Here is a collection of inspirational stories we thought would be a blessing to you. Hope you enjoy!
A Letter From Heaven
She jumped up as soon as she saw the surgeon come out of the operating room. She said: " How is my little boy? Is he going to be all right?
When can I see him? "
The surgeon said, "I'm sorry. We did all we could, but your boy didn't make it."
Sally said, "Why do little children get cancer? Doesn't God
care any more? Where were you, God, when my son needed you?"
The surgeon asked, "Would you like some time alone with your
son? One of the nurses will be out in a few minutes, before he's transported to
Sally asked the nurse to stay with her while she said good-bye to her son.
She ran her fingers lovingly through his thick red curly
hair. "Would you like a lock of his hair?" the nurse asked.
Sally nodded yes. The nurse then cut a lock of the boy's hair, put it in a plastic bag and handed it to Sally.
The mother said, "It was Jimmy's idea to donate his body to the University for Study. He said it might help somebody else. I said no at first, but Jimmy said, "Mom, I won't be using it after I die. Maybe it will help some other little boy spend one more day with his Mom."
She went on, "My Jimmy had a heart of gold. Always thinking of someone else. Always wanting to help others if he could."
Sally walked out of Children's MercyHospital for the last time, after spending most of the last six months there. She put the bag with Jimmy's belongings on the seat beside her in the car.
The drive home was difficult. It was even harder to enter the empty house. She carried Jimmy's belongings and the plastic bag with the lock of his hair to her son's room. She started placing the model cars and other personal things back in his room exactly where he had always kept them. She then laid down across his bed and, hugging his pillow, cried herself to sleep.
It was around when Sally awoke. Lying beside her on the bed was a folded letter. The letter
I know you're going to miss me; but don't think that I will ever forget you, or stop loving you, just 'cause I'm not around to say "I Love You". I will always love you, Mom, even more with each day.
Someday we will see each other again. Until then, if you want to adopt a little boy so you won't be so lonely, that's okay with me. He can have my room and old stuff to play with. But, if you decide to get a girl instead, she probably wouldn't like the same things us boys do. You'll have to buy her dolls and stuff girls like, you know.
Don't be sad thinking about me. This really is a neat place. Grandma and Grandpa met me as soon as I got here and showed me around some, but it will take a long time to see everything. The angels are so cool. I love to watch them fly. And, you know what? Jesus doesn't look like any of his pictures. Yet, when I saw Him, I knew it was Him. Jesus himself took me to see GOD!
And guess what, Mom? I got to sit on God's knee and talk to Him, like I was somebody important. That's when I told Him that I wanted to write you a letter, to tell you good bye and everything. But I already knew that wasn't allowed. Well, you know what Mom? God handed me some paper and His own personal pen to write you this letter. I think Gabriel is the name of the angel who is going to drop this letter off to you. God said for me to give you the answer to one of the questions you asked Him 'Where was He when I needed him? God said He was in the same place with me, as when His son Jesus was on the cross. He was right there, as He always is with all His children.
Oh, by the way, Mom, no one else can see what I've written except you. To everyone else this is just a blank piece of paper. Isn't that cool? I have to give God His pen back now He needs it to write some more names in the Book of Life. Tonight I get to sit at the table with Jesus for supper. I'm sure the food will be great.
Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I don't hurt anymore The cancer is all gone. I'm glad because I couldn't stand that pain anymore and God couldn't stand to see me hurt so much, either. That's when He sent The Angel of Mercy to come get me. The Angel said I was a Special Delivery!
You always hear the usual stories of pennies on the sidewalk being good luck, gifts from angels, etc. This is the first time I've ever heard this twist on the story. Gives you something to think about.
Several years ago, a friend of mine and her husband were invited to spend the weekend at the husband's employer's home. My friend, Arlene, was nervous about the weekend. The boss was very wealthy, with a fine home on the waterway, and cars costing more than her house.
The first day and evening went well, and Arlene was delighted to have this rare glimpse into how the very wealthy live. The husband's employer was quite generous as a host, and took them to the finest restaurants. Arlene knew she would never have the opportunity to indulge in this kind of extravagance again, so she was enjoying herself immensely.
As the three of them were about to enter an exclusive restaurant that evening, he was walking slightly ahead of Arlene and her husband. He then stopped suddenly, looking down on the pavement for a long, silent moment. Arlene wondered if she was supposed to pass him. There was nothing on the ground except a single darkened penny that someone had dropped and a few cigarette butts. Still silent, however, the man reached down and picked up the penny. He held it up and smiled, then put it in his pocket as if he had found a great treasure.
