick.
 
 I sat on the bed watching her primp. "So, what is the secret of a long happy marriage?"
 
 She sprayed floral cologne on her wrists. "Don't settle."
 
 I must have looked puzzled.
 
 "Don't settle. That is all you need to know." She tucked a stray wisp of hair in place.
 
 I twisted my own hair around my fingers hoping to coax it into curl. Turning the page of Grandma's photo album, I saw an out-of-focus photo of nondescript steps.
 
 "Where's this?"
 
 "That is where your grandpa proposed to me; we had known each other six weeks. When he first saw me, he told his cousin that he had seen the girl he was going to marry. That was before we had even spoken one word to each other."
 
 "Six weeks?" My images of Edwardian modesty shattered. My grandma was born in 1890. Opposite the picture of the steps was a sepia studio portrait of a ringleted young woman with limpid eyes. That was Grandma, in the high-collared lace blouse, her mouth primly shut, her huge eyes staring off into the unknown future. "I thought people used to have a long courtship."
 
 "I had a long courtship, it just wasn't with your grandfather." She giggled. Grandma's eyes had not changed since that young girl held her rigid pose for the photographer.
 
 My grandma was one of 13 children. Her parents had a large house which Grandma described as a mansion. They were an unusual family for the turn-of-the century. One of Grandma's sisters was a bookkeeper. Her sister Ceil was an attorney; a plaque on a building in McKeesport, Pennsylvania marks the site of her office.
 
 Grandma always wanted to be a wife and mother. She was 25 when she married my grandfather.
 
 "Grandma, I always thought things were different back then. I thought maybe Grandpa came over and sat around the den or parlor or whatever for years before he proposed."
 
 Grandma smiled and moved closer, just like one of my friends settling in for a good gossip. "I kept company with another man for six years. He kept pushing me to marry him. I kept saying `I don't want to leave my mother,' or I'm not ready.' I said this, I said that. The truth was, there was no spark; he was nice, but he just wasn't the one."
 
 I leaned forward. The years had fallen off Grandma's voice. Her speech sounded young, expectant.
 
 "Everyone kept saying, `Annie, so when are we dancing at your wedding?' People talked-people have always liked to talk-there was talk I'd end up an old maid. We took that kind of thing seriously. I didn't say anything. I kept going out with him, but something stopped me from getting engaged. He wasn't the one. My mother was worried about me. I wasn't worried. I knew that there was someone, somewhere. I wasn't ready to settle."
 
 She looked at our faces in the ornately framed mirror. In my face she saw the young woman she had been, in her face I saw my future. She squeezed my hand.
 
 "So, then I met your grandfather. He saw me out walking with my friends and found-who knows how-that he knew my cousin. In a few days, he managed to come calling with my cousin. I never saw the other man again."
 
 "Six weeks later your grandpa proposed." She started laughing until tears gathered in her eyes, tiny droplets glinting like the diamond stud earrings in her ears. "He said he needed a wife to manage his money. He didn't have two dimes to rub together."
 
 "Did you know that before you married him?" I asked, thinking of the tales I had heard about her well-off parents.
 
 "Of course I knew that. I also knew he was the one I had waited for," she said. She looked at our faces in the ornately framed mirror. In my face she saw the young woman she had been; in her face I saw my future. I kissed Grandma's cheek, knowing I would never settle. I would wait for the right one, and now I was certain I would know him when I saw him.
 
 
 
 Sacrifice Play
 
 
 
 In Brooklyn, New York, Chush is a school that caters to learning disabled children. Some children remain in Chush for their entire school career, while others can be main streamed into conventional schools.
 
 At a Chush fund-raising dinner, the father of a Chush child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all that attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, "Where is the perfection in my son Jerry?
 
 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 Jerry:
 
 One afternoon Jerry and his father walked past a park where some boys Jerry knew were playing baseball. Jerry asked, "Do you think they will let me play?" Jerry's father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Jerry's father understood that if his son were chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging.
 
 Jerry's father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Jerry could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. 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
 
 Jerry's father was ecstatic as Jerry smiled broadly. Jerry was told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Jerry's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Jerry's team scored again and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Jerry was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Jerry bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game?
 
 Surprisingly, Jerry was given the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Jerry didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However, as Jerry stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Jerry should at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came in and Jerry swung clumsily and missed. One of Jerry's teammates came up to Jerry 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 Jerry.
 
 As the pitch came in, Jerry and his teammate swung the bat 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. Jerry 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, "Jerry, run to first. Run to first!" Never in his life had Jerry 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 that would tag out Jerry, who was still running. 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."
 
 Jerry ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home.
 
 As Jerry reached second base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, "Run to third." As Jerry rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, "Jerry run."
 
 Jerry 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."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:05
Laughing with Dad
 
 
 A couple of weeks ago, my dad, who is seventy-six, had total knee replacement surgery on his left knee. He came through the surgery just fine and although they told him he would be in the hospital five days he was able to leave in three. He had a local anesthetic and was able to see and hear everything that went on in the operating room.
 
 Later in his room, he was laughing as he told the story of hearing the hammer and saw as they took out the bone. With a smile on his face and a mischievous glint in his eye, he advised the Dr's they needed 2 sharpen the saw, since he could smell the bone burning as they removed it, which of course meant the blade was dull.
 
 He came home and is doing the exercises the therapist gave him and even when it hurts he manages to laugh at the pain and make jokes about the new metal knee being heavier, which makes it harder to lift, but lift, bend and move it he does.
 
 The other day, one of the rubber tips on his walker wore out and not wanting to mar the carpet or the kitchen floor, he went to his shop to find a new rubber tip. I was visiting with my mom and after some time had passed we got concerned, so I went out to see if he was ok. I walked into the shop to find him sitting on the stool at his work bench laughing. I asked what in the world he was doing. He proceeded to explain that since the rubber tip he had gone to replace would not fit his walker he was changing legs. It seems Mom's walker, that she had used when she had double knee replacement surgery five years ago, was broken on the top, but the legs were better than the ones on his walker.
 
 I asked what was so funny about that. He said he was stuck. Those legs wouldn't fit and now he couldn't get the one leg he had changed off and he couldn't get back to the house without his walker.
 
 Together my dad, with the bum knee perched on his stool and I, with the crippled arms and hands, worked and worked laughing all the while. The more trouble we had the harder we laughed. We did finally get the walker fixed and got back to the house. We were both tired and feeling the physical pain, but we had created a wonderful soul soothing, heart warning memory. I have been fortunate enough to have many such minutes with my dad.
 
 You have a choice about how you let life affect you. You can moan, groan, wallow in self pity and be miserable. Or, you can focus on things beyond the pain and hurt life brings, find the humor and look for the positives. That is a lesson I have learned from both my parents. If I could go back and pick my parents, I wouldn't hesitate for a minute, I'd pick them.
 
 
 
 The Gold And Ivory Tablecloth
 
 
 
 At Christmas time men and women everywhere gather in their churches to wonder anew at the greatest miracle the world has ever known. But the story I like best to recall was not a miracle --not exactly. It happened to a pastor who was very young. His church was very old. Once, long ago, it had flourished. Famous men had preached from its pulpit, 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.
 
 But 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 thee 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 the 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 huS*and 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; that she and her huS*and had opposed the Nazis and decided to leave the country. They were advised to go separately. Her huS*and 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! HIS true love seems to find a way.
 
 
 
 One Person
 
 
 
 The following is adapted from a story that is reported to be true, as told by Leah Curtin R.N., in "Nursing Management Magazine."
 
 One Person... {can make a difference.}
 
 Dr. Frank Mayfield was touring TewkS*ury Institute when, on his way out, he accidentally collided with an elderly floor maid. To cover the awkward moment Dr. Mayfield started asking questions, "How long have you worked here?"
 
 "I've worked here almost since the place opened," the maid replied.
 
 "What can you tell me about the history of this place?" he asked.
 
 "I don't think I can tell you anything, but I could show you something."
 
 With that, she took his hand and led him down to the basement under the oldest section of the building. She pointed to one of what looked like small prison cells, their iron bars rusted with age, and said, "That's the cage where they used to keep Annie."
 
 "Who's Annie?" the doctor asked.
 
 "Annie was a young girl who was brought in here because she was incorrigible-which means nobody could do anything with her. She'd bite and scream and throw her food at people. The doctors and nurses couldn't even examine her or anything. I'd see them trying with her spitting and scratching at them. I was only a few years younger than her myself and I used to think, 'I sure would hate to be locked up in a cage like that.' I wanted to help her, but I didn't have any idea what I could do. I mean, if the doctors and nurses couldn't help her, what could someone like me do?
 
 "I didn't know what else to do, so I just baked her some brownies one night after work. The next day I brought them in. I walked carefully to her cage and said, 'Annie I baked these brownies just for you. I'll put them right here on the floor and you can come and get them if you want.' Then I got out of there just as fast as I could because I was afraid she might throw them at me. But she didn't. She actually took the brownies and ate them.
 
 "After that, she was just a little bit nicer to me when I was around. And sometimes I'd talk to her. Once, I even got her laughing. One of the nurses noticed this and she told the doctor. They asked me if I'd help them with Annie. I said I would if I could. So that's how it came about that every time they wanted to see Annie or examine her, I went into the cage first and explained and calmed her down and held her hand. Which is how they discovered that Annie was almost blind."
 
 After they'd been working with her for about a year-and it was tough sledding with Annie-the Perkins institute for the Blind opened its doors. They were able to help her and she went on to study and became a teacher herself.
 
 Annie came back to the TewkS*ury Institute to visit, and to see what she could do to help out. At first, the Director didn't say anything and then he thought about a letter he'd just received. A man had written to him about his daughter. She was absolutely unruly-almost like an animal.
 
 He'd been told she was blind and deaf as well as 'deranged' He was at his wit's end, but he didn't want to put her in an asylum. So he wrote here to ask if we knew of anyone-any teacher-who would come to his house and work with his daughter.
 
 And that is how Annie Sullivan became the lifelong companion of Helen Keller.
 
 When Helen Keller received the Nobel Prize, she was asked who had the greatest impact on her life and she said, "Annie Sullivan." But Annie said, "No Helen. The woman who had the greatest influence on both our lives was a floor maid at the TewkS*ury Institute."
 
 Post Script -- History is changed when one person asks: What can someone like me do?
 
 
 Our Greatest Gift
 
 
 
 "Recently, a friend told me a story about twins talking to each other in the womb. The sister said to the brother, "I believe there is life after birth."
 
 Her brother protested vehemently, "No, no, this is all there is. This is a dark and cozy place, and we have nothing else to do but cling to the cord that feeds us.
 
 The little girl insisted. "There must be something more than this dark place. There must be something else, a place with light where there is freedom to move." Still she could not convince her twin brother.
 
 After some silence, the sister said, hesitantly, "I have something else to say, and I'm afraid you won't believe that either, but I think there is a mother."
 
 Her brother became furious. "A mother!" He shouted. "What are you talking about? I have never seen a mother, and neither have you. Who put that idea in your head? As I told you, this place is all we have. Why do you always want more? This is not such a bad place, after all. We have all we need, so let's be content."
 
 The sister was quite overwhelmed by her brother's response and for a while didn't dare say anything more. But she couldn't let go of her thoughts, and since she had only her twin brother to speak to, she finally said, "Don't you feel these squeezes every once in a while? They're quite unpleasant and sometimes even painful."
 
 "Yes," he answered. "What's special about that?"
 
 "Well," the sister said, I think that these squeezes are there to get us ready for another place, much more beautiful than this, where we will see our mother face-to-face. Don't you think that's exciting?"
 
 
 "How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Dear friends, now we are children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when he appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is."
 1 John 3:1-2 (NIV)

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:05
Because of Me
 
 
 
 "Why is that man so ugly, and the mommy so pretty?" Five-year-old Nancy tugged on her mother's arm, and pointed.
 
 "Sh! Sh!" said her mother. "You wouldn't want them to hear, would you?"
 
 "But Mommy, he's ugly! How can that pretty lady stand to look at him?"
 
 The mother glanced toward the couple her daughter was pointing at, quickly taking her child away. But every day during the sea cruise, they saw the couple. Whenever they did, Nancy buried her face in her mother's clothes. "Mommy, I just can't stand to look at him. He is so ugly," she would say.
 
 One day Nancy and her mother, Maria, were on deck, enjoying the sea breeze. The beautiful woman came and stood beside them. She spoke a soft greeting, smiling down at Nancy. Smiling shyly back, while snuggling close to her mother, the little girl blurted out. "Why are you so pretty, and your huS*and so ugly?"
 
 Maria gasped at her daughter's rude question. She was about to scold her when the young woman spoke. "No, wait!" she said, "I've noticed your child looking at us quite often. I would like to tell her a story about my huS*and, if you will let me."
 
 Maria, although quite embarrassed, nodded her consent.
 
 "First," began the young woman, "My name is Rosella. What is yours?" Learning that the child's name was Nancy, and her mother's was Marie, Rosella invited the two to a table, and ordered three glasses of lemonade. And then she began her story.
 
 * * *
 
 "Five years ago my mother and I were visiting in Florida, where we were staying at a hotel. At the same time there were some service men billeted at the same hotel. One very handsome colonel took special notice of me, persisting that I dine with him. He sent flowers to my room numerous times, and smiled at me every time I happened to come across him. My mother encouraged me to accept his offer of a meal. So, at last I did. It was then he told me that he had fallen in love with me. He asked me if I would like to see him on a regular basis. But I found him most obnoxious, and tried my best to ignore him.
 
 "On one particular day I was especially rude to him, and I know it really hurt him. I had gone into the hotel gift shop to pick up a book to read. And there it was that I came face to face with the colonel. He smiled. He had a beautiful smile, and it made his already handsome face--well, he had the face of an angel. But I didn't return his smile. I flung my head in the air, and walked right by him. I heard him say, 'I guess this is your way of telling me to get lost.' I continued on to my room, and went to bed. My mother was already asleep, and it wasn't long before I was.
 
 "About two hours later we were jolted out of bed by the most ear splitting sound. My mother and I scrambled into our housecoats. It was then we heard the frightening words. 'FIRE! FIRE!' Already we could see the smoky, orange shadows encircling the hotel. Colonel Brown--that was his name--was one of the first ones out of the hotel. He watched as the hotel guests fled to the safety of the fresh air. His eyes frantically searched the group in the court yard, but my mother and I were not there. He dashed inside to see if we had made it to the lobby. We hadn't.
 
 "Firemen were all around, but although they tried to stop him, Lionel broke by them, dashing through the flames to our room. He kicked the door open. My mother and I, trapped and frozen with fright, were just deciding if jumping out the window was an option. It wouldn't have been. We were three floors up."
 
 * * *
 
 Nancy and her mother hadn't touched their lemonade, so engrossed were they in Rosella's story. Nancy had gripped her mother's hand and her eyes were brimming with tears. Rosella paused for a minute, sipping on her lemonade; then she continued.
 
 "Lionel snatched two blankets off the bed, and flung them at us. 'Wrap this around your face,' he commanded—and it WAS a command. Then tossing a small towel around his own face, he commanded, 'Grab my arms, and don't let go until we are outside.'
 
 "Blindly, we allowed ourselves to be guided by Lionel, until we were safely outside. But what we hadn't realized was that the towel had come off Lionel's face. His face was burned beyond recognition. He was taken immediately to the hospital where he was treated for burns all over his body.
 
 "For weeks his life hung on a thread, his face bound completely with bandages. Although he couldn't see me, he knew I was there. My mother, by that time, had gone home. Every day I sat by Lionel's bed, holding his hand and talking soothingly to him. At last they took off his bandages.
 
 "Gone was the handsome face... But to me it was beautiful, more beautiful than it had ever been. He had received those scars because of me. If he hadn't fallen in love with me, I would have been just another hotel guest, and he wouldn't have known to single me out and worry over my mother's and my safety.
 
 "During those weeks of attending Lionel, I had fallen in love with him. While he floated in and out of consciousness, I crooned to him how my scorn had turned to concern, and my concern had slowly been replaced by love. As soon as he was released from the hospital, we married, and have grown more in love with each other every day."
 
 "But how can you stand to look at him?" persisted Nancy.
 
 Rosella smiled. "I don't see his scarred face. I see the face of the man he was before he became scarred. And I see the face of the one who loved me enough to risk his life for me. I see the face of the man who loved me long before I loved him. I see the face of God, because that is what Jesus did—became scarred because of me."
 
 Nancy and her mother saw Lionel and Rosella one more time before they left the ship. Timidly Nancy tiptoed up to Lionel, and smiling shyly, she slipped her hand into his. She tugged on his arm. Lionel, suspecting that she wanted to say something to him, bent his head towards hers. He had been used to being looked at scornfully. He had heard the remarks of both adults and children alike. He had learned to ignore them. But he was not expecting what Nancy had to say. "Mr. Lionel," she said, smiling up at him. "I don't think that you are ugly anymore. I think you have a beautiful face."
 
 
 Isaiah tells us that Christ had no beauty that we should desire Him. He would not have been an attractive sight, hanging on the cross, His face scarred from the piercing of the crown of thorns they had placed on His head; His body bloody from the whip lashes; His hands bleeding from the nail wounds. In the natural we would hide our face from Him, as Nancy did from Lionel. But when we accept the fact that Christ got those scars to save us, we no longer look at Him like Nancy did, with scorn. We look at Him as Rosella did after the rescue. We see the face of the One who loved us, who got those scars because of us.
 
 
 Sleeping Through The Storm
 
 
 
 Years ago a farmer owned land along the Atlantic seacoast. He constantly advertised for hired hands. Most people were reluctant to work on farms along the Atlantic. They dreaded the awful storms that raged across the Atlantic, wreaking havoc on the buildings and crops.
 
 As the farmer interviewed applicants for the job, he received a steady stream of refusals. Finally, a short, thin man, well past middle age, approached the farmer. "Are you a good farmhand?" the farmer asked him. "Well, I can sleep when the wind blows," answered the little man. Although puzzled by this answer, the farmer, desperate for help, hired him. The little man worked well around the farm, busy from dawn to dusk, and the farmer felt satisfied with the man's work.
 
 Then one night the wind howled loudly in from offshore. Jumping out of bed, the farmer grabbed a lantern and rushed next door to the hired hand's sleeping quarters. He shook the little man and yelled, "Get up! A storm is coming! Tie things down before they blow away!" The little man rolled over in bed and said firmly, "No sir. I told you, I can sleep when the wind blows."
 
 Enraged by the old man's response, the farmer was tempted to fire him on the spot. Instead, he hurried outside to prepare for the storm. To his amazement, he discovered that all of the haystacks had been covered with tarpaulins. The cows were in the barn, the chickens were in the coops, and the doors were barred. The shutters were tightly secured. Everything was tied down. Nothing could blow away. The farmer then understood what his hired hand meant, and he returned to bed to also sleep while the wind blew.
 
 Where to take it from here......
 
 When you're prepared, you have nothing to fear. Can you sleep when the wind blows through your life? The hired hand in the story was able to sleep because he had secured the farm against the storm. We secure ourselves against the storms of life by grounding ourselves firmly in the Word of God.
 
 
 
 The Night The Animals Talked
 
 
 
 In the frosty mountains and on the snowy fields of Norway, there is a legend that draws children to all kinds to stables and stalls throughout the country on each Christmas Eve night. They are hoping to hear a miracle. They are waiting to hear the animals talk.
 
 Over 2,000 years ago, Jesus was born in a stable in Bethlehem. This was no abandoned place, but was a working stable, filled with animals of all kinds. Into these humble surroundings, encircled by the innocent creatures of God, the Savior of man came into the world.
 
 Now according to legend, at least, Christ's birth occurred at exactly midnight. Inside the stable, the animals watched in wonder as the new-born babe was lovingly wrapped in swaddling clothes and placed in a manger. Suddenly, God gave voice to the animals and immediately they began to praise God for the miracle they had just seen. This went on for several minutes and, just before the entrance of the shepherds -- who had hurried to the stable because angels had told them the Christ had been born there -- the animals again fell silent. The only humans who had heard them were Mary, Joseph and, of course, the Christ child.
 
 The legend of the talking animals persists to this day in Scandinavia. And every Christmas Eve, wide-eyed children creep into stables just before midnight to hear the animals praise God for the wondrous birth of His Son. Of course, adults scoff at this. "Old wives tales," they grump. "Those children should be home in bed, not out in the cold waiting for the family cow to preach a sermon."
 
 But the children know -- or at least believe -- that animals really do praise God at midnight every Christmas Eve. And who of us -- those who believe in an all-powerful God -- can say that it really doesn't happen?
 
 
 
 Jesus looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible." (Matthew 19:26 NIV)

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:07
<img src="http://skywriting.net/images/snow-forest2.jpg" border="0" onclick="javascript:window.open(this.src);" alt="" style="CURSOR: pointer" onload="javascript:if(this.width>screen.width-500)this.style.width=screen.width-500;" />
 
 A Walk In The Forest
 
 
 
 It started out as just an ordinary Sunday walk with our nine foster children. It was a beautiful, crisp December day, just after the first snowfall of the season. Our intention was to find the perfect Christmas tree, mark it, and come back in two weeks to get it, just in time for Christmas.
 
 The children ranged in age from four to fourteen. As we walked, the younger children would point out different plants, or spot a bird, and ask their names. It became a game amongst us all, to see if we could name them correctly. The older children, having recently learned in school, about forest Flora and fauna, were more knowledgeable than my huS*and and I were about the subject. But soon the game became stale and the children began flopping in the fresh snow to make snow angels. And that's when we heard it. It sounded like a gunshot. We all froze in our tracks as a blood-curdling scream echoed across the snow covered forest.
 
 That there could be danger never entered my mind. I motioned the children to stay put, and despite my huS*and's protests, I scrambled through the bush to investigate.
 
 The remainder of the story I will tell in a story poem.
 
 
 She went for a walk in the forest. The weather was crisp, but not cold. She had with her all of her children. While they walked, a story she told. She taught them of Flora and fauna, explaining the plants growing there. She said, "See these gifts God has given? All nature He's put in our care."
 
 The snow was as soft as a carpet. The children made angels, and sang. The air was filled up with their voices; with laughter the whole forest rang. Then all of a sudden she heard it--a sound like the crack of a gun. She motioned the children to silence. They ceased all their laughter and fun.
 
 ‘Twas then that they heard something shrieking, the sound sending chills down their spines. Determined to learn what was crying, the mother crawled near, through the vines. She stopped at the scene of the ruckus. She gasped, taking in a quick breath, for there in a trapper's cruel leg-trap, was a mink facing ultimate death.
 
 He was snapping, and snarling, and struggling, his eyes flashing terror and hate. The mother knelt down by the ermine, speaking softly, his fears to abate. She wiggled and worked at the leg-trap,
 till at last she pried open its jaws. With a leap he jumped free of his prison, unharmed, but for one of his paws.
 
 The mink, in his white coat for winter, slithered swiftly away from the site. Then he stopped. He looked back at the mother, his beady-eyes black as the night.
 
 The children have now grown, and left her. That mother's had much time to think. She's convinced that he turned ‘round to thank her for helping God's creature, the mink.
 
 A true story incident from the 60's.
 
 
 The Choice
 
 
 
 He placed one scoop of clay upon another until a form lay lifeless on the ground.
 
 All of the Garden's inhabitants paused to witness the event. Hawks hovered. Giraffes stretched. Trees bowed. Butterflies paused on petals and watched.
 
 "You will love me, nature," God said. "I made you that way. You will obey me, universe. For you were designed to do so. You will reflect my glory, skies, for that is how you were created. But this one will be like me. This one will be able to choose."
 
 All were silent as the Creator reached into himself and removed something yet unseen. A seed. "It's called 'choice.' The seed of choice."
 
 Creation stood in silence and gazed upon the lifeless form.
 
 An angel spoke, "But what if he..."
 
 "What if he chooses not to love?" the Creator finished. "Come, I will show you." Unbound by today, God and the angel walked into the realm of tomorrow. "There, see the fruit of the seed of choice, both the sweet and the bitter."
 
 The angel gasped at what he saw. Spontaneous love. Voluntary devotion. Chosen tenderness. Never had he seen anything like these. He felt the love of the Adams. He heard the joy of Eve and her daughters.
 
 He saw the food and the burdens shared. He absorbed the kindness and marveled at the warmth.
 
 "Heaven has never seen such beauty, my Lord. Truly, this is your greatest creation."
 
 "Ah, but you've only seen the sweet. Now witness the bitter." A stench enveloped the pair. The angel turned in horror and proclaimed,
 
 "What is it?"
 
 The Creator spoke only one word: "Selfishness."
 
 The angel stood speechless as they passed through centuries of repugnance. Never had he seen such filth. Rotten hearts. Ruptured promises. Forgotten loyalties. Children of the creation wandering blindly in lonely labyrinths.
 
 "This is the result of choice? the angel asked.
 
 "Yes."
 
 "They will forget you?"
 
 "Yes."
 
 "They will reject you?"
 
 "Yes."
 
 They will never come back?
 
 "Some will. Most won't."
 
 "What will it take to make them listen?"
 
 The Creator walked on in time, further and further into the future, until he stood by a tree. A tree that would be fashioned into a cradle. Even then he could smell the hay that would surround him.
 
 With another step into the future, he paused before another tree. It stood alone, a stubborn ruler on a bald hill. The trunk was thick, and the wood was strong. Soon it would be cut. Soon it would be trimmed. Soon it would be mounted on the stony brow of another hill. And soon he would be hung on it.
 
 He felt the wood rub against a back he did not yet wear.
 
 "Will you go down there?" the angel asked.
 
 "I will."
 
 "Is there no other way?"
 
 "There is not."
 
 "Wouldn't it be easier to not plant the seed? Wouldn't it be easier to not give the choice?"
 
 "It would," the Creator spoke slowly. "But to remove the choice is to remove the love."
 
 He look around the hill and foresaw a scene. Three figures hung on three crosses. Arms spread. Heads fallen forward. They moaned with the wind. Men clad in soldier's garb sat on the ground near the trio. They played games in the dirt and laughed.
 
 Men clad in religion stood off to one side. They smiled. Arrogant, cocky. They had protected God, they thought by killing this false one.
 
 Women clad in sorrow huddled at the foot of the hill. Speechless. Faces tear streaked. Eyes downward. One put her arm around another and tried to lead her away. She wouldn't leave. "I will stay," she said softly, "I will stay."
 
 All heaven stood to fight. All nature rose to rescue. All eternity poised to protect. But the Creator gave no command.
 
 "It must be done...," he said, and withdrew.
 
 But as he stepped in time, he heard the cry that he would someday scream: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" He wrenched at tomorrow's agony.
 
 The angel spoke again. "It would be less painful........"
 
 The Creator interrupted softly. "But it wouldn't be love."
 
 They stepped into the Garden again. The Maker looked earnestly at the clay creation. A monsoon of love swelled up within him. He had died for the creation before he had made him. God's form bent over the sculptured face and breathed. Dust stirred on the lips of the new one. The chest rose, cracking the red mud. The cheeks fleshened. A finger moved. And an eye opened.
 
 But more incredible than the moving of the flesh was the stirring of the spirit. Those who could see the unseen gasped. Perhaps it was the wind that said it first. Perhaps what the star saw that moment is what has made it blink ever since. Maybe it was left to an angel to whisper it:
 
 "It looks like ... it appears to so much like ... it is him!"
 
 The angel wasn't speaking of the face, the features, or the body. He was looking inside - at the soul.
 
 "It's eternal!" gasped another.
 
 Within the man, God has placed a divine seed. A seed of his self (A seed of choice). The God of might had created earth's mightiest... And the One who had chosen to love had created one who could love in return.
 
 Now it's our choice.
 
 
 The Football Player
 
 
 
 Bob Richards, the former pole-vault champion, shares a moving story about a skinny young boy who loved football with all his heart. Practice after practice, he eagerly gave everything he had. But being half the size of the other boys, he got absolutely nowhere. At all the games, this hopeful athlete sat on the bench and hardly ever played. This 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 man was still the smallest of the class when he entered high school. 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 team 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 colleges home games. This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in a 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 he became deathly silent. Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My father died this morning. Is it 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 back 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 back so soon.
 
 "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 of playoff game. But the young man persisted, and finally feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in. "Allright," 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, this 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 never heard before.
 
 Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed that this 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!"
 
 Like the athlete's father, God is always there cheering for us. Our loving God is always reminding us to go on, offering us a hand, knowing what is best, giving us what we need and not simply what we want. God has never missed a single game. What a joy to know that life is meaningful if lived for the Highest. Live for the Creator, who is watching us in the game of life!

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:09
A New Perspective
 
 Leaving for work one morning, I noticed that my newspaper hadn't been delivered yet. Since I always brought it to work, it upset me that I would have to stop at the store and pick one up. I was already running late, but figured I could make it if I hurried. This would really throw a monkey wrench into my morning though and it was putting me in a bad mood.
 
 As I pulled into the parking lot of the store, I noticed a young man ina wheel chair at the far end of the lot who seemed to be struggling. "I'm sure he's all right", I thought, "or if he's not, someone else will stop and help him."
 
 Judging by the customers and cars that were passing him by, I guess they were thinking the same thing. I got out, and walked over to see what the trouble was.
 
 "Is there anything I can do?" I asked. It was then that I noticed he wasn't able to speak, and was still struggling with the chair.
 
 "Is there someone I can call for you? I said. He still couldn't give me any indication.
 
 I looked down at the chair and noticed that the clamps holding the electronic keyboard and chair controls had apparently loosened causing the equipment to slip down, out of his reach.
 
 "Is this the problem?" I said, as I pulled it back into place, hoping I wasn't doing more damage than good. I then re-tightened the clamps. His hand jerked over to the keyboard and he hit a single key. An electronic voice told me, "Thank-you." He then found the toggle control that steered the chair, turned and left.
 
 I got back in my car and headed off to work, completely forgetting my newspaper. As I drove, I felt a gratitude come over me like I had never felt before! I was truly blessed to have the physical abilities that allow me to live a normal life.
 
 Here was this young man who relied on a mechanical chair to get him around and a voice simulator to communicate. He probably dreamed about doing all the things that I take for granted every day. I vowed from now on, not to take those things for granted anymore. I would be grateful to God for his blessings that could be gone tomorrow.
 
 It's funny, fifteen minutes before that happened, I was whining because my morning paper hadn't arrived on time. I'm glad I was able to help the young man, but more importantly, he was able to help me gain a new perspective on my priorities in life.
 
 
 
 
 Carl
 
 Carl was a quiet man.
 
 He didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well.
 
 Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The sight of him walking down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound received in WWII.
 
 Watching him, we worried that although he had survived WWII, he may not make it through our changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random violence, gangs, and drug activity.
 
 When he saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he responded in his characteristically un-assuming manner.
 
 Without fanfare, he just signed up. He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally happened.
 
 He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would you like a drink from the hose?
 
 The tallest and toughest-looking of the three said, "Yeah, sure", with a malevolent little smile.
 
 As Carl offered the hose to him, the other two grabbed Carl's arm, throwing him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, Carl's assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then fled.
 
 Carl tried to get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him. Although the minister had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn't get there fast enough to stop it.
 
 "Carl, are you okay? Are you hurt?" the minister kept asking as he helped Carl to his feet. Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head.
 
 "Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise-up someday."
 
 His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He adjusted the nozzle again and started to water. Confused and a little concerned, the minister asked, "Carl, what are you doing? "I've got to finish my watering. It's been very dry lately," came the calm reply.
 
 Satisfying himself that Carl really was all right, the minister could only marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and place.
 
 A few weeks later the three returned. Just as before their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time they didn't rob him.
 
 They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head to foot in the icy water. When they had finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing at the hilarity of what they had just done. Carl just watched them.
 
 Then he turned toward the warm giving sun, picked up his hose, and went on with his watering. The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer tormentors reaching down for him.
 
 He braced himself for the expected attack. "Don't worry old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this time."
 
 The young man spoke softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. As he helped Carl get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and handed it to Carl.
 
 "What's this?" Carl asked.
 
 "It's your stuff," the man explained. "It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."
 
 "I don't understand," Carl said. "Why would you help me now?"
 
 The man shifted his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease. "I learned something from you," he said. "I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us for hating you. You kept showing love against our hate."
 
 He stopped for a moment. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."
 
 He paused for another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess."
 
 And with that, he walked off down the street. Carl looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his retirement watch and put it back on his wrist. Opening his wallet, he checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride that still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
 
 He died one cold day after Christmas that winter. Many people attended his funeral in spite of the weather. In particular the minister noticed a tall young man that he didn't know sitting quietly in a distant corner of the church.
 
 The minister spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life. In a voice made thick with unshed tears, he said, "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can. We will never forget Carl and his garden."
 
 The following spring another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden."
 
 The flyer went unnoticed by the busy parishioners until one day when a knock was heard at the minister's office door.
 
 Opening the door, the minister saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer.
 
 "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said.
 
 The minister recognized him as the same young man who had returned the stolen watch and wallet to Carl. He knew that Carl's kindness had turned this man's life around.
 
 As the minister handed him the keys to the garden shed, he said, "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honor him."
 
 The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and vegetables just as Carl had done.
 
 In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory and kept the garden as beautiful as he thought Carl would have kept it.
 
 One day he approached the new minister and told him that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. He explained with a shy and happy smile, "My wife just had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday.
 
 "Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the garden shed keys. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"
 
 "Carl," he replied.
 
 
 
 Sunday Stranger
 
 
 The parking lot filled rapidly on Sunday morning as members of the large church congregation filed into church. As usually happens in a church that size, each member had developed a certain comfort zone -- a block of space within those four church walls that became theirs after the second or third sitting. It was as much a part of their church experience as the recliner was to the television at home.
 
 One morning a stranger stood at the edge of the parking lot near a dumpster. As families parked cars and piled out, they noticed him rummaging through the trash.
 
 "Oh no! I don’t believe it," whispered a lady to her huS*and. "That’s all we need -- a bunch of homeless people milling around here." One worried little girl tugged on her dad’s sleeve. "But Daddy..." Daddy was busy sizing up the bearded stranger, whose baggy, outdated trousers and faded flannel shirt had dusted too many park benches.
 
 "Don’t stare at him, honey," he whispered, and hurried her inside. Soft music filled the high-ceilinged sanctuary as churchgoers settled into their usual spots. The choir sang an opening chorus, "In His presence there is comfort... in His presence there is peace...".
 
 Sunlight suddenly flooded the center aisle. The double doors swung open and the homeless man, sloppy and stooped, headed toward the front.
 
 "Oh no, it’s him!" somebody muttered. "What does he think he’s doing, anyway?" snapped an incredulous usher.
 
 The stranger set his bagful of dumpster treasures on the very first pew, which had been upholstered in an expensive soft teal fabric just three months ago.
 
 The music stopped. And before anyone had a chance to react, he ambled up the stairs and stood behind the fine, hand-crafted oak podium, where he faced a wide-eyed congregation.
 
 The disheveled stranger spoke haltingly at first, in a low, clear voice. Unbuttoning and removing his top layer of clothing, he described Jesus, and the love He has for all people.
 
 "Jesus possesses a sensitivity and love that far surpasses what any of us deserves." Stepping out of the baggy old trousers, the stranger went on to describe a forgiveness that is available to each and every one of us... without strings attached.
 
 Unconditionally He loves us. Unconditionally He gave his very life for us. Unconditionally and forever, we can have the peace and assurance that no matter who we are, where we’ve come from, or how badly we may have mistreated others or ourselves, there is hope. In Jesus, there is always hope.
 
 "You see, my friends, it is never too late to change," the man continued. "He is the Author of change, and the Provider of forgiveness. He came to bring new meaning to ‘life’."
 
 Men and women squirmed as reality hit them like an electrical current. The stranger tugged at his knotted gray beard, and removed it. "I’m here to tell you that we are loved with a Love far beyond human understanding, a Love that enables us to accept and love others in return."
 
 Then tenderly he added, "Let’s pray together." That wise pastor -- under the guise of a homeless "nobody" -- did not preach a sermon that day, but every person left with plenty to think about.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:10
<img src="http://skywriting.net/images/flowers-dahlias2.jpg" border="0" onclick="javascript:window.open(this.src);" alt="" style="CURSOR: pointer" onload="javascript:if(this.width>screen.width-500)this.style.width=screen.width-500;" />
 
 
 March to the Sea
 
 
 
 Grammie Rose’s beautiful, two story, white house with a verandah on the back proudly sat facing the sea on our small island of the coast of Maine. The Shelter Woods, a windbreak of evergreens, lovingly protected the houses at Barney’s Cove from the strong prevailing winds.
 
 One bright spring day, when all danger of frost was over and the salty sea air held the promise of summer, Grammie called to me to help her drag a burlap sack out of her basement. Being just a slip of a kid, I probably wasn’t much help. But once the sack rested on the lawn, she promptly emptied the dry clumps of dahlia tubers onto the grass. Wrinkled and gnarled like witches fingers and dirty ones at that, the tubers didn’t look like they’d be flowers some day to me. But the dahlias knew. Purplish sprouts along the top of the shriveled tubers - sort of like what happens on potatoes in the spring - foretold of the miracle contained within. The sleepy Rip van Winkle tubers knew it was time to rise and shine.
 
