Stories

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:03:18

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."

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:05:07

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)

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:05:51

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)

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:07:20

<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!

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:09:05

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.

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:10:12

<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.

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:12:36

<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.

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:14:54

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.

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:15:42

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

Lepapillon0311 · 发表于 2006-1-25 00:16:05

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."

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