How absurd! What need did this man have for a single penny? Why would he even take the time to stop and pick it up?
Throughout dinner, the entire scene nagged at her. Finally, she could stand it no longer. She casually mentioned that her daughter once had a coin collection, and asked if the penny he had found had been of some value. A smile crept across the man's face as he reached into his pocket for the penny and held it out for her to see. She had seen many pennies before! What was the point of this?
"Look at it," he said. "Read what it says."
She read the words: "United States of America."
"No, not that; read further."
"One cent?" "No, keep reading."
"In God we Trust?"
"And if I trust in God, the name of God is holy, even on a coin. Whenever I find a coin I see that inscription. It is written on every single United States coin, but we never seem to notice it!
God drops a message right in front of me telling me to trust Him? Who am I to pass it by? When I see a coin, I pray, I stop to see if my trust IS in God at that moment. I pick the coin up as a response to God; that I do trust in Him. For a short time, at least, I cherish it as if it were gold. I think it is God's way of starting a conversation with me.
Lucky for me, God is patient and pennies are plentiful! When I was out shopping today, I found a penny on the sidewalk. I stopped and picked it up, and realized that I had been worrying and fretting in my mind about things I cannot change. I read the words, "In God We Trust," and had to laugh. Yes, God, I get the message.
It seems that I have been finding an inordinate number of pennies in the last few months, but then, pennies are plentiful! And, God is patient! Thank you God for such a simple reminder!
I sat, with two friends, in the picture window of a quaint restaurant just off the corner of the town-square. The food and the company were both especially good that day.
As we talked, my attention was drawn outside, across the street. There, walking into town, was a man who appeared to be carrying all his worldly goods on his back. He was carrying, a well-worn sign that read, "I will work for food." My heart sank.
I brought him to the attention of my friends and noticed that others around us
had stopped eating to focus on him. Heads moved in a mixture of sadness and
We continued with our meal, but his image lingered in my mind. We
finished our meal and went our separate ways. I had errands to do and quickly
set out to accomplish them. I glanced toward the town square, looking
somewhat halfheartedly for the strange visitor. I was fearful, knowing that
seeing him again would call some response. I drove through town and saw nothing
of him I made some purchases at a store and got back in my car.
Deep within me, the Spirit of God kept speaking to me: "Don't go back to
the office until you've at least driven once more around the square."
Then with some hesitancy, I headed back into town. As I turned the square's
third corner, I saw him. He was standing on the steps of the store front
church, going through his sack.
I stopped and looked; feeling both compelled to speak to him, yet wanting to
drive on. The empty parking space on the corner seemed to be a sign from God:
an invitation to park. I pulled in, got out and approached the town's newest
"Looking for the pastor?" I asked.
"Not really," he replied, "just resting."
"Have you eaten today?"
"Oh, I ate something early this morning."
"Would you like to have lunch with me?"
"Do you have some work I could do for you?"
"No work," I replied. "I commute here to work from the city, but
I would like to take you to lunch."
"Sure," he replied with a smile.
As he began to gather his things, I asked some surface questions. Where
"Where you from?"
"Oh, all over; mostly Florida".
"How long you been walking?"
"Fourteen years," came the reply.
I knew I had met someone unusual. We sat across from each other in the same
restaurant I had left earlier His face was weathered slightly beyond his 38
years. His eyes were dark yet clear, and he spoke with an eloquence and
articulation that was startling. He removed his jacket to reveal a bright
red T-shirt that said, "Jesus is The Never Ending Story."
Then Daniel's story began to unfold. He had seen rough times early in
life. He'd made some wrong choices and reaped the consequences. Fourteen
years earlier, while backpacking across the country, he had stopped on the
beach in Daytona.
He tried to hire on with some men who were putting up a large tent and some
equipment. A concert, he thought.
He was hired, but the tent would not house a concert but revival services, and
in those services he saw life more clearly. He gave his life over to God
"Nothing's been the same since," he said, "I felt the Lord
telling me to keep walking, and so I did, some 14
"Ever think of stopping?" I asked.
"Oh, once in a while, when it seems to get the best of me But God has given me this calling. I give out Bibles.
That's what's in my sack. I work to buy food and Bibles, and I give them out
when His Spirit leads."
I sat amazed. My homeless friend was not homeless. He was on a mission
and lived this way by choice. The question burned inside for a moment and
then I asked: "What's it like?"