 Grammie had a knack for growing a plethora of flowers, but dahlias were her specialty. She grew the most beautiful dahlias of all the grandmothers on Beals Island. Her dahlia plants were huge. Quite possibly taller than my grandmother, who wasn’t quite five feet tall, even in her black grammie shoes. The dahlia flowers themselves were huge and every color of the rainbow. However, their scent left a lot to be desired. When that much energy goes into sheer size, there isn’t enough left to make them smell like a rose.
 
 Every year since time immemorial, a line of dahlias had skirted the perimeter of Grammie’s manicured front lawn like soldiers marching towards the sea. The growing plants became a living, green picket fence that separated her property from that of the neighbors. The actual boundary lines were arbitrary blurs at best, as the land on our island looked as if someone had upset a Monopoly game.
 
 Grammie never broke apart the massive tubers before planting unless they were too bulky to fit in their holes that must have measured a foot and a half across. If she could catch an unsuspecting fisherman on his way to the wharf below her house, she’d get him to dig another hole or two to accommodate the new pieces. If she couldn’t add to her parade of dahlias, she’d give the extra pieces to my aunt who lived three houses and two hundred trees from us. She knew better than to offer them to my mother. Gertrude Jekyll she was not. Our serendipity flower garden consisted of one large clump of wild blue flags that obligingly bloomed at the end of our walkway. Even they succumbed after the plumber, who was hired to run water lines for our inside bathroom, cut them down with a scythe thinking he was doing Mama a big favor. After that, Mama laughingly joked that she couldn’t even grow wild flowers.
 
 After grammie’s dahlia tubers were planted, only dry hollow stems poked above the soil. Could flowers possibly grow from anything that looked that dead? But after numerous daily visits, I discovered hundreds of tiny green fanlike shoots peeking from the soil. Everyday they were higher still like Jack’s bean stalk. The dahlias never did reach the sky, but they did grow into some mighty plants.
 
 Late in the summer hundreds of tiny, round, golden flower buds mingled with the lush foliage just waiting to burst open.
 
 This too shall pass as time has a way of marching on. Grammie’s once immaculately maintained, white house with the verandah overlooking the ocean now forlornly sits in disrepair of peeling paint, broken window panes, and missing shingles. No longer protected from the winds and harsh salt spray by the Shelter Woods, which has dwindled to just a few lawn trees. No laughing grandchildren valiantly push a reel mower over the emerald carpet of a lawn. No longer do the majestic dahlias march to the sea.
 
 But in my mind’s eye, I will once again watch in awe as the dinner plate size dahlias are miraculously released from their tight, golden orbs - one precious petal a time into blooms that could rival the sun.
 
 
 Angels In The Alley
 
 
 
 
 
 Diane, a young Christian university student, was home for the summer. She had gone to visit some friends one evening and the time passed quickly as each shared their various experiences of the past year. She ended up staying longer than she had planned and had to walk home alone. But she wasn't afraid because it was a small town and she lived only a few blocks away. As she walked along under the tall elm trees, Diane asked God to keep her safe from harm and danger.
 
 When she reached the alley, which was a shortcut to her house, she decided to take it. However, halfway down the alley she noticed a man standing at the end as though he was waiting for her. She became uneasy and began to pray, asking for God's protection. Instantly, a comforting feeling of quietness and security wrapped around her, she felt as though someone was walking with her. When she reached the end of the alley, she walked right past the man and arrived home safely.
 
 The following day she read in the paper that a young girl had been raped in the same alley, just twenty minutes or so after she had been there. Feeling overwhelmed by this tragedy, and the fact that it could have been her, she began to weep, thanking God for her safety.
 
 To try to help this young woman, she decided to go to the police station. She felt she could recognize the man. She told her story. The policeman asked her if she would be willing to look at a lineup to see if she could identify him. She agreed and immediately pointed out the man she had seen in the alley.
 
 When the man was told he had been identified, he immediately broke down and confessed. The officers thanked Diane for her help and asked if there was anything they could do for her. She asked if they would ask the man one question. She was curious as to why he had not attacked her.
 
 When the policeman asked him, he answered, "Because she wasn't alone. She had two tall men walking on either side of her."
 
 
 Symphony Of Summer Praise
 
 
 
 Struggling from the warmth of sleep, we feel the clear crisp air filled with the knife-edge of frost. Our ears are serenaded by the songs of birds as they greet the new day. Dew sprinkled flowers lift sparkling faces to the sun.
 
 God's finger draws cloud pictures in the blue morning sky. Angels, puppies and ice cream cones fill our imaginations. Leaves dressed in their glorious summer green, speak to us as a brisk breeze blows through the trees foretelling a colder time yet to come.The smell of crisping bacon tantalizes our taste buds. Dogs bark,children play and is the distance the sound of mooing cows. Each distinct sound harmonizing into a summer symphony of praise. As the chilly air begins to warm, we start to enjoy the peaceful, pastoral scenes we have come to see. The road weaves a pattern through the cornfields as a tapestry in the hands of a master weaver. Tassels on ears of corn ripe and ready for picking are almost near enough to touch.
 
 Barefoot children play in farmyards and run through fields ripe with the colors of the rainbow. Red tomatoes, orange carrots, yellow squash, blueberries, green beans and purple eggplant, all so fragrant and flavorful. Sights fill our eyes with color and our nostrils with the smells of anticipation. They are filling us with yearnings for tempting treats to tease our palates with every taste.
 
 Another mile, another miracle. A cow and her calf, a ewe and her lamb and a mare with her colt. Babies struggling to stand on new wobbly legs, stretching up to nurse. Some are older and stronger so they play chasing butterflies and each other through fields filled with daises, buttercups and buzzing bees.
 
 Over a hill there is surprising, eye-catching splendor of an orchard. The tree limbs bent low heavy with the tart, tangy apples ready to be picked to pucker and please our lips waiting in anticipation. Peaches sweet and succulent ready to fill a pie makers dream.Can you visualize leaves playing tag along a sun-washed road? How about a brook playing leap-frog as it splashes happily over sun dappled rocks? Can you see the ducks playing follow-the-leader in a near by pond, as frogs sun themselves on fragrant flower-filled lily pads? Oh, look! The sun is playing hide and seek with the clouds. The clouds win!
 
 Now it is raining. Raining on our sun-washed road. Raining on the orchards and fields Life-giving, thirst-quenching rain. Enjoy the fresh, clean smell of the earth being cleansed by the warm summer rain. Ribbons of water draw pictures on our windshield. Children splash in the puddles. A brief shower and then, the rainbow of God's promise. The rainbow joining all creation in praise of it's Creator.
 
 As God with His palette paints the vibrant colors of sunset, we search out our favorite spot to watch windmills cut silhouettes against the last rays of the setting sun, now, wrapped in a blanket of peace-filled stillness, we watch the moon casting ghostly shadows through the trees. The smoldering embers of our campfire glow as if sentinels of a sleeping city keeping watch with us into the darkening hours and the end of the day. A day that has been filled with the quiet yet exploding beauty of our Father's world. A day filled with memories of a symphony of summer praise.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:12
<img src="http://skywriting.net/images/goodsam.jpg" border="0" onclick="javascript:window.open(this.src);" alt="" style="CURSOR: pointer" onload="javascript:if(this.width>screen.width-500)this.style.width=screen.width-500;" />
 
 A Good Samaritan Today
 
 
 
 A certain man while walking along a highway was attacked by some thieves, who beat him terribly and robbed him. Then they left him wounded and bleeding along the side of the road.
 
 By chance there came a charismatic Catholic and a reformed Jew walking along that way. When they saw the man, they passed by on the other side. Likewise, a bible-toting Baptist, a proud to be "full-Gospel" Pentecostal, a "word-walking" plain-old Protestant, and even a couple of New Age Unitarian Universal existentialists happened along, while on their way to an inter-faith community leaders conference. As each one in turn came upon the man and saw him lying helplessly beside the highway, all passed by on the other side.
 
 However, a certain Samaritan as he was walking came to where the injured man was, and when he saw him he had compassion on him. Being on foot and without any means or provisions to render aid, the Samaritan ran two miles to the nearest public telephone and hurriedly dialed 911.
 
 Because funding for the police, paramedic and fire rescue services had all been drastically cut, being woefully under-staffed there was no unit available to send, especially not to such an out-of-the-way place. The emergency dispatcher immediately gave the sympathetic Samaritan a referral list of private ambulance companies to contact.
 
 One-by-one the Samaritan called each of the ambulance companies, but all required a cash deposit prior to actual transport of the patient, which they would be happy to charge to the "financially responsible party" on any valid American Express, MasterCharge or Visa Card. In lieu of a cash deposit, only a limited number of health insurance plans were accepted, providing they could obtain prior authorization from the health care provider for ambulance services (but no HMO's or PPO's).
 
 In vain, the Samaritan tried to explain that the thieves had stripped the man naked and left him penniless without his wallet; there was no way to show proof of health care coverage even if he had any! The Samaritan was praised and verbally applauded for his valiant efforts to act as an advocate on the injured man's behalf, but since he was unable to secure the required deposit, he was politely refused service. The Samaritan was told not to worry himself any more about the victimized man. Someone else has probably already come along and, seeing the man's plight, provided assistance.
 
 Not to be thwarted in his effort to get help for the badly injured and hopelessly stranded stranger, the Samaritan hurried off in the direction of the nearest town. With an air of expectancy he entered the first establishment he found, which was a "rental-car" agency. Although all he wanted to do was get the fallen traveler into town as quickly as possible, as soon as the rental car clerk learned why the Samaritan wanted to rent one of their cars, he immediately turned the Samaritan away citing the regulatory terms of the "liability coverage" on their entire fleet, which strictly prohibited the use of any of their vehicles to transport the handicapped or disabled. Their insurance contract also prohibited use of rental vehicles for commuter transport or car pools.
 
 Even though the Samaritan patiently explained that none of these exclusions were applicable in this case, the apprehensive desk clerk insisted there was nothing he could do. According to company policy the matter required the approval of the office manager, who would not be available until the following Monday morning; but if he'd like to leave his name and number, he would ask the manager to get back to him as soon as possible.
 
 Seeing that any further attempt to reason with the clerk would be futile, the Samaritan sighed deeply to himself as he left the rental agency and hurried down the street to the local drug store to buy some first aid items with which he could temporarily treat the bleeding man's wounds. Once he finally reached the register, to his utter dismay, the Samaritan was astonished to learn that without a major credit card or bank check guarantee card, (regardless of how urgent the circumstances were) without proper identification, the drugstore clerk (according to their store policy) steadfastly refused to accept his out-of-town check. The Samaritan could not even purchase necessary bandages or ointment for the injured man's wounds. In desperation the Samaritan traded his coat with the merchant for a box of Band-Aids and some antiseptic swabs.
 
 It was with a heavy heart that the Samaritan began his return journey on foot. The irony served to reinforce his determination to get back to the helpless man.
 
 On his way through town the Samaritan spotted a congenial looking community church. Thank God, he thought as hope sprang up in his heart. Here he knew he would find "like-minded people" who would lend a helping hand. The Samaritan hurried up the steps and knocked on the office door. With the pastor's help and the church's van, he thought, we'll be able to get to the injured man before dark!
 
 In the pastor's comfortable study, the Samaritan listened silently as the pastor (while patting the Samaritan frequently on the shoulder) explained how he'd really like to help the poor fellow who was injured, but unfortunately it was entirely out of his hands. In a recent vote, the church council members had unanimously decided that church's new maxi-van was to be exclusively reserved for "group functions" of the church membership only.
 
 The Pastor enthusiastically commended the Samaritan for wanting to help the man. He expressed his utmost admiration for the Samaritan's compassion and lavished a steady stream of compliments upon him concerning his Christian zeal, as he slowly but deliberately ushered the Samaritan to the door. While insisting he was not insensitive to the injured man's plight, the pastor applauded the Samaritan's willingness to take up "the man's cause," but he didn't think he or his church should get involved -- who knows what kind of liabilities there might be . . .
 
 Once again the Samaritan was turned away. The pastor apologetically handed the Samaritan a list of various other city, county, and public health agencies that he thought would be better suited to this particular need.
 
 After searching from dusk until after dark, the Samaritan finally relocated the body of the mortally wounded man, laying in a ditch beside the highway. Chasing away stray dogs which had come to lick the bleeding wounds, the Samaritan stood quietly beside the now lifeless corpse. Prolonged exposure to the elements had been more than his beaten body could bear. Bending down beside the bruised and broken body, the loving Samaritan put out His nail-scarred hand and gently closed the dead man's eyes . . . while tenderly caressing the man's battered face -- Jesus wept.
 
 
 Spare Change
 
 
 
 My morning routine includes stopping at the local convenient store to pick up the daily news. One morning not long ago, the convenience of the convenient store proved inconvenient to the folks stuck in line behind two small boys. As I approached the counter to pay the attendant, I noticed the two little guys standing at the front of the line - a line that was growing longer by the minute. The young man behind the counter was clearly agitated with the boys as his voice rose above the morning chatter in the store and he said to them, "Look, you guys need nineteen cents more to pay for this candy. If you don't have it, you don't get it. Now, what are you going to do?"
 
 I watched, as the small boys seemed to shuffle from one foot to another without uttering a word, just staring at the attendant, their wide eyes filling with tears. The folks waiting impatiently in line began to complain loudly, "Let's go fellas!" Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed to intervene on their behalf.
 
 "I've got the nineteen cents," I shouted above the noise and commotion. "Take this dollar for my paper and keep the change towards their candy." The attendant seemed relieved to have the matter settled. Everyone in the line turned to eyeball the loud-mouthed lady with the exception of the two small boys who quickly snatched the candy and exited the store.
 
 I handed over the dollar, smiled at the attendant and left. As I made my way to my car, a small voice called out to me, "Hey, Lady!" I turned to see one of the boys peering from around the corner of the building. "That was pretty cool!"
 
 He was gone. I suppose it was a "thank you" of sorts and I was content to think that I would be the topic of their small conversation that morning. I was the "cool lady" who saved the day by paying for their candy in an otherwise hectic and uncaring world. I imagined them giving each other high-fives in my memory. It made me smile to think that my small gesture had brightened their little world, if only for a moment.
 
 By the time that I arrived at my own store, I was basking in my good deed and wanted to share my story with my customers. When I finished telling the story to a small group of girls, one of my customers turned towards me and said, "I like to do little things like that, too. When I stop to get my morning coffee, everyday, I place a penny in the parking lot or on the sidewalk - heads-up. Sometimes I sit in my car and watch to see if anyone finds it. It always makes people smile and it makes my day, too. I've been doing it for years now."
 
 I couldn't speak. It does make you smile to find a penny heads-up in the parking lot. Maybe I had been one of the recipients of her gift. She shyly admitted that she hadn't told a single soul before today. How Christ-like is that? And here I was, bragging about my generosity. The bible tells us to do good deeds without fanfare and acknowledgment. I humbled myself and decided to forego sharing my morning episode with anyone else. It would be between God and me. That afternoon on my way home, I stopped to get a coffee at the local donut shop. As I left the store, I noticed a shiny heads-up penny on the sidewalk. Instead of bending down to pick it up, I knelt and placed a penny next to it. Heads-up, of course. After all, pennies are gifts from angels and angels always smile when we share our spare change.
 
 
 The Perfect Heart (Parable)
 
 
 
 One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart.
 
 Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said "Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine." The crowd and the young man looked at the old man's heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars, it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn't fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing.
 
 The people stared - how can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought? The young man looked at the old man's heart and saw its state and laughed. "You must be joking," he said. "Compare your heart with mine, mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears."
 
 "Yes," said the old man, "Yours is perfect looking but I would never trade with you. You see, every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love - I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them, and often they give me a piece of their heart which fits into the empty place in my heart, but because the pieces aren't exact, I have some rough edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of the love we shared. Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away, and the other person hasn't returned a piece of his heart to me. These are the empty gouges -- giving love is taking a chance.
 
 Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for these people too, and I hope someday they may return and fill the space I have waiting. So now do you see what true beauty is?"
 
 The young man stood silently with tears running down his cheeks. He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart, and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man with trembling hands. The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man's heart. It fit, but not perfectly, as there were some jagged edges. The young man looked at his heart, not perfect anymore but more beautiful than ever, since love from the old man's heart flowed into his. They embraced and walked away side by side.
 
 How sad it must be to go through life with a whole untouched heart.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:14
Learn To Speak Their Language
 
 
 
 A woman was explaining her theory of putting her children to bed: "I never tell bedtime stories that begin with 'Once upon a time,'" she said. "If I really want to put them to sleep, I start off with, 'Now, when I was your age...'" It's nice to understand people so well that we know just what to say! Here is a mother who could speak her children's language.
 
 The story is told of the most famous elephant in the world -- a huge, beautiful and gentle beast named Bozo. Children extended open palms filled with peanuts for the Indian elephant, who gently plucked them from little hands and seemed to smile as he ate his treats.
 
 But one day, for some inexplicable reason, Bozo changed. He almost stampeded the man who cleaned his cage. He charged children at the circus and became incorrigible. His owner knew he would have to destroy the once-gentle giant.
 
 In order to raise money for a new elephant, the circus owner held a cruel exhibition. He sold tickets to witness Bozo's execution and, on the appointed day, his arena was packed. Three men with high-powered rifles rose to take aim at the great beast's head.
 
 Just before the signal was given to shoot, a little, stubby man in a brown hat stepped out of the crowd and said to the elephant's owner, "Sir, this is not necessary. Bozo is not a bad elephant."
 
 "But he is," the man argued. "We must kill him before he kills someone."
 
 "Sir, give me two minutes alone in his cage," the visitor pleaded, "and I'll prove to you that you are wrong. He is not a bad elephant."
 
 After a few more moments of discussion (and a written statement absolving the circus of liability if the man should be injured), the keeper finally agreed to allow the man inside Bozo's cage. The man removed his brown derby and entered the cage of the bellowing and trumpeting beast.
 
 Before the elephant could charge, the man began to speak to him. Bozo seemed to immediately quiet down upon hearing the man's words. Nearby spectators could also hear the man, but they could not understand him, for he spoke a foreign language. Soon the great animal began to tremble, whine and throw his head about. Then the stranger walked up to Bozo and stroked his trunk. The great elephant tenderly wrapped his trunk around the man, lifted him up and carried him around his cage before carefully depositing him back at the door. Everyone applauded.
 
 As the cage door closed behind him, the man said to Bozo's keeper, "You see, he is a good elephant. His problem is that he is an Indian elephant and understands one language." He explained that Bozo was frustrated and confused. He needed someone who could speak his language. "I suggest, sir, that you find someone in London to come in occasionally and talk to the elephant. If you do, you'll have no problems."
 
 The man picked up his brown derby and walked away. It was at that time that the circus owner looked carefully at the signature on the paper he held in his hand -- the note absolving the circus of responsibility in the case he was injured inside the elephant's cage. The statement was signed by Rudyard Kipling.
 
 People also become frustrated and angry when they are not understood. But great relationships are formed by parents who learn to speak their children's language; lovers who speak each other's language; professionals who speak the language of their staff and clients. When people understand that YOU understand, that you empathize with their heartaches and understand their problems, then you are speaking their language! It is the beginning of true communication.
 
 
 The Dark Candle
 
 
 
 A man had a little daughter -- an only and much-beloved child. He lived for her -- she was his life. So when she became ill and her illness resisted the efforts of the best obtainable physicians, he became like a man possessed, moving heaven and earth to bring about her restoration to health.
 
 His best efforts proved unavailing and the child died. The father was totally irreconcilable. He became a bitter recluse, shutting himself away from his many friends and refusing every activity that might restore his poise and bring him back to his normal self. But one night he had a dream.
 
 He was in Heaven, and was witnessing a grand pageant of all the little child angels. They were marching in an apparently endless line past the Great White Throne. Every white-robed angelic child carried a candle. He noticed that one child's candle was not lighted. Then he saw that the child with the dark candle was his own little girl. Rushing to her, while the pageant faltered, he seized her in his arms, caressed her tenderly, and then asked: "How is it, darling that your candle alone is unlighted?" "Father, they often relight it, but your tears always put it out."
 
 Just then he awoke from his dream. The lesson was crystal clear, and its effects were immediate. From that hour on he was not a recluse, but mingled freely and cheerfully with his former friends and associates. No longer would his darling's candle be extinguished by his useless tears.
 
 
 Addendum -- Psalms 56:13 (NKJ) "For You have delivered my soul from death. Have you not kept my feet from falling, That I may walk before God In the LIGHT of the living?"
 
 
 The Middle Wife
 
 
 
 I've been teaching now for about fifteen years. I have two kids myself, but the best birth story I know is the one I saw in my own second-grade classroom a few years back.
 
 When I was a kid, I loved show-and-tell. So I always have a few sessions with my students. It helps them get over shyness and usually, show-and-tell is pretty tame. Kids bring in pet turtles, model airplanes, pictures of fish they catch, stuff like that. And I never, ever place any boundaries or limitations on them. If they want to lug it to school and talk about it, they're welcome.
 
 Well, one day this little girl, Erica, a very bright, very outgoing kid, takes her turn and waddles up to the front of the class with a pillow stuffed under her sweater. She holds up a snapshot of an infant. "This is Luke, my baby brother, and I'm going to tell you about his birthday.
 
 First, Mom and Dad made him as a symbol of their love, and then Dad put a seed in my Mom's stomach, and Luke grew in there. He ate for nine months through an umbrella cord."
 
 She's standing there with her hands on the pillow, and I'm trying not to laugh and wishing I had my camcorder with me. The kids are watching her in amazement. "Then, about two Saturdays ago, my Mom starts saying and going, 'Oh, oh, oh!' Erica puts a hand behind her back and groans. "She walked around the house for, like an hour, 'Oh, oh, oh!
 
 Now the kid's doing this hysterical duck walk, holding her back and groaning. "My Dad called the middle wife. She delivers babies, but she doesn't have a sign on the car like the Domino's man."
 
 "They got my Mom to lie down in bed like this." Then Erica lies down with her back against the wall.
 
 "And then, pop! My Mom had this bag of water she kept in there in case he got thirsty, and it just blew up and spilled all over the bed, like psshhheew!" This kid has her legs spread and with her little hands are miming water flowing away. It was too much!
 
 "Then the middle wife starts saying 'push, push, and breathe, breathe.' They started counting, but never even got past ten. Then, all of a sudden, out comes my brother. He was covered in yucky stuff, they said it was from Mom's play-center!, so there must be lot of stuff inside there."
 
 Then Erica stood up, took a big theatrical bow and returned to her seat. I'm sure I applauded the loudest. Ever since then, if it's show-and-tell day, I bring my camcorder, just in case another Erica comes along.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:15
The Color Of Friendship
 
 
 
 Once upon a time the colors of the world started to quarrel. All claimed that they were the best. The most important. The most useful. The favorite.
 
 Green said:
 "Clearly I am the most important. I am the sign of life and of hope. I was chosen for grass, trees and leaves. Without me, all animals would die. Look over the countryside and you will see that I am in the majority."
 
 Blue interrupted:
 "You only think about the earth, but consider the sky and the sea. It is the water that is the basis of life and drawn up by the clouds from the deep sea. The sky gives space and peace and serenity. Without my peace, you would all be nothing."
 
 Yellow chuckled:
 "You are all so serious. I bring laughter, gaiety, and warmth into the world. The sun is yellow, the moon is yellow, the stars are yellow. Every time you look at a sunflower, the whole world starts to smile. Without me there would be no fun."
 
 Orange started next to blow her trumpet:
 "I am the color of health and strength. I may be scarce, but I am precious for I serve the needs of human life. I carry the most important vitamins. Think of carrots, pumpkins, oranges, mangoes, and papayas. I don't hang around all the time, but when I fill the sky at sunrise or sunset, my beauty is so striking that no one gives another thought to any of you."
 
 Red could stand it no longer he shouted out:
 "I am the ruler of all of you. I am blood - life's blood! I am the color of danger and of bravery. I am willing to fight for a cause. I bring fire into the blood. Without me, the earth would be as empty as the moon. I am the color of passion and of love, the red rose, the poinsettia and the poppy."
 
 Purple rose up to his full height:
 He was very tall and spoke with great pomp: "I am the color of royalty and power. Kings, chiefs, and bishops have always chosen me for I am the sign of authority and wisdom. People do not question me! They listen and obey."
 
 Indigo spoke, more quietly than others, but with determination:
 "Think of me. I am the color of silence. You hardly notice me, but without me you all become superficial. I represent thought and reflection, twilight and deep water. You need me for balance and contrast, for prayer and inner peace."
 
 And so the colors went on boasting, each convinced of his or her own superiority. Their quarreling became louder and louder. Suddenly there was a startling flash of bright lightening thunder rolled and boomed. Rain started to pour down relentlessly. The colors crouched down in fear, drawing close to one another for comfort.
 
 In the midst of the clamor, God began to speak:
 "You foolish colors, fighting amongst yourselves, each trying to dominate the rest. Don't you know that you were each made for a special purpose, unique and different? Join hands with one another and come to me."
 
 Doing as they were told, the colors united and joined hands.
 
 God continued:
 "From now on, when it rains, each of you will stretch across the sky in a great bow of color as a reminder that you can all live in peace. The Rainbow is a sign of hope for tomorrow." And so, whenever a good rain washes the world, and a Rainbow appears in the sky, let us remember to appreciate one another.
 
 
 Fear Not
 
 
 
 Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God? But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows.
 Luke 12:6-7
 
 < ><
 
 When I was six years old we lived in Oklahoma City in a neighbor- hood where we always kept the doors locked and bolted at night. To get out the back door, Daddy had a special key that opened the dead bolt from the inside.
 
 One night I was wakened suddenly by the sound of thunder and lightning and a torrential downpour. I rushed down the hall toward my parents' room, but was stopped by billowing smoke and flames coming from the living room. Our house had been struck by lightning.
 
 I had to get out, but how? I couldn't reach the front door because of the flames, and the back door was locked.
 
 On the verge of panic, I was relieved when in the darkness I felt Daddy's warm hand leading me down the hall and out the back door to our backyard. As I stood in the pouring rain, his hand let go of mine and he was gone. Frightened, I turned back to the house. There was Mom calling my name, "Macy! Macy!"
 
 "Out here," I said. She ran out to me, and together we went around to the front, where we found Daddy with Kent, the baby, and my three-year-old sister, Amy.
 
 "You're safe, Macy," he said, sighing with relief. Daddy told me that he had tried to get to me, but couldn't cross the flames. He had not guided me down the hall. He had not unlocked the dead bolt on the back door.
 
 That was twelve years ago, and all these years I've never forgotten the warmth of the Hand that led me then, and leads me now, through the dark.
 
 < ><
 
 Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.
 Isaiah 43:1-2

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:16
Burdens
 
 
 
 "Why was my burden so heavy?" I slammed the bedroom door and leaned against it. Is there no rest from this life? I wondered. I stumbled to my bed and dropped onto it, pressing my pillow around my ears to shut out the noise of my existence.
 
 "Oh God," I cried, "let me sleep. Let me sleep forever and never wake up! With a deep sob I tried to will myself into oblivion, then welcomed the blackness that came over me. Light surrounded me as I regained consciousness. I focused on its source: the figure of a man standing before a cross.
 
 "My child," the person asked, "why did you want to come to Me before I am ready to call you?"
 
 "Lord, I'm sorry. It's just that . . . I can't go on. You see how hard it is for me. Look at this awful burden on my back. I simply can't carry it anymore."
 
 "But haven't I told you to cast all of your burdens upon Me, because I care for you? My yoke is easy, and My burden is light."
 
 "I knew You would say that. But why's mine have to be so heavy?"
 
 "My child, everyone in the world has a burden. Perhaps you would like to try a different one?"
 
 "I can do that?"
 
 He pointed to several burdens lying at His feet. "You may try any of these." All of them seemed to be of equal size. But each was labeled with a name.
 
 "There's Joan's," I said. Joan was married to a wealthy businessman. She lived in a sprawling estate and dressed her three daughters in the prettiest designer clothes. Sometimes she drove me to church in her Cadillac when my car was broken. "Let me try that one." How difficult could her burden be? I thought. The Lord removed my burden and placed Joan's on my shoulders. I sank to my knees beneath its weight. "Take it off!" I said. "What makes it so heavy?"
 
 "Look inside." I untied the straps and opened the top.
 
 Inside was a figure of her Mother-in-law, and when I lifted it out, it began to speak. "Joan, you'll never be good enough for my son," it began. "He never should have married you. You're a terrible mother to my grandchildren..."
 
 I quickly placed the figure back in the pack and withdrew another. It was Donna, Joan's youngest daughter. Her head was bandaged from the surgery that had failed to resolve her epilepsy. A third figure was Joan's brother. Addicted to drugs, he had been convicted of killing a police officer. "I see why her burden is so heavy, Lord. But she's always smiling and helping others. I didn't realize..."
 
 "Would you like to try another?" He asked quietly.
 
 I tested several. Paula's felt heavy: She was raising four small boys without a father. Debra's did too: a childhood of sexual abuse and a marriage of emotional abuse. When I came to Ruth's burden, I didn't even try. I knew that inside I would find arthritis, old age, a demanding full-time job, and a beloved huS*and in a nursing home.
 
 "They're all too heavy, Lord" I said. "Give back my own." As I lifted the familiar load once again, It seemed much lighter than the others.
 
 "Lets look inside" He said. I turned away, holding it close.
 
 "That's not a good idea," I said. "Why?" "There's a lot of junk in there."
 
 "Let Me see." The gentle thunder of His voice compelled me. I opened my burden. He pulled out a brick.
 
 "Tell me about this one."
 
 "Lord, You know. It's money. I know we don't suffer like people in some countries or even the homeless here in America. But we have no insurance, and when the kids get sick, we can't always take them to the doctor. They've never been to see a dentist. And I'm tired of dressing them in hand-me-downs."
 
 "My child, I'll supply all of your needs... and your children's. I've given them healthy bodies. I will teach them that expensive clothing doesn't make a person valuable in My sight." Then He lifted out the figure of a small boy. "And this?" He asked.
 
 "Andrew..." I hung my head, ashamed to call my son a burden.
 
 "But, Lord, he's hyperactive. He's not quiet like the other two. He makes me so tired. He's always getting hurt, and someone is bound to think I abuse him. I yell at him all the time. Someday I may really hurt him..."
 
 "My child," He said, "if you trust Me, I will renew your strength, and if you allow Me to fill you with My Spirit, I'll give you patience."
 
 Then He took some pebbles from my burden.
 
 "Yes, Lord," I said with a sigh. "Those are small. But they're important. I hate my hair. It's thin, and I can't make it look nice. I can't afford to go to the beauty shop. I'm overweight and can't stay on a diet. I hate my clothes. I hate the way I look!"
 
 "My child, people look at your outward appearance, but I look at your heart. By My Spirit you can gain self-control to lose weight. But your beauty should not come from outward appearance. Instead, it should come from your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in My sight."
 
 My burden now seemed lighter than before. "I guess I can handle it now."
 
 "There is more," He said. "Hand Me that last brick."
 
 "Oh, You don't have to take that. I can handle it."
 
 "My child, give it to Me." His voice compelled me. He reached out His hand, and for the first time I saw the ugly wound.
 
 "But, Lord, this brick is so awful, so nasty, so... Lord! What happened to Your hands? They're so scarred!" No longer focused on my burden, I looked for the first time into His face. In His brow were ragged scars -- as though someone had pressed thorns into His flesh. "Lord," I whispered. "What happened to You?" His loving eyes reached into my soul.
 
 "My child, hand Me the brick. It belongs to Me. I bought it."
 
 "How?"
 
 "With My blood."
 
 "But why, Lord?"
 
 "Because I have loved you with and everlasting love. Give it to Me." I placed the filthy brick into His wounded palm. It contained all the dirt and evil of my life: my pride, my selfishness, the depression that constantly tormented me.
 
 He turned to the cross and hurled my brick into the pool of blood at it's base. It hardly made a ripple.
 
 "Now, My child, you need to go back. I will be with you always. When you are troubled, call to Me and I will help you and show you things you cannot imagine now."
 
 "Yes, Lord, I will call on You." I reached to pick up my burden.
 
 "You may leave that here if you wish. You see all these burdens?
 They're the ones others have left at My feet. Joan's, Paula's, Debra's, Ruth's... When you leave your burden here, I carry it with you. Remember, My yoke is easy and My burden is light."
 
 As I placed my burden with Him, the light began to fade. Yet I heard Him whisper, "I will never leave you, nor forsake you." A wonderful peace flooded my soul.
 
 
 Addendum -- John 16:33 (NIV) "I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:17
Old Seven Dollar
 
 
 
 When we moved to our Itty Bitty Dirt Farm in the late 70’s after my huS*and Roy retired from the US Navy, he fell heir to a barn full of unidentifiable, valuable junk from the former owners.
 
 Way back in the left corner of the barn was a rickety, broken lawn mower trying valiantly to stand on three wheels. Looking at the old mower and the expanse of hay that would become our lawn, and knowing we had a combined brood of kids to feed, he scrounged through the junk piles to find parts to repair the dilapidated machine. However, no amount of digging through the random cultch could uncover the missing wheel. A new spark plug was required for the machine to run with gusto.
 
 After a quick trip to the local farm supply store, Roy returned with the replacement parts, a spray can of red paint, and a receipt for seven dollars. Thus Old Seven Dollar was born and would practically become a member of the family.
 
 Over the next ten years or so, Roy and Old Seven Dollar beat back the hay fields until they became proud owners of an “estate.” To complete the job, man and machine spent a leisurely Saturday afternoon in the sun.
 
 After a bit of discussion, we decided that it really was time to upgrade to a riding mower. Yes, you guessed it, Roy found a machine that had been repaired by an elderly gentleman in his tinker shop. Old Seven Dollar still had a mission: to mow the lawn patches directly in front of the house that I hadn’t converted into a weeping tree collection and perennial garden. The riding mower couldn’t maneuver in and out of the narrow garden paths.
 
 With this new toy, Roy began testing the limits of the hay field! Each passing year expanded the perimeters of our estate. A couple years later, he announced, “I stopped at Sears. They’ve got a mower with a bigger mowing deck. I could get the mowing job done quicker and have more time for play.” Proudly, he purchased his first new riding mower. I purchased a T-shirt for him to wear while riding it that proclaimed, “I Fought the Lawn, and the Lawn Won!”
 
 Old Seven Dollar still had its mission of manicuring the area in the front yard that wasn’t a garden yet.
 
 Eventually, Roy spent a full Saturday mowing our lawn that was taking on the appearance of a country club golf course. Occasionally, I’d take pity on him. “How about a duel? I can mow more than you in an hour!” I chided. With both of us mowing, we could conquer the lawn in under five hours.
 
 When he began eyeballing the industrial strength mowers at Agway, I suggested we sell our extra mowers or we’d have to hire all the neighbors to help us mow! Roy got the subtle hint.
 
 Yesterday, he lamented, “Old Seven Dollar is acting sick and won’t stay running. What do you think, should I buy new power mower without all the bells and whistles to mow that patch or two of grass in the front garden?”
 
 “What happened to ‘Make do, use it up, wear it out?’ ‘We’re going to be in the poorhouse if you buy another mower!’” I teased borrowing expressions handed down by his frugal Wisconsin father and mother.
 
 Old Seven Dollar, thank you for your many years of dependable service. Even Roy believes you have finally earned your well deserved retirement. There is a special niche in the left hand corner of the barn just for you... May you rust in peace!
 
 
 
 
 The Cracked Pot
 
 
 
 Prolog -- A parable we can all learn from . . .
 
 A water bearer in India had two large pots, one hung on each end of a pole which, he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, but the other pot was perfect, and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, while the cracked pot arrived only half full.
 
 For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to his master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was very ashamed of its imperfection, and was miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do -- or so it thought.
 
 The cracked pot, after two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. "I am very ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."
 
 "Why?" asked the water bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"
 
 "For the past two years, I have only been able to deliver half of my real capacity, because this crack in my side allows water to leak out all the way back to the master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts," the cracked pot said.
 
 The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and compassionately said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."
 
 As they went up the hill, the old cracked pot did notice the sun shining on the beautiful wild flowers growing along his side of the path, and this cheered it some. However, at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had again leaked out half its load, and so it apologized to the water bearer for its failure.
 
 The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, and put it to good use. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path (for the return trip), and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them. For over two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. If you weren't the way you are, he wouldn't have the flowers for his house."
 
 Each of us has our own unique flaws. We're all cracked pots. But if we will allow Him, the Lord will use us, in spite of our flaws, to grace His Father's table in some way. In God's great economy, nothing goes to waste.
 
 So as we seek ways to minister, and as God calls you to the job He has appointed for you, don't be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them, and allow Him to use them, so you too can help add beauty along the pathways He has chosen for you.
 
 
 Addendum -- 2 Timothy 2:21 "Therefore if anyone cleanses himself from the latter, he will be a vessel for honor, sanctified and useful for the Master, prepared for every good work."
 
 
 The Power of Prayer
 
 
 
 
 
 A missionary on furlough told this true story while visiting his home church in Michigan...
 
 While serving at a small field hospital in Africa, every two weeks I traveled by bicycle through the jungle to a nearby city for supplies. This was a journey of two days and required camping overnight at the halfway point. On one of these journeys, I arrived in the city where I planned to collect money from a bank, purchase medicine and supplies, and then begin my two-day journey back to the field hospital.
 
 Upon arrival in the city, I observed two men fighting, one of whom had been seriously injured. I treated him for his injuries and at the same time witnessed to him of the Lord Jesus Christ. I then traveled two days, camping overnight, and arrived home without incident.
 
 Two weeks later I repeated my journey. Upon arriving in the city, I was approached by the young man I had treated. He told me that he had known I carried money and medicines. He said, "Some friends and I followed you into the jungle, knowing you would camp overnight. We planned to kill you and take your money and drugs. But just as we were about to move into your camp, we saw that you were surrounded by 26 armed guards." At this I laughed and said that I was certainly all alone out in that jungle campsite. The young man pressed the point, 26 guards. "My five friends also saw them and we all counted them. It was because of those guards that we were afraid, and left you alone."
 
 At this point in the sermon, one of the men in the congregation jumped to his feet and interrupted the missionary and asked if he could tell him the exact day that this happened. The missionary told the church congregation the date, and the man who interrupted told him this story: "On the night of your incident in Africa, it was morning here and I was preparing to go play golf. I was about to putt when I felt the urge to pray for you. In fact, the urging of the Lord was so strong, I called men in this church to meet with me here in the sanctuary to pray for you. Would all of those men who met with me on that day stand up?" The men who had met together to pray that day stood up. The missionary wasn't concerned with who they were -- he was to busy counting how many men he saw. There were 26.
 
 **This story is an incredible example of how the Spirit of the Lord moves in mysterious ways. If you ever feel such prodding, go along with it. Nothing is ever hurt by prayer except the gates of hell. I encourage you to forward this to as many people as you know. If we all take it to heart, we can turn this world towards Christ once again. Have a great day!**
 
 THE POWER OF PRAYER -- as the above true story clearly illustrates, "with God all things are possible" and more importantly, how God hears and answers the prayers of the faithful. After you read this, please pause and give God thanks for the beautiful gift of your faith, for the powerful gift of prayer, and for the many miracles He works in your own daily life... and then pass it on...

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:18
The Great Lesson
 
 
 
 To encourage her young son's progress on the piano, a mother took the small boy to a Paderewski concert. After they were seated, the mother spotted a friend in the audience and walked down the aisle to greet her.
 
 Seizing the opportunity to explore the wonders of the concert hall, the little boy rose and eventually explored his way through a door marked: "NO ADMITTANCE."
 
 When the house lights dimmed, and the concert was about to begin, the mother returned to her seat and discovered that her son was missing. Suddenly, the curtains parted and spotlights focused on the impressive Steinway on stage. In horror, the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard, innocently picking out "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star."
 
 At that moment, the great piano master made his entrance, quickly moved to the piano, and whispered in the boy's ear, "Don't quit. Keep playing." Then leaning over, Paderewski reached down with his left hand and began filling in a bass part. Soon his right arm reached around to the other side of the child and he added a running obbligato.
 
 Together, the old master and the young novice transformed a frightening situation into a wonderfully creative experience. The audience was mesmerized.
 
 That's the way it is with God. What we can accomplish on our own is hardly noteworthy. We try our best, but the results aren't exactly graceful flowing music. But with the hand of the Master, our life's work truly can be beautiful.
 
 Next time you set out to accomplish great feats, listen carefully. You can hear the voice of the Master, whispering in your ear, "Don't quit. Keep playing. "Feel His loving arms around you. Know that His strong hands are playing the concerto of your life.
 
 Remember, God doesn't call the equipped, He equips the called.
 
 
 
 
 
 A Story To Live By
 
 
 
 My brother-in-law opened the bottom drawer of my sister's bureau and lifted out a tissue-wrapped package. "This," he said, "is not a slip. This is lingerie." He discarded the tissue and handed me the slip. It was exquisite; silk, handmade and trimmed with a cobweb of lace. The price tag with an astronomical figure on it was still attached. "Jan bought this the first time we went to New York, at least 8 or 9 years ago. She never wore it. She was saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is the occasion." He took the slip from me and put it on the bed with the other clothes we were taking to the mortician. His hands lingered on the soft material for a moment, then he slammed the drawer shut and turned to me. "Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Every day you're alive is a special occasion."
 
 I remembered those words through the funeral and the days that followed when I helped him and my niece attend to all the sad chores that follow an unexpected death. I thought about them on the plane returning to California from the Midwestern town where my sister's family lives. I thought about all the things that she hadn't seen or heard or done. I thought about the things that she had done without realizing that they were special. I'm still thinking about his words, and they've changed my life.
 
 I'm reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting on the deck and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden.
 
 I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time in committee meetings. Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experience to savor, not endure. I'm trying to recognize these moments now and cherish them.
 
 I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china and crystal for every special event-such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, the first camellia blossom.
 
 I wear my good blazer to the market if I feel like it. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries without wincing.
 
 I'm not saving my good perfume for special parties; clerks in hardware stores and tellers in banks have noses that function as well as my party-going friends'.
 
 "Someday" and "one of these days" are losing their grip on my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now. I'm not sure what my sister would have done had she known that she wouldn't be here for the tomorrow we all take for granted.
 
 It's those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew that my hours were limited. Angry because I put off seeing good friends whom I was going to get in touch with-someday. Angry because I hadn't written certain letters that I intended to write-one of these days. Angry and sorry that I didn't tell my huS*and and daughter often enough how much I truly love them.
 
 I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back, or save anything that would add laughter and luster to our lives. And every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special. Every day, every minute, every breath truly is... a gift from God.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:19
The Social Worker and the Ragged Lad
 
 
 
 Amelia liked to walk the five blocks to work each day. It was good exercise. In order for her to get to her office, she had to pass a slum area. She never paid much attention to it. After all, slums were just part of urban dwelling. The ironical thing was, she was a social worker and had to deal with the "unfortunates" of life every day. Only her "cases" were all on the computer screen, or on paper. It was someone else who had to deal with the real people.
 
 That is, until she met the ragged wee lad. Even though Amelia had never seen the lad, he had seen her every day for the past several months, as she passed his dwelling. He had even followed her to her office on several occasions. He knew that she was the head of the social services… but no one from her office had ever called on him and his mom. But even so, he liked the way she looked. He liked the way she walked. He liked her voice. He had heard her talking to people, as he crouched outside her office door. Her voice sounded like that angel he kept dreaming about.
 
 Day after day Jackie tried to get up courage to talk to her. He didn't know her name, of course, but he was sure she could help--if only he could get up the courage to ask her… But on this day he knew he could wait no longer. His mother was very sick. He knew that this kind lady would help him find his dad. Oh, he so desperately needed to find his dad.
 
 Amelia felt a tug on her sleeve. She pulled her arm away quickly, looking around to see who it was that was trying to accost her. That was when she saw the ragged wee lad.
 
 The rest of the story, except for the conclusion, I want to tell you in rhyme.
 
 She locked up the door of her office, her mind on the caseload she had. At the foot of the long winding staircase, she spotted a ragged wee lad. She started to go right on by him, but he reached out and touched her, and said: "Please, missus, oh please can you help me? I'm looking real hard for my dad."
 
 His eyes were as big as two saucers; his hands looked so cold and so blue. The counsellor stooped and she clasped them. She said, "Sonny, what does your dad do?"
 
 He shrugged his frail shoulders, and answered, "Lady, I ain't got even a clue. My mama said he upped and left us, before I had even turned two."
 
 The next words he said were heart wrenching: "My mamma, you know, ain't too well. She now is too weak to go workin, cleanin’ rooms at the downtown motel. This morning the landlord came knockin’. He was mad, and he started to yell: 'You'll have to go find you a new place if you don't soon pay up your full bill.'
 
 "So I thought, that for my mamma's birthday that I'd like to go look for my dad. I know it would be the best present that my mamma ever has had. She said she don't want him to come back, but she must, cause she's always so sad. I'll tell him that we really love him, and we need him, so awfully bad."
 
 The lady, whose name was Amelia, said, "Take me now, son, to your home. Do you have any brothers or sisters, or are you and she there all alone?"
 
 "Just Mama and me," was his answer, "since my daddy took off for to roam. My mama said that's just what happened. And she told me she's glad that he's gone."
 
 Amelia smiled down at the small boy, who told her that his name was Jack. He led her on down a dark alley, through debris, to a ramshackle shack.
 
 He burst through the door and he shouted. "Hey, Mommy. It's me, and I'm back." His mother could not even answer. She was choking from a coughing attack.
 
 The mother soon went to the hospital. She knew her life nearly was through. She said to her boy, "You know, Jackie, I know God will look after you. I prayed to Him this very morning: Please show me, dear God, what to do. And then you came burstin’ in, callin’, 'I'm back, and I've brought a friend, too.'"
 
 She reached out her hand to Amelia. She said, "Please find a home for my son. Won't you see that he's love and protected? Please don't leave him with just anyone."
 
 Amelia took her hand and she held it. She told her, "Rest assured. It is done. I've found him a family who wants him. He'll have both a dad and a mom."
 
 
 
 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 
 So Jackie went home with Amelia. God also had answered her prayer. Her huS*and and she had no children: a house without kids seems so bare.
 
 And now as she leaves work each evening, it seems she is walking on air. She knows that at home there'll be laughter; for Jack, with his new dad are there.
 
 Ever since Amelia took Jackie home to become her son, she had a new outlook on life. She took a new interest in the "cases" that came into her office each day. To her they were no longer merely names in the computer or on paper. To her they were people just like herself, who had not had the opportunities she had had. She did all she could to see to it that each case was given individual attention. It wasn't easy. She ran into political snags and red tape, but she did not rest until she knew she had done everything in her power to do the job God had given her to do.
 
 
 
 The Shack On The Side Of The Hill
 
 
 
 Back in the late 1950's we lived in a remote place in Northern British Columbia, where there was neither electricity nor running water. Our neighbors were few and far between, and often the only time we saw them was when we went past their places on our way to town. We met some colourful characters during our time there. One of the most interesting was an old gentleman whom everyone called "Grampa Rice." The story that I am about to tell, in poetry form, is a true story about this "classic" man.
 
 
 
 * * * * * * * * *
 
 
 He was just an old man with a toothless grin, a wrinkled up face and a stubbled chin. His clothes were all tattered, and his house was cold, but old Grandpa Rice had a heart made of gold.
 
 If ever a stranger would pass by Gramp’s shack, he’d rush out to greet him, and he’d call him on back. He’d holler, "Come in friend, set and chat fer a spell." Then he’d serve up some tea, and his stories he’d tell.
 
 His yarns were of the "old times", when first he "came here;" how he’d brought his new bride - oh, he loved her so dear. His eyes filled with tears as he talked of "dear Bell." He buried her there - and a wee babe, as well.
 
 With him in his shack on the side of a hill, lived a mangy old cat, and a dog he called "Bill." He existed on tea and boiled up dried beans, and the odd time he’d stew up some dandelion greens.
 
 He’d say, "Let’s go huntin’ to find us some game." Then old Bill would follow, though the poor dog was lame. If perchance they should spy a jack rabbit or mole, they would stand still and watch it run into its hole. Neither one would attempt to catch, or to kill. They both were alike -- Grandpa Rice and old Bill. The word spread around to the "animal folk" that the pair’s hunting habit were merely a joke.
 
 One day out of nowhere came a massive buck-deer. He held his head high, showing no trace of fear. He watched as the man cocked his rusty old gun. He heard him tell Bill, "Now, this’ll be fun!"
 
 Grandpa Rice, through the sight, looked the buck in the eye, then he lowered his gun, with a long weary sigh. The deer gave a snort as he trotted away; "G’bye Gramps and Bill; there’ll be no meat today!"
 
 Grandpa Rice said, "C’mon, Bill, let’s amble on home. Jist mebby I’ll find you a dried up old bone. As for me, I kin brew me some dandelion tea, and boil up some taters, maybe toss in some peas."
 
 Then on came a winter, of storm after storm. Just nothing Gramps did could get the shack warm. He ran out of tea, had no more dried beans. How he longed for a stew of dandelion greens. So, soon Grandpa Rice became terribly ill. He crawled on his cot beside Cat and old Bill.
 
 One day- - near to springtime -- a trapper named, Jack, by chance stumbled on to a shabby old shack. He ventured inside to check out the site. He thought that perhaps he could sleep there that night. But there curled together, under a mat, lay a frozen old man, a dog, and a cat.
 
 Jack won’t soon forget what he saw in that place, Old Grandpa Rice died with a smile on his face.
 
 
 * * * * * * * * *
 
 
 Now, many years later, in that very same spot, lies a pile of old lumber, and a rusted-out pot. Just stand still and listen, and listen real well. You might hear him calling, "Come set fer a spell." Amidst all the rubble on the side of that hill, lies the spirit of Gramps, his cat, and old Bill.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:20
SHEP
 
 
 
 Shep looked big as a car to a four-year-old. He belonged to the people across the street from the Clarks who lived three houses down from us towards Oak Park. They didn't really own him. The way we looked at it, he was the property of all us little brats that lived on Oak Park Avenue during the war. My mother said he was a German Police Dog and anything German or Japanese was bad back then. I would always bring it up that we were German and she would say, "Go on outside and play."
 
 Looking back, Shep was a pretty smart dog. He could chisel you out of most of your sandwich, cookies, or whatever you had, but he couldn't get much of our Fleer's Double Bubble gum. It had just been invented and sold for a penny a piece. When Plemon's store had it, they would only allow one piece per person from a shipment. I guess sugar rationing was still on. We brats in the neighborhood -- guess there were ten or more of us -- remind me today of Our Gang, with me playing Spanky. I was always into deep doo for something, however good or bad it might be.
 
 Most of us had Radio Flyer wagons that we could pull around. They were all in different stages of disrepair, but we had figured out how to jam a stick into the spot where the handle joined the front wheel yoke and the handle would stick up about the height of Shep's back. We would tie a rope to this, then put a loop around Shep's body and he would pull us around like the stagecoach horses in the movies. We would all take turns riding when we would go to Oak Park. Each of us would get to be pulled five or so house lengths then another would get in for their turn. Seemed like this went on for the longest till one day we brats found out that the neighbors that owned him were moving and we inquired if they had kids where they were moving to for Shep to play with. They said that they wouldn't be able to take him with them and were going to give him to the pound. Talk about a bunch of unhappy kids, but when we found out that they kill dogs that are there for a few days and aren't adopted, a bowl of Prozac for breakfast wouldn't have made our spirits any better.
 
 A new family was moving in down the street. I had seen them for a few days now, going back and forth in and out of the house carrying stuff from a little trailer behind their car. They had a little girl and I noticed that she was always sitting on the porch or in the shade of a tree in the front yard and her mother carried her everywhere. Being the nosy type, I went and started asking questions, introducing myself and the rest of the gang. Then I asked if the little girl - she must have been my age - could go to the park and play with us. We all had permission to go and the mothers between here and the park watched as we made our journey to play, then returned. She told us that she had to carry Gloria everywhere because she had had polio and that she couldn't carry her that far. Bingo! We went and got a wagon, hooked it up to Shep, and rode up like Roy Rogers to save the day. We took her to the park every day, put her in the swings, pushed her on the merry-go-round, and did doubles on the seesaws because she couldn't use her legs.
 
 Then the dark day loomed, the folks were moving the next day and we didn't know what to do. We just sat around moping, sometimes crying because we were going to lose Shep. Holy Cow, they were going to kill him. We all begged our parents till they threatened us with our lives to let us adopt Shep, all to no avail.
 
 We were all sitting on the curb in front of my house, in total tears and runny noses, watching the people loading the last of their stuff when I had this brainstorm. "Let's go sneak a bunch of groceries from our houses, put them in a wagon, hook Shep up to the wagon and take them to Gloria's house, then tell her mom that if she will adopt Shep, we can keep playing with her in the park and we will furnish all his food." Her mother looked us over in silence; I guess looking at our dusty, tear-streaked faces from our sitting by the street all morning crying. I could see tears starting to well up in her eyes as she looked at the wagon piled up high with food. Cans of everything imaginable, Spam, spinach, corn, packages of bologna, loaves of bread, just everything. Shep just stood there, waiting for a command to do something. I finally said, "They are going to kill him if you don't." "Then we won't be able to take Gloria to the park and play with her either," someone else chimed in.
 
 She said, and the words hung like a dark cold cloud over us as she paused, "I guess we'll just have to keep him then." Hooray! We all started dancing around, shouting and carrying on. She finally said for us to take the food back home, that she would get regular dog food for Shep. Several of us said we didn't want to because we didn't like the stuff anyway, but she insisted.
 
 Well, time rocked on when, lo and behold, Gloria's father came home with a puppy that looked like a little Shep. He said that older dogs train younger ones to do things easier than people do and they have a better attitude toward their work when they learn from other dogs. It must be true because it wasn't long before "Miss Doogey" and Shep were competing to get hooked up to pull Gloria or any of us in the wagon. Mr. Sullivan built a miniature buggy in his garage, just like in the movies, to fit on a sidewalk. It had two poles and traces to hook up Shep and Miss Doogey, and they would bring Gloria everywhere we went so she could play with us.
 
 I have some pictures of that somewhere, probably in my mother's old cedar chest. I think I'll get one out and frame it. Might remind me from time to time why I always take food and stuff to P.A.L.S. where they save animals instead of killing them.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:21
Find Joy In The Ordinary
 
 
 
 We played every game we knew. We ran up and down the hall. We played "find me" behind the couch. We bounced the beach ball off each other's heads. We wrestled, played tag, and danced. It was a big evening for Mom, Dad, and little Jenna. We were having so much fun that we ignored the bedtime hour and turned off the T.V. And if the storm hadn't hit, who knows how late we would have played.
 
 But then the storm hit. Rain pattered, then tapped, then slapped against the windows. The winds roared in off the Atlantic and gushed through the nearby mountains with such force that all the power went off. The adjacent valley acted as a funnel, hosing wind on the city. We all went into the bedroom and lay on the bed. In the darkness we listened to the divine orchestra. Electricity danced in the sky like a conductor's baton summoning the deep kettledrums of thunder.
 
 I sensed it as we were lying on the bed. It blew over me mixed with the sweet fragrance of fresh rain. My wife was lying silently at my side. Jenna was using my stomach for her pillow. She, too, was quiet. Our second child, only a month from birth, rested within the womb of her mother. They must have sensed it, for no one spoke. It entered our presence as if introduced by God himself. And no one dared stir for fear it would leave prematurely.
 
 What was it? An eternal instant.
 
 An instant in time that had no time. A picture that froze in mid- frame, demanding to be savored. A minute that refused to die after sixty seconds. A moment that was lifted off the time line and amplified into a forever so all the angels could witness its majesty.
 
 An eternal instant.
 
 A moment that reminds you of the treasures surrounding you. Your home. Your peace of mind. Your health. A moment that tenderly rebukes you for spending so much time on temporal preoccupations such as savings accounts, houses, and punctuality. A moment that can bring a mist to the manliest of eyes and perspective to the darkest life.
 
 Eternal instants have dotted history.
 
 It was an eternal instant when the Creator smiled and said, "It is good." It was a timeless moment when Abraham pleaded for mercy from the God of mercy, "But if there are just ten faithful." I was a moment without time when Noah pushed open the rain-soaked hatch and breathed in the clean air. And it was a moment in the "fullness of time" when a carpenter, some smelly shepherds, and an exhausted, young mother stood in silent awe at the sight of the infant in the manger.
 
 Eternal instants.
 
 You've had them. We all have. Sharing a porch swing on a summer evening with your grandchild. Seeing her face in the glow of the candle. Putting your arm into your huS*and's as you stroll through the golden leaves and breathe the brisk autumn air. Listening to your six-year-old thank God for everything from goldfish to Grandma.
 
 Such moments are necessary because they remind us that everything is okay. The King is still on the throne and life is still worth living. Eternal instants remind us that love is still the greatest possession and the future is nothing to fear.
 
 The next time an instant in your life begins to be eternal, let it. Put your head back on the pillow and soak it in. Resist the urge to cut it short. Don't interrupt the silence or shatter the solemnity. You are, in a very special way, on holy ground.
 
 
 
 Simply The Best
 
 
 
 A trip to the bookstore with my granddaughter is always a big production. She peruses the aisles for hours, touching the books, running her hands over the covers, picking them up, putting them back, looking at a few pages here and looking at a few pages there.
 
 I never realized the full importance my five-year-old Grand Angel placed on these excursions, until the day I suggested she pick the book she liked best, so we could get on home for dinner. Her response was remarkable.
 
 "But Grammy, I like them all the best. All the covers are bee-yoo-tiful and all the pictures are bee-yoo-tiful AND they're all different. Just like people. Remember when you told me about people?"
 
 I most certainly remembered when I 'told her about people'. I had explained that we are all beautiful in our own different way. Each of us has a story to tell and no two stories are the same. We learn by sharing our stories and listening to the stories of others. Difference is the thing that makes each and every one of us special.
 
 I had no idea she'd equated the lesson with books. What a wondrous revelation!
 
 A good head and shoulders taller than the bookshelves in the children's section of the store, I looked out over the sea of multi-shaped, multi-weighted, multi-colored books, with their multitude of content, and the accuracy of the equation shot straight through me.
 
 It was perfect.
 
 No one book was better than any other book. They were equally beautiful and equally special.
 
 With dinner still waiting and our stomachs beginning to growl, decision time was finally at hand. But how to choose?
 
 I hit on the right question when I asked, "Which book wants to go home the most with you today?"
 
 After a short moment of deliberation, her eyes lit up. She ran to a specific book and removed it from its place on the shelf.
 
 The deciding factor was the picture on the cover, a turtle with sad eyes. "We need to find out why the turtle's eyes are sad."
 
 Later, snuggled deep in the covers of her bed, that's exactly what we did.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 00:22
The Winner
 
 
 
 I was watching some little kids play soccer. These kids were only five or six years old, but they were playing a real game - - a serious game _ two teams, complete with coaches, uniforms, and parents. I didn't know any of them, so I was able to enjoy the game without the distraction of being anxious about winning or losing - I wished the parents and coaches could have done the same.
 
 The teams were pretty evenly matched. I will just call them Team One and Team Two. Nobody scored in the first period. The kids were hilarious. They were clumsy and terribly inefficient. They fell over their own feet, they stumbled over the ball, they kicked at the ball and missed it but they didn't seem to care. They were having fun.
 
 In the second quarter, the Team One coach pulled out what must have been his first team and put in the scrubs, except for his best player who now guarded the goal.
 
 The game took a dramatic turn. I guess winning is important even when you're five years old -- because the Team Two coach left his best players in, and the Team One scrubs were no match for them. Team Two swarmed around the little guy who was now the Team One goalie. He was an outstanding athlete, but he was no match for three or four who were also very good. Team Two began to score. The lone goalie gave it everything he had, recklessly throwing his body in front of incoming balls, trying valiantly to stop them.
 
 Team Two scored two goals in quick succession. It infuriated the young boy. He became a raging maniac -- shouting, running, diving. With all the stamina he could muster, he covered the boy who now had the ball, but that boy kicked it to another boy twenty feet away, and by the time he repositioned himself, it was too late -- they scored a third goal.
 
 I soon learned who the goalie's parents were. They were nice, decent-looking people. I could tell that his dad had just come from the office -- he still had his suit and tie on. They yelled encouragement to their son. I became totally absorbed, watching the boy on the field and his parents on the sidelines. After the third goal, the little kid changed. He could see it was no use; he couldn't stop them.
 
 He didn't quit, but he became quietly desperate futility was written all over him. His father changed too. He had been urging his son to try harder - yelling advice and encouragement. But then he changed. He became anxious. He tried to say that it was okay - to hang in there. He grieved for the pain his son was feeling.
 
 After the fourth goal, I knew what was going to happen. I've seen it before. The little boy needed help so badly, and there was no help to be had. He retrieved the ball from the net and handed to the referee - and then he cried. He just stood there while huge tears rolled down both cheeks. He went to his knees and put his fists to his eyes - and he cried the tears of the helpless and brokenhearted.
 
 When the boy went to his knees, I saw the father start onto the field. His wife clutched his arm and said, "Jim, don't. You'll embarrass him." But he tore loose from her and ran onto the field. He wasn't supposed to - the game was still in progress. Suit, tie, dress shoes, and all - he charged onto the field, and he picked up his son so everybody would know that this was his boy, and he hugged him and held him and cried with him. I've never been so proud of a man in my life.
 
 He carried him off the field, and when he got close to the sidelines I heard him say, "Scotty, I'm so proud of you. You were great out there. I want everybody to know that you are my son." "Daddy," the boy sobbed, "I couldn't stop them. I tried, Daddy, I tried and tried, and they scored on me."
 
 "Scotty, it doesn't matter how many times they scored on you. You're my son, and I'm proud of you. I want you to go back out there and finish the game. I know you want to quit, but you can't. And, son, you're going to get scored on again, but it doesn't matter. Go on, now." It made a difference - I could tell it did.
 
 When you're all alone, and you're getting scored on - and you can't stop them - it means a lot to know that it doesn't matter to those who love you. The little guy ran back on to the field - and they scored two more times - but it was okay.
 
 I get scored on every day. I try so hard. I recklessly throw my body in every direction. I fume and rage. I struggle with temptation and sin with every ounce of my being - and Satan laughs. And he scores again, and the tears come, and I go to my knees - sinful, convicted, helpless.
 
 And my Father - my Father rushes right out on the field - right in front of the whole crowd - the whole jeering, laughing world - and he picks me up, and he hugs me and he says, "I'm so proud of you. You were great out there. I want everybody to know that you are my son, and because I control the outcome of this game, I declare you -- The Winner."
 
 
 It Was In Your Eyes
 
 
 
 It was a bitter, cold evening in northern Virginia many years ago. The old man's beard was glazed by winter's frost while he waited for a ride across the river. The wait seemed endless. His body became numb and stiff from the frigid north wind.
 
 He heard the faint, steady rhythm of approaching hooves galloping along the frozen path. Anxiously, he watched as several horsemen rounded the bend. He let the first one pass by without an effort to get his attention. Then another passed by, and another. Finally, the last rider neared the spot where the old man sat like a snow statue. As this one drew near, the old man caught the rider's eye and said, "Sir, would you mind giving an old man a ride to the other side? There doesn't appear to be a passageway by foot."
 
 Reining his horse, the rider replied, "Sure thing. Hop aboard." Seeing the old man was unable to lift his half-frozen body from the ground, the horseman dismounted and helped the old man onto the horse. The horseman took the old man not just across the river, but to his destination, which was just a few miles away.
 
 As they neared the tiny but cozy cottage, the horseman's curiosity caused him to inquire, "Sir, I notice that you let several other riders pass by without making an effort to secure a ride. Then I came up and you immediately asked me for a ride. I'm curious why, on such a bitter winter night, you would wait and ask the last rider. What if I had refused and left you there?"
 
 The old man lowered himself slowly down from the horse, looked the rider straight in the eyes, and replied, "I've been around these here parts for some time. I reckon I know people pretty good." The old-timer continued, "I looked into the eyes of the other riders and immediately saw there was no concern for my situation. It would have been useless even to ask them for a ride. But when I looked into your eyes, kindness and compassion were evident. I knew, then and there, that your gentle spirit would welcome the opportunity to give me assistance in my time of need."
 
 Those heartwarming comments touched the horseman deeply.
 
 "I'm most grateful for what you have said," he told the old man. "May I never get too busy in my own affairs that I fail to respond to the needs of others with kindness and compassion."
 
 With that, Thomas Jefferson turned his horse around and made his way back to the White House.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:24
Banishing a Ghost
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 The wife of a man became very sick. On her deathbed, she said to him, "I love you so much! I don't want to leave you, and I don't want you to betray me. Promise that you will not see any other women once I die, or I will come back to haunt you."
 
 For several months after her death, the huS*and did avoid other women, but then he met someone and fell in love. On the night that they were engaged to be married, the ghost of his former wife appeared to him. She blamed him for not keeping the promise, and every night thereafter she returned to taunt him. The ghost would remind him of everything that transpired between him and his fiancee that day, even to the point of repeating, word for word, their conversations. It upset him so badly that he couldn't sleep at all.
 
 Desperate, he sought the advice of a Zen master who lived near the village. "This is a very clever ghost," the master said upon hearing the man's story. "It is!" replied the man. "She remembers every detail of what I say and do. It knows everything!" The master smiled, "You should admire such a ghost, but I will tell you what to do the next time you see it."
 
 That night the ghost returned. The man responded just as the master had advised. "You are such a wise ghost," the man said, "You know that I can hide nothing from you. If you can answer me one question, I will break off the engagement and remain single for the rest of my life." "Ask your question," the ghost replied. The man scooped up a handful of beans from a large bag on the floor, "Tell me exactly how many beans there are in my hand."
 
 At that moment the ghost disappeared and never returned.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Ghosts are just human and can't know or do anything that a human can't."
 
 "No one knows everything. Not even a spirit. You can be wise in some ways, but not in all ways."
 
 "The ghost kept coming back because the man was always impressed by how it seemed to know everything. It had power over him. But when he finally stood up to it, and challenged it, the ghost disappeared forever."
 
 "The ghost is actually a part of the man. So it couldn't know anything that the man himself didn't know."
 
 "The ghost comes from the man's own mind. He created it. It is his own guilt that came back to haunt him."
 
 "The reason something haunts us is because we keep our attention on it. When we move on beyond it it will disappear."
 
 "To me, this story just shows that souls have memories, but not enlightenment."
 
 "I don't like the ending. I read the story with high expectations, but felt let down in the
 end."
 
 "Why didn't the ghost know that the man had seen a Zen master?"
 
 "If the wife really loved the huS*and, how could she subject him to such a promise?"
 
 "Everything the ghost knew didn't amount to a handful of beans!"
 
 
 Spider
 
 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 A Tibetan story tells of a meditation student who, while meditating in his room, believed he saw a spider descending in front of him. Each day the menacing creature returned, growing larger and larger each time. So frightened was the student, that he went to his teacher to report his dilemma. He said he planned to place a knife in his lap during meditation, so when the spider appeared he would kill it. The teacher advised him against this plan. Instead, he suggested, bring a piece of chalk to meditation, and when the spider appeared, mark an "X" on its belly. Then report back.
 The student returned to his meditation. When the spider again appeared, he resisted the urge to attack it, and instead did just what the master suggested. When he later reported back to the master, the teacher told him to lift up his shirt and look at his own belly. There was the "X".
 
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Always look at yourself first."
 
 "This guy obviously doesn't have great self-esteem or self-worth. He is afraid and ashamed of what he is. He can't face the reality that he doesn't like who he is."
 
 "The spider could represent the evil within himself - or the evil all around us in the world."
 
 "We are our own worst enemy. It is our own self that is the greatest threat to our own existence - now that's a paradox, isn't it?"
 
 "This story reminds me of The Scarlet Letter."
 
 "Humans, by their very nature, seem to want to destroy those things that they don't understand and fear."
 
 "I guess the message is that we shouldn't kill any other being, including animals and insects. Everything that is alive has a right to live. The spider and the student BOTH have the "X" of life on them. So if he killed the spider, he would be killing one of his own kind."
 
 "This reminds me off we cannot see something about ourselves that is right there in front of us - like the day I heard a psychologist say that we usually marry someone like our same-sex parent. A bell went off in my head because I suddenly realized I had married A MAN who was just like my mother!"
 
 "The spider symbolizes a deep seeded guilt or frustration within the student. These problems are growing larger as the spider grows. Until he lets out his problems, this spider will always be there to threaten him."
 
 "Don't always be so ready to kill. Take a different approach. In the end it will save your own life."
 
 "This story teaches you that it is best NOT to jump to conclusions. Don't judge things by appearance alone."
 
 "Apparently this teacher has taken a few psychology courses. But I think the story would have been more interesting if the student DID stab himself. Whatever the problem is that he is facing, it is increasing to the point where it must destroy him, or he must destroy it."
 
 "I bet this student was suicidal to start off with."
 
 "I think the spider symbolizes the student growing more focused and immersed into his meditation - so much so that he is seeing himself. But that scares him, because he doesn't know that he is looking at himself, and no one wants to really look at oneself."
 
 
 Dreaming
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 The great Taoist master Chuang Tzu once dreamt that he was a butterfly fluttering here and there. In the dream he had no awareness of his individuality as a person. He was only a butterfly. Suddenly, he awoke and found himself laying there, a person once again. But then he thought to himself, "Was I before a man who dreamt about being a butterfly, or am I now a butterfly who dreams about being a man?"
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "I can identify with this story. Many times I have awakened from a dream and didn't know, for a moment, what was real and what was the dream."
 
 "Dreams are weird. Are they trying to tell us something. If so, how are we to know what they mean?"
 
 "You are who you perceive yourself to be."
 
 "I've sometimes dreamed that I could fly. It's such a wonderful, free feeling. It seemed so real."
 
 "This Zen master had an out-of-body experience, and now isn't sure about his identity."
 
 "When you're a butterfly, there are no worries. You can flutter around without a care in the world. Perhaps this monk is wishing there were not so many responsibilities and barriers in his life."
 
 "I think this Zen master wants some peace and quiet in his life. He wishes he were a normal person and not a Zen master with so many demands put on him by others."
 
 "I think it's important for us to have dreams, but always remember that reality is much more important."
 
 "Sounds like this guy conforms to what others think of him and allows them to govern his life."
 
 "In my opinion, this is the kind of question asked by people who are struggling with their sense of individuality and self esteem."
 
 "Only you know who you are - and sometimes it takes some soul-searching to find that identity."
 
 "We should be content with who we are. If we try to be someone or something else, we will lose our sense of identity."
 
 "I sometimes wonder whether we really exist as people, or whether we are only dreaming our lives. And if we are dreaming, when and how will we wake up?"
 
 "It would be strange if our life were really part of someone else's dream. Our lives might seem long and tedious, but it would pass in the blink of an eye for that dreaming person."
 
 "Are we really just living out someone else's dream or fantasy? I think that everyone at one time or another feels this kind of detachment from their lives."
 
 "It's funny how we sometimes have to pinch ourselves to make sure we're really ourselves, to make sure we really exist. It's just like watching a movie, except in real life you don't follow a script."
 
 "This reminds me of a philosophy course I once took. We discussed reality and how we know that we really exist. All I can remember from the course is 'I think therefore I am.'"
 
 "Is this really reality? Or are we ALL dreaming this?"
 
 "Thinking about this kind of thing for too long can drive you crazy."
 
 "Blah, blah, blah. Philosophical babble..."
 
 "I think this story has to do with being close to nature, and not forgetting that humans are as much a part of nature as a butterfly. Ultimately, we are all equal and should treat each other as equals."
 
 "This story reminds me of Kafka's Metamorphosis. What would it be like if I woke up one morning and found that I had been completed transformed? Could I make a smooth transition into my new existence, or would I be really screwed up?"
 
 "This story is a wake-up call for all those preoccupied with materialism and the mundane."
 
 "I think that this Zen master is thinking too much. How can a butterfly dream?"
 
 "This person is schizophrenic, and is having trouble distinguishing reality."
 
 "Dumb! How can he not know whether he is a butterfly or not!?"
 
 "Do butterflies really dream like humans, or is this monk just anthropomorphizing?"
 
 "I can't think about this too long, because it will control my mind for the rest of the week."
 
 "It's not important if what I perceive is a dream or if I'm someone elses reality or not. What matters is the principle of doing the right thing with the situations, real or not, I am confronted with."
 
 "Why would a man want to be a butterfly, or a butterfly a man?"
 
 "Reality is one's perception of reality, nothing more."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:26
Knowing Fish
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 One day Chuang Tzu and a friend were walking by a river. "Look at the fish swimming about," said Chuang Tzu, "They are really enjoying themselves."
 "You are not a fish," replied the friend, "So you can't truly know that they are enjoying themselves."
 
 "You are not me," said Chuang Tzu. "So how do you know that I do not know that the fish are enjoying themselves?"
 
 
 (A western version of this story describes two philosophers on a walk while discussing phenomenology. One of them kicks a dog and says, "See! This dog is experiencing pain".... etc.)
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 Does any of us realy know anyone else's true-sself or soul?
 You never say no to know because the truth can't be false.
 
 Only THE fish knows the fishes heart...and even then it does not Know.
 
 "I'm just assuming that, being of my kind, you're not any closer to a fish than I am."
 
 "The fish in this story doesn't actually exist because, according to our spiritual leader Aristotle, all fish in this world are only imperfect copies of a sublime fish in a different world."
 
 "This reminds me of some time spent in Scotland learning to fly fish. The secret to catching fish is to think like a fish. Disembodiment is the answer and the Tao of being the fish."
 