"To walk into a town carrying all your things on your back and to show
"Oh, it was humiliating at first. People would stare and make comments. Once
someone tossed a piece of half-eaten bread and made a gesture that certainly
didn't make me feel welcome. But then it became humbling to realize that God
was using me to touch lives and change people's concepts of other folks like
My concept was changing, too. We finished our dessert and gathered his things.
Just outside the door, he paused. He turned to me and said, "Come Ye
blessed of my Father and inherit the kingdom I've prepared for you. For when I
was hungry you gave me food, when I was thirsty you gave me drink, a stranger
and you took me in."
I felt as if we were on holy ground. "Could you use another Bible?" I
He said he preferred a certain translation. It traveled well and was not too
heavy. It was also his personal favorite. "I've read through it 14
times," he said.
"I'm not sure we've got one of those, but let's stop by our church and
see" I was able to find my new friend a Bible that would do well, and he
seemed very grateful.
"Where are you headed from here?" I asked.
"Well, I found this little map on the back of this amusement park
"Are you hoping to hire on there for awhile?"
"No, I just figure I should go there. I figure someone under that star right there needs a Bible, so that's where I'm going
He smiled, and the warmth of his spirit radiated the sincerity of his mission.
I drove him back to the town-square where we'd met two hours earlier, and as we
drove, it started raining. We parked and unloaded his things.
"Would you sign my autograph book?" he asked. "I like to keep
messages from folks I meet."
I wrote in his little book that his commitment to his calling had touched my
life. I encouraged him to stay strong. And I left him with a ver- se of scripture from Jeremiah, "I know the plans
I have for you, declared the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm
you; Plans to give you a future and a hope."
"Thanks, man," he said. "I know we just met and we're really
just strangers, but I love you."
"I know," I said, "I love you, too." "The Lord is
"Yes, He is. How long has it been since someone hugged you?" I asked.
"A long time," he replied
And so on the busy street corner in the drizzling
rain, my new friend and I embraced, and I felt deep inside that I had been
changed. He put his things on his back, smiled his winning smile and said,
"See you in the New Jerusalem."
"I'll be there!" was my reply.
He began his journey again. He headed away with his sign dangling from his
bedroll and pack of Bibles. He stopped, turned and said, "When you see
something that makes you think of me, will you pray for me?"
"You bet," I shouted back, "God bless."
"God bless." And that was the last I saw of him.
Late that evening as I left my office, the wind blew strong. The cold front had
settled hard upon the town. I bundled up and hurried to my car. As I sat back
and reached for the emergency brake, I saw them... a pair of well-worn brown work gloves neatly laid over the length of the handle. I picked them up and thought of my friend and wondered if his hands would stay warm that night without them.
Then I remembered his words: "If you see something that makes you
think of me, will you pray for me?"
Today his gloves lie on my desk in my office. They help me to see the world and
its people in a new way, and they help me remember those two hours with my
unique friend and to pray for his ministry. "See you in the New Jerusalem,"
he said. Yes, Daniel, I know I will...
A little boy was selling newspapers on the corner,the people were in and out of the cold. The little boy was so cold that he wasn't trying to sell many papers. He walked up to a policeman and said,
"Mister, you wouldn't happen to know where a poor boy could find a warm place to sleep tonight would you? You see, I sleep in a box up around the corner there and down the alley and it's awful cold in there for tonight. Sure would be nice to have a warm place to stay."
The policeman looked down at the little boy and said, "You go down the
street to that big white house and you knock on the door. When they come out the door you just say "John
3:16" and they will let you in."
So he did. He walked up the steps and knocked on the door, and a lady answered. He looked up and said, "John 3:16".
The lady said, "Come on in, Son."
She took him in and she sat him down in a split bottom rocker in front of a great big old fireplace, and she went off. The boy sat there for a while and thought to himself
"John 3:16...I don't understand it, but it sure makes a cold boy warm."
Later she came back and asked him "Are you hungry?" He said, "Well, just a little. I haven't eaten in a couple of days, and I guess I could stand a little bit of food."
The lady took him in the kitchen and sat him down to a table full of wonderful food. He ate and ate until he couldn't eat any more. Then he thought to himself:
"John 3:16...Boy, I sure don't understand it but it sure makes a hungry boy full."
She took him upstairs to a bathroom to a huge bathtub filled with warm water, and he sat there and soaked for a while. As he soaked, he thought to himself:
"John 3:16... I sure don't understand it, but it sure makes a dirty boy clean. You know, I've not had a bath, a real bath, in my whole life. The only bath I ever had was when I stood in front of that big old fire hydrant as they flushed it out."