 "does a fish have buddha nature?"
 
 "I read an article in a fly-fishing magazine where the author (a zen philosopher name Lefty Kreh, I believe) said that you catch the fish by setting the hook just *before* you feel the strike. It took about four years of active contemplation at a local trout stream before I understand what he meant well enough do this with any consistency. Perhaps Chuang Tzu had spent more time at the trout stream than his friend."
 
 "The story is about the fundamental problem that has been treated by all big religions and philosphers. It is the question of the relationship between subject and object. Logically we will not be able to tackle this "everlasting" problem, but maybe there other ways."
 
 "To think like a fish, you have to drink like a fish"
 
 "If these guys were enlightened, wouldn't they just enjoy the fish without trying to figure out what the fish, or each other, are thinking? Would these guys be thinking at all? Come to think of it, if I'm enlightened, why am I thinking about this? And if I'm a fish, who is wondering if I'm enjoying this experience? Myself? Can I stand on the bank and watch myself as if I'm a fish?"
 
 "Read Lord Alexander's 'The remarkable Journey of Prince Jen'! This story and the butterfly dream shows up there and the whole book is about enlightenment!"
 
 "We each have our own individual perceptions of reality."
 
 "Chuang Tzu is not his friend, how can he know that his friend does not know? But I am not Chuang Tzu, how do I know that Chuang Tzu does not know that his friend does not know?"
 
 
 Not Dead Yet
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 The Emperor asked Master Gudo, "What happens to a man of enlightenment after death?"
 "How should I know?" replied Gudo.
 
 "Because you are a master," answered the Emperor.
 
 "Yes sir," said Gudo, "but not a dead one."
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Knowledgeable people are not afraid to say "I don't know" regarding things that they _cannot_ know. Observe all that you can. Do not invent what you cannot know."
 
 "This story seems to me to be saying that we should rely on our own experience. That is the only thing that we truly "know". The master could not talk about what happened to an enlightened man after death because he had never experienced death."
 
 Why should the emperor care? If he doesn't know, he's not enlightened and shouldn't try to act enlightened because he's not!!!
 
 "I believe that this story is trying to tell us that first hand experience is the only kind of knowlage we can truely have."
 
 "I guess that the master is still not enlightened completely."
 
 A wise man knows that he is not wise-just like Socrates.
 
 The truely wise are not afraid to say "I don't know."
 
 To know that you know what you know is all anyone can really know!!
 
 Your alive so mind your own business!
 
 I think master Gudo wants the emporer to realise he should not think of the future but now.
 
 The future is unforseeable and the past is but dead images, we only really experience the present moment.
 
 When one answers a question with another question that person is avoiding answering the question. Maybe the Zen master knows the answer and doesn't want to share it with the Emperor.
 
 Sometimes, if you have to answer a question with a question, maybe more thought should have been put into it before it was spoken.
 
 A fool can ask more questions than a wise man can answer.
 
 I think this story is beautiful. It states,very briefly, the great flaws I see with traditional western religions. They all promise life after death and eternal bliss-worshipping God. But they miss the point--it doesn't matter what happens after death if we live our lives right.
 
 Cross each bridge when you get to it.
 
 "The World of the Living and the World of the Dead....so close but yet so far."
 
 Just shows that you shouldn't trust all the quacks who claim to know everything about the afterlife!
 
 
 Bell Teacher
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 
 A new student approached the Zen master and asked how he should prepare himself for his training. "Think of me a bell," the master explained. "Give me a soft tap, and you will get a tiny ping. Strike hard, and you'll receive a loud, resounding peal."
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "You get out of something what you put into it."
 
 "The more you try, the more a good teacher will help."
 
 "The more students needs a teacher, the more the good teacher will be there for them."
 
 "Be careful what you ask for. The universe may just provide you with what you seek."
 
 "You can think of the master as life. You get out what you put in. If you look for and are really open to beauty and happiness, they are everywhere. If you huddle miserably somewhere, it will all pass you by without you're even noticing."
 
 "Sounds like the master is saying pay me a lot, and I will help you a lot; pay me little, and that's what I'll give you in return."
 
 "Give and you shall receive."
 
 "I think the teacher was warning the student that if he is struck he will strike back with equal force."
 
 "All the student needs to know is within himself. The master will guide him to that knowledge by reflecting the thoughts, feelings, and questions that the student puts out to him."
 
 "When I become a teacher, I'll use this story when a student questions my purpose or integrity."
 
 
 Wanting God
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 A hermit was meditating by a river when a young man interrupted him. "Master, I wish to become your disciple," said the man. "Why?" replied the hermit. The young man thought for a moment. "Because I want to find God."
 
 The master jumped up, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragged him into the river, and plunged his head under water. After holding him there for a minute, with him kicking and struggling to free himself, the master finally pulled him up out of the river. The young man coughed up water and gasped to get his breath. When he eventually quieted down, the master spoke. "Tell me, what did you want most of all when you were under water."
 
 "Air!" answered the man.
 
 "Very well," said the master. "Go home and come back to me when you want God as much as you just wanted air."
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Sometimes people aren't serious when it comes to God and religion. They should be willing to dedicate their whole lives to him if they are truly serious. You must do it with passion."
 
 "For the young man to truly want God he must put all other wishes and needs aside. God must become the center of his life."
 
 "This reminds me of the passages in the Bible when Jesus tells people that they must give up everything in order to follow him to God."
 
 "This life needs to take the backseat if you pursue God. If you are seriously pursuing God, you are preparing for the afterlife."
 
 "A person who really wants God and has lived a righteous life should not fear death. The young man doesn't want to get close to God, he wants to live. Anyone who wants God should expect death at any moment and know that this death will bring him closer to God, if he has lived a good life."
 
 "The will to live is sometimes stronger than wanting God in your life."
 
 "Any person who truly wished to find God would immediately think of him when they were almost drowned!"
 
 " People sometimes want something but are afraid to give something else up in order to achieve it."
 
 "This is a reality check. Wanting God means becoming his servant. You have to put your priorities in order and know 100% what you are looking for, and what you will sacrifice along the way."
 
 "Reminds me of sports - you can say you want to be the best, but you have to really want it to accomplish it. Takes practice and hard work. Anyone can just say it."
 
 "Of course the young man wanted air - he was being drowned! That would have been any normal person's response!... But does that mean that any normal person wants God?"
 
 "If you want to find God bad enough, you don't need someone else's help."
 
 "This hermit has a bug up his ass. He wants fanatical followers or none at all. He SHOULD stay away from people."
 
 "The hermit was a bit extreme. How is the man supposed to find God at home if he has already gone looking. This story makes me angry."
 
 "What was the hermit going to do? Was he going to kill the young man to see how much he wanted to be with God?"
 
 "The hermit wanted to know if the young man could trust him."
 
 "Like air, God helps us and makes us able to breathe life."
 
 "God is not an essential for life, like air is. It's something that people only think they need. If everyone found out tomorrow that there really is a god, or that there isn't, we'd all go on living the same way anyhow."
 
 "This story seems totally irrelevant to me."
 
 "This story focuses on the difference between needs and wants."
 
 "People always want something in life. They're never satisfied with what they have."
 
 "This story shows the frivolity with which people, and societies, go about life without any compassion for anything. It seems like it's only in times of crisis or depression that people are able to FEEL for anyone. We don't appreciate the everyday phenomena with the zest we should."
 
 "I wonder if God would expect the man to want him more than air."
 
 "Why doesn't God make himself known to me? Why must I pursue Him?"

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:27
Gutei's Finger
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 Whenever anyone asked him about Zen, the great master Gutei would quietly raise one finger into the air. A boy in the village began to imitate this behavior. Whenever he heard people talking about Gutei's teachings, he would interrupt the discussion and raise his finger. Gutei heard about the boy's mischief. When he saw him in the street, he seized him and cut off his finger. The boy cried and began to run off, but Gutei called out to him. When the boy turned to look, Gutei raised his finger into the air. At that moment the boy became enlightened.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "I don't get this at all."
 
 "I guess Gutei doesn't believe that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."
 
 "I like this story, for some reason, but I don't know what it means."
 
 "Gutei is just trying to dominate and control the kid."
 
 "Whose finger did Gutei hold up at the end - the boy's or his own?"
 
 "Did the boy become enlightened because of Gutei, or just because his finger got cut off."
 
 "This story hurts!"
 
 "Yuck!"
 
 "Weird!"
 
 "You can't imitate or own enlightenment."
 
 "Imitation is no substitute for real knowledge and truth."
 
 "When you lose the single most important thing that means enlightenment to you, maybe that's when you REALLY become enlightened."
 
 "You don't know what you've got till it's gone."
 
 "I don't entirely understand this story, but I do believe that the finger pointed in the air might represent "one", as in "not two"..
 
 "In the end the boy realized Gutei uses his index finger, not his middle finger. Gutei took exception to the boy using his middle finger."
 
 "I sense that this story does tell a great truth, but I just can't see it in the darkness inside my head. I guess if I were enlightened, I could."
 
 "When you can no longer point at truth, maybe that's when you see it most clearly."
 
 "Stories like this make me want to lash out. Gutei becomes the enlightener, when maybe he should just lighten up. Now we know the reason for lawyers, To sew crazy old self appointed wise men that carry pocket knives."
 
 
 Just Two Words
 
 
 
 There once was a monastery that was very strict. Following a vow of silence, no one was allowed to speak at all. But there was one exception to this rule. Every ten years, the monks were permitted to speak just two words. After spending his first ten years at the monastery, one monk went to the head monk. "It has been ten years," said the head monk. "What are the two words you would like to speak?"
 "Bed... hard..." said the monk.
 
 "I see," replied the head monk.
 
 Ten years later, the monk returned to the head monk's office. "It has been ten more years," said the head monk. "What are the two words you would like to speak?"
 
 "Food... stinks..." said the monk.
 
 "I see," replied the head monk.
 
 Yet another ten years passed and the monk once again met with the head monk who asked, "What are your two words now, after these ten years?"
 
 "I... quit!" said the monk.
 
 "Well, I can see why," replied the head monk. "All you ever do is complain."
 
 
 
 
 ( This story is a favorite in many western monasteries. It may or may not be an original Zen tale. Like any good anecdote, it makes us laugh, but also encourages us to think about why it is funny .)
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 If all you ever do is complain you can't expect to cross the finish line, you'll convince yourself otherwise first.
 
 "I heard this story, originally, from my father who heard it from a Francisican Abbot. The chuckle it evokes is welcome, of course, but it does beg the question - Why was the monk there in the first place if he refused to let go of physical, mundane and certainly egocentric concerns and not search for universal truth?"
 
 "stop...complaining."
 
 "I believe that we have the choice to either focus on the positive aspects of our lives or dwell of the negatives. He obviously chose the negatives and therefore was not accomplishing much - he was basically wasting his time with negative preoccupations."
 
 "Ha! Ha!"
 
 "The thing that makes it humourous and enjoyable is not the fact that the monk should not have been there in the first place , it's that he stayed thirty years before he left. This makes us realise that if we were in that situation then we would have simply walked out and not have waited another ten years!"
 
 "When eating, eat; when sitting, sit. These are not complaints. They are the moment. It would seem the head monk has no awareness...and talks too much!"
 
 "Enough's enough."
 
 "The head monk is shallow. The monk was enlightened."
 
 "The punchline of this story is certainly very Western. But if you look deeper, it deals with the basis of self deprivation. After thirty years the younger monk had learnt nothing. The head monk was understandably disappointed. And it was about time the younger one left."
 
 "Although he spoke only six words in thirty years, the monk did nothing but complain the whole time - in his head. That's why he had nothing better to say when he had the chance."
 
 "Although the monk only said two words every 10 years, he constantly thought of unimportant things, instead of focusing on what he was being silent for."
 
 "It's just funny............period. Quit analizing and enjoy a moment you people!"
 
 "Thank You"
 
 
 Elephant and Flea
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 Roshi Kapleau agreed to educate a group of psychoanalysts about Zen. After being introduced to the group by the director of the analytic institute, the Roshi quietly sat down upon a cushion placed on the floor. A student entered, prostrated before the master, and then seated himself on another cushion a few feet away, facing his teacher. "What is Zen?" the student asked. The Roshi produced a banana, peeled it, and started eating. "Is that all? Can't you show me anything else?" the student said. "Come closer, please," the master replied. The student moved in and the Roshi waved the remaining portion of the banana before the student's face. The student prostrated, and left.
 A second student rose to address the audience. "Do you all understand?" When there was no response, the student added, "You have just witnessed a first-rate demonstration of Zen. Are there any questions?"
 
 After a long silence, someone spoke up. "Roshi, I am not satisfied with your demonstration. You have shown us something that I am not sure I understand. It must be possible to TELL us what Zen is."
 
 "If you must insist on words," the Roshi replied, "then Zen is an elephant copulating with a flea."
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "What an image this story brings to mind! I see that the infinite universe as large as that may be, is equally matched by the infinite microscopic world, joining the two in perfect harmony."
 
 "On a first reading, the final line suggests that Zen is profane or absurd. Surely this cannot be what the Roshi intended to convey. Perhaps what the Roshi means is that putting Zen into words is profane or absurd."
 
 "Some things are better learned through observation....Words only skew ones ability to establish an honest and personal opinion."
 
 "Describe the colour red to a man who has been blind from birth. Zen is more than words, fitting it into the confinement of language is like an elephant trying to copulate with a flea. It just wouldn't fit."
 
 "Zen is Zen and if you understood it you would not ask."
 
 "He is saying in symbolism how futile it is to understand Zen if you believe you can learn it through words when the only way to truly understand is through actions and feelings. This story realy makes you think."
 
 "Maybe Its inconceivable!"
 
 "To attempt to put Zen into words is as impossible as an elephant copulating with a Flea."
 
 "On top of a flagpole a cow gives birth to a calf."
 
 "My reaction to the story is that trying to explain Zen in words, or even with observations, is as impossible as an 'elephant copulation with a flea.' Also, to be able to explain meaning of Zen in words is an admission that one does not understand the meaning of Zen."
 
 "This reminds me of the story of the Master who asked his student to comment on a skein of geese flying overhead. The student said they were flying South for winter - the Master beat him. The student then said they were coming from the North and the same happened. he tried again and again and each time the student's attempt at description was rewarded with a beating. The point being that the student could not describe what he saw only what his belief systems told him what the geese might be doing. Words are often not sufficient, observation and inner understanding may be the only path."
 
 "The Roshi's imagery is spot on: Zen is impossible to explain in the talk, talk, talk of psycoanalysis."
 
 "The Roshi was certainly in a state of transe when he ate the banana because of its taste. Then he wanted to share its smell, waving it to the student. But the student didn't used the right sense and expected an answer from his ears instead of his nose. Anyway the one that was enlightened in this story was certainly the flea...."
 
 "This story is kind-of confusing, but I think it's saying that actions speak louder than words. If only people would stop and listen."
 
 "What I'd like to know is, was the flea on top?"
 
 
 Books
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 Once there was a well known philosopher and scholar who devoted himself to the study of Zen for many years. On the day that he finally attained enlightenment, he took all of his books out into the yard, and burned them all.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "The most important things in life you can't learn through books. You have to learn them through experience."
 
 "Life's most important lessons have to be learned for oneself, not from what other people have said."
 
 "It's your own thoughts that are important. Everything else is indoctrination from others."
 
 "Once you have gained a true understanding of something, the knowledge will be with you for the rest of your life. You'll never have to study it again."
 
 "The reason that he burned the books was because he felt that he had learned all that he could possibly could from them and that it was time to move on and learn from life itself."
 
 "One you attain a goal, you no longer need the methods that helped you get there."
 
 "Did he burn the books because he realized their uselessness. Or did he burn them because he thought there was no more knowledge left in them to gain? I get the feeling that maybe he WASN'T very enlightened."
 
 "I guess the scholar felt he was done with his studies, and didn't need his books anymore."
 
 "All systems of knowledge (conceptual beliefs), including this one, limit perception."
 
 "I don't know what enlightenment is, but I do know that you never stop learning and growing. Besides, what if the Zen master forgets something later on, and has to look it up?"
 
 "Sounds like he wanted to rid himself of his former life."
 
 "Nothing wrong with that. I'm sure the fire was pretty cool."
 
 "This story stirs up mixed feelings in me about school. Will it all be worth it when I'm done?
 Sometimes I just feel like giving up."
 
 "This reminds me of the Pearl of Great Price story from the Bible. A man sold everything he owned to buy this pearl, and did so joyfully."
 
 "I guess once you attain perfect knowledge, you don't need to read anymore."
 
 "Why burn the knowledge attained?! Knowledge must be saved for the future. A mind can only store away so much information."
 
 "Learn it, know it _LIVE_ it!" My drill instructor in basic training knew & taught this. I do recall that he felt the need to add a few extra embellishments to be sure we were paying attention :-) "
 
 "Maybe he realized with his enlightened mind that he was cold."
 
 "I could never bring myself to burn a book! It's almost like burning the person who wrote it."
 
 "Words, words, words..... They're not reality anyhow. They're just words."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:30
Empty Your Cup
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 A university professor went to visit a famous Zen master. While the master quietly served tea, the professor talked about Zen. The master poured the visitor's cup to the brim, and then kept pouring. The professor watched the overflowing cup until he could no longer restrain himself. "It's overfull! No more will go in!" the professor blurted. "You are like this cup," the master replied, "How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup."
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "You cannot learn anything if you already feel that you know."
 
 "Preconceived ideas and prejudices always prevent us from seeing the truth."
 
 "You should open your mind before you open your mouth."
 
 "The master is trying to tell him to ease back and relax. The professor is too anxious about the whole thing."
 
 "Some people want to be taught everything in one sitting. It's not possible."
 
 "This story proves to me that you have to unlearn before you can learn."
 
 "We shouldn't get too wrapped up in one aspect of life. If we do, we close ourselves off to new experiences."
 
 "Even though you may be full of knowledge, you should always be open to the fact that there is still more to learn."
 
 "I bet the master did that just to shut the professor up!"
 
 "If you want to learn, you have to shut up and LISTEN for a change."
 
 "We should be open to the views of others, and accept them as their own. Treat each opinion individually, and don't just add it to your own."
 
 "Sometimes another person has to catch you with your guard down in order to teach you something."
 
 "The professor's understanding of Zen is too intellectualized. The master is trying to point him towards a more intuitive understanding . If you're too intellectualized about ANY subject, often you miss the boat."
 
 "I would tell this story to anyone who believed something about me that was untrue."
 
 "I think the master was trying to show him that when you can no longer take it is time to give - and you must sometimes give in order to receive."
 
 "This professor probably doesn't really believe in Zen. His prejudices are preventing him from seeing clearly. This is what the master is trying to show him."
 
 "Too much of anything is just too much!"
 
 "I don't think the professor's reaction indicated that he had a closed mind. It was perfectly normal. Wouldn't you do the same if someone was spilling tea all over the place?"
 
 
 
 No More Questions
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 Upon meeting a Zen master at a social event, a psychiatrist decided to ask him a question that had been on his mind. "Exactly how do you help people?" he inquired.
 
 "I get them where they can't ask any more questions," the Master answered.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "To have no questions is to be at peace with oneself."
 
 "He who is all-knowing will never be helpless."
 
 "If you can answer the questions in your own head, you are on the road to recovery."
 
 "When all of your questions in life are answered, you will become a full and complete person."
 
 "Does this mean that asking questions is bad?! Getting them to the point where they can't ask questions is good!?.... I don't get it!"
 
 "A person always needs to answer questions because this is how we grown and learn!"
 
 "How do you get a child to stop asking questions? This will make people feel inferior. Is this really what the master wants?"
 
 "If you can teach a person to answer his own questions, then he will be at peace with himself."
 
 "I can't imagine reaching a state of consciousness where I'd be free from the desire to ask questions about anything. Is it possible?"
 
 "I believe that the Zen master is also implying that his job is never complete. People will continue to ask questions until they die..."
 
 "All of our questions come from the fact that we are discontent about something. When we reach the place where we don't have to ask any more questions, we can just "be" and transcend our earthly problems."
 
 "I think the Master found it to be an absurd question coming from a trained specialist, hoping he would go away and think of how juvenile the question was."
 
 "Sometimes it's better not to dwell on questions, but just to accept."
 
 
 
 Egotism
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 The Prime Minister of the Tang Dynasty was a national hero for his success as both a statesman and military leader. But despite his fame, power, and wealth, he considered himself a humble and devout Buddhist. Often he visited his favorite Zen master to study under him, and they seemed to get along very well. The fact that he was prime minister apparently had no effect on their relationship, which seemed to be simply one of a revered master and respectful student.
 
 One day, during his usual visit, the Prime Minister asked the master, "Your Reverence, what is egotism according to Buddhism?" The master's face turned red, and in a very condescending and insulting tone of voice, he shot back, "What kind of stupid question is that!?"
 
 This unexpected response so shocked the Prime Minister that he became sullen and angry. The Zen master then smiled and said, "THIS, Your Excellency, is egotism."
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "The best way to learn something is not by having it explained to you, but by EXPERIENCING it yourself, firsthand."
 
 "Actions speak louder than words."
 
 "It's interesting that the Zen master referred to his student as 'Your Excellency' just before he zaps him with the egotism comment. I wonder if he ever called the Prime Minister that before the Prime Minister asked the question about egotism."
 
 "People need to put aside their petty titles in order to really relate to each other. Titles are very egotistical... But then, you also should never forget who you are."
 
 "This story illustrates how enlightenment does not put the master above the student. They relate to each other as equals, including BOTH of them acting egotistical."
 
 "Egotism is a large part of who we be, Without it I'm sure the daily obits would take up most of the paper. I think I was more frightened that a man in his position would ask such a question. Fictional I Hope!"
 
 "I think the message of the story is that people already know the answer to most questions that they ask. Many questions are egotistical in themselves."
 
 "Whenever we call someone else's question stupid, we are being egotistical. Questions are necessary."
 
 "I hope the Prime Minister had a good sense of humor."
 
 "Was the Zen master really insulted by the question, or was it just an act?"
 
 "If the question got the Zen master angry, it must be because he thought the Prime Minister should know better. Maybe he really thought he was better than the Prime Minister. Or maybe the master felt inadequate because he thought he had taught the Prime Minister better. In either case, HE was the one being egotistical."
 
 "People of status sometimes try to pretend that it's no big deal, but it is... to them."
 
 Self-Control
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 One day there was an earthquake that shook the entire Zen temple. Parts of it even collapsed. Many of the monks were terrified. When the earthquake stopped the teacher said, "Now you have had the opportunity to see how a Zen man behaves in a crisis situation. You may have noticed that I did not panic. I was quite aware of what was happening and what to do. I led you all to the kitchen, the strongest part of the temple. It was a good decision, because you see we have all survived without any injuries. However, despite my self-control and composure, I did feel a little bit tense - which you may have deduced from the fact that I drank a large glass of water, something I never do under ordinary circumstances."
 
 One of the monks smiled, but didn't say anything.
 
 "What are you laughing at?" asked the teacher.
 
 "That wasn't water," the monk replied, "it was a large glass of soy sauce."
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "I see this sort of behavior often in men. They feel they have to put on a front to appear to be something that they are not."
 
 "It's like someone bragging about how cool they are, and then you find out that he is just a geek underneath after all."
 
 "Sounds just like my father - always in control, always right, always the leader. But WE know the truth!"
 
 "Sometimes the calmest looking person in an emergency situation is really the most nervous."
 
 "Someone should have thrown that water into that teacher's face so he could wake up and realize that he was kidding himself."
 
 "This reminds me of people who think they are so great and are always bragging about it. Admitting that they are wrong is the hardest thing in their lives, when it should be something that's very natural."
 
 "Everyone at one time or another has been in a tense situation where you think that you are composed and in control, but then you do something weird - which shows that you're not."
 
 "Sometimes, when you're in a very stressful situation, you aren't aware of your actions until someone else points it out."
 
 "It didn't matter to her what she drank. She wasn't concentrating on the taste, but instead the action."
 
 "Even a Zen man is still human."
 
 "I'd tell this story to children so they wouldn't be afraid to be afraid."
 
 "How can you be so shaken that you can't tell the difference between water and soy sauce?!"
 
 "I think the teacher was testing the monks - to see if they noticed what he drank.
 
 "I think the teacher deliberately was trying to teach them that it's OK to do something weird in a panic situation. You can do somethings weird, but for the important decisions you still can make the right choices."
 
 "Maybe the soy sauce explains why he is so relaxed."
 
 "I really thought this story was going to have a great ending, but it was stupid."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:31
Full Awareness
 
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 After ten years of apprenticeship, Tenno achieved the rank of Zen teacher. One rainy day, he went to visit the famous master Nan-in. When he walked in, the master greeted him with a question, "Did you leave your wooden clogs and umbrella on the porch?"
 
 "Yes," Tenno replied.
 
 "Tell me," the master continued, "did you place your umbrella to the left of your shoes, or to the right?"
 
 Tenno did not know the answer, and realized that he had not yet attained full awareness. So he became Nan-in's apprentice and studied under him for ten more years.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Just goes to show you how little we pay attention to the things we do."
 
 "This story makes me realize how much of my time is wasted by paying little attention to what I am doing at each moment. I'm either focused on the past or future and am not aware of what I'm doing."
 
 "Do we remember EVERY detail of our day?! Is it possible to be aware at all times?"
 
 "Full awareness includes even the most insignificant things?... Very odd."
 
 "It's funny how people do things without realizing that they're doing them. I'm a cashier at a convenience store, and when I ask people what kind of sandwich they bought, they forget and have to look down to read the wrapper."
 
 "Full awareness or great retention? Awareness should flow and not get caught up in what flows through it. Memory isn't attention. Doesn't it involve getting caught up in the flow?"
 
 "How many experiences do we let slip by us in life? It's scary to think about."
 
 "Sometimes we may think we know or are aware of everything, but someone else comes along to show us that we still have much to learn."
 
 "No matter how much you know, there is always someone who can teach you more."
 
 "Whenever you are absolutely sure you are doing something right, it turns out that you are going about it entirely the wrong way."
 
 "This story is not inspiring! He's not aware of where he put his umbrella, so he lacks full awareness?! Maybe he was just focused on other things at the time!"
 
 "I felt very frustrated and sorry for Tenno. He feels he has been wasting his time, so he has to study for another 10 years."
 
 "I think it sucks that the poor dude has to study for another 10 years. Of course, these are dedicated people, so it's probably good for them."
 
 "It's my opinion that an adult can never obtain full awareness, unless He or She is reared from parents with this developed state of mind. Maybe I'll give it a try after I get back from the shopping mall. Ha!"
 
 "He really must have felt he was wrong in his forgetfulness if he was willing to lower himself and study for another ten years!"
 
 "I think this story is a spoof of Zen practice. People take it too seriously."
 
 
 Tea or Iron
 
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 The Zen master Hakuin used to tell his students about an old woman who owned a tea shop in the village. She was skilled in the tea ceremony, Hakuin said, and her understanding of Zen was superb. Many students wondered about this and went to the village themselves to check her out. Whenever the old woman saw them coming, she could tell immediately whether they had come to experience the tea, or to probe her grasp of Zen. Those wanting tea she served graciously. For the others wanting to learn about her Zen knowledge, she hid until they approached her door and then attacked them with a fire poker. Only one out of ten managed to escape her beating.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "I guess if you really want to understand Zen, you better be very alert!"
 
 "There's more to learn about Zen from drinking tea, than discussing it."
 
 "Maybe there's something important to learn about Zen by being whacked with a poker... beats me what it is, though."
 
 "People often have ulterior motives - sometimes good, sometimes bad."
 
 "The old woman didn't like nosy people, did she?"
 
 "The woman wanted company, not people looking to believe in something."
 
 "We look to others not for who they are and to truly experience their talents and abilities, but often 'to get what we can' out of them.... I would probably have been attacked with the poker, unfortunately."
 
 "She didn't like being used for her knowledge of Zen. Maybe that's what she was trying to convey to the students. You can't take Zen from someone else."
 
 "The old woman's lesson is very evil."
 
 "She was a strong woman, for keeping her secret."
 
 "The tea represents good, and Zen represents evil. People are forever faced with this choice. I think she used the poker to persuade people to want the tea."
 
 "Why wouldn't she want to tell people about Zen? Why be so violent and secretive?"
 
 "This reminds me of fairy tales where there is a wicked old woman. It's just another story that portrays women in a negative light."
 
 "All your possessions can be taken from you, but they can never steal your knowledge."
 
 "I don't get this one..... I REALLY don't get it!"
 
 
 Learning the Hard Way
 
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 The son of a master thief asked his father to teach him the secrets of the trade. The old thief agreed and that night took his son to burglarize a large house. While the family was asleep, he silently led his young apprentice into a room that contained a clothes closet. The father told his son to go into the closet to pick out some clothes. When he did, his father quickly shut the door and locked him in. Then he went back outside, knocked loudly on the front door, thereby waking the family, and quickly slipped away before anyone saw him. Hours later, his son returned home, bedraggled and exhausted. "Father," he cried angrily, "Why did you lock me in that closet? If I hadn't been made desperate by my fear of getting caught, I never would have escaped. It took all my ingenuity to get out!" The old thief smiled. "Son, you have had your first lesson in the art of burglary."
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "This is the sink-or-swim method of teaching someone. In the face of fear, people do things they never thought possible. People are a lot stronger than they give themselves credit for."
 
 "A challenge brings out the most in a man."
 
 "Your mind works best and fastest when you have your back to the wall. It's the old fight-or-flight response. It's basic instinct."
 
 "This is how I learned to speak English. As a five year old, I found myself in a class where everyone spoke English except me. Had I just tried to learn English on my own, I would never have learned as fast. This is why foreign language courses in this country are unsuccessful."
 
 "The best way to respect and appreciate what one has accomplished is by learning it the hard way and doing it on one's own."
 
 "There is, of course, no better way to teach than to force one to teach oneself."
 
 "When we learn from a master, we learn by imitation. When we learn on our own, we REALLY learn."
 
 "In some lifestyles a man has to stand on his own. Even his own father may not be there to help him."
 
 "When my cousin was learning to skate, she first practiced falling down so she would know how to do it and what it felt like BEFORE it happened for real."
 
 "Just like everything else in life, the only way to really understand the situation is to be in it. Experience is the best teacher."
 
 "I agree that the ' best' way to learn is sometimes by experience. But NOT ALWAYS. I know that I have changed greatly by watching other people suffer."
 
 "To be a thief, or for that matter in almost any profession, you have to be ready for the unexpected and always on-guard."
 
 "To do something at its best, you have to be able to accomplish it against all odds."
 
 "A lesson about survival is always valuable."
 
 "In the future, this boy will either be confident about escaping, or hesitant that he may not be that lucky again."
 
 "The father taught him about his deepest fears. When a person lives through their worst fear, it doesn't frighten them as much anymore."
 
 "His father put his son into a worst case scenario in which he would either break down and never want to burglarize a house again, or feel confident that burglary was the career for him."
 
 "I dislike the fact that this story is about burglary. It's a crime and shouldn't be romanticized."
 
 "This is not the kind of thing a father should be teaching a son. I would think twice about entering a life of crime."
 
 "At first I thought the father was trying to dissuade the son from following in his footsteps by wanting him to get caught and face the consequences."
 
 "He locked the son in to make him think about whether he really wanted to learn the secrets of the trade."
 
 "I don't see any strong family bonds here!"
 
 "What would have happened had the son been caught? The father should want more for his son than a life in prison. He should be teaching his son why this is the wrong way to live!"
 
 "I see a very selfish man, raising the next generation of fool. He is neither a teacher or Father."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:33
Practice Makes Perfect
 
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 A dramatic ballad singer studied under a strict teacher who insisted that he rehearse day after day, month after month the same passage from the same song, without being permitted to go any further. Finally, overwhelmed by frustration and despair, the young man ran off to find another profession. One night, stopping at an inn, he stumbled upon a recitation contest. Having nothing to lose, he entered the competition and, of course, sang the one passage that he knew so well. When he had finished, the sponsor of the contest highly praised his performance. Despite the student's embarrassed objections, the sponsor refused to believe that he had just heard a beginner perform. "Tell me," the sponsor said, "who is your instructor? He must be a great master." The student later became known as the great performer Koshiji.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Hard work will always pay off sometime in the future. I can see myself telling this story to someone who wants to quit something before they've really gotten into it."
 
 "You can always take your abilities one step further, one inch closer to perfection.We should never be satisfied with a good or even a great performance. Let's be patient and strive for ultimate perfection, no matter what the cost."
 
 "I can relate to this. I play golf. If you can develop an incredibly good short game, your performance on all 18 holes will improve greatly. It's also important to have one really impressive skill because it gives you the confidence to tackle other skills."
 
 "He practiced so much that it became part of him. To really master something, it has to become part of you."
 
 "People sometimes spread themselves too thin by trying to do too many things at once. You have to master one thing at a time. That builds a solid foundation that you can then build on."
 
 "This reminds me of studying philosophy. You have to intensely study one small portion, master it, and then gradually build up your knowledge in new areas."
 
 "Practice doesn't make perfect - perfect practice makes perfect."
 
 "My dad brought me up with a quote - 'Only those who attempt the absurd achieve the impossible.'"
 
 "You can't practice all the time. If you do, you'll eventually burn out!"
 
 "Just practicing isn't always enough. You have to be involved in what you are doing. You have to learn from the heart."
 
 "I don't think this teacher could have been very good. If he was, the student would not have become so frustrated that he quit."
 
 "People who are more knowledgeable than us in a particular area have reasons for behaving the way they do - even if the reasons are not apparent to us."
 
 "This story reminds me of when I was in gymnastics. My coach kept pushing me to the limit. Well, I broke my arm and that was the end of my gymnastics career."
 
 "Parents are sometimes like this - they push and push a kid until the kid finally rebels."
 
 "This story reminds me of the movie The Karate Kid. His instructor made him practice all sorts of weird things, which he thought was useless - but the instructor turned out to be right."
 
 "I felt this way about my parents. They raised me well, but at the time I thought I knew it all and didn't want to listen to what they had to teach me. Eventually, I realized they were right."
 
 "I like this story because it emphasizes the kind of self-discipline that is missing in American culture. Our preoccupation with "freedom" makes it difficult for us to be disciplined and focused on difficult tasks."
 
 "What?"
 
 "I'm a bit paranoid about practice. Sometimes the more I practice the more careless I get. Then bad habits start to creep in."
 
 "It wasn't practicing that did it for him. He just got lucky. I don't think he deserves any prizes because he's a quitter."
 
 "I don't agree with this story. It's not realistic. In today's world you need more than just one skill in order to get ahead."
 
 "So what's the message here? Even though you may feel that something or someone is wasting your time, the eldest are still the most wise?"
 
 "I have to disagree with the consensus. Singing or music in general is anything but a skill, maybe talent, art, passion, relaxation, or a gift. If you take that away you have nothing. Practicing one passage over and over is nothing more than an elephant that stand next to a tree because he thinks he's chained to it. Not Music!"
 
 
 Working Very Hard
 
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 A martial arts student went to his teacher and said earnestly, "I am devoted to studying your martial system. How long will it take me to master it." The teacher's reply was casual, "Ten years." Impatiently, the student answered, "But I want to master it faster than that. I will work very hard. I will practice everyday, ten or more hours a day if I have to. How long will it take then?" The teacher thought for a moment, "20 years."
 
 
 (in other versions of this story, the student says he is eager to attain "enlightenment")
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "The student is too eager. The master is trying to tell him that he needs to learn patience first."
 
 "Sometimes, if you try too hard, you just get in your own way. It makes you anxious, which just blocks understanding. Some things have to develop naturally, by themselves."
 
 "This story makes me think about life. If you want to do something, then just let it happen. Don't push it. the harder you try, the longer it will take."
 
 "You can't rush true leaning. You have to take it one step at a time."
 
 "Reminds me of dieting. If you loose weight slow or by a natural method, it works much better than trying to do it quickly and compulsively."
 
 "Live for the moment. Don't rush things and worry so much about later. Let it flow. I would tell this story to those Type-A personalities who are always pushing in life."
 
 "Usually we are taught that the more effort we put into a task, the greater the reward. Then why is someone like this student, who is showing so much zeal, rebuffed by the master like this?"
 
 "Maybe this means that the harder you work at something, the more there is to learn. The more you want to learn, the more there is to learn."
 
 "You have to LIVE what you are studying."
 
 "The master is trying to tell the student to slow down, experience life, be self-aware. Maybe he is even trying to tell him to not be so preoccupied with the martial arts."
 
 "Get a life, already!"
 
 "Mastery doesn't come just from practice alone."
 
 "The student wanted to study the martial arts for the wrong reasons. He is immature in what he wants and expects. It probably would take him 20 years before he realized this."
 
 "You can't ever master the martial arts."
 
 "I've been in therapy for many years and now I wonder just how long it will take for me to master my problems. I guess it will take time."
 
 "This story reminds me of Aristotle who said that we should search for the mean between the extremes of excess and deficiency."
 
 "The student can't hear the answer the master is giving him because he is asking the wrong question. He anticipates eagerly what will only come naturally."
 
 "Don't just talk it, DO IT!"
 
 "Haste makes waste!"
 
 "I recently had this conversation with a workmate about the distinction between people who sail, and people who drive power boats (!)."
 
 "I know this story doesn't come from our western culture, but it reminds me of us. People always want to get things over with as quick as possible. They want to accomplish everything yesterday!"

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:34
Masterpiece
 
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 A master calligrapher was writing some characters onto a piece of paper. One of his especially perceptive students was watching him. When the calligrapher was finished, he asked for the student's opinion - who immediately told him that it wasn't any good. The master tried again, but the student criticized the work again. Over and over, the calligrapher carefully redrew the same characters, and each time the student rejected it. Finally, when the student had turned his attention away to something else and wasn't watching, the master seized the opportunity to quickly dash off the characters. "There! How's that?," he asked the student. The student turned to look. "THAT.... is a masterpiece!" he exclaimed.
 
 
 
 (Legend states this is the story behind master Kosen's creation of an ink template that was used to create the wood carving "The First Principle" that appears over the gate of Obaku Temple in Kyoto)
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "It's not how perfect you do something that's important, but how others perceive it."
 
 "It's reminds me of trying hard to accomplish something, and failing. If you just do your best, then that's the masterpiece."
 
 "Spontaneity is beautiful, not carefully planned out and conforming work."
 
 "Trying hard at something can lead to poor results. Let it come naturally."
 
 "We get habituated to everyday life. When we see something all the time, we take it for granted. When we see something new, for the first time, we appreciate it."
 
 "Originality is what makes each of us a masterpiece. Don't stick to the same old way of doing things."
 
 "Stop thinking and just do what's natural for you, instead of what's expected. Some of our best work is done when we least expect it."
 
 "You can't perform perfectly under the watch of critical eyes. When you don't force perfection, it happens by itself, spontaneously. Great things happen when you least suspect it."
 
 "Whenever you watch over someone you make them self-conscious and uncreative. It's like trying to teach a child. If you let them alone they will usually figure it out themselves and it will be great."
 
 "Teachers always criticize students' work even though they revise it many times. It's a hassle. You wonder if it is ever good enough. Students sometimes feel that they'd like to switch places with the professor, so the professor can feel what it's like to be criticized over and over."
 
 "I have to wonder why was the master so concerned with the student's opinion in the first place? Anyway, I think that when you become an expert at something, you pay less attention to it than someone who is new to it and who therefore has something valuable to offer."
 
 "Sounds like the master is the student and the student is the master."
 
 "People tend to be too critical. If they do not see the effort that goes into a project and just the finished work, then they can appreciate it."
 
 "You can't see a masterpiece as it's being created stroke by stroke. You have to see it whole. It's like not being able to see the forest from the trees."
 
 
 
 True Self
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 A distraught man approached the Zen master. "Please, Master, I feel lost, desperate. I don't know who I am. Please, show me my true self!" But the teacher just looked away without responding. The man began to plead and beg, but still the master gave no reply. Finally giving up in frustration, the man turned to leave. At that moment the master called out to him by name. "Yes!" the man said as he spun back around. "There it is!" exclaimed the master.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "I think the Zen master was trying to show him that his 'true self' was giving up too easily. He needs to be patient and then he will know who he really is."
 
 "When this man doesn't get what he wants, he gives up and runs away. He's a quitter. He's frustrated. The master wanted to demonstrate this to him so they could then talk about it."
 
 "His true self is that he doesn't push enough for what he wants. He gives up too easily. You should strive for your goals and never give up."
 
 "Makes me think of the times I would ask my father to help me with homework. I would ask him a question, and he would say, 'Well, what do you think.' I always got really frustrated because I thought that if I was asking him then I didn't know the answer myself. But he was right. I always did come up with the solution myself."
 
 "Only you can find yourself. He is who he is. The master showed him that by calling his name."
 
 "Your true self is who you are - that's it!"
 
 "No one can tell you who you are. You have to do that yourself."
 
 "He who loses himself in a crowd always asks for guidance from elders. But when shunned, they are willing to walk away and search for the truth."
 
 "This man only knew himself through his own name. He saw himself only through others."
 
 "I have no clue what this is supposed to mean."
 
 "I guess you will discover the most important things about yourself when you least expect to. There must be an element of surprise! When you're desperate, or trying too hard, you overlook things."
 
 "You must surrender, give up, in order to really discover who you are."
 
 "You have to give up on certain qualities of yourself, to unburden yourself, in order to find your true self."
 
 "Is the master telling him that his identity IS his name?"
 
 "I find it too simple that one's identity exists solely in one's name."
 
 "You can't be distraught and get spiritual help - you have to go with the flow."
 
 "Thinking about this story drove me bonkers!"
 
 
 When Tired
 
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 A student once asked his teacher, "Master, what is enlightenment?"
 
 The master replied, "When hungry, eat. When tired, sleep."
 
 
 
 
 
 
 (In other versions of this story, one disciple is bragging about his master to the disciple of another master. He claims that his teacher is capable of all sorts of magical acts, like writing in the air with a brush, and having the characters appear on a piece of paper hundreds of feet away. "And what can YOUR master do?" he asks the other disciple. "My master can also perform amazing feats," the other student replies. "When he's tired, he sleeps. When hungry, he eats"........... or simply, "When he sleeps, he sleeps. When he eats, he eats.")
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Living in the now is the most difficult task for us humans. Most live in the past or future."
 
 "Pleasures are simple things. Make the most of what you have."
 
 "Enlightenment may not be an unachievable task - it may be right in front of us all the time."
 
 "You have to accept and enjoy the basics before you can understand the more complicated aspects of life."
 
 "Do what you want to do. You are not given instructions on how to act. When you feel a need, fulfill it."
 
 "If you satisfy your needs, you will be happy."
 
 "Complexity is not always needed to get the job done. Life is only as difficult as we make it out to be."
 
 "This doesn't sound like much of story, even though the message makes sense. It sounds like something a child would come up with. I would like to ask my boyfriend about this statement, because he seems to like these kinds of things."
 
 "The master is truly at peace."
 
 "When your body signals messages to you, and you answer your body's questions, you will reach happiness. It reminds me of last night. It was dinner time, but I didn't feel like eating. I was exhausted. So I laid down to take a nap, and woke up when my body wanted to wake up. I felt very revived and happy, and was able to go back to the work that I had to finish that night. I guess I was "enlightened" because I listen to my body."
 
 "To know yourself is enlightenment."
 
 "I think he means you choose what your enlightenment is."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:36
A Useless Life
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 A farmer got so old that he couldn't work the fields anymore. So he would spend the day just sitting on the porch. His son, still working the farm, would look up from time to time and see his father sitting there. "He's of no use any more," the son thought to himself, "he doesn't do anything!" One day the son got so frustrated by this, that he built a wood coffin, dragged it over to the porch, and told his father to get in. Without saying anything, the father climbed inside. After closing the lid, the son dragged the coffin to the edge of the farm where there was a high cliff. As he approached the drop, he heard a light tapping on the lid from inside the coffin. He opened it up. Still lying there peacefully, the father looked up at his son. "I know you are going to throw me over the cliff, but before you do, may I suggest something?" "What is it?" replied the son. "Throw me over the cliff, if you like," said the father, "but save this good wood coffin. Your children might need to use it."
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "What's useless to one person isn't useless to another."
 
 "Everyone is here for a reason, even if it isn't obvious."
 
 "There is nothing useless in life, if God created it. Everything has a purpose. Sometimes when you think something is useless, there will come a day when you need that very thing."
 
 "Each person has their own unique flaws and imperfections. But it's all part of the purpose and meaning of his or her life. Nobody can decide for another what the purpose of that person's life is."
 
 "Maybe the story suggests that when someone loses all meaning and purpose in life, there's no reason to resist death.... But you better be careful about what you assume is meaningless."
 
 "The farmer wanted the son to realize how cold-hearted he could be."
 
 "The father is saying to the son; from your perspective I'm as good as dead, but son you will realize who I am- when you are me ;) "
 
 "That father was truly patient with his son's misunderstanding."
 
 "This story gave me an uneasy, horrid feeling. I was shocked by the father's last statement."
 
 "The wise man always wins in the end, even in the worst of circumstances."
 
 "It's so easy to forget what knowledge and experience any one person has, especially older people who have been around for a long time. Our society tends to define a person's usefulness in terms of their physical capabilities and what they can DO. We tend to forget that human worth is in the mind and heart."
 
 "If we went about things the way the son did, every time we got frustrated or felt we were the only ones working hard, sooner or later we'd wind up throwing everyone off a cliff."
 
 "It's interesting that the story is about human worth, but the father points out the worth of the coffin. Some people are more concerned about material things than about an old man dying. Maybe some of us are unable to appreciate human worth, so we focus on the value of THINGS."
 
 "I like the humor in this story."
 
 "Why did the father get into the coffin in the first place? I'm glad he made that sarcastic remark at the end. I can't believe a son would do this. What kind of life philosophy leads you to think you should push your own father over a cliff?"
 
 "Be careful! Your children someday may do to you exactly what you did to your parents. All bad things that you do will eventually come back to haunt you. It's karma."
 
 "What goes around, comes around."
 
 "As far as I'm concerned the son should be shot. The father worked hard all his life to
 provide for his children. I'm sure the father does not particularly like being old. So have some respect!"
 
 "This story reminds me of when my father was in a depression. But we didn't throw him over a cliff. The family pulled together and helped him recover."
 
 "We're all going to get old and useless someday, but that's life. We have to be strong enough to help those who need our help, and also confident enough to let ourselves be helped."
 
 "We often don't stop to realize what we're doing until it's too late."
 
 "I am surprised at how many of the reactions to this story seem to ignore the obvious reason for the old man's comment-this is a joke! Like it or hate it, the author created this for the primary reason to make you laugh. These are not meant to be real people in this story.... As to the meaning behind the joke-I believe it is just to point out the usefullness of things that are not immediately obvious to being useful. Like spending a day to get to a store where something is on sale, and not realizing that the time you waste getting there might be worth more than the amount you save on the purchase."
 
 
 Transient
 
 
 A famous spiritual teacher came to the front door of the King's palace. None of the guards tried to stop him as he entered and made his way to where the King himself was sitting on his throne.
 
 "What do you want?" asked the King, immediately recognizing the visitor.
 
 "I would like a place to sleep in this inn," replied the teacher.
 
 "But this is not an inn," said the King, "It is my palace."
 
 "May I ask who owned this palace before you?"
 
 "My father. He is dead."
 
 "And who owned it before him?"
 
 "My grandfather. He too is dead."
 
 "And this place where people live for a short time and then move on - did I hear you say that it is NOT an inn?"
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "We are ALL here for just a short time, and then move on."
 
 "This is more like a riddle than a story... a riddle about life."
 
 "I like this story because it shows that people in power think that their power or status is permanent. But nothing in life is permanent. People like this need to be put in their place."
 
 "I couldn't tell if this man is ready to die or just needs a place to sleep."
 
 "We live and die and never really own anything. How many people today think this deeply?"
 
 "Materialism and wealth makes you think things will last forever. It's all a defense against the realization that everything eventually passes away."
 
 "An entertaining story. But it doesn't mean much."
 
 "The teacher is trying to show the king that the palace is not his. If the palace represents life itself, then who does it belong to? Does life belong to any one person?"
 
 "Maybe the teacher wanted the king to understand how he should be sharing the wealth."
 
 "People on the road, like the teacher, may have a better grasp of what life is about
 than people who have entrenched themselves in their possessions and positions."
 
 "This story doesn't remind me of anything, except maybe a dumb joke I might have
 been told once."
 
 "We are all just passing through 'this thing called life' and time is very short. We
 should make the best of it while we're here."
 
 "Sooner or later, we all have to move on, both during this life and afterwards."
 
 
 
 Going with the Flow
 
 
 A Taoist story tells of an old man who accidentally fell into the river rapids leading to a high and dangerous waterfall. Onlookers feared for his life. Miraculously, he came out alive and unharmed downstream at the bottom of the falls. People asked him how he managed to survive. "I accommodated myself to the water, not the water to me. Without thinking, I allowed myself to be shaped by it. Plunging into the swirl, I came out with the swirl. This is how I survived."
 
 (Some versions describe Confucius as witnessing this event. Also, in some versions, the old man explains how he has been jumping into the waterfall like this since he was a small boy. )
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "You have to accommodate yourself to life and get used to dealing with your problems as they come. You must learn to cooperate."
 
 "We must adapt to nature. Nature cannot change for us. If you try to fight the natural forces, they will overcome you. Because we are made primarily of water, it is easy to become a part of it."
 
 "Because nature is so much more powerful than we are, we must become one with it in order to survive."
 
 "Humans are not the almighty conquerors that they think they are. We can learn a lot from nature. Nature is wonderful and does not intend to harm. It is humans that are harmful."
 
 "Sometimes we go through life wanting the world and other people to accommodate to us. When they don't, we get rigid and defensive, thereby getting us in trouble and making the situation a lot worse for ourselves."
 
 "Have faith and serenity that everything will work out. When you try to control events, they backfire."
 
 "Work with what life gives you and you will survive."
 
 "Put your life into God's hands and you will be OK."
 
 "Although you may not be able to control your destiny, you always have the ability to think and reason about your situation. This will help you come out on top."
 
 "Too often people are strict in their ways of living. Stubborn people either are left behind or die out."
 
 "You should take control of a situation before it takes control of you."
 
 "Where there's a will there's a way."
 
 "Sometimes even when you do the best you can to adapt to others and/or situations it doesn't help you. In fact, it could make things worse because you could lose your identity. Conformity is not always a good thing. Having an identity as an individual sometimes means going against the grain."
 
 "Don't give in to fear during a dangerous situation. It is fear that destroys you."
 
 "The water is like religion - we have to accommodate to it."
 
 "It's interesting to see how the old man draws a parallel between the physical and spiritual world. You must be one with a crisis. If we accept obstacles or tragedies as universal events and don't attempt to conquer or repress them, then it will not be seen as an obstacle or a disaster, but simply as an experience."
 
 "Miracles do happen. The old man must have been very strong-willed."
 
 "I can imagine the old man's physical sensations when he was in the water - frightened and peaceful at the same time. I remember being two years old and overcome by large waves when swimming at the beach. Perhaps if I had accommodated myself to the water, I would not have been as frightened."
 
 "The man knew he was going to survive and never gave into fear. Maybe that's the lesson - always maintain a positive attitude about life."
 
 "Never lose your temper, remain calm, and take things in stride as they come. If you have faith, things will work out."
 
 "This must have been a very dangerous situation, but then water symbolizes rebirth and cleansing, doesn't it?"
 
 "Oh yeah, right! He was just lucky!"
 
 "I don't know he could have done it 'without thinking.'"
 
 "Sounds like the old man should be a character on a soap opera."
 
 "This story doesn't apply to reality. Wake up!"
 
 "Why didn't anyone who was watching help him out of the water?"
 
 "This old man seems rather arrogant and narcissistic about himself."
 
 "The story reminds me of people who tried to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. They got arrested for that."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:36
Destiny
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 During a momentous battle, a Japanese general decided to attack even though his army was greatly outnumbered. He was confident they would win, but his men were filled with doubt. On the way to the battle, they stopped at a religious shrine. After praying with the men, the general took out a coin and said, "I shall now toss this coin. If it is heads, we shall win. If tails, we shall lose. Destiny will now reveal itself."
 
 He threw the coin into the air and all watched intently as it landed. It was heads. The soldiers were so overjoyed and filled with confidence that they vigorously attacked the enemy and were victorious. After the battle, a lieutenant remarked to the general, "No one can change destiny."
 
 "Quite right," the general replied as he showed the lieutenant the coin, which had heads on both sides.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "You have to be optimistic and confident, otherwise you are doomed."
 
 "If you believe in yourself, you can accomplish anything."
 
 "If you believe that a higher power is on your side, you can accomplish anything."
 
 There ain't nothing like the power of positive thinking. It's a power much greater than oneself."
 
 "Keep the faith!"
 
 "This is a good story for children. You have to TRY if you want to accomplish something. If you don't, you'll never know. To me, 'never to have known' is the worst destiny."
 
 "You can change your destiny. If you aren't responsible for yourself, who will be?"
 
 "I'd love to tell this story to my sister. She always has doubts about herself."
 
 "Almost all of the problems I've encountered in my life were due to the fact that I had doubts about myself, or others."
 
 "Often, when I have to make a difficult decision about something, I toss a coin. It does make me feel more confident about my actions.. Funny, though, that I sometimes keep tossing it until I get the answer I want."
 
 "This story is about a charismatic leader manipulating the emotions of his followers to a beneficial effect. I wonder if Hitler flipped a coin."
 
 "Reminds me of pulling the pedals off of a flower.... She loves me, she loves me not..."
 
 "Talk about a self-fulfilling prophesy!"
 
 "Well, the general won his battle, but he lied to his men in the process. I wonder if that's such a good idea."
 
 "I'd be curious to know how the men would have reacted to finding out about the general's trick. Would they ever trust him again?"
 
 "How many leaders are just tricking us into doing what we do?"
 
 "One person's destiny is another's manipulation."
 
 "I guess when someone surrenders himself to destiny, there's another person behind the scenes who has taken charge to make sure that destiny happens."
 
 "If the soldiers' destiny was the trick of the general, then who is playing tricks with MY destiny?"
 
 "Is there such a thing as destiny?.... I wonder."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:38
Maybe
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. "Such bad luck," they said sympathetically. "May be," the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. "How wonderful," the neighbors exclaimed. "May be," replied the old man. The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. "May be," answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son's leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. "May be," said the farmer.
 
 
 (in other versions of this story, the farmer says something other than "maybe" - for instance "we'll see" - or he simply smiles without saying anything)
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "It's comforting to know that good can come from bad circumstances, but not so nice to face the fact that bad can come from good times. Yet, is there good and bad at all?"
 
 "I guess there is no 'good' or 'bad.' Everything that happens to us is a mixture of good and bad. You have to just take things as they are."
 
 "Everything happens for a reason, and worrying about what has or will happen has no effect. So don't worry, be happy!"
 
 "Never judge a situation - wait for the outcome."
 
 "You can't fight fate!"
 
 "God controls our lives. We may not understand his purpose, so just accept what happens."
 
 "Nothing - I mean NOTHING occurs by accident!"
 
 "Don't count your chickens before they hatch!"
 
 "I think the farmer didn't want to jinx himself by agreeing with his neighbors."
 
 "If you try to predict the future, you may be wasting your time. I wonder, then, how worthwhile is it to plan for the future?"
 
 "This farmer apparently doesn't believe in free will. When he always replies 'maybe' he must feel that no matter what he says or does it will not make a difference in the path his life takes."
 
 "I think there's a fine line between optimism and pessimism, the farmer is standing on it."
 
 "We never know what will happen in life. Man is so narrow-minded and naive, yet he claims to know it all. No one knows where fate will bring us, but people who have faith in God will have everything set right."
 
 "Although the story may provide relief to people who believe that a superior being is looking out for us, it in effect tells us to accept our situation without trying to change it. I'm not sure I agree with that."
 
 "Que sera, sera. Life is a mystery. Don't take it for granted. Accept it, and try to enjoy the ride."
 
 "I wish I could be as relaxed and peaceful as this farmer. My mother always told me that I shouldn't worry about things that I can't change."
 
 "This farmer has mastered the art of letting go and letting life take its course. But he also seems to be a bit unfeeling. I don't think that has to be sacrificed for serenity."
 
 "I don't think this farmer realized how lucky he was that his son didn't have to go off to war. A broken leg is always better than getting killed!"
 
 "This farmer sure is a man of few words!"
 
 "If you take life just as it comes, one day at time, eventually you will be able to see the Big Purpose to it all."
 
 "This story reminds me of the Book of Job in the Old Testament."
 
 "Life isn't a matter of good or bad luck. It's about what you do with what happens to you - where and how you take it."
 
 "I don't like the fact that there isn't a lot of information about the farmer in this story. The neighbors don't seem to understand how he feels about life. I guess the message is that if you think positive about events in your life, they will turn out OK."
 
 "This farmer sounds rather confused - maybe because things are happening so fast in his life."
 
 "First this story is about crops, then about horses, then about broken legs! There's probably some deep meaning in here, but it's over my head."
 
 "Tell the neighbors to mind their own business!"
 
 "Is there meaning to this story? maybe.."
 
 
 Is That So?
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 A beautiful girl in the village was pregnant. Her angry parents demanded to know who was the father. At first resistant to confess, the anxious and embarrassed girl finally pointed to Hakuin, the Zen master whom everyone previously revered for living such a pure life. When the outraged parents confronted Hakuin with their daughter's accusation, he simply replied "Is that so?"
 When the child was born, the parents brought it to the Hakuin, who now was viewed as a pariah by the whole village. They demanded that he take care of the child since it was his responsibility. "Is that so?" Hakuin said calmly as he accepted the child.
 
 For many months he took very good care of the child until the daughter could no longer withstand the lie she had told. She confessed that the real father was a young man in the village whom she had tried to protect. The parents immediately went to Hakuin to see if he would return the baby. With profuse apologies they explained what had happened. "Is that so?" Hakuin said as he handed them the child.
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "We are free to tell the mountain that it is too high, the road that it winds too much and the ocean that it is too wet."
 
 "The master taught the village that perception is a relative phenomenon and that reality simply is what it is despite how people label it."
 
 "Public criticism is a means for those who do not know themselves well. But for well self-understanding people, it means nothing."
 
 My tickling is piqued by the choosing of ZenMasterNames, yes. I bet "Iza tsohaw qu-een" is some kind of mystic chant that the author wanted readers to mutter over and over again as they read this koan.
 
 "We all have responsibilities. sometimes other create them for us. We then have a choice to accept these responsibilities or fight them. The Zen master sees the greater good in accepting responsibilities that he did not ask for or plan on."
 
 That girl is a lying slut.
 
 Hakuin must have been aware of his perceived status in the community. He accepted his charge by a member of the community unencumbered. With compassion he completed the mission.
 
 No matter. That child was as we all once were. The only difference is in being. Hakuin excepted anothers lie for truth as proof of his virtue of ethics and morality.
 
 "To be in harmony with the world."
 
 The monks calmness is admirable, but the idea that one should not speak the truth when confronted with a lie is potentially very harmful. Perhaps the monk did not recognize his reputation among the people or the impact it would have on them, because if the daughter never admited to lying about who the childs true father was, she may have created a spirit of cynicism among the people. That even the most 'spiritual' types of people are not really so, but are simply putting on an act is what alot of people would have taken from this situation if the truth never arose. People shouldn't be dependent on the oppinions of others for their happiness, but they should also recognize the impact that their life will make on others and therefore not permit calumny to prevail.
 
 is that so?
 
 So what? So what if he was or wasn't the father. Details can not overshadow what is right or wrong. Everyone allowed themselves to be bothered by truly trivial details, and allowed these trivial details to act as ethical guiedelines for action.
 
 questions lead to the truth. Have you ever heard the following in a conversation "Well why didn't you tell me?! 'Because you didn't ask.' "? It is the same here. Nobody asked Hakuin if he was the father, nobody asked if he would care for the child, and nobody asked for it back. We must learn to ask the right questions of the world around us, and to request, not demand all the time.
 
 People will act on their own convictions if there is no response.
 
 Just because everyone "knows" something to be true does not mean that it is.
 
 People saying something does not make it true...Knowing yourself is the most importent thing.
 
 No matter what your reputation is, no matter how much your virtue is praised, because it depends on the opinions of others, it does not reflect the Real You.
 
 I like Richard Bach's Messiah's Handbook from "Illusions": Live, never to be ashamed, if what you do or say is published around the world. Even is what is published is not true.
 
 Even a large stone cannot stop the river. Its resistance marks its demise.
 
 Perhaps it is too obvious that "Is that so?" is both a passive challenge to the accusers and an invitation to look more deeply into the matter -- both of which were repeatedly declined. The Hakuin wisely declines to force the issue, accepting minor injustice while avoiding greater disharmony.
 
 The master has achieved complete acceptance of every person, situation and emotion. He has no fear of being unjustly labeled. He receives the child and gives up the child with the same peace of mind. He is both a detached observer and a complete participant.
 
 The Zen master taught that there is no difference between truth and lie, because all happenings in life will be experienced through the filter of our sense-organs. That is why he reacted equally to both, the accusation and the apology. Another example that children born out of wedlock are foistered onto others who must then pay for the bundle of joy. No mention is stated of the devestating effects of terminating a baby's initial bonding with a caretaker. I'll bet the monk never recieved a Father's Day card.
 
 When I read this story for the first time I thought that the only words that Hakuin knew were "is that so?". I then thought that couldn't be right so I read it again. Now I just don't know what to think.
 
 So what?
 
 In asking the question "is that so?" perhaps the Zen master was trying to tip the people about truth. It is not subjective. It IS. He may not have believed their apology at the end as true as he did not believe their accusations as true. Their judgement of him was not relevant (to him.) The truth IS the truth and is what matters.
 
 "You can't tell the whole story by reading the front page"
 
 Truth is what you make it. In a Society Truth is what most of the people think it is -- or is it ?
 
 "Truth? What is it?"
 
 
 The Gift of Insults
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 There once lived a great warrior. Though quite old, he still was able to defeat any challenger. His reputation extended far and wide throughout the land and many students gathered to study under him.
 One day an infamous young warrior arrived at the village. He was determined to be the first man to defeat the great master. Along with his strength, he had an uncanny ability to spot and exploit any weakness in an opponent. He would wait for his opponent to make the first move, thus revealing a weakness, and then would strike with merciless force and lightning speed. No one had ever lasted with him in a match beyond the first move.
 
 Much against the advice of his concerned students, the old master gladly accepted the young warrior's challenge. As the two squared off for battle, the young warrior began to hurl insults at the old master. He threw dirt and spit in his face. For hours he verbally assaulted him with every curse and insult known to mankind. But the old warrior merely stood there motionless and calm. Finally, the young warrior exhausted himself. Knowing he was defeated, he left feeling shamed.
 
 Somewhat disappointed that he did not fight the insolent youth, the students gathered around the old master and questioned him. "How could you endure such an indignity? How did you drive him away?"
 
 "If someone comes to give you a gift and you do not receive it," the master replied, "to whom does the gift belong?"
 
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "The old warrior must have been thick-skinned!!!!!"
 "I would hesitate (he who hesitates is lost) to call insults a gift, but this reminds me of child's saying, 'I'm made of rubber, you're made of glue, everything you say bounces off me and sticks to you.'"
 
 "To win without violence is the greatest victory!"
 
 "Reacting to insulting behavior only serves to give the insulting party EXACTLY what they want."
 
 "Perhaps the master did accept the gift. The gift was victory. The master needed only stand there (and take it) to accept his gift."
 
 "If you do not receive someone's gift of insults, you haven't been insulted." "The young whippersnapper obviously fell into his own trap. With the first insult he gave away victory to the old man by displaying his own weakness."
 
 "It's not what happens to you that matters, it's what happens in you."
 
 "This story reminds me of something I read in one of my aikido books. Two old,great masters were preparing to fight in a Kendo match, Japanese swordsmanship. When the match started, neither one moved from their fighting stance. In fact they both stayed exactly still for five minutes until the match was finally called a draw. If they made the first move it would reveal their weaknesses, and they would be defeated. Now that is awesome."
 
 "An insult is like a glass of wine. It only affects you if you accept it."
 
 "This story reminds me of the question, "If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a noise?" The same question can be asked in this story, paraphrasing "If an insult falls on deaf ears, who is insulted?"
 
 "The older warrior had no other choice but to not move and stand fast. He understood his own limitations and through his years of experience also knew his opponents strengths. He was once a young warrior too."
 
 "If I may be so crude, I'd say that our "infamous young warrior" got his ass kicked."
 
 "This reminds me of my mother's words "If you throw stones into a slushy puddle, it is bound to splash back on you!" We are Indians (from Asia) and boy do we have thousands of such zen stories!!!"
 
 "This is one of the best illustrations of Zen stories because it illustrates a universal principle (read "truth"). The setting for the story is appropriate because its lesson is a two-edged sword: there is the obvious consequence of the elder warrior refusing to accept the younger warrior's "gifts," and also the more subtle but implicit idea that a gift cannot be accepted without quid pro quo. The old warrior also had gifts to bestow -- knowledge of his skill and his weakness. The younger man, because he focused only on weaknesses was blind to the older warrior's proffered "gift," and therefore refused it. So the elder retained his strengths while the younger went away empty-handed."
 
 "It illustrates the universal truth that "whatever you give is what you receive" or "whatever goes around, comes around".

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:39
Without Fear
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 During the civil wars in feudal Japan, an invading army would quickly sweep into a town and take control. In one particular village, everyone fled just before the army arrived - everyone except the Zen master. Curious about this old fellow, the general went to the temple to see for himself what kind of man this master was. When he wasn't treated with the deference and submissiveness to which he was accustomed, the general burst into anger. "You fool," he shouted as he reached for his sword, "don't you realize you are standing before a man who could run you through without blinking an eye!" But despite the threat, the master seemed unmoved. "And do you realize," the master replied calmly, "that you are standing before a man who can be run through without blinking an eye?"
 
 
 (other versions of this story then describe how the general, surprised and awed by the master, sheepishly leaves)
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Happy are those who do not fear death. They know no fear and therefore cannot be controlled."
 
 "It takes a lot more strength and courage to be a non-violent person."
 
 "The captain goes down with his ship, just like the zen master stays with the village and confronts the invaders."
 
 "There is a similar idea in American Indian culture. When you were being tortured to death by your enemy, you could still defeat your enemy, and in a sense win the battle, if you showed bravery and didn't scream."
 
 "STEELY RESERVE - I love it! This feat could only be accomplished by one who fears nothing and understands the course of life."
 
 "There are certain kinds of people who get attacked more often than others. I would tell this story to children who are always being harassed by other kids."
 
 "The sword does not make the man."
 
 "Sounds neat, in a chivalrous kind of way!"
 
 "I'm not quite sure of the meaning of this story, but I liked how the master replied."
 
 "This Zen master obviously exists on a high spiritual level. His body is unimportant to him."
 
 "I find this story a bit humorous. The master is quite a funny guy. It makes me wonder how the general replied. His mouth probably dropped!"
 
 "This general is obviously a selfish man. Why else would he conquer all those towns? And then when he doesn't get what he wants, he childishly resorts to anger and violence."
 
 "It's the master's wisdom and his possession of such a closeness with self that intrigues me. These attributes could allow you to touch the lives of an infinite number of people, as well as deal with any kind of adversity."
 
 "I don't agree with the Zen master's decision to stay. I think his so-called 'wisdom' - or stupidity, will lead to his eventual downfall."
 
 "He showed no attempt to defend himself or his village - that's kind lame!"
 
 "The Zen master had the courage to stand up for what he wanted and wasn't afraid to die for it. Making a solid decision, that's what this is about. He proudly stood his ground and took responsibility for his actions, and I bet this probably warded off the general."
 
 "Too many people let fear run their lives."
 
 "You shouldn't flee from disputes, but rather face them head on with both eyes open."
 
 "This story shows man's innate courage and unwillingness to be intimidated, something which in many of us is inherently absent."
 
 "Self-control: it's not what you say but how you say it. The only time the general was intimidating and violent is when others allowed him to be."
 
 "People instantly recognized someone who is internally strong."
 
 "This makes no sense to me. I think that standing up to someone should be encouraged, but not when the consequences are that severe!"
 
 "The master could be in complete control, or he could be insane."
 
 
 The Present Moment
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 A Japanese warrior was captured by his enemies and thrown into prison. That night he was unable to sleep because he feared that the next day he would be interrogated, tortured, and executed. Then the words of his Zen master came to him, "Tomorrow is not real. It is an illusion. The only reality is now." Heeding these words, the warrior became peaceful and fell asleep.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "We have to take each day one at a time. Each moment in this life only comes once, so take advantage of it and live it fully."
 
 "Don't worry about tomorrow until it comes. Take things lightly."
 
 "Don't let yourself be troubled by tomorrow. It will take care of itself."
 
 "We all have images and concepts of what tomorrow will bring - good or bad. But we never know for sure what will happen."
 
 "It's a nice story, but I'd still be real worried about the next day!"
 
 "Isn't this a bit of a paradox. The only reality is 'now' - but 'now' quickly becomes the past. So there is no reality at all! Maybe that's why the soldier shouldn't worry about it."
 
 "That soldier better hope the Zen master is on his way to rescue him. Those words are pretty easy for the master, who's probably sleeping comfortably in his bed at home."
 
 "Almost anyone would be anxious in this situation. I don't think the master's advice would work for most people."
 
 "True wisdom is not easily applied."
 
 "This reminds me of something my mother told me last week. 'Stop dreaming and live.'"
 
 "We always want to plan for the future, but we often make ourselves miserable in the present while doing it."
 
 "People tend to worry way too much about things that they can't control. If we can just let it go, we'd be at peace with ourselves."
 
 "The only reality is now, but what WILL happen when the soldier wakes up. That will quickly become reality too."
 
 "I think the warrior should be thinking of ways to escape, rather than sleeping. I hope the Zen master told him that torture is an illusion too."
 
 "I guess we should live each day as if it is our last."
 
 "A good tale, but it's not complex enough. It's too easily dismissed as being silly."
 
 
 Concentration
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 After winning several archery contests, the young and rather boastful champion challenged a Zen master who was renowned for his skill as an archer. The young man demonstrated remarkable technical proficiency when he hit a distant bull's eye on his first try, and then split that arrow with his second shot. "There," he said to the old man, "see if you can match that!" Undisturbed, the master did not draw his bow, but rather motioned for the young archer to follow him up the mountain. Curious about the old fellow's intentions, the champion followed him high into the mountain until they reached a deep chasm spanned by a rather flimsy and shaky log. Calmly stepping out onto the middle of the unsteady and certainly perilous bridge, the old master picked a far away tree as a target, drew his bow, and fired a clean, direct hit. "Now it is your turn," he said as he gracefully stepped back onto the safe ground. Staring with terror into the seemingly bottomless and beckoning abyss, the young man could not force himself to step out onto the log, no less shoot at a target. "You have much skill with your bow," the master said, sensing his challenger's predicament, "but you have little skill with the mind that lets loose the shot."
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 
 "Having a big ego gets you nowhere. Some people need to be taken down a peg or two. If you boast and brag, sooner or later someone is going to put you in your place."
 
 "I like this story - it has some suspense to it."
 
 "Physical skills are not enough. There also has to be a balance between mind and body. Your mind has to be open and curious."
 
 "You can be highly skilled at something, but still not have a very creative mind."
 
 "There's a big difference between talent and a disciplined mind. A disciplined mind is the most crucial element in mastering an art."
 
 "It's just like my mother always used to tell me. 'EXPERIENCE is the real teacher.' We can learn a lot from our elders."
 
 "The real talent is being able to apply your skills even in the most adverse situation- without fear, hesitation, or doubt."
 
 "The mind can work with you, or against you."
 
 "People who brag usually lack confidence and are insecure on the inside. Eventually, this results in their failing."
 
 "Pride cometh before the FALL (pun intended)."
 
 "The mind is the most powerful weapon."
 
 "Learning is most powerful when your knowledge is tested under many different circumstances. The young archer was skilled under very specific conditions, but he was unable to apply that skill in an unfamiliar environment."
 
 "The boy was a good archer but he seemed to be doing it only for the competition. The old man did it because he enjoyed it, not to prove anything. This gave him a sense of control."
 
 "An interesting story about how fear can rule one's life."
 
 "This is a great story to teach children who feel that they are stupid or can't do anything right."
 
 "No matter how much you know, there is always more to learn. But also, everyone should be respected for whatever knowledge they have."
 
 "The champion has good raw talent but he doesn't know how to use it properly. He's a show-off and will probably waste his talent. If he used his skill in a constructive way - like teaching archery, or for hunting for food or clothing - maybe someday he too will become wise."
 
 "Just goes to show you - don't show off a talent until you've perfected it."
 
 "If you're talented at something, at least be gracious about it. This kind of boasting person really turns me off. I love to see someone really skilled put them in their place!"
 
 "What IS 'talent' anyway? Being good at one thing in one situation? Seems kind of narrow to me."
 
 "The key is not that the champion was a braggart. He was better at archery than the master. However, everyone excels at something. The master at controlling his fear and the champion at shooting a bow. What makes the master wise is that he could put the champion at such a disadvantage by maximizing his own skills while minimizing the braggarts."
 
 "The idea that came to me was to search for the lesson of the story. The old man in the environment he was in might have experienced defeat. By bringing the man to the area he did, he brought him to his area where he might make the odds more in his favor. The old man must have walked over the vast opening many times and gained confidence in his action. He might have even taken a few shots at the target. The younger man was removed from his comfortable area and put into the comfortable area of the old man. The lesson I learned was if a stuation confronts me, I'm better off trying to give myself the edge. Clint Eastwood..Josie Wales."
 
 "Everyone is better when on solid ground. You're more assertive, more sure of yourself, etc.
 But when your stability is taken away, you are simply a child learning everything anew."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:43
Tea Combat
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 A master of the tea ceremony in old Japan once accidentally slighted a soldier. He quickly apologized, but the rather impetuous soldier demanded that the matter be settled in a sword duel. The tea master, who had no experience with swords, asked the advice of a fellow Zen master who did possess such skill. As he was served by his friend, the Zen swordsman could not help but notice how the tea master performed his art with perfect concentration and tranquility. "Tomorrow," the Zen swordsman said, "when you duel the soldier, hold your weapon above your head, as if ready to strike, and face him with the same concentration and tranquility with which you perform the tea ceremony." The next day, at the appointed time and place for the duel, the tea master followed this advice. The soldier, readying himself to strike, stared for a long time into the fully attentive but calm face of the tea master. Finally, the soldier lowered his sword, apologized for his arrogance, and left without a blow being struck.
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Peace and tranquility are sometimes more powerful and intimidating than anything else."
 
 "The tea master showed great courage. That's what stopped the soldier."
 
 "The soldier bowed to the tea master because he had a higher level of confidence."
 
 "If you are perceived as competent and able, you will be considered an equal."
 
 "The story seems to suggest that it is the appearance of the tea master that deters the attack. He looks calm and confident, but it's an illusion. Simple illusions can defeat enemies."
 
 "If you look like you know what you are doing, people will not think otherwise. Where I work all of the supervisors park inside the gate while everyone else parks outside. But if you act like you're SUPPOSED to be inside the gate and drive right through, the security guards won't stop you! It's a matter of confidence."
 
 "All that we ask others to give us we already possess."
 
 "Each of us possesses certain skills, but none of us possesses all skills."
 
 "There is nothing to fear but fear itself."
 
 "I like this story because it demonstrates how you can do things you never thought you could - like face death."
 
 "I really thought the soldier would fight anyway! But I guess people in Japan think differently than we do. Maybe they are more able to see bravery in others, and even step back to swallow their pride."
 
 "I don't like this story because it's not realistic. If you stand your ground and show others you are not afraid, they won't necessarily leave you alone. You might get shot! Hey, I live in the city! What can I tell you."
 
 "Good overpowers evil."
 
 "This reminds me of the movie Star Wars. Oby just stands there and lets Darth Vader
 strike him down. But as a result, Oby becomes even more powerful than before."
 
 "Musashi Kensei once said something like: 'Underneath the upraised sword you tremble at the gate of hell. But advance fearlessly and there you find heaven.'"
 
 "Seems like some kind of assertiveness training that failed."
 
 "Maybe the tea master's quiet determination made the soldier see that a fight was not
 necessary. It moved him to see the master's intrinsic worth and to accept the apology
 that the master had offered."
 
 "The actions that one performs daily may actually be special skills that only others truly
 see in you. These skills are an extension of who you are. Maybe that's what the soldier
 suddenly realized about the master."
 
 "It's not easy showing kindness in the face of hostility. But kindness does win over
 anger. The other person comes away with a changed heart."
 
 "You can't control other people's actions, only your own actions and your own state of
 mind. This is what stopped the soldier. He couldn't control his own mind, but he saw
 that the tea master could."
 
 "I like that the tea master didn't try to control what would happen. He just accepted the
 situation and whatever outcome might result. That's true wisdom. That's what the
 soldier noticed."
 
 
 Chasing Two Rabbits
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 A martial arts student approached his teacher with a question. "I'd like to improve my knowledge of the martial arts. In addition to learning from you, I'd like to study with another teacher in order to learn another style. What do you think of this idea?"
 "The hunter who chases two rabbits," answered the master, "catches neither one."
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "To excel one has to focus all energy on the task at hand."
 
 "I think that the Master could be mastered himself by the student. The more moves or strategies that the student knows will only make him stronger, wiser."
 
 "Jack of all trades, master of none."
 
 "Jack of two trades, Master of both".
 
 "Stay focused on one thing, trying to get everything will get you nothing."
 
 "Pretty straight forward... one should master/concentrate on one thing at a time... not as profound as some of your other stories, yet at least makes more sense than some others."
 
 "If the rabbits are sitting close together you can get both with one shot gun blast."
 
 "Reminds you not to take on more than you can handle. It brings to mind a candid camera segment I saw in the early 60's. A little grocery store put a big table outside heaped with oranges, and a sign that said 'FREE', but they purposely didn't leave anything to carry them in. The humor was in watching everyone try to take 3 or 4 more than they could humanly carry. I guess a good tie-in would be that if you get greedy, you might get nothing!"
 
 "This story reminds me of the old Hindu reference to one mountain and the many roads going to the peak. Though they are all valid and effective, one cannot reach the top by trying to follow two at the same time."
 
 "Anyone who puts much stock in this story should read the Tao of Jeet Kune Do by Bruce Lee. To look at zen, or martial arts, or anything in life as a chase, is to never find peace. I don't like this teacher, but the story has made me think."
 
 "I interpret this as similar to Jesus' saying that you can't serve two masters without hating one and loving the other."
 
 "I think the student cannot improve that which he has not yet mastered."
 
 "First story I read. It made me laugh and feel a little better."
 
 "The lesson is simple; Focus all of your faith and effort into one philosophy. The man who serves two masters, serves none."
 
 "I don't think the master's statement applies for every situation. His statement can be true for some situations, when it is true that if you focus on one subject, goal, etc, you will have more probability in succeeding, but what about the saying that goes something like "1+1 is more than two". If you unite the knowledge or the insight from two masters you are more likely to have a better result than if you focus on one. Another advantage of having two opinions is that you have the possibility of discussing both opinions, which is a usefel mental exercise, this way you can decide on your own which method or idea is better. It is always enlighting to discuss and argue different insights."
 
 "Maybe most vegetarians have more than one teacher."
 
 "If you learn from only one master, not only will you learn all his good traits, you will also learn all his flaws. going with two masters will give you the best of best of both worlds."
 
 
 
 Cliffhanger
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 
 One day while walking through the wilderness a man stumbled upon a vicious tiger. He ran but soon came to the edge of a high cliff. Desperate to save himself, he climbed down a vine and dangled over the fatal precipice. As he hung there, two mice appeared from a hole in the cliff and began gnawing on the vine. Suddenly, he noticed on the vine a plump wild strawberry. He plucked it and popped it in his mouth. It was incredibly delicious!
 
 
 
 (One reader claimed that Thomas Cleary once told him that the original ending of this story was quite different. According to Cleary, D.T. Suzuki changed the ending because he thought the original would not appeal to Westerners. The story was then picked up by others, such as Paul Reps. In the original version, the strawberry turns out to be, in fact, deadly poison.)
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "After having only 5 hours of sleep I understand now. 'Live life to the fullest!'"
 
 "'Eat, drink, and be merry; for tomorrow we die!' Not sure who to credit the quote, but it seems to apply."
 
 "Live each moment to the full. The plight the man was in was no reason not to enjoy the wild strawberry."
 
 "The man knew that he was about to die, and that there was nothing he could do about it. The strawberry was his last chance to enjoy life so instead of wasting his last moments in fear and frustration he took what little pleasure he could and made the best of it."
 
 "Enlightenment can be found in distraction from distraction. The Universe is now! And strawberries are delicious."
 
 "The most thought provoking story yet. We get so caught up with ourselves we assume the world around us changes. Why should the strawberry taste different?"
 
 "I think most people take meaning of living in present as 'Don't worry about what next'. I think he was not living in present. He was living in past when he liked the fruit very much or future by thinking he may not get the fruit again. But the present was how to save his life."
 
 "Aren't we all hanging from a fragile vine awaiting an inevitable plunge to doom while mice gnaw at our temporary safety? What else should we do but eat a strawberry?"
 
 "This story puts me in mind of the band playing as the Titanic sank. There is something cloyingly 'live in the present moment' about it, BUT, on the other hand, why didn't the man throw the stawberry at the mice?"
 
 "It's clear why the strawberry was delicious. I would think that mice would've been even more delicious at that point."
 
 "The man should have taken those damn mice with him!"
 
 "Perhaps if the man had thought to give the mice the strawberry then they would not knaw on the vine and he would live, but instead he was self absorbed and so he was destined to fall."
 
 "The tiger is the past. The two mice are day and time which slowly kill us. And the cliff is the future. The strawberry is the present. Forget the past, not worry the future, and concentrate in the present moment. Only by that way can we live happily."
 
 "I heard this story but it was a little different, not only did he face a lion but a bear jumped at his feet while two ground hogs nibbled at his branch just at the momoment the branch would break he noticed a plump ripe strawberry - aah delicious. My view - no matter the memories of yesterday or the anticipation of tommorrow or even the events of the day remember to always enjoy the moment."
 
 "Hmmm. The story 'Cliffhanger' is very similar to a Jain parable I read once. The parable was supposed to embody the Jainist view of the world. There was also a sword wielding demoness, the cliff was replaced by a pit full of snakes and the strawberry was a dollop of wild honey. the tiger represented old age, the demoness: illness and infirmity. The honey represented the fleeting pleasures of life."
 
 "The vine represents the reality that we live in every day. The tigers are the fear, stress and lack of focus in our lives that interfere with our desire to achieve peace and that is represented by the field. We are forced by our fear out of the paece of our field into grasping to the vine that is reality. The mice are the thoughts of good and evil and the deeper nature of man that we try to ignore but constantly gnaw at our consciousness and effect our grip on reality.The strawberry is the true nature of the smaller things in life. The true value of these things is not truly appreciated unitl we are forced from our stagnat peace by our fears and confront ourselves, then we can truly appreciate what our reality has to offer us."
 
 "People have a tendency to focus too much on the bad things that are happening, and don't take enough time to see that there is beauty right in front of them. If you grasp the beauty in a dark situation, you will be happy."
 
 "Wonderful. I admire the man who is able to embrace the moment, and who, regardless of circumstance, realizes the moment is sweet. If one must die, said one ought to go with pleasure on the toungue. This is wisdom."
 
 "Everything tastes sweeter when you know it is your last."
 
 "Is this what it takes to appreciate wonderful?"
 
 "Life is beautiful! It's a shame that we realize it just in very extreme situations."
 
 "In the worst of adversity, it is always important to enjoy the little pleasures in life. Urgency of life, love, the heat of the soul, warm breath to keep the demons on their toes. Everything seems to go faster and become more important daily, whilst at the same time becoming harder to fathom. -- MORCHEEBA liner notes"
 
 "Enjoy beauty while you can."
 
 "What a story! Indeed, it points out that the essence of zen must be to live until you are dead!"
 
 "Two possibilities: (1) even in the midst of tremendous adversity, a truly enlightened person knows how to Be Here Now; or (2) this guy was in a serious state of denial. These two possibilities seem to be polar opposites leading to the same result."
 
 "IN THE MOMENT IN THE BODY HERE NOW - HOWEVER, I SPEND TO MUCH TIME OVER THERE - IF YOU FIND ME TELL ME WHERE I AM"

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:44
The Nature of Things
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 
 
 Two monks were washing their bowls in the river when they noticed a scorpion that was drowning. One monk immediately scooped it up and set it upon the bank. In the process he was stung. He went back to washing his bowl and again the scorpion fell in. The monk saved the scorpion and was again stung. The other monk asked him, "Friend, why do you continue to save the scorpion when you know it's nature is to sting?"
 "Because," the monk replied, "to save it is my nature."
 
 
 
 
 (Another version of this story describes a fox who agrees to carry a scorpion on its back across a river, upon the condition that the scorpion does not sting him. But the scorpion does indeed sting the fox when they are in midstream. As the fox begins to drown, taking the scorpion with him, he pleadingly asks why the scorpion has jeopardized both of them by stinging. "Because it's my nature." This story sometimes is attributed to Native Americans lore.)
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 Despite the consequences all things can not be but what they are.
 "This is an important story for me to hear right now. As times are difficult right now I have seen my tendency to want things to be "easier" or "more pleasant" or "right"... and my tendency to worry that I am not "doing the right thing" because life is painful right now... being reminded of the Nature of Things is a reminder to take these times for what they are even if they sting... to honor their nature is to honor mine... to honor mine is to honor theirs..."
 
 "Each acts according to its nature and no amount of logic or reason overcomes our basic fundamental nature...but I think the monk could have stayed true to his nature and used the bowl for the rescue!"
 
 "To live the life of Zen you must have.... Indefinite respect to all that has past. Indefinite service to all that is present. Responsibility to the future.... The monk was living the life of Zen. Reason is a roadblock or wall to living the way of Zen...
 
 "The monk did that because he have been practicing the compassion for many years; the compassion becomes his nature identity, and he love to rescue or to help living beings who are in dangerous situations with out thinking about risking himself."
 
 "Nature shows you what is right, it is your choice to listen and follow through with it no matter the cost."
 
 "I have pondered this story for years in the version of the fox and the scorpion to try and make sense out of it. It is too easy to simplly assume the message is "that is just how things are accept them". I believe the message is focused on the monk, (fox), and their foolishness for accepting on face value the plight, ( words) of the scorpion when they already know the scorpion will sting. The question is, "why do we do foolish things when we know that what we are doing is self destructive even before we do them."
 
 "The monk did not prejudice the scorpion for its nature being caustic or for its station being a bug. the monk was saving a life, enduring the sting as the price of adhereing to a higher principle."
 
 "We often must do things that we know will cause harm to us, because to not do would eventually cause us the most harm."
 
 "This story says that all suffering comes from trying to be something which one is not."
 
 
 
 Obsessed
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 Two traveling monks reached a river where they met a young woman. Wary of the current, she asked if they could carry her across. One of the monks hesitated, but the other quickly picked her up onto his shoulders, transported her across the water, and put her down on the other bank. She thanked him and departed.
 
 As the monks continued on their way, the one was brooding and preoccupied. Unable to hold his silence, he spoke out. "Brother, our spiritual training teaches us to avoid any contact with women, but you picked that one up on your shoulders and carried her!"
 
 "Brother," the second monk replied, "I set her down on the other side, while you are still carrying her."
 
 
 (some versions of this story describe the monk as carrying the woman across a mud puddle )
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 
 "Reminds me of the fundamentalist type of preachings that are so moralistic and full of admonitions against secular things that they actually create the problems they seek to avoid."
 
 "Rigidity gets in the way of your growth. Being rigid usually means you are denying something."
 
 "It's better to do what you need to do and get it over with, than not do it and carry it with you in your mind."
 
 "If we humans didn't dwell on things we've done in the past, then we wouldn't be who we are. We contemplate and feel guilt - it's in our nature."
 
 "The first monk listened to his conscience rather than to what he had been taught by his religion - and he ended up doing the right thing."
 
 "What happens, happens. Take the good with the bad, and the only way to get over the bad is to acknowledge it, accept it, and leave it in the past. There's no reason to be obsessed."
 
 "I think the second monk was a bit jealous. He really wanted to carry that woman himself, and now he can't get sex off his mind."
 
 "Kindness to people will always leave you with a clear conscience."
 
 "The time I spend deciding whether or not to do something often takes longer than if I just did it in the first place."
 
 "You have to go with your first reaction to a situation. Trust your instincts. If you think about something too long, any deed will seem like its the wrong thing to do."
 
 "Any action you take should be without guilt or regret, despite what other people may say or think. This is what it means to be independent."
 
 "Monks should help anyone in need."
 
 "Obviously, the second monk is feeling guilty about not helping the woman."
 
 "If you don't act on your wishes and desires, you become obsessed with them. The second monk is left wondering what it would have been like if had he acted on his impulses. You can't let thinking get in your way. I should have acted on my impulses last night. I should have just picked my man up!"
 
 "Sounds like the first monk was able to confront and deal with his problems, while the second monk still harbors them in his soul."
 
 "I find that when things happen, there are those people who forget about it and move on. Then there are those people who dwell on insignificant things - maybe because they feel they should have contributed more or should have taken control."
 
 "What if the woman fell into the water and drowned? Who would be responsible?"
 
 "We all carry with us the weight of our past mistakes, regrets, and mistaken beliefs."
 
 "Treat others as you would like to be treated."
 
 ""What's this about how you're supposed to avoid women? It doesn't make any sense!"
 
 "What I'd like to know is what is worse - physically touching a woman or thinking about one."
 
 
 Nature's Beauty
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 A priest was in charge of the garden within a famous Zen temple. He had been given the job because he loved the flowers, shrubs, and trees. Next to the temple there was another, smaller temple where there lived a very old Zen master. One day, when the priest was expecting some special guests, he took extra care in tending to the garden. He pulled the weeds, trimmed the shrubs, combed the moss, and spent a long time meticulously raking up and carefully arranging all the dry autumn leaves. As he worked, the old master watched him with interest from across the wall that separated the temples.
 
 When he had finished, the priest stood back to admire his work. "Isn't it beautiful," he called out to the old master. "Yes," replied the old man, "but there is something missing. Help me over this wall and I'll put it right for you."
 
 After hesitating, the priest lifted the old fellow over and set him down. Slowly, the master walked to the tree near the center of the garden, grabbed it by the trunk, and shook it. Leaves showered down all over the garden. "There," said the old man, "you can put me back now."
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "It's not perfect to be perfect. It's a relief to remember that. But then I wonder, did the old master feel jealous of the beauty created by the priest and seek to destroy it in the guise of teaching a message? Trying to perfectly imperfect is egotistical too!"
 
 "Nature is more perfect than anything man can create. To disrupt that beauty for the sake of making something beautiful is an absurdity."
 
 "Let nature take its course. It's not perfect but is beautiful all in itself."
 
 "We should try to see things as they really are, including their imperfections. THAT'S beauty."
 
 "Trying to be perfect can make a person miserable."
 
 "Beauty is not something you make. It happens spontaneously, naturally, by itself."
 
 "Keep nature around! Don't try to sweep it away!"
 
 "I wonder if cleanliness symbolizes emptiness, and if the leaves symbolize freedom. The old man thought the leaves gave the yard a more practical, natural look. What in life is perfect and always in order? When things are in order, there is nothing really to look at."
 
 "Ah, a lesson from the Thoreau school of nature appreciation. People should make an effort to put off the facades they project in everyday life. You should present yourself as freely as possible and not feel so uncomfortable with your identity that you become something you are not."
 
 "If you act a certain way all of the time, don't be a phony and try to change the way you are just for certain people."
 
 "God gives nature its natural beauty. Things are a certain way for a reason."
 
 "A person shouldn't get too preoccupied with the vanities of life, because something unexpected will come along and shatter your ideals."
 
 "Normally the younger priest would not have the garden look so perfect. He was trying to impress his company. The Zen master was trying to show him to be and act like himself, and not to create a false image."
 
 "Natural beauty is better than beauty put on for some purpose."
 
 "The quest for perfect is an eternal pursuit with no destination in sight."
 
 "Don't rain on anyone's parade! Give compliments where they belong and don't criticize so much! Jealousy is a bad thing - don't take revenge out on others."
 
 "Don't try to create something that is not meant to be. Only when we disrupt nature does it become ugly."
 
 "Nature doesn't need our help to be beautiful - but we need the help of nature."
 
 "This story has to do with control, and how things are much better - especially events in nature and the world - if we just let go and let nature take its course."
 
 "This story is about trust - when to trust, and when not to."
 
 "Maybe because the old man's garden didn't look as good, this story is a message about the neglect of elders."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:45
The Most Important Teaching
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 A renowned Zen master said that his greatest teaching was this: Buddha is your own mind. So impressed by how profound this idea was, one monk decided to leave the monastery and retreat to the wilderness to meditate on this insight. There he spent 20 years as a hermit probing the great teaching.
 
 One day he met another monk who was traveling through the forest. Quickly the hermit monk learned that the traveler also had studied under the same Zen master. "Please, tell me what you know of the master's greatest teaching." The traveler's eyes lit up, "Ah, the master has been very clear about this. He says that his greatest teaching is this: Buddha is NOT your own mind."
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "The most important teaching is to think for yourself. Unfortunately, the poor pathetic monk wasted 20 years of his life to learn it. If you're going to mediate on a philosophy for 20 years, it better be your own!"
 
 "One's own mind is just that - what you believe, not what someone else said."
 
 "I think the second monk was wiser than the first. We are our own teachers, and he saw this rather than passively accepting the truth, like the first monk."
 
 "What is mine isn't yours and my mind is not Buddha for you - or something like that. I believe this story conveys knowledge that I don't have. I think I identify with the first monk."
 
 "What the Zen master was trying to get his students to understand is that what HE said to them was not important. He wanted to get them thinking for themselves."
 
 "Don't be so quick to believe everything you hear."
 
 "Even the greatest teachers and experts make mistakes. Be your own teacher and evaluate what is important to you - never take a teaching at face value!"
 
 "How can you have any coherence in your teachings if you keep changing your ideas?"
 
 "Great masters can make mistakes that waste or even ruin the lives of their followers."
 
 "I don't believe that the monk wasted his time at all. As with everything, there must be a balance....."
 
 "It just goes to show you how ambiguous people can be."
 
 "I feel a bit confused or frustrated yet find it funny. It reminds me of that Saturday Night Live bit where the person in charge of the nuclear reactor tells his underlings that before he leaves he has just one thing to tell them and it's very important: 'You can't have too much water in a nuclear reactor!"
 
 "I found this story confusing - I guess the truth is confusing."
 
 "This story is much like something I was once taught in Freshman Physics:
 Q: Is light a particle or a wave?
 A: Yes.
 "Bob Dylan Wrote a song titled Serve Somebody, I think if the Monk only had a CD player he might have had maybe one more option. Twenty years?"
 
 "The story was predictable, and reminded me of a joke I once heard, but I can't seem to remember what it was."
 
 "The irony of this story is more powerful than the message - but, to be honest, I'm not sure what the message was."
 
 "We all interpret things according to our own personality and desires."
 
 "It's amazing how people interpret the same message in totally different, and sometimes totally opposite, ways. We are all individuals who find different paths to enlightenment."
 
 "This story is an excellent overview of today's society - of how one missed word can greatly change the meaning of one's life. Had the hermit heard the word 'not' the first time 20 years earlier, his life would have been layed out completely different."
 
 "Teachings change all the time, no matter how profound they may seem at the moment. We have to remain flexible to change as ideas change - which is a fact of life that itself will no doubt change."
 
 "Everyone's views on things are constantly changing, so it's important to keep up and in contact with our ever-changing world. 20 years ago the Zen master believed that Buddha is your own mind. Now he believes it is not. So the hermit lost 20 years of his life to an old theory."
 
 "I can't see how anyone could spend 20 years of their life probing one great teaching. He missed so many life-experiences by hiding out in the wilderness."
 
 "I think the monk found buddha within if he truly spent twenty years meditating on what is buddha and what is your mind. The not is incidental."
 
 "25 years of meditation are worthy if they are realy spent in the search of Light. It doesn't matter much if the catalyser of the meditation is a particular statement or its opposite."
 
 "The story is not about the monks, their lives or the specific 'truths' that masters impart. It is about enlightnment - which lies outside the realm of the conceptual. To trick your mind into letting go, the master sets up a paradox. The opposite 'truths' exist at the same time in the same place which snaps logic's grip on your mind and releases you to clear perception. Zen / Not-Zen, at the same time in the same place!"
 
 "There is no single concept that can be expressed to encompass buddha\truth. paradox rules. deal with it."
 
 "While Buddha is not your own mind, your own mind is Buddha."
 
 "Perhaps this story means that one needs experiences to feed the mind, and by becoming a hermit, the monk lost his mind."
 
 "Too bad he didn't have any books to burn"
 
 "I'd be real pissed off if I was that hermit!"
 
 "The hermit's problem is that he has been carrying around that teaching as words. But he never realized what the teaching meant to him. You may be able to recite the words, but if you don't know what they mean, what's the use?"
 
 "People tend to jump head first and follow an idea without seeing it through. This person meditated for 20 years only to learn that the greatest teaching is NO teaching at all."
 
 "(1) I think he would have gone up and meditated for 20 years on anything the master said (or what he thought he said). (2) Maybe the second monk was just a prankster looking for something to do. (3) Is this guy a sloooow learner or what ?"
 
 "This story should make people realize what a crock some religions are. There are so many religions, cults, and followers nowadays that it makes me want to kick someone's ass - especially those who exploit other people who are naive and gullible. No, I take it back, maybe they deserve it for being so stupid!"
 
 Reminds me of something one of my teachers once said: "Everything is black or white. Nothing is black or white."
 
 "I don't believe that the 20 years the first monk spent on this koan was wasted (incidentally, several respondents assumed that the second monk had been given the "right" koan - why?). All of us spend any 20-year span in the presence of our own minds, and perceive the world through this personal filter. So, if the monk had been an astrophysicist or an NBA forward, could his time truly have been spent any more usefully? I don't think so."
 
 "The Zen Master needs to get a real job and buddha is just a marketing idea which changes to suit the consumer."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:45
Paradise
 
 
 
 Two people are lost in the desert. They are dying from hunger and thirst. Finally, they come to a high wall. On the other side they can hear the sound of a waterfall and birds singing. Above, they can see the branches of a lush tree extending over the top of the wall. Its fruit look delicious.
 One of them manages to climb over the wall and disappears down the other side. The other, instead, returns to the desert to help other lost travelers find their way to the oasis.
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Paradise is nothing without others to share it with. Who wants paradise anyway?"
 
 "People have different views of paradise. Is it more fulfilling to find your paradise or to share it with others? Moral - Know yourself before you guide others?"
 
 "Who will be a more convincing salesman for Paradise: a person who has seen it or a person who has lived in it? And is someone who is dying of thirst ready to retrace his steps across the desert, regardless of the nobility of the task? The road to hell and death is paved with good intentions."
 
 "The story seems to ask a question: is it better to improve your own life, or improve the lives of others at expense to yourself? As an individualist, I favor the former option. In my view, the story provides a somewhat distorted image, neglecting the later travelers' ability to find paradise on their own. A secondary question is the motives of the original two travelers. The one who remains in paradise seems easy enough to explain: he wants to stay alive and enjoy life. The other one is more complicated. Is he motivated by a pure and inexplicable sense of altruism, of enjoying the success of others, even at his own expense? Or is he motivated by a desire to be admired (after all, the first traveler *disappears* into the garden, and that's the last we hear of him). Or does he feel he is unworthy to enjoy paradise while others wander in the desert?"
 
 "Desert is our current life: Beautiful Oasis or other side is Nirvanna. The story is dealing with the traditional disagreement between the Hinayana and the Mahayana: What behaviour is the culmination of spiritual journey: liberating self: Arahat who through personal discipline comes to the wall and then transcends it or Bodhisattva ideal- facing infinite rebirths (going back into the desert for the liberation of infinite myriad of sentient beings?) I am not sure if we get a clear opinion from this story and perhaps one is not intended however one man seems selfish while the other seems mad."
 
 "It took so much faith to walk the desert and so much awareness to see the wall and so much doubt to look up above the wall and so much courage to both climb the wall and to walk back for others... so much and yet just enough... thank you for this wonderful story..."
 
 "Buddha turned away from paradise to help lead others out of the desert. God so loved the world that he gave up his only begotten son that our sins might be forgiven."
 
 "Buddha returns to the desert to lead others to the oasis. He dies, and each traveler can only follow the tracks that he left."
 
 "The one climbing over the wall finds his own salvation/enlightenment. The one returning to the desert is the teacher who finds the way and wants to help many others achieve their salvation. If everyone who found enlightenment STAYED there, who would exist to tell others it is not a dream?"
 
 "This story reminds me of the teachings of Jesus. The traveler who see's the oasis and immediately runs to it is a sinner because he desired the good life without thinking of others. The traveler who went back to find other travelers who are lost will find eternal life. The oasis is superficial much like our life. The oasis like our life is only a test. If we go through life thinking only of riches and the good life like the weary traveler who immediately jumped the wall we will miss out on an even better oasis, an internal oasis with God."
 
 "This illustrates the Zen equivalent of what Christians call 'evangelism'. It is not enough to possess paradise, the creature comforts; one is called to lead others to it. Great story!"
 
 "It appears that the first traveler 'stole heaven' by scaling the wall while the second traveler compassionately sacrificed himself for the good of other travelers. Perhaps paradise to the first traveler is rest while paradise to the second is service. This tale also bears a striking similarity to a chapter from John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress."
 
 "One dying traveller chooses life. He struggles to climb the wall to paradise and succeeds. The other dying traveller chooses death. 'Two people are lost in the desert' is not 'Two of the people lost in the desert'. The return to the desert to help imagined 'other lost travelers' is a justification for choosing death."
 
 "The second person doesn't return to the desert out of commitment, he returns for pleasure. To him, it is the giving, or sharing that is paradise."
 
 "The 2 who reached that wall are one , as who would not want to enjoy paradise, while at the same time saving his peers?"
 
 "A lot of comments on your website have referred to classic literature (i.e., the Bible, the Scarlet Letter, Ben Franklin, etc.) to try and interpret the meanings of the stories. I feel as though I'm in my American Lit. class. But this story really does connect to the whole tradition of success in America, what some call the 'success myth'. The American concept of success has said for a long time that a successful person has a responsibility to help others, to use his position to serve the community. But recently, as the focus of success has changed from 'we' to 'me,' success is totally selfish. No one cares about anyone but himself. This story makes me think about who is more successful. I say the second traveler, because he is more enlightened than the first. Helping others is more a mark of true success than luxury is."
 
 "Was it wise for the second person to go back to tell everyone, not knowing for sure what is beyond the wall. May be there was a Monster on the other side of the wall!"
 
 "Sometimes we walk the path of self indulgence other times the path of sacrifice for others. I believe Zen is the path of conscious choices."
 
 "Seems to be addressing the decision all we must make, whether to act for the benefit of ourselves or to act in a way that will help others. To stay behind teaching or move ahead alone?"
 
 "The one who lept the wall has found what he was seeking. The one who returned to help other travelers undoubtedly lost his own life as he did not take care of his own needs before seeking to help others. Therefore, finish what you started before you begin another task."
 
 "This is a very fine story. The one who has found something valuable and keeps it only to himself will never become really happy."
 
 "Some people find happiness through material things, while some find happiness by helping others and knowing in their heart that they're doing the right thing."
 
 "Desire leads to suffering from desires yet to be quenched; non-attachment to desire leads to pleasure in selfless acts."
 
 "Both men have found their way."
 
 "The man who went back into the desert dying of hunger and thirst - did."
 
 "As John Shaft would say 'Right On!'"
 
 "Ah, the gift (and sacrifices) of the teacher..."
 
 "This is the worst, most contrived story of them all. What a crappy attempt to communicate wisdom through a story!"

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:46
Searching for Buddha
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 A monk set off on a long pilgrimage to find the Buddha. He devoted many years to his search until he finally reached the land where the Buddha was said to live. While crossing the river to this country, the monk looked around as the boatman rowed. He noticed something floating towards them. As it got closer, he realized that it was the corpse of a person. When it drifted so close that he could almost touch it, he suddenly recognized the dead body - it was his own! He lost all control and wailed at the sight of himself, still and lifeless, drifting along the river's currents. That moment was the beginning of his liberation.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "The dead body symbolizes his self-centeredness - his bodily desires and wants - which he must transcend in order to really find Buddha and the truth."
 
 "I guess in order to find true spirituality, one must cast off this physical body. This guy's liberation came because he realized that his physical body had nothing to do with his pilgrimage to find the Buddha."
 
 "You need to live your life for yourself, because one day you'll find yourself dead without having achieved anything you wanted out of life. You were too busy worrying about something else. What a waste!"
 
 "Many times I have found myself heading towards a certain goal and then realized when I almost reached it that it really wasn't all that important. It was what I found on my way there that was important."
 
 "Some people watch life pass them by - and they don't realize it until it's almost gone."
 
 "Even when he was alive, he wasn't alive. He didn't realize that until he saw the corpse."
 
 "I wonder if that corpse was his twin brother?"
 
 "This story is very depressing to me - and it also doesn't make any sense."
 
 "The man needed to find HIMSELF and not the Buddha. Seeing his own dead body made him realize that he had to search his own soul and not someone else's. He now knew that he could go on with his life and make it on his own."
 
 "This guy wasted so many years of his life looking for this great Buddha, and for what?! He should make good of his own life and not spend it chasing after someone else, no matter how great they seem to be. He has to spend his life looking for himself!"
 
 "Is this man being told not to look for death before his time?"
 
 "He wasn't ready to receive Buddha. He still needed to search within himself."
 "I think the Buddha knew that the monk was searching for him and this was a test to see how he would cope with their meeting and the meaning of that meeting."
 
 "Does this mean you can only find the Buddha after you're dead?"
 
 "Facing up to the reality of death enables one to live life more fully."
 
 "He HAD found Buddha. Buddha had taken his soul into the afterworld. His soul was born as his body died. His soul was liberated by Buddha."
 
 "This story is unbelievable. If I saw my own dead body drifting down a river I would check myself into a mental hospital."
 
 
 Ritual Cat
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 When the spiritual teacher and his disciples began their evening meditation, the cat who lived in the monastery made such noise that it distracted them. So the teacher ordered that the cat be tied up during the evening practice. Years later, when the teacher died, the cat continued to be tied up during the meditation session. And when the cat eventually died, another cat was brought to the monastery and tied up. Centuries later, learned descendants of the spiritual teacher wrote scholarly treatises about the religious significance of tying up a cat for meditation practice.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "It's amazing how people don't question authority."
 
 "People don't think about what they're doing. They just do it because it's always been done that way, or because everyone else is doing it. Kind of scary!"
 
 "This reminds me of the game kids play when they whisper something into someone's ear, and then the message is passed along from one kid to the next. By the time it gets to the last kid, the message isn't anything like the way it was when it started."
 
 "This must be similar to how superstitions develop. There once may have been a logical reason for them, but eventually people just do it because they believe they should."
 
 "It's like people being afraid to walk under a ladder, or to have a black cat walk in front of them. It makes no sense. It's an irrational fear of some taboo that they don't fully understand."
 
 "Why tie up the cat? Why didn't they just let it out?"
 
 "I wonder how many religious ceremonies and rituals originally started out as simply a PRACTICAL solution to some simple problem."
 
 "Seems like someone (or something) always suffers from unnecessary, superstitious behavior."
 
 "This makes me think of family traditions that are passed down from one generation to the next.... and they're not always a great thing to pass down!
 
 "Family recipes are like this. Everyone keeps passing them down, even when they taste terrible."
 
 "Scholars can make even stupidity sound intelligent."
 
 "I feel sorry for those cats!"
 
 "I think a lot of us live our whole lives like this. We do this and that, over and over again, without really thinking about the significance or meaning of it."
 
 "Maybe tying up the cat symbolizes tying up our animal needs and desires during meditation in order to achieve higher levels of consciousness."
 
 "This story is more about the failings of one man than rituals, cats or scholars."
 
 
 
 Successor
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 
 The old Zen master's health was fading. Knowing his death was near, he announced to all the monks that he soon would be passing down his robe and rice bowl to appoint the next master of the monastery. His choice, he said, would be based on a contest. Anyone seeking the appointment was required to demonstrate his spiritual wisdom by submitting a poem. The head monk, the most obvious successor, presented a poem that was well composed and insightful. All the monks anticipated his selection as their new leader. However, the next morning another poem appeared on the wall in the hallway, apparently written during the dark hours of the night. It stunned everyone with it's elegance and profundity but no one knew who the author was. Determined to find this person, the old master began questioning all the monks. To his surprise, the investigation led to the rather quiet kitchen worker who pounded rice for the meals. Upon hearing the news, the jealous head monk and his comrades plotted to kill their rival. In secret, the old master passed down his robe and bowl to the rice pounder, who quickly fled from the monastery, later to become a widely renowned Zen teacher.
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "The person who everyone thinks is best doesn't always end up winning."
 
 "The obvious choice is not always the best choice."
 
 "Expect the unexpected. Take nothing for granted."
 
 "Some people are born leaders."
 
 "Never judge a book by its cover. It's a platitude, but it's true. Everyone has a hidden talent inside them."
 
 "I would tell this story to children who lack self-esteem. It would allow them to see that anyone can accomplish anything, regardless of their appearance, race, money, etc."
 
 "Why is it that the quiet people always seem to be the intelligent ones?"
 
 "This story says a lot about 'little' people. Those who are not well known often are the ones who are well-composed and insightful."
 
 "People you would never expect to be the 'ONE' usually turn out to be the best, if they're just given a chance."
 
 "Sometimes the one you expect least to speak out does so, and does so wonderfully. I think this is a major problem with Americans. They prejudge so quickly."
 
 "The greatest good can exist in the most unlikely places. Some people really hate this fact."
 
 "The people who act like they are smart aren't really smart at all."
 
 "Power corrupts."
 
 "The other monks didn't understand that it was not a contest to find a winner, but to find a believer."
 
 "People of great importance often fail to realize that everyone is equal.... And for the monks who plotted the killing, they are already part dead. "
 
 "The kitchen worker would never have killed for the position. Knowledge (Zen) is not politics.
 
 "Some people will do just about anything to get what they want."
 
 "I guess pounding rice gives you lots of time to meditate and find selflessness."
 
 "When small-minded people don't get what they want, their true colors come out."
 
 "It pisses me off when the successful underdog is attacked for no other reason than just being the best! Were this story told to an impressionable individual, it might frightened that person away from trying to succeed."
 
 "In life, there are no rules."
 
 "Instead of this weak little rice pounder staying in the village, he runs away with the robe and bowl. He could have been an inspiration to the others in the village who didn't succeed! There are always people who are jealous, but to give into them only gives them another victory."
 
 "The rice pounder didn't really want to become the next master. He just wanted to show his self without anyone knowing."
 
 "Reminds me of King Arthur and how he pulled the sword out of the stone - but no one believed him."
 
 "This sounds like Cinderella!"
 
 "People who are truthful and genuine will go furthest in life."
 
 "I guess the old Zen master learned to read the writing on the wall."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:47
Sounds of Silence
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 Four monks decided to meditate silently without speaking for two weeks. By nightfall on the first day, the candle began to flicker and then went out. The first monk said, "Oh, no! The candle is out." The second monk said, "Aren't we not suppose to talk?" The third monk said, "Why must you two break the silence?" The fourth monk laughed and said, "Ha! I'm the only one who didn't speak."
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "Each monk broke the silence for a different reason, each of which is a common stumbling block to meditation. The first monk became distraced by one element of the world (the candle) and so lost sight of the rest. The second monk was more worried about rules than the meditation itself. The third monk let his anger at the first two rule him. And the final monk was lost in his ego."
 
 The path is open to its failures as they are the stones to its success.
 
 "I am reminded of a car game I used to play with my children called 'Listening for Silence.' The object of the game for me was to stop the noise in the car. The object of the game for the children was to see who could resist speaking the longest by listening for silence. If the first child spoke and the second child automatically burst out proclaiming victory, then both children lost. The object was to listen for silence and silence speaks for itself"
 
 Things do not always go as planned.
 
 This is symbolic of something else, I know, but I'll just say it the way it was told. If you're used to talking, it's going to be hard to resist the temptation to talk, moreso when you're with others, which I would think they would've thought of. It's like telling someone who sees just fine to close their eyes for a week, staying awake, and not open them at all, no matter what noises they heard. It's pretty near impossible to resist temptation when you've never had to resist that type of temptation before.
 
 You could have ended the story at the point when "the candle flickered and went out."
 
 The four monks have each broken their silence for an altogether different reason. But another side is in the fact that the 4th monk spoke at all. Had he simply maintained his silence, he would've been successful in his endeavor. But if he had, in all likelihood, the other three would've probably continued to argue and not even noticed his silence. I know many people who are like the 4th monk; their motto: If I'm doing something good and no one is watching (or no one notices), I might as well not be doing it at all. They believe that the reward is not in the effort, but in the recognition.
 
 Were I a fifth monk I would wait 10 minutes into the exercise, stand up and yell loudly. HAAAAAAH I LOSE!!!! Then walk out to do some non-competitive meditation.
 
 Enter a woods and hear the wilderness listen. That's where you'll find it.... John, your "Ph.D." is not silent.
 
 This story reminds me a teaching. When you meditate in breathing, you should concentrate your mind to your breath only and cast out all thoughts, including a thought that you are breathing.
 
 "If you can describe the zen then you do not know it. 'The buffalo left his enclosure for the abyss, his head passed the doorway, his shoulders, girth and haunches, yet his tail would not pass through' - - koan from the gateless gate"
 
 "Oaths and Promises - Lightly spoken..Hardly Kept."
 
 It is the provence of knowledge to speak; it is the privilege of wisdom - to listen.
 
 It is clear from reading the story that none of the monks are spiritually ready to perform the difficult silent meditation. Unfocused and easily distracted by their surroundings(the burnt out candle and the conversations of themselves) they all failed to reach their aim of meditating in silent for two weeks. I see the moral of the story is 'to plan thoroughly and be solidly ready before embarking on an action. Focus your mind constantly in reaching your aim, and the objective will be reached, no matter how hard it is.'
 
 
 Holy Man
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 Word spread across the countryside about the wise Holy Man who lived in a small house atop the mountain. A man from the village decided to make the long and difficult journey to visit him. When he arrived at the house, he saw an old servant inside who greeted him at the door. "I would like to see the wise Holy Man," he said to the servant. The servant smiled and led him inside. As they walked through the house, the man from the village looked eagerly around the house, anticipating his encounter with the Holy Man. Before he knew it, he had been led to the back door and escorted outside. He stopped and turned to the servant, "But I want to see the Holy Man!"
 
 "You already have," said the old man. "Everyone you may meet in life, even if they appear plain and insignificant... see each of them as a wise Holy Man. If you do this, then whatever problem you brought here today will be solved."
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 " This reminds me of Jesus. He was born a simple carpenter's son. It also reminded me of Martin Luther King believing that we are all human and worthy of respect."
 
 "Anticipation of something may be greater than the thing itself. Anticipation of looks is always a mistake."
 
 "You can't judge a book by its cover."
 
 "This is too obvious to be a story. You don't have to think about the point and make it yours. It just hits you on the head."
 
 "We see ourselves in everyone we meet."
 
 "Every step you take in life is significant. There are meanings to all and every event that takes place."
 
 "The man in the story got lost looking for a deep solution to his problem, when all along the answer was right on the surface."
 
 "This is like the age-old story of Beauty and the Beast. Don't judge people until you get to know them. They may surprise you."
 
 "Reminds me of when Luke Skywalker meets Yoda. I think many people go searching for things (love, happiness) and don't recognize them when they see them."
 
 "Everyone you meet in life will know something about life that you may not."
 
 "I don't like this story. It's a bit too much like the Little House on the Prairie for me. It makes me nauseous. Most people aren't wise. Anyone who says so is unrealistic."
 
 "A wise man learns more from a fool than the fool from the wise man."
 
 "If you feel love and respect for all people that you meet, you will receive inward peace."
 
 
 More Is Not Enough
 The Stone Cutter
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 There was once a stone cutter who was dissatisfied with himself and with his position in life.
 One day he passed a wealthy merchant's house. Through the open gateway, he saw many fine possessions and important visitors. "How powerful that merchant must be!" thought the stone cutter. He became very envious and wished that he could be like the merchant.
 
 To his great surprise, he suddenly became the merchant, enjoying more luxuries and power than he had ever imagined, but envied and detested by those less wealthy than himself. Soon a high official passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by attendants and escorted by soldiers beating gongs. Everyone, no matter how wealthy, had to bow low before the procession. "How powerful that official is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a high official!"
 
 Then he became the high official, carried everywhere in his embroidered sedan chair, feared and hated by the people all around. It was a hot summer day, so the official felt very uncomfortable in the sticky sedan chair. He looked up at the sun. It shone proudly in the sky, unaffected by his presence. "How powerful the sun is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the sun!"
 
 Then he became the sun, shining fiercely down on everyone, scorching the fields, cursed by the farmers and laborers. But a huge black cloud moved between him and the earth, so that his light could no longer shine on everything below. "How powerful that storm cloud is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a cloud!"
 
 Then he became the cloud, flooding the fields and villages, shouted at by everyone. But soon he found that he was being pushed away by some great force, and realized that it was the wind. "How powerful it is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the wind!"
 
 Then he became the wind, blowing tiles off the roofs of houses, uprooting trees, feared and hated by all below him. But after a while, he ran up against something that would not move, no matter how forcefully he blew against it - a huge, towering rock. "How powerful that rock is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a rock!"
 
 Then he became the rock, more powerful than anything else on earth. But as he stood there, he heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the hard surface, and felt himself being changed. "What could be more powerful than I, the rock?" he thought.
 
 He looked down and saw far below him the figure of a stone cutter.
 
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "We all have great power within us. We merely need to know that."
 "This story reminds me of a quote: 'At the end of all our searching we will arrive at the place we began and know it for the first time.'"
 
 "If the stone cutter restart moving backwards, he go from nature in man. So, man flow out into nature, nature flow out into man.There's a fluid , energy ranbling between objects in the earth. It is'nt human ambition;it's simply life,moving in a circle."
 
 "We are all powerful in our own way.... We all have our own place"
 
 "The Stonecutter's story reflects the nature of the human mind and of our attachment to it. We jump from one compartment to the next, one desire to the next, one point of view to the next, never resting content with how things really are, never grasping the whole."
 
 "We have to learn to celebrate who or what we are. When there is a way that we can better ourselves we must work for it and not just wish and dream."
 
 "He should have settled for being rich and powerful. Then he could have had all the stone cutters working for him."
 
 "So that's why the game of Rock Scissors Paper works...."
 
 "The grass is always greener on the other side -- until you get there. It's a matter of perspective. Satisfaction is a personal choice. Choose to green up your own grass rather than hopping that fence."
 
 "This definitely proves to me that a person can achieve anything, as long as they stay focused and have a goal ahead of them. As I studied in my MBA classes, you always have to work backwards! Find the end product/result and work back on how you are going to achieve it!"
 
 "We often meet our destiny on the road we took to avoid it."
 
 "Do not expect too much and you will get plenty."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:48
Christian Buddha
 
 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
 
 One of master Gasan's monks visited the university in Tokyo. When he returned, he asked the master if he had ever read the Christian Bible. "No," Gasan replied, "Please read some of it to me." The monk opened the Bible to the Sermon on the Mount in St. Matthew, and began reading. After reading Christ's words about the lilies in the field, he paused. Master Gasan was silent for a long time. "Yes," he finally said, "Whoever uttered these words is an enlightened being. What you have read to me is the essence of everything I have been trying to teach you here!"
 
 
 (In another version of this story, it is a Christian who reads the Bible passage to Gasan.)
 
 
 
 People's reactions to this story:
 "It's so sad that wars are fought over differences in "religion," when in reality all the world's religions are saying the same essential things. If nations really took religion to heart, so many lives would be saved."
 
 "If what is true for you is true, and what is true for me is true, than really nothing is true. If there are no absolutes in the universe higher than our own opinions or experiences, than we live on an ever shifting sand. True truth is true whether we know it, or believe it. It is absolute, unchanging, and independent of our reactions to it. God is God and we are not him. I believe this story is an attempt to dilute the hard division line that the Bible deliberately draws. Our culture trys to offer solutions that do not offend anyone. I wonder how Master Gasan would react to Christ's words "no one may come to the Father but by me." Or "the kingdom of heaven advances violently, and violent men lay hold of it."?
 "I think this is saying that a great lesson can come out of one short story. Something that someone is searching for desperately can be revealed in one simple story."
 
 "This story held no interest for me. I don't believe in the existence of God and therefore believe that the Bible is a bunch of bologna!"
 
 "Universalism is an extremely faulty world view. All the worlds religions do not teach the same thing. Religion is not about being good to your fellow man, or doing nice things to other people. So many of these comments seem to think that because most religions teach that, in general, you should'nt kill people, and you should'nt steal, and that you should feed the poor, etc., that its all the same thing. That misses the point entirely, and trivializes a vast amount of the most deeply held beliefs of the world's populace. Religion is about what you are, or at least the part of you that is you and not just molecules combined together in unique ways. The most important question that religion tries to answer are "How should we act towards other people?" but "How should we act towards God?" How we act towards others is a by-product of our relationship to the Divine." "There is only One God!"
 
 "Master Gasan found a pleasant verse. How would he have responded to less beautiful Revelations or Oholibah in Ezekial 23:10."
 
 "Every religion has an awareness of the basic ethical principles that govern humanity. Anything else that a religion teaches is not about the human but about the divine."
 
 "There is nothing even slightly Zen about this 'story.' It is an embarrassing, childish attempting to usurp the notion of Zen to endorse an unenlightened acceptance of Christian dogma without study, introspection, or question. Sad you published it. I admire both Christ and Buddah greatly, but this is catechism, rote dogma, not enlightenment."
 
 "I think Gasan was so relieved that he finally got his point across to the monks!"
 
 "This situation is similar to thinking about different races. People may look different on the outside, but when you look on the inside, everyone is basically the same."
 
 "This story gives me a feeling of unity with everyone - I like that."
 
 "This story is BORING! It begins nowhere and ends the same way. Shouldn't the essence of his teachings be understandable so we all can be enlightened as well? Master Gasan sounds like a fake or a very poor teacher"
 
 "It sounds like Master Gasan has no idea of what he is talking about."
 
 "Different people may be trying to convey the same message to others, but are going about it in different ways. I think that's good - diversity is good."
 
 "We should always be learning. No one knows everything."
 
 "Anyone can be a teacher."
 
 "Gasan realizes that the monk's might become interested in what the Bible says, so he tries to act like he understands and believes in the Bible. He is trying to get the monks to respect him and think that these words and thoughts were also his."
 
 "Cultural prejudices prevent us from seeing the Universals. It is irrational to think that a different truth applies to everyone."
 
 "All races across the world are teaching the same ideas through religion, but one person's way of teaching may differ from another."
 
 "I think the story is trying to say that we can ALL be right - or that sometimes a person needs to leave their usual surroundings in order to see and understand what's in front of their face."
 
 "How could Master Gasan never have read the Bible? Maybe that's the point of the story - even a Zen master can be illiterate."
 
 "I read this story twice and didn't like it. I felt like I needed more, but I wasn't sure what."
 
 "This story seems choppy and unfinished."
 
 "'Lillies of the field' is a rather zen story, encouraging naturalness acceptance of being."
 
 "It is interesting that when presented with the Bible, the Master was open to listening. I don't find the same to be true when the situation is reversed, . It feels very comfortable to me to be Buddhist and still feel at peace with others who do not share my views."
 
 "Maybe the point is that we don't need Bibles OR Zen teachers to find enlightenment. We already have it within ourselves."
 
 "This comment is not about the story but about the other comments: Taken collectively, they illustrate Martin Luther's observation, 'A book is like a mirror -- if an ape looks in, no saint will look out!'"

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:54
The Three Fishermen
 There were three of them. There were four of us, and April lay on the campsite and on the river, a mixture of dawn at a damp extreme and the sun in the leaves at cajole. This was Deer Lodge on the Pine River in Ossipee, New Hampshire, though the lodge was naught but a foundation remnant in the earth. Brother Bentley's father, Oren, had found this place sometime after the First World War, a foreign affair that had seriously done him no good but he found solitude abounding here. Now we were here, post World War II, post Korean War, Vietnam War on the brink. So much learned, so much yet to learn.
 Peace then was everywhere about us, in the riot of young leaves, in the spree of bird confusion and chatter, in the struggle of pre-dawn animals for the start of a new day, a Cooper Hawk that had smashed down through trees for a squealing rabbit, yap of a fox at a youngster, a skunk at rooting.
 We had pitched camp in the near darkness, Ed LeBlanc, Brother Bentley, Walter Ruszkowski, myself. A dozen or more years we had been here, and seen no one. Now, into our campsite deep in the forest, so deep that at times we had to rebuild sections of narrow road (more a logger's path) flushed out by earlier rains, deep enough where we thought we'd again have no traffic, came a growling engine, an old solid body van, a Chevy, the kind I had driven for Frankie Pike and the Lobster Pound in Lynn delivering lobsters throughout the Merrimack Valley. It had pre-WW II high fenders, a faded black paint on a body you'd swear had been hammered out of corrugated steel, and an engine that made sounds too angry and too early for the start of day. Two elderly men, we supposed in their seventies, sat the front seat; felt hats at the slouch and decorated with an assortment of tied flies like a miniature bandoleer of ammunition on the band. They could have been conscripts for Emilano Zappata, so loaded their hats and their vests as they climbed out of the truck.
 "Mornin', been yet?" one of them said as he pulled his boots up from the folds at his knees, the tops of them as wide as a big mouth bass coming up from the bottom for a frog sitting on a lily pad. His hands were large, the fingers long and I could picture them in a shop barn working a primal plane across the face of a maple board. Custom-made, old elegance, those hands said.
 "Barely had coffee," Ed LeBlanc said, the most vocal of the four of us, quickest at friendship, at shaking hands. "We've got a whole pot almost. Have what you want." The pot was pointed out sitting on a hunk of grill across the stones of our fire, flames licking lightly at its sides. The pot appeared as if it had been at war, a number of dents scarred it, the handle had evidently been replaced, and if not adjusted against a small rock it would have fallen over for sure. Once, a half-hour on the road heading north, noting it missing, we'd gone back to get it. When we fished the Pine River, coffee was the glue, the morning glue, the late evening glue, even though we'd often unearth our beer from a natural cooler in early evening. Coffee, camp coffee, has a ritual. It is thick, it is dark, it is potboiled over a squaw-pine fire, it is strong, it is enough to wake the demon in you, stoke last evening's cheese and pepperoni. First man up makes the fire, second man the coffee; but into that pot has to go fresh eggshells to hold the grounds down, give coffee a taste of history, a sense of place. That means at least one egg be cracked open for its shells, usually in the shadows and glimmers of false dawn. I suspect that's where "scrambled eggs" originated, from some camp like ours, settlers rushing west, lumberjacks hungry, hoboes lobbying for breakfast. So, camp coffee has made its way into poems, gatherings, memories, a time and thing not letting go, not being manhandled, not being cast aside.
 "You're early enough for eggs and bacon if you need a start." Eddie added, his invitation tossed kindly into the morning air, his smile a match for morning sun, a man of welcomes. "We have hot cakes, kulbassa, home fries, if you want." We have the food of kings if you really want to know. There were nights we sat at his kitchen table at 101 Main Street, Saugus, Massachusetts planning the trip, planning each meal, planning the campsite. Some menus were founded on a case of beer, a late night, a curse or two on the ride to work when day started.
 "Been there a'ready," the other man said, his weaponry also noted by us, a little more orderly in its presentation, including an old Boy Scout sash across his chest, the galaxy of flies in supreme positioning. They were old Yankees, in the face and frame the pair of them undoubtedly brothers, staunch, written into early routines, probably had been up at three o'clock to get here at this hour. They were taller than we were, no fat on their frames, wide-shouldered, big-handed, barely coming out of their reserve, but fishermen. That fact alone would win any of us over. Obviously, they'd been around, a heft of time already accrued.
 Then the pounding came, from inside the truck, as if a tire iron was beating at the sides of the vehicle. It was not a timid banging, not a minor signal. Bang! Bang! it came, and Bang! again. And the voice of authority from some place in space, some regal spot in the universe. "I'm not sitting here the livelong day whilst you boys gab away." A toothless meshing came in his words, like Walter Brennan at work in the jail in Rio Bravo or some such movie.
 "Comin', pa," one of them said, the most orderly one, the one with the old scout sash riding him like a bandoleer.
 They pulled open the back doors of the van, swung them wide, to show His Venerable Self, ageless, white-bearded, felt hat too loaded with an arsenal of flies, sitting on a white wicker rocker with a rope holding him to a piece of vertical angle iron, the crude kind that could have been on early subways or trolley cars. Across his lap he held three delicate fly rods, old as him, thin, bamboo in color, probably too slight for a lake's three-pounder. But on the Pine River, upstream or downstream, under alders choking some parts of the river's flow, at a significant pool where side streams merge and phantom trout hang out their eternal promise, most elegant, fingertip elegant.
 "Oh, boy," Eddie said at an aside, "there's the boss man, and look at those tools." Admiration leaked from his voice.
 Rods were taken from the caring hands, the rope untied, and His Venerable Self, white wicker rocker and all, was lifted from the truck and set by our campfire. I was willing to bet that my sister Pat, the dealer in antiques, would scoop up that rocker if given the slightest chance. The old one looked about the campsite, noted clothes drying from a previous day's rain, order of equipment and supplies aligned the way we always kept them, the canvas of our tent taut and true in its expanse, our fishing rods off the ground and placed atop the flyleaf so as not to tempt raccoons with smelly cork handles, no garbage in sight. He nodded.
 We had passed muster.
 "You the ones leave it cleaner than you find it ever' year. We knowed sunthin' 'bout you. Never disturbed you afore. But we share the good spots." He looked closely at Brother Bentley, nodded a kind of recognition. "Your daddy ever fish here, son?"
 Brother must have passed through the years in a hurry, remembering his father bringing him here as a boy. "A ways back," Brother said in his clipped North Saugus fashion, outlander, specific, no waste in his words. Old Oren Bentley, it had been told us, had walked five miles through the unknown woods off Route 16 as a boy and had come across the campsite, the remnants of an old lodge, and a great curve in the Pine River so that a mile's walk in either direction gave you three miles of stream to fish, upstream or downstream. Paradise up north.
 His Venerable Self nodded again, a man of signals, then said, "Knowed him way back some. Met him at the Iron Bridge. We passed a few times." Instantly we could see the story. A whole history of encounter was in his words; it marched right through us the way knowledge does, as well as legend. He pointed at the coffeepot. "The boys'll be off, but my days down there get cut up some. I'll sit a while and take some of thet." He said thet too pronounced, too dramatic, and it was a short time before I knew why.
 The white wicker rocker went into a slow and deliberate motion, his head nodded again. He spoke to his sons. "You boys be back no more'n two-three hours so these fellers can do their things too, and keep the place tidied up."
 The most orderly son said, "Sure, pa. Two-three hours." The two elderly sons left the campsite and walked down the path to the banks of the Pine River, their boots swishing at thigh line, the most elegant rods pointing the way through scattered limbs, experience on the move. Trout beware, we thought.
 "We been carpenters f'ever," he said, the clip still in his words. "Those boys a mine been some good at it too." His head cocked, he seemed to listen for their departure, the leaves and branches quiet, the murmur of the stream a tinkling idyllic music rising up the banking. Old Venerable Himself moved the wicker rocker forward and back, a small timing taking place. He was hearing things we had not heard yet, the whole symphony all around us. Eddie looked at me and nodded his own nod. It said, "I'm paying attention and I know you are. This is our one encounter with a man who has fished for years the river we love, that we come to twice a year, in May with the mayflies, in June with the black flies." The gift and the scourge, we'd often remember, having been both scarred and sewn by it.
 Brother was still at memory, we could tell. Silence we thought was heavy about us, but there was so much going on. A bird talked to us from a high limb. A fox called to her young. We were on the Pine River once again, nearly a hundred miles from home, in Paradise.
 "Name's Roger Treadwell. Boys are Nathan and Truett." The introductions had been accounted for.
 Old Venerable Roger Treadwell, carpenter, fly fisherman, rocker, leaned forward and said, "You boys wouldn't have a couple spare beers, would ya?"
 Now that's the way to start the day on the Pine River.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:57
The End Of The World
 
 One day, everybody was talking about it. It had even been printed in the newspapers. A great and learned sadhu had prophesized a conflagration, a natural disaster of such proportions that more than half of the world's population would be killed. Dil was on his way to work at the construction when site he stopped briefly to listen to a man propounding the benefits of a herb against impotence. Then he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, long lines of goats converging onto the green. "What's going on?" he asked. And the people told him: "Everybody's buying meat so they can have one last good meal before they die."
 Dil, following this precedent of preparing for the end of the world, went into the shop and bought a kilogram of goat meat. On his way back home, he stopped at Gopal Bhakta's shop, where all the men saw the blood-soaked newsprint packet he was carrying in his hand. "So what's the big event, Dai? Are you celebrating Dashain early this year?" they joked. So he told them how goats were being sold in record numbers, and how the butchers were going a roaring business down in Tudikhel. The men, seizing on this opportunity for celebration, all decided to buy some meat for their last meal.
 Sanukancha, who owned a milk-shop down the lane, said that his entire extended family of a hundred and sixteen people were planning to stay home that day so that they could be together when the seven suns rose the next morning and burnt up the earth. Bikash, who had transformed from an awara loafer to a serious young teacher since he got a job at the Disney English School, said that so many children had come in asking to be excused that day that the schools had declared a de facto national holiday. Gopalbhakta said that his sister, who worked in the airport, had told him that the seats of Royal Nepal Airlines were all taken with people hoping to escape the day of destruction.
 Dil, showed up that night at his house with a kilo of meat wrapped in sal leaves. He handed it to Kanchi without a word.
 "Meat! We don't have a kernel of rice, not a drop of oil, not a pinch of turmeric in the house. And you come back with a kilo of meat! We could have eaten for a week with that money." Kanchi was exasperated.
 "Shut up, whore, and eat". said Dil. "You might be dead tomorrow, so you might as well enjoy this meat while you have it."
 "How am I going to cook it? With body heat?" demanded Kanchi. There was no kerosene in the house. Dil stretched out on the bed, his body still covered with the grey and red dust of cement and newly fired brick from his day of labor at the construction site. He stretched out and stared at the ceiling, as was his habit after work. When he did not reply, Kanchi asked: "And what is this great occasion?"
 He contemplated the water stains on the wooden beams for a while, and then answered: "It's the end of the world."
 So that's how she learnt that a great star with a long tail was going to crash against Jupiter, and shatter the earth into little fragments. It was true this time because even the TV had announced it. It was not just a rumor. There were also some reports, unverified by radio or television, that several - the numbers varied, some said it was seven, others thirty-two thousand - suns would rise after this event.
 Kanchi was just about to go and get some rice from Gopal Bhakta, the shopkeeper who knew her well and let her buy food on credit, when her son arrived, carrying a polythene bag with oranges. "Oranges!" She swiped at the boy, who scrambled nimbly out of her reach. "You're crazy, you father and son. We have no rice in the house and you go and buy oranges. Don't you have any brains in your head!"
 But the huS*and said nothing, and the son said nothing, and since it is useless to keep screaming at people who say nothing, Kanchi left, cursing their stupidity. "May the world really end, so I won't have to worry about having to feed idiots like you again."
 So that night they had meat, alternately burnt and uncooked in parts where the children had roasted it, and perfectly done pieces which Kanchi had stuck through long sticks and cooked over hot coals. Kanchi, reflecting that the end of the world did not come too often, had gone over and picked some green chilies and coriander from the field next door to garnish the meat.
 Afterwards they had the oranges, one for each of them. They were large, the peels coming off and scenting the room with the oil. Inside, they were ripe and juicy, with a taste that they never got in the scrawny sour oranges that grew back in the villages. After they had eaten, Dil said, as an afterthought, "Now make sure the children don't go out tomorrow, whatever you do."
 Later, Kanchi forgot her annoyance as their next door neighbors came over, bringing their madal drum and their three guests who were visiting from the village. They sang the songs that were so familiar, and yet had begun to seem so strange nowadays: songs about planting rice and cutting grass in the forest, a life that to the children was as unknown and faraway as the stories that they heard from the priests during a reading of the holy scriptures of the Purans. Then her son got up and started dancing, and they were all cheering when the landlady popped her head around the door and demanded: "What's all this noise? What's going on here? It sounds like the end of the world!"
 Kanchi dressed carefully for the eventful day. She had on her regular cotton sari, but wrapped over it was the fluffy, baby blue cashmere shawl that Jennifer had brought for her from America. Jennifer, who was long, lugubrious and eternally disgusted with Nepal, worked for some development office, where she made women take injections and told them to save money in banks. She was fond of telling Kanchi that Nepalis were incapable of understanding what was good for them. She would have been proud to see Kanchi putting the blue shawl to such good use on such a momentous day.
 Kanchi worked for Jennifer when she was in town. She cooked her rice and vegetables with no spices, and cut the huge red peppers that Jennifer liked to eat raw while she stood in front of her television in shiny, tight clothes and did her odd dances. Janefonda, Janefonda, she would yell at Kanchi, hopping up and down like a demented, electric green cricket as she munched on the huge peppers. She was not very forthcoming with presents, but once every winter she gave Kanchi a piece of clothing.
 "Why the shawl on this hot day?" inquired Mitthu. She was the old cook of the Sharmas', at whose house Kanchi went to wash the clothes every morning to supplement her uncertain income.
 "Haven't you heard?" Kanchi said to her. "Everybody is talking about it. Today is the end of the world. A big sadhu prophesized it. I won't have my huS*and by me, or my son. At least I can have my shawl."
 "What nonsense." retorted Mitthu. She was a religious woman, with a tendency to be skeptical of people and events that she had not heard of.
 "Well, what if it happens?" Kanchi demanded, and Mitthu replied, just as firmly: "No, it won't."
 "Let's eat rice now, Didi." Kanchi said anxiously, as the sky began to darken for a light rain. The end of the world was supposed to happen at eleven am, and Kanchi wanted to deal with the event on a full stomach. "We might be hungry later."
 "Is this for your body or your soul?" Asked Mitthu as she ladled some rice onto a plate for Kanchi. She had an acerbic tongue.
 "A soul will fly away like a small bird. It'll fly away when it becomes hungry and go and steal from some other people's homes. It's my stomach that will kill me."
 "And is your shawl to keep you warm in heaven or hell?" Mitthu inquired as she dropped a pinch of spicy tomato acchar onto the rice.
 "I won't need this shawl in heaven or hell. This is if I survive, and there is nobody else on this earth but me. At least I will have my shawl to keep me warm."
 Mitthu, even though she would not acknowledge it, recognized this admirable foresight and common sense. "Humph" she said, turning away to steal a glance at the sun, which did look rather bright. She wondered if she should run in and get a shawl as well, just in case, then decided her pride was more important.
 A rumble of thunder rolled across the clear blue sky, and Kanchi stood up in a panic. "What a darcheruwa I am, I have no guts." she scolded herself.
 "Eat, Kanchi." said Mitthu, rattling the rice ladle over the pot, annoyed at her own fright.
 
 "I saw Shanta Bajai storming off to go to office this morning. She said she would go to the office even if nobody else came, and she would die in her chair if she had to."
 "So why is the world going to end?" asks Mitthu cautiously. She did not believe it was going to happen. At the same time, she was curious.
 "It's all because of Girija." explained Kanchi. "It all started happening ever since he became the Prime Minister. Ever since he started going off to America, day after day. I heard he fainted and fell on the ground, and the king of America gave him money for medicine. So this destruction is happening since he returned. Maybe the American king gave him money, and he sold Nepal, maybe that's why. And now maybe the Communists will take over."
 "You know, Kanchi, I almost became a Communist when I was in the village? It sounded good. We would all have to live together, and work together, and there would be no divisions between big or small. Then we could kill all the rich people and there would be peace."
 "And what about eating?" asks Kanchi. "You would also have to eat together, out of the same plate, with everybody else. How would that suit you, you Bahuni? You who won't even eat your food if you suspect somebody has looked at it?" Mitthu, who was a fastidious Brahmin and refused to let people who she suspected of eating buffalo meat into her kitchen, realized she has overlooked this point.
 "And then they make you work until you drop dead." said Kanchi. "Don't tell me I didn't think about it. I would rather prefer to live like this, where at least I can have my son by me at night. I heard the Communists take away your children and make you work in different places. And then they give you work that you cannot fulfill, and if you do not do it, they kill you - Dong! - with one bullet. What's the point of living then?"
 "Well ..." Mitthu does not want to give up her sympathies so easily. Besides, her huS*and had died when she was nine. As a lifelong child widow she had no reason to worry about being separated from her children. "Well, we'll see it when it happens, won't we?"
 "Like the end of the world." said Kanchi, checking out the sky. "I heard that they have taken the big Sadhu who predicted the end of the world and put him in the jail in Hanuman Dhoka. He has said that they can hang him if it doesn't happen. Then some people say that he was performing a Shanti Hom and the fire rose so high he was burnt and had to be taken to the hospital. Who can tell what will happen?"
 Eleven am. There is a sudden shocked silence. The whole world stands still, for once, in anticipation. Then a sudden cacophony shatters the midmorning silence: cows moo tormentedly, dogs howl long and despondently, and people scream all over the tole.
 The sky is flat gunmetal grey. The sun shines brightly.
 A collective sign of relief wafts over the Valley of Kathmandu after the end of the world comes to an end.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:57
The Hero
 
 My mother's parents came from Hungary, but my grandfather was educated in Germany. Even though Hungarian was his native language, he preferred German to all the other languages he spoke. It seems he was able to hold a conversation in nine languages, but was most comfortable in German. Every morning, before going to his office, he read the German language newspaper, which was American owned and published in New York.
 My grandfather was the only one in his family to come to the United States. He still had relatives living in Europe. When the first World War broke out, he lamented the fact that if my uncle, his only son had to go, it would be cousin fighting against cousin. In the early days of the war, my grandmother implored him to stop taking the German newspaper and to take an English language paper, instead. He scoffed at the idea, explaining that the fact that it was in German did not make it a German newspaper, but only an American newspaper, printed in German. But my grandmother insisted, if only that the neighbors not see him read it and think he was German. So, under duress, he finally gave up the German newspaper.
 One day, the inevitable happened and my Uncle Milton received his draft notice. My Grandparents were very upset, but my mother, his little sister was ecstatic. Now she could brag about her soldier brother going off to war. She was ten years old and my uncle, realizing how he was regarded by his little sister and all of her friends, went out and bought them all service pins, which meant that they had a loved one in the service. All the little girls were delighted. When the day came for him to leave, his whole regiment, in their uniforms, left together from the same train station. There was a band playing and my mother and her friends came to see him off. Each one wore her service pin and waved a small American flag, cheering the boys, as they left.
 The moment came and the soldiers, all rookies, none of whom had had any training, but who had nevertheless all been issued, uniforms, boarded the train. The band played and the crowd cheered. Although no one noticed, I'm sure my grandmother had a tear in her eye for the only son, going off to war. The train groaned as if it knew the destiny to which it was taking its passengers, but it soon it began to move. Still cheering and waving their flags, the band still playing, the train slowly departed the station.
 It had gone about a thousand yards when it suddenly ground to a halt. The band stopped playing, the crowd stopped cheering. Everyone gazed in wonder as the train slowly backed up and returned to the station. It seemed an eternity until the doors opened and the men started to file out. Someone shouted, "It's the armistice. The war is over." For a moment, nobody moved, but then the people heard someone bark orders at the soldiers. The men lined up formed into two lines, walked down the steps and, with the band in tow, playing a Sousa march, paraded down the street, as returning heroes, to be welcomed home by the assembled throng. As soon as the parade ended they were, immediately, mustered out of the army. My mother said it was a great day, but she was just a little disappointed that it didn't last a tiny bit longer. The next day my uncle returned to his job, and my grandfather resumed reading the German newspaper, which he read until the day he died.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 17:59
Butterflies
 
 There was a time in my life when beauty meant something special to me. I guess that would have been when I was about six or seven years old, just several weeks or maybe a month before the orphanage turned me into an old man.
 I would get up every morning at the orphanage, make my bed just like the little soldier that I had become and then I would get into one of the two straight lines and march to breakfast with the other twenty or thirty boys who also lived in my dormitory.
 After breakfast one Saturday morning I returned to the dormitory and saw the house parent chasing the beautiful monarch butterflies who lived by the hundreds in the azalea bushes strewn around the orphanage.
 I carefully watched as he caught these beautiful creatures, one after the other, and then took them from the net and then stuck straight pins through their head and wings, pinning them onto a heavy cardboard sheet.
 How cruel it was to kill something of such beauty. I had walked many times out into the bushes, all by myself, just so the butterflies could land on my head, face and hands so I could look at them up close.
 When the telephone rang the house parent laid the large cardboard paper down on the back cement step and went inside to answer the phone. I walked up to the cardboard and looked at the one butterfly who he had just pinned to the large paper. It was still moving about so I reached down and touched it on the wing causing one of the pins to fall out. It started flying around and around trying to get away but it was still pinned by the one wing with the other straight pin. Finally it's wing broke off and the butterfly fell to the ground and just quivered.
 I picked up the torn wing and the butterfly and I spat on it's wing and tried to get it to stick back on so it could fly away and be free before the house parent came back. But it would not stay on him.
 The next thing I knew the house parent came walking back out of the back door by the garbage room and started yelling at me. I told him that I did not do anything but he did not believe me. He picked up the cardboard paper and started hitting me on the top of the head. There were all kinds of butterfly pieces going everywhere. He threw the cardboard down on the ground and told me to pick it up and put it in the garbage can inside the back room of the dormitory and then he left.
 I sat there in the dirt, by that big old tree, for the longest time trying to fit all the butterfly pieces back together so I could bury them whole, but it was too hard to do. So I prayed for them and then I put them in an old torn up shoe box and I buried them in the bottom of the fort that I had built in the ground, out by the large bamboos, near the blackberry bushes.
 Every year when the butterflies would return to the orphanage and try to land on me I would try and shoo them away because they did not know that the orphanage was a bad place to live and a very bad place to die.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 18:03
The Nicht Afore Christmas
 
 The Christmas party had been sillier than usual, and I felt some satisfaction that it would be my last. In September Joe and I'd come to the parting of the ways, at least temporarily, as he strode off with all the confidence in the world to the school on the hill.
 You could see Ancrum Road Primary School if you stood on the wall outside St Mary's Catholic Church where the High Street became the Lochee Road. I had no idea what Alcatraz was then, but if I had, I would certainly have named that institution of junior learning 'Alcatraz on the Hill'.
 Party hats, home-made, crackers, home-made, and lumpy jelly, home-made, whistles, clackers, rattles, xylophones, tin drums, and abortive attempts at carol singing accompanied by the up-right, out-of-tune piano produced scenes of frenzied, frantic mayhem across the main hall of the nursery. Snowballs sneaked in under pinafores had reduced the wooden floor to a soggy, slippery mess, unimproved by the urine of several little girls taken short by the excitement of it all. The tree tipped over at an unlikely angle, bulbs exploding at the rate of one every five minutes, chocolate novelties long since ripped off, and the fairy looking as bedraggled as the nurses who fought half-heartedly for control of their pinafored charges.
 All other doors were locked against us, including, outrageously, the door to the Quiet Room where I could have found solace in a Wizard or Hotspur, or even in these desperate circumstances a Dandy or Beano though my contempt for Dennis the Menace and Desperate Dan were legendary. Little surprise then that my participation in the Hokey Cokey ended after I'd three times put the boot, or at least the sandal into three toddlers who had the temerity to shake their limbs at me. Thrown across the room, I slid arse-first into the Christmas tree and was rewarded by the sound of three bulbs exploding simultaneously and the fairy falling into my lap. I would have left there and then, but the presents were still to come.
 "Ho ho ho!"
 If the voice hadn't given it away, the streaky moustache and the gin-tainted breath did. Santa was Matron. Santa was always Matron, I hadn't needed Joe to tell me that. But was I the only one who recognised her? The others, even my fellow five-year-olds screeched in delight and were only hindered from mauling Santa by the serried ranks of nurses who secured her path to the Christmas tree where Santa, as God is my witness, kicked me out of her way.
 Santa's armchair was hauled into place. She dropped her Christmas sack with a thud and dropped herself into the chair which sagged beneath her not inconsiderable bulk, none of which was made up of pillows.
 "Line up. Sparrows first. Then seagulls. Now you blackbirds, and then the tits." Nurses smiled, screamed and herded us into some semblance of order. I was four years old and therefore a tit. At the time I did not understood why mum laughed when I told her.
 In the prescribed order infants, toddlers and juniors mounted Matron, were breathed upon, exchanged whispers, and given their Christmas present. They scrambled down and were led away by nurses who then man-handled the presents from them and piled them on a table near the door. As usual we were not to be allowed to open our presents until going-home time; previous experiments at letting the children open their presents had led to jealousy, bickering, arguments, fighting and worse. All of the infants, most of the toddlers and several of the juniors burst into inconsolable tears, not that anyone tried to console them, the piano just got louder.
 My turn came. I looked up into Matron's eyes. Little black raisins embedded in a purple pudding. I wanted to put a match to her. Did gin burn like brandy? Never mind. That ratty beard would do.
 "Get up here, Paul."
 "My mother says you have to call me Jean-Paul."
 "Get up here, Jean-Paul." I could feel the hostility, the gin must be wearing off.
 "I don't answer to Jean-Paul."
 "Get up here, you."
 Immovable object met irresistible force.
 "Here, take it." She thrust a small parcel into my chest.
 "What about my Christmas wish?"
 She snorted like the walrus in the nature film we'd watched the day before and stuck her ear into my face. I whispered my Christmas wish.
 "No."
 "What do you mean 'no'?"
 "I mean 'no'. Now go and play."
 I stood my ground until I was hauled away by a nurse. I hardly felt my present slip out of my arms. I was in a state of shock and did not come to until I found myself in a conga that twisted, turned and staggered its away around the hall, children slipping, sliding and falling on the treacherous linoleum. I disengaged myself from this travesty and returned to the tree. Santa had gone. I scrambled onto the armchair, slung my legs over the side and looked up into the tattered branches. I had some thinking to do. Above my head another bulb exploded.
 At five o'clock I stood at the entrance to the nursery waiting for my grandmother to take my home. Light snow was falling. It spun and swirled through the lamplight. Although I was not cold, I shivered and pulled the canvas bag that held the history of my three nursery years closer to me.
 Gran came zigzagging down Flight's Lane in that curiously distracted way that suggested her mind was not entirely at one with her body. She began several possible conversations before hitting upon one that continued long enough to make some sense. I thrust one rope handle of the bag towards her, kept a tight grip on the other and dragged her up the lane.
 "Dae you no want tae say cheerio tae the nurses?"
 "No, come on."
 "Did you ha'e a guid perty?"
 "No."
 Disappointment flitted across her ruddy cheeks, but Gran could never be unhappy for more than a moment. A lady of the old school, she was born to serve and please others, especially menfolk. Her misery melted like an ice cream cone at the Ferry in August.
 "We'd better get hame quick. It's Christmas eve, ye ken, an' yer ma's probably goin' oot fur some last minute shoppin'. We'd better no be late." My mother was not of the old school, and my grandmother was terrified of her. She pulled on the canvas bag and almost dragged me under a tramcar. I doubt she even saw it. We passed one of my grandfather's public houses. The stink was intoxicating. Gran shuddered and pulled me past its seductive double swing doors.
 Joe'd been home for an hour. The room was snug and cosy. Gran attempted fitful conversation. She'd no takers and left with a promise to visit on Christmas Day. We made no move and she did not kiss us good-bye. There were conventions in the family we did not understand, but which we respected. I got on with my reading and Joe continued to build his version of a better mousetrap. We'd already got mum's present, wrapped it and hidden it in the bedpan. Our Christmas preparations were done.
 Just after six mum came home and collapsed into the armchair hacking like a tubercular cat. My mother suffered from pleurisy. Neither Joe nor I had any idea what pleurisy was, but we recognised its painful symphony and hated it. Mum sat in the chair, bent double, fighting for breath. Joe sat on an arm of the chair, leaning over, her massaging her back, digging deep with his thumbs. When his thumbs were aching, I took over, not nearly so effectively, but I was learning.
 Sometimes I would hold her shoulders and rub my face into her back. It probably didn't help her, but it helped me. Later mother would make a kaolin poultice of hot china clay smeared on a thick bandage. We would tenderly apply the hot sludge to her bare back and freckled shoulders, swapping stories about our day.
 Many of my stories were embroidered, exaggerated or wholly invented. I loved to make mum laugh though laughter had its price in further fits of coughing and pain. A dig in the ribs from my puritanical brother told me when I was going too far. That night the laugh was on me.
 A sharp series of knocks rattled the door in its frame. Joe answered the call, his high but even voice counter-pointing a deep rumble like thunder over Balgay Hill. He came back and spoke to mum, a quizzical look running across his thin frenchified features.
 "The polis is at the door. I think he's looking for Paul."
 I started like a guilty thing. My mother pinned me to the wall with a look. Was my hair standing on end? I resisted the urge to turn and look in the wardrobe mirror. Lucky arched her back and hissed in sympathy.
 "You, wait there," she said, adding superfluously, "don't move."
 Thunder rumbled behind the door again. The words made no sense. My mother had pronounced a sentence of immobility upon my brain as well as my body. Her words came to me in fragments.
 "Good idea not to come in... terrified of men... scream his head off... always been like that... the doctor says..."
 I risked a glance at Joe. He was still working on his mousetrap. He was smiling, but it was a smile I did not like, it was the smile he wore when he caught a mouse in one his traps. I'd seen one before, its wee heid snapped clean from its body, its incisors embedded in the cheddar that had lured it to its doom. I'd like to see his head... No, mustn't think like that. God's listening, God's watching, God sees all. Doesn't He ever take time off or is He too busy keeping an eye on the mousetraps He has built for all of us?
 "Jean-Paul Bosquet."
 I was startled to hear my name pronounced in full. My mother might as well have worn a piece of black cloth on the top of her Christmas perm.
 "Jean-Paul Bosquet. Hand them over."
 For an instant I was tempted to play dumb, tempted to commit instant suicide. I resisted the temptation and lived.
 Scrambling under the bed, I hauled out the bulging canvas bag and dragged it to my mother's feet. I knelt down and pulled out one wrapped gift at a time handing them up to my mother who placed each one ceremoniously on the table. "four... five... six..." Would these poisonous parcels never end? "eight... nine... ten..." The final parcel tugged at my heartstrings. I gave my mother a look that would melt an iceberg. She must have known it was mine. She was implacable, taking my parcel between finger and thumb - green holly paper, red berries, laughing snowmen - she dropped it like a dog turd onto the pile.
 A policeman stepped into the room. My heart or some other organ leapt into my mouth. I could not make a sound. I froze. I could feel my tiny scrotum tighten. I tried to fix my gaze on the floor. My eyes betrayed me. I looked up. It was a man, a very big man, with big yellow teeth, a moustache thicker even than matron's, and a flat policeman's cap supported by big ears on either side of his big head. My eyes widened. My chest began to heave. A strangled sob forced its way past my constricted throat muscles. A cold chill blew in through the open door annihilating Christmas.
 The man swept all the parcels up into his big arms, nodded a cheery "Merry Christmas" to my mother and disappeared into the night. I could see him striding across the wasteland to the Lochee Road towards the railway bridge at Muirton Road. My imagination pulled down the shutters. I knew the Lochee Road led to Dundee, the big city. As far as I knew, I'd never been there. But it was obvious. The big city was where the big men lived, and I wanted nothing to do with that or them.
 "Take three big breaths. Remember how Dr Heinreich showed you."
 I took the breaths, the biggest and deepest I could manage. They almost blew my head off.
 "Come here."
 I came there. Mum sitting in the armchair. Me standing in front of her. Joe sitting on the rug in front of the fire. Lucky stretched out on the bed.
 "Why did you take the presents?"
 Another deep breath.
 "It was Matron's fault."
 "Why did you take the presents?"
 "She widnae give me one for Joe."
 "Go on."
 "You said me and Joe had to be the same."
 "Go on."
 I was annoyed now. I could feel my neck redden. It was not my fault.
 "I asked her... for a present... for Joe. I asked nicely, honest, mum. She said no, not nicely. So I put them in the bag when everybody was changing. And Gran helped me carry them up the road. They were really heavy, and a tram nearly..."
 "That was wrong. The presents didn't belong to you, so you had no right to take them. What you did was wrong."
 The room went silent. Joe sat still. The fire ceased to spit shale. Lucky stopped purring. I was drowning in the silence, thick heavy fluid clogging my nose and my brain, running down my back, pouring down my legs into my grey nursery socks. Mum had said the word we never wanted to hear: wrong. It rang like a huge gong banging relentlessly into the silence. Anything but that word. That word put distance between us and this woman, that word sliced into the umbilical cord that nourished us, that word made her turn her face away from us, that word cost us her love, and without that love we could not survive.
 "You did the wrong thing for the right reason. Now what are you going to do about it?"
 Never ask a four year old that question. It isn't fair. It's too harsh. Because a four year old will always come up with the right answer, and the answer will hurt.
 I racked by brains for a way out. I looked at Joe. He shrugged at me with his lips. He knew the answer, too. And he knew there was no way out.
 "Bed."
 "When?"
 "Now."
 "How long?"
 "Morning."
 "Comics?"
 "No comics."
 "Good night, son."
 My mind chased a little tail in circles. There had to be something. There was. But play it carefully. I looked mum full in the face.
 "Eh hivnae had meh tea."
 "What?"
 "Eh hivnae had meh tea. Eh'm sterving."
 Even Lucky held her breath. Fire danced in my mother's eyes.
 "It's Christmas Eve, and eh hivnae had eny tea."

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 18:04
The Nicht Afore Christmas
 
 Part 2
 
 Something like contempt flickered in my mother's smile.
 "Right, boys, what'll we have for tea tonight?"
 "Macaroni on toast."
 "No, we had that last night."
 "Scrambled eggs on toast."
 "No, that's for breakfast."
 "What day is it, mum?"
 "It's Thursday."
 "Bread and chips. Right?"
 "Right."
 Paul recognises the note of despondency in Joe's voice. He cannot understand why his brother fails to appreciate the joys of bread and chips, teeth sinking into the fleshy fried potato, greasy margarine sliding down the throat, lips worth licking again and again, and hot sweet tea washing down the whole sloppy mess.
 On good nights you can have as much bread as you want, including the ends of the sliced white loaf, the 'heelies', which are always reserved for Paul since nobody else wants them. You can curl up on the big double bed that dominates the single room, chew on the crusts and get lost in the Rover, the Hotspur, the Wizard for hour after hour.
 How can Joe sound so despondent every Thursday night about such prospects as these? Even Kathleen, the new baby, lies gurgling happily, but then Kathleen lies gurgling happily most of the time, kicking her feet against the sides of the tin bath that serves as her crib.
 "Who wants to put the kettle on?"
 "Eh'll dae it."
 "Joseph, speak properly when you're in this house. Put the kettle on. Jean-Paul will go for the chips. Get your coat on and your wellies. You're not going out in sandshoes on a night like this. And come straight back. No wandering."
 Paul clambers into a heavy bottle-green overcoat and ties the belt around his middle, the buckle is long gone. Reluctantly he pulls on the heavy Wellington boots. He stands beside mum's armchair. She is absorbed in the Evening Telegraph, smoke curls up from her cigarette. Paul stands and waits. She turns her head to him, blue-grey eyes meet. She has that far away look. Paul knows she hasn't been reading the newspaper, only looking at the words.
 "Money, mum. For the chippie. I'm ready."
 She reaches for her purse. She takes out a sixpenny piece and presses it into his warm little palm closing her fingers over the money, her fingers over his. He swells with pride. He is a knight-errant setting out on a perilous mission. He knows he may meet dragons, monsters, wizards and bogeymen out there, but he will overcome them all, he will wade knee-deep through blood, guts and slaughter, but he will get there, and he will return with the holy grail, the sixpence worth of hot steaming chips to lay at her feet or at least on the stove until the bread is margarined.
 Outside it is dark, cold and bitter, and the boy is not so sure. There is neither wind nor cloud. Winter stars sparkle overhead. Frost and rime sparkle below his feet. The gas lamps hiss and sputter. Shadows are blackly frozen. Paul remembers he is only four, nearly five, but by the calendar still only four.
 He will gallop and sing his way to Delanzo's. It is not far, only half a mile. The boy hasn't the faintest idea what half a mile is, but it doesn't sound too far. Across the 'Greenie', singing and galloping he will go. What to sing? That new one they learned in school at Christmas. He has only the vaguest idea what the words might mean. Something about the last time good King Wences looked out, looking for Stephen or someone like that, and Stephen arrived but he was only a kid, but the king decided to take him anyway. Get on with it.
 His high treble rises into the frozen night air. "Good King Wences last looked out, he was looking for Stephen, when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even." He likes the sound of that, deep and crisp and even, as he slides and slithers across the freezing mush, slush and mud of the 'green'. He's got quite a good gallop going now. He can make out the Cally fence. Can't be too far now.
 The boy is gripped by the windpipe. His voice cut off in mid note. There is a searing pain across his throat. He is thrown backwards, his arms fly up, hands extended like a child crucified. He lands on his back with a thud even the slush cannot muffle. He lies there, arms and legs akimbo, too stunned to move, to think, to cry. He waits for another blow. It does not come. He feels the pain now, the hot searing pain across his windpipe.
 He feels the pain and he is glad he can feel the pain. It allows him to move, to think, to cry. But he won't cry yet. He rolls onto his front. If another blow is to come, he does not want it in the face or in the stomach. He knows that would really hurt. He can take it across the back or across the backside, but not across his front. So get on with it. If there's to be more pain, get on with it.
 Nothing. Only the hot slash across his windpipe. He staggers to his feet, slipping and sliding in the slush, he is breathing heavily, fighting for breath at times. The six times table helps a lot. He might even try the seven but he has trouble with seven times six. He turns to face his assailant.
 Nothing. There is nothing there. Except a washing line. Hanging low. Swinging gently. If the seven times table presents problems, the answer to two and two is immediate. He has galloped into the washing line. It has caught him round the neck and thrown him into the sludge. Paul's cheeks blaze and burn, and not only from the bitter chill. He is embarrassed, and the embarrassment sears him worse then the rope burn across his neck. Tears spring to his eyes at last. Never mind. Get on with it. He's late enough.
 He brushes the muddy slush from his hands. They have been grazed by the gravel beneath the snow. His overcoat has saved his knees. His fingers tingle but he cannot tell if they are burning or freezing. He opens his left palm, then his right. He jams his right hand into his coat pocket, then his left into the left. He fumbles in the pockets of his corduroy shorts. He is fighting for breath again, his chest heaving in great gulps. He drops to his knees, the slush splashes around him. He scrabbles wildly in the snow, in the mud, careless of his corduroys. His fingers are frozen, he cannot feel his knees, slush turns to icy water in his wellies.
 "Our Father which art in heaven where's mum's money?" What can he promise this God who remains so stubbornly silent? I'll never steal presents again, just let me find the money. It's Christmas tomorrow, you'd think He'd be listening.
 The tears are running down his face, the snot down his nose, water into his wellies. His scrabbling has grown more frantic. He has covered a wide circle. How far can a silver sixpence roll in snow? Should he scrabble backwards towards the house? What did the wise men bring to the baby Jesus - gold, frankincense and mirth? What is mirth anyway? Must remember to ask mum. Please God, I'll do anything, anything.
 "What are you doin' doon there, you wee shite?"
 Paul looks up. Tears and snot run into his mouth. He gathers them in with his tongue. He blinks to clear his eyes. It's Joe. God couldn't make it, so He sent His representative on earth. Lochee's answer to Herod.
 "Ah drapped the sixpence, Joe. Ah didnae mean it. Honest. Ah ran intae the washing line. Sumbody's left it hinging afae low. Help is, Joe, go on, help is find it."
 "Stop bubblin'. Gie's yer hand. We're no gonna find it the nicht."
 Joe reaches for Paul's hand and pulls him to his feet. Using the back of his hand, he wipes the teary snot away from his little brother's face as best he can, then wipes his hand in the snow. He pulls the overcoat tight around the smaller boy and still holding his hand leads him back to the house. On the stairs leading to the attic, he gently eases off the overcoat and hangs it up on a wooden peg. Then he helps Paul off with his Wellington boots and wet socks. He dumps them on the stairs.
 "Wait there."
 Joe slips into the attic room. Paul stand and waits, cheeks ablaze, teeth chattering, wet corduroys clinging, the dirty tears stain his face. The door opens.
 "Come in."
 Paul steps into the room. His mother is standing by the open fire. He can hardly raise his head to look at her. When he does, the familiar blue-grey eyes meet. His mother is smiling. Then she is laughing. "C'mere, son."
 He runs to her and throws himself into those strong familiar arms. He is crying again, sobbing and heaving against her stomach, drowning himself in that familiar warmth, that familiar smell.
 "You know what this means," he hears her say. "It's toast and dripping tonight. We haven't had that for ages. Now come on, get these things off, you're soaked through. It looks like the Steamie on Saturday."
 "Tea's nearly ready, mum. Will I start on the toast?"
 "Let me get this boy's backside warmed up first. Then we'll all make the toast together. Save the heelies for Jean-Paul."
 In the grate the fire hisses and spits out tiny pieces of shale. The kettle whistles, the gas lamp flickers, the woman hums and towels the boy vigorously.
 In her tin basin the baby lies gurgling happily as she watches the shadows dance on the ceiling.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 18:05
Elvis Died at the Florida Barber College
 
 At ten years old I could not figure out what it was that this Elvis Presley guy had that the rest of us boys did not have. I mean, he had a head, two arms and two legs, just like the rest of us. Whatever it was he had hidden away must have been pretty darn good because he had every young girl at the orphanage wrapped around his little finger. About nine o'clock on Saturday morning I decided to ask Eugene Correthers, one of the older boys, what it was that made this Elvis guy so special. He told me that it was Elvis' wavy hair and the way he moved his body.
 About a half an hour later all the boys in the orphanage were called to the main dining-room and told that we were all going to downtown Jacksonville, Florida to get a new pair of Buster Brown shoes and a hair cut. That is when I got this big idea, which hit me like a ton of bricks. If the Elvis hair cut was the big secret, then that's what I was going to get.
 All the way to town that was all I talked about. The Elvis hair cut that I was going to get. I told everybody, including the matron from the orphanage who was taking us to town, that I was going to look just like Elvis Presley and that I would learn to move around just like he did and that I would be rich and famous one day, just like him.
 I was smiling from ear to ear when I got my new Buster Brown shoes and I was very proud as I walked around the store showing everyone. They shined really, really good and I liked looking at the bones in my feet through this special x-ray machine that they had in the shoe store that made the bones in your feet look green. I could hardly wait for my new hair cut and now that I had my new Buster Brown shoes I would be very happy to go back to the orphanage and practice being like Elvis.
 We finally arrived at the big barber shop, where they cut our hair for free 'cause we were orphans. I ran up to one of the barber chairs and climbed up onto the board that he put across the arms to make me sit up higher. I looked at the man and said "I want a Elvis hair cut. Can you make my hair like Elvis?" I asked him, with a great big smile on my face. "Let's just see what we can do for you, little man," he said. I was so happy when he started to cut my hair. Just as he started to cut my hair the matron motioned for him to come over to where she was standing. She whispered something into his ear and then he shook his head, like he was telling her, "No". She walked over to another man sitting in the office chair and spoke to him. Then the little man walked over and said something to the man who was cutting my hair. The next thing I knew, the man who was cutting my hair told me that they were not allowed to give us Elvis hair cuts. I saw him put this comb thing onto the end of the clippers and then I saw all my hair falling onto the floor.
 When he finished shaving off all my hair and made me smell real good with this powder, he handed me a nickel and told me to go outside to the cracker machine and buy myself a candy bar. I handed him the nickel back and told him that I was not hungry. "I'm so sorry, baby" he said, as I climbed out of his barber chair. "I am not a baby", I said, as I wiped the tears from my eyes. I sat down on the floor and brushed the hair off my new Buster Brown shoes so they would stay shinny and new. I got up off the floor, brushed off my short pants, and walked towards the door. The matron was smiling at me sort of funny like. The man who had cut my hair walked over to her and said to her, "You are just a damn bitch, lady." She yelled back, real loud, at him and then she walked toward the office, as fast as she could. The man hit the wall with his hand and then he walked outside where he stood against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette. I slowly walked outside and stood beside him. He looked down, smiled at me, then he patted me on the top of my bald head. I looked up at him with my wet red eyes and said, "Do you know if Elvis Presley has green bones?"

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 18:07
The Cellmate
 
 The rays of the sun glistened through the mist as it rose between the mountains, covering the landscape with a wet cloak. Squinting his eyes against the shimmering light, Andy Sturgil stood in awe of the morning's beauty. The dew made everything on the ground sparkle, and reaffirmed his belief that this was truly God's country. You could keep Chicago, New York; all of those big cities. WhiteS*urg would do just fine.
 WhiteS*urg Kentucky was not a bustling metropolis in 1925, but to the people, like Andy, who lived in the region, it was the center of trade, law and information. The mountain people made infrequent trips down the slopes and out of the hollows to supplement their meager lives with the essentials; coffee, sugar, flour, and sweet wheat middling. Wheat middling was the chosen grain for feeding milk cows. Middling without salt was the main ingredient for White Lightning. If a man could make good liquor, and Andy did, he would also make an excellent profit. One jug of the precious brew had sold for forty dollars at the end of the war. A man just might get fifty these days.
 On this particular Indian summer day, Andy journeyed toward the town and made a mental note of what he would trade for. He was in need of an ample supply of sugar and sweet wheat middling. The still was ready for use after the new copper tubing was put on, and he was eager to churn out the best supply of White Lightning in years. Andy knew that he had to find a new location for his still because Sheriff Turner was on a rampage. The law had already destroyed four of his neighbors' secret enterprises, and Andy knew that he had to be shrewd in choosing his new spot. He had finally decided on settling the still on a dry ridge, away from any of the mountain streams, and pipe the water to where it was needed. This would take more time, but the sheriff and his men knew to look for stills along the waterways. With the arrival of winter, the snow and ice would help to cover the pipeline.
 A few meager jars of last year's supply were nestled in a knapsack slung across his shoulders. Old Man Tribbit had told Andy to bring him a few jars before winter set in. He would pay the going price. It would help in fighting the sickness that always came in the cold weather months.
 Even Doc Handy was known to prescribe toddies made with Andy's brew for the croup. So great was his reputation that Sheriff Turner made it his primary goal to lock the brewer king up every chance that he could.
 Andy's thoughts touched on Turner as he made his way down the serpentine path. The bottom of his trousers swayed heavily with his strides as they collected the dew from the dense grass and brush. Andy knew that the region's stills were a source of irritation for the sheriff. In Turner's eye, the mountain people had been living by their own code for too long. As the appointed law officer in the region, he was determined to make them respect his authority.
 However, in recent weeks the war that was being waged on moonshiners, had taken a backseat to a special case, which had monopolized the bulk of Sheriff Turner's time. Lloyd Frazier had been found guilty of murdering a woman. Most people knew the kind of person Lloyd had been, quiet and kind of shy. Nobody really understood how he had been capable of such a crime. They did, however, know that Lloyd's mother had been jealous of the victim; they had been seeing the same man.
 Annie Frazier had given Lloyd a saddle horse in return for the promise of getting rid of her rival.
 
 It had been difficult to find an executioner to carry out the sentence. Men had resigned rather than be responsible for taking the life of the young man.
 News of a hanging had spread quickly throughout the region. WhiteS*urg had never had a public execution and the subject was on everyone's lips. Andy was vaguely aware of the facts. He knew little of the family, although he had known Annie. They had attended the same small one-room schoolhouse as children. He had glimpsed the boy now and then through the years in town with Annie's father. The old man had loved the boy as his own, and unlike the rest of the family, overlooked Lloyd's illegitimacy. He had also fostered the boy's love of horses, and had promised to get Lloyd the finest mount possible. The promise had turned into a dream following the old man's death. Dejected, the boy looked to his mother for any kind of affection as he continued to withdraw from the rest of the world.
 Andy's mind closed on the subject as he approached Old Man Tribbit's door. He had been looking forward to some hot coffee and happy conversation when he arrived, but the sight of the old man's face let him know that this would not happen.
 Tribbit had known the boy since childhood and knew of his devotion to his mother. He was also aware of his love of horses.
 As the old man led Andy inside he asked, "Well, did you know that young Lloyd dies tomorrow?"
 With a shake of his head, the old man continued, "He always did do what that no-account bitch of a woman wanted. She knew how to get to him too. She knew he wanted that chestnut mare something fierce. Lied to him, she did. Told him that the woman had threatened her. Said how afraid she was. Lord knows that boy wouldn't have hurt anyone on his own."
 After settling business, Andy said good-bye to the old man, and as he closed the door behind him, he thought of Annie Frazier. She had never been a virtuous woman. It was no surprise to anyone when she turned up pregnant with Lloyd at sixteen. Still, she had been responsible for the boy and cared for him. Annie had never married, and was still a fine looking woman at the age of thirty-six. Andy knew that she had been seeing a railroad man, but didn't think much of it. Annie always had a man.
 
 Andy's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sharp sounding voice. "Stop right where you are Andy." He turned to see the sheriff and two of his deputies standing close behind him.
 "I'm taking you in for questioning. We've uncovered a stash of bootleg liquor and I think you know something about it."
 Andy grinned at the men, knowing that Turner had no such evidence, but decided that it was best to cooperate in order to cover his tracks.
 "Whatever you say John."
 As Andy was escorted into the jail, another deputy motioned for Turner, and the two whispered softly, looking once in his direction.
 "Andy," Turner said, "We only have one more cot left and the cell is occupied by the Frazier boy. You don't have to stay there, I mean, we could make other arrangements."
 The thought of spending the night handcuffed to Turner's desk didn't appeal to him. John Turner had an irritating habit of rolling a toothpick back and forth in his mouth, and the vision of being forced to witness the smacking sounds in between lectures on law enforcement hastened his answer.
 "I don't mind bunking with Frazier."
 As the key turned the lock, a slight movement caught Andy's attention and he found himself staring into a pair of dark eyes. Surprisingly, nothing was said and Andy nodded his head as he sat on the cot. The boy looked at him for a moment and then turned away. Feeling uneasy, Andy lowered himself down on the cot and attempted to find sleep.
 The sound of a horse whinnying broke the silence of the cell. Lloyd rose from the cot and moved to the window, staring at the sight below. His chestnut mare was enclosed in a small area behind the town's blacksmith barn. Beyond, were the gallows, but Lloyd's eyes were fixed on the mare.
 "She needs to be brushed and one shoe is loose."
 Andy opened his eyes at the soft whisper. "I'm sure they'll take care of her."
 Lloyd continued as if he had not heard the remark. "She also likes a little taste of sugar now and then."
 The boy continued to stand by the window, and Andy finally drifted off to sleep.
 The night grew chilly and the single blanket on the cots did a poor job in keeping out the cold. After a while, a slight stirring from the other side of the cell awakened Andy. As he felt Lloyd's presence hovering over him, fear crept into his brain and he found that he could not move. Lloyd placed his own blanket over Andy and carefully spread it evenly over his shivering body. Ashamed and embarrassed by his fears, Andy pretended to be asleep while his cellmate stood by the window and watched below.
 Lloyd was removed from the cell early in the morning. Andy had awakened to find that he was alone, and went to the window. The crowd seemed to fill the entire town and the sound of hymns rose into the air. He saw the boy climb the steps but could not bring himself to watch the execution. Down below, the mare paced the small enclosure and snorted nervously.
 At midday, Andy was set free. He knew he would be. Sheriff Turner warned Andy to watch his back because he would always be there. As he approached the door he turned and asked, "What about the mare?"
 "What about her?" Turner was busy shuffling papers and didn't bother to look up.
 "I mean, who'll take care of her now? You think Annie will...."
 "Look, I don't have time to worry about a damn horse - least of all that horse. Tanner will probably sell her for as much as he can get to make up for her room and board, even if it means the glue factory. Nobody in Frazier's family came to claim his body, let alone his property. It's up to the blacksmith."
 At the end of the day, the sun slanted at the edge of the sky, casting shadows of everything it touched. On the road, which led out of town and forked into the numerous hollows and farms, Andy Sturgil made his way back to his home. He had purchased supplies; coffee, flour, sugar, and a few sacks of sweet wheat middling, without salt. He dug into the side pocket of his coat and filled his palm with sugar. There would not be enough for a huge supply of moonshine that winter. He stopped and held his open hand beneath the mare's lips.
 Yes, she was a beautiful horse. He would fix the loose shoe, brush her, and give her a taste of sugar now and then.
 As the two figures made their way down the road, the sun set slowly behind the mountains. The night air grew chilly, but Andy wasn't cold.
 "I'll take care of her, Boy," he whispered softly.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 18:08
The Whale Sound
 
 "Leave him alone" I yelled as I walked out of the orphanage gate and saw several of the Spring Park School bullies pushing the deaf kid around. I did not know the boy at all but I knew that we were about the same age, because of his size. He lived in the old white house across the street from the orphanage where I lived. I had seen him on his front porch several times doing absolutely nothing, except just sitting there making funny like hand movements.
 In the summer time we didn't get much to eat for Sunday supper, except watermelon and then we had to eat it outside behind the dining room so we would not make a mess on the tables inside. About the only time that I would see him was through the high chain-link fence that surrounded the orphanage when we ate our watermelon outside.
 The deaf kid started making all kind of hand signals, real fast like. "You are a stupid idiot" said the bigger of the two bullies as he pushed the boy down on the ground. The other bully ran around behind the boy and kicked him as hard as he could in the back. The deaf boy's body started shaking all over and he curled up in a ball trying to shield and hide his face. He looked like he was trying to cry, or something but he just couldn't make any sounds, I don't think.
 I ran as fast as I could back through the orphanage gate and into the thick azalea bushes. I uncovered my home-made bow which I had constructed out of bamboo and string. I grabbed four arrows that were also made of bamboo and they had coca cola tops bent around the ends to make real sharp tips. Then I ran back out the gate with an arrow cocked in the bow and I just stood there quiet like, breathing real hard just daring either one of them to kick or touch the boy again.
 "You're a dumb freak just like him you big eared creep" said one of the boys as he grabbed his friend and backed off far enough so that the arrow would not hit them. "If you're so brave kick him again now" I said, shaking like a leaf. The bigger of the two bullies ran up and kicked the deaf boy in the middle of his back as hard as he could and then he ran out of arrow range again.
 They dragged me by my legs, screaming and yelling for more than several hundred yards through the dirt and pine-straw to the waiting police car. All I could hear the entire time was the high pitched sound of that whale being harpooned again. As we pulled away in the police car I saw the deaf boy loosen his grip on the fence and slide very slowly to the ground and lower his head into the leaves and pine straw. That is when I realized that he probably really did love me and he wanted to save me because he thought that I too was making the whale sound.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 18:09
The Bully
 
 I walked into the Huddle House restaurant in Brunswick, Georgia and sat down at the counter as all of the booths were taken. I picked up a menu and began to look at the various items trying to decide if I wanted to order breakfast or just go ahead and eat lunch.
 "Excuse me," said someone, as they touched me on the shoulder.
 I looked up and turned to the side to see a rather nice looking woman standing before me.
 "Is your name Roger by any chance?" she asked me.
 "Yes." I responded, looking rather confused as I had never seen the woman before.
 "My name is Barbara and my huS*and is Tony," she said, pointing to a distant table near the door leading into the bathrooms.
 I looked in the direction that she was pointing but I did not recognize the man who was sitting, alone at the table.
 "I'm sorry. I'm, ah. I'm ah, confused. I don't think that I know you guys. But my name is Roger. Roger Kiser," I told her.
 "Tony Claxton. Tony from Landon High School in Jacksonville, Florida?" she asked me.
 "I'm really sorry. The name doesn't ring a bell." I said.
 She turned and walked back to her table and sat down. She and her huS*and immediately began talking and once in a while I would see her turn around in her seat and look directly at me.
 I finally decided to order breakfast and a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I sat there continually racking my brain trying to remember who this Tony guy was.
 "I must know him," I though to myself. "He recognizes me for some reason." I picked up my coffee up and took a sip. All of a sudden it came to me like a flash of lighting.
 "Tony. TONY THE BULL." I mumbled, as I swung myself around on my stool and faced in his direction.
 "The bully of my seventh grade geography class," I thought.
 How many times that sorry guy had made fun of my big ears in front of the girls in my class? How many times this sorry son-of-a-gun had laughed at me because I had no parents and had to live in an orphanage? How many times this big bully slammed me up against the lockers in the hallway just to make himself look like a big man to all the other students?
 He raised his hand and waved at me. I smiled, returned the wave and turned back around and began to eat my breakfast.
 "Jesus. He's so thin now. Not the big burley guy that I remember from back in 1957," I thought to myself.
 All of a sudden I heard the sound of dishes breaking so I spun around to see what had happened. Tony had accidentally hit several plates knocking them off the table as he was trying to get into his wheelchair which had been parked in the bathroom hallway while they were eating. The waitress ran over and started picking up the broken dishes and I listened as Tony and his wife tried to apologize.
 As Tony rolled by me, being pushed by his wife, I looked up and I smiled.
 "Roger" he said, as he nodded his head forward.
 "Tony" I responded, as I nodded my head, in return.
 I watched as they went out of the door and slowly made their way to a large van which had a wheelchair loader located in the side door of the vehicle.
 I sat and watched as his wife tried, over and over, to get the ramp to come down. But it just would not work. Finally I got up, paid for my meal, and I walked up to the van.
 "What's the problem?" I asked.
 "Darn thing sticks once in a while," said Tony. "Could you help me get him in the van?" asked his wife.
 "I think I can do that," I said as I grabbed the wheelchair and rolled Tony over to the passenger door.
 I opened the door and locked the brakes on the wheelchair.
 "OK. Arms around the neck Dude," I said as I reached down and grabbed him around the waist and carefully raised him up into the passenger seat of the van.
 As Tony let go of my neck I reached over and swung his limp, lifeless legs, one at a time, into the van so that they would be stationed directly in front of him.
 "You remember. Don't you?" he said, looking directly into my eyes.
 "I remember, Tony," I said.
 "I guess you're thinking 'What goes around comes around'," he said, softly.
 "I would never think like that, Tony," I said, with a stern look on my face.
 He reached over and grabbed both of my hands and squeezed them tightly.
 "Is how I feel in this wheelchair how you felt way back then when you lived in the orphan home?" he asked me.
 "Almost, Tony. You are very lucky. You have someone to push you around who loves you. I didn't have anyone." I responded.
 I reached in my pocket and pulled out one of my cards that had my home telephone number written on it and I handed it to him.
 "Give me a call sometimes. We'll do lunch," I told him. We both laughed.
 I stood there watching as they drove toward the interstate and finally disappeared onto the southbound ramp. I hope he calls me sometime. He will be the only friend that I have from my high school days.

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-25 18:16
hi
 pal
 read and ...

作者: Lepapillon0311 时间: 2006-1-26 13:40
大家来看看啊
 这都是辛辛苦苦找到的东西啊\r ！！！！！

作者: viewsnake 时间: 2006-2-10 10:29
good story

作者: viewsnake 时间: 2006-2-10 10:30
good story

作者: viewsnake 时间: 2006-2-10 10:31
good story

作者: viewsnake 时间: 2006-2-10 10:45
good story

作者: viewsnake 时间: 2006-2-10 10:46
good story

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