The lady came in and got him. She took him to a room, tucked him into a big old feather bed, pulled the covers up around his neck, kissed him goodnight and turned out the lights. As he lay in the darkness and looked out the window at the snow coming down on that cold night, he thought to himself:
"...I don't understand it but it sure makes a tired boy rested."
The next morning the lady came back up and took him down again to that same
big table full of food. After he ate, she took him back to that same big old split bottom rocker in front of the fireplace and picked up a big old Bible. She sat down in front of him and looked into his young face.
"Do you understand", she asked gently.
He replied, "No, Ma'am, I don't. The first time I ever heard it was last night when the policeman told me to use it."
She opened the Bible to John and began to explain to him about Jesus. Right there, in front of that big old fireplace, he gave his heart and life to Jesus. He sat there and thought:
"John 3:16 I don't understand it, but it sure makes a lost boy feel safe."
You know, I have to confess I don't understand it either, how he was willing to send His Son to die for me, and how Jesus would agree to do such a thing. I don't understand the agony of the Father and every angel in heaven as they watched Jesus suffer and die. I don't understand the intense love for ME that kept Jesus on the cross till the end. I don't understand it, but it sure does make life worth living.
John 3:16 "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life."
There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things "in order",she contacted her Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes." She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in.
Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her.
"There's one more thing," she said excitedly.
"What's that?" came the Pastor's reply.
"This is very important," the young woman continued. "I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand." The Pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.
"That surprises you, doesn't it?" the young woman asked.
"Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request," said the Pastor.
The young woman explained. "My grandmother once told me this story, and from that time on I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, "Keep your fork." It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming...like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!"
So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder "What's with the fork?" Then I want you to tell them: "Keep your fork ..the best is yet to come."
The Pastor's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven
than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many
people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge. She KNEW
that something better was coming.
At the funeral people were walking by the young woman's casket and they saw
the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and
over, the Pastor heard the question, "What's with the fork?" And over and over he smiled.
During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either.
He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so gently, that the best is yet to come. Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share a word of praise, and they always want to open their hearts to us. Show your friends how much you care. Remember to always be there for them, even when you need them more. For you never know when it may be their time to "Keep your fork." Cherish the time you have, and the memories you share ...
...Being friends with someone is not an opportunity but a sweet responsibility.
One day I decided to quit... I quit my job, my relationship, my
spirituality... I wanted to quit my life. I went to the woods to have one last
talk with God.
"God", I asked, "Can you give me one good reason not to
His answer surprised me... "Look around", He said. "Do you see
the fern and the bamboo?"
"Yes", I replied.
"When I planted the
fern and the bamboo seeds, I took very good care of them. I gave them light. I
gave them water."
The fern quickly grew from the earth. Its brilliant
green covered the floor. Yet nothing came from the bamboo seed. But I did not
quit on the bamboo.
In the second year the Fern grew more vibrant and
plentiful. And again, nothing came from the bamboo seed. But I did not quit on
the bamboo. He said. "In year three there was still nothing from the bamboo
seed. But I would not quit."
In year four, again, there was nothing from
the bamboo seed. I would not quit." He said.
"Then in the fifth year a
tiny sprout emerged from the earth. Compared to the fern it was seemingly small
and insignificant...But just 6 months later the bamboo rose to over 100 feet
It had spent the five years growing roots. Those roo ts made it
strong and gave it what it needed to survive. I would not give any of my
creations a challenge it could not handle."
He asked me. "Did you know,
my child, that all this time you have been struggling, you have actually been
growing roots". "I would not quit on the bamboo. I will never quit on you.
"Don't compare yourself to others," He said.
"The bamboo had a different
Purpose than the fern. Yet they both make the forest beautiful." Your time will
come", God said to me.
"You will rise high"
"How high should I
rise?" I asked.
"How high will the bamboo rise?" He asked in return.
"As high as it can?" I questioned.
"Yes." He said, "Give me
glory by rising as high as you can."
I left the forest and brought back
this story. I hope these words can help you see that God will never give up on
you. Never, Never, Never Give up.
For the Christian Prayer is not an
option but an opportunity. Don't tell the Lord how big the problem is, tell the
problem how Great the Lord is!
Heavens door open this morning, God asked
me... My CHILD... what can I do for you?" and I said "Father, please protect and
bless the one reading this message.
Michael is the kind of guy you love to hate. He is always in a good mood and always has something positive to say. When someone would ask him how he was doing, he would reply, "If I were any better, I would be twins."
He was a natural motivator. If an employee was having a bad day, Michael was there telling the employee how to look on the positive side of the situation.
Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up to Michael and asked him, "I don't get it. You can't be a positive person all of the time. How do you do it?"
Michael replied, "Each morning I wake up and say to myself, you have two choices today. You can choose to be in a good mood or ... you can choose to be in a bad mood. I choose to be in a good mood."
"Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or...I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from it."
"Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or... I can point out the positive side of life. I choose the positive side of life."
"Yeah, right, it's not that easy," I protested.
"Yes, it is," Michael said. "Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line: It's your choice how you live your life."
I reflected on what Michael said. Soon hereafter, I left the Tower Industry
to start my own business. We lost touch, but I often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it.
Several years later, I heard that Michael was involved in a serious accident, falling some 60 feet from a communications tower. After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, Michael was released from the hospital with rods placed in his back.
I saw Michael about six months after the accident. When I asked him how he was, he replied, "If I were any better, I'd be twins. Wanna see my scars?"
I declined to see his wounds, but I did ask him what had gone through his
mind as the accident took place.
"The first thing that went through my mind was the well-being of my soon-to-be born daughter," Michael replied. "Then, as I lay on the ground, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live or ...I could choose to die. I chose to live."
"Weren't you scared? Did you lose consciousness?" I asked.
Michael continued, "..the paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine.But when they wheeled me into the ER and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read "He's a dead man". I knew I needed to take action."
"What did you do?" I asked.
"Well, there was a big burly nurse shouting questions at me," said Michael. "She asked if I was allergic to anything." "Yes", I replied. The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breath and yelled, "Gravity"."
Over their laughter, I told them, "I am choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead."
Michael lived, thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude... I learned from him that every day we have the choice to live fully.
Attitude, after all, is everything.
"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.. Each day has enough trouble of its own." Matthew 6:34.
After all, today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday.
Louise Redden, a poorly dressed lady with a look of defeat on her face, walked into a grocery store. She approached the owner of the store in a most humble manner and asked if he would let her charge a few groceries. She softly explained that her husband was very ill and unable to work, they had seven children and they needed food.
John Longhouse, the grocer, scoffed at her and requested that she leave his store at once. Visualizing the family needs, she said: "Please, sir! I will bring you the money just as soon as I can."
John told her he could not give her credit, since she did not have a charge account at his store. Standing beside the counter was a customer who overheard the conversation between the two. The customer walked forward and told the grocer that he would stand good for whatever she needed for her family.
The grocer said in a very reluctant voice, "Do you have a grocery list?"
Louise replied, "Yes sir." "O.K." he said, "put your grocery list on the scales and whatever your grocery list weighs, I will give you that amount in groceries."
Louise, hesitated a moment with a bowed head, then she reached into her purse and took out a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. She then laid the piece of paper on the scale carefully with her head still bowed.
The eyes of the grocer and the customer showed amazement when the scales went down and stayed down. The grocer, staring at the scales, turned slowly to the customer and said begrudgingly, "I can't believe it."
The customer smiled and the grocer started putting the groceries on the other side of the scales. The scale did not balance so he continued to put more and more groceries on them until the scales would hold no more.
The grocer stood there in utter disgust. Finally, he grabbed the piece of paper from the scales and looked at it with greater amazement. It was not a grocery list, it was a prayer, which said:
"Dear Lord, you know my needs and I am leaving this in your hands."
The grocer gave her the groceries that he had gathered and stood in stunned silence. Louise thanked him and left the store. The other customer handed a fifty-dollar bill to the grocer and said: "It was worth every penny of it .. Only God Knows
how much a prayer weighs."
Our 14 year old dog Abbey died last month. The day after she died, my 4 year old daughter Meredith was crying and talking about how much she missed Abbey. She asked if we could write a letter to God so that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her. I told her that I thought we could, so she dictated these words:
Will you please take care of my dog? She died yesterday and is with you in heaven. I miss her very much. I am happy that you let me have her as my dog even though she got sick.
I hope you will play with her. She likes to play with balls and to swim. I am sending a picture of her so when you see her, you will know that she is my dog. I really miss her.
We put the letter in an envelope with a picture of Abbey and Meredith and addressed it to God in Heaven. We put our return address on it. Then Meredith pasted several stamps on the front of the envelope because she said it would take lots of stamps to get the letter all the work to heaven. That afternoon she dropped it into the letter box at the Post Office.
A few days later, she asked if God had gotten the letter yet. I told her that I thought He had.
Yesterday there was a package wrapped in gold paper on our front porch addressed, "To Meredith"...in an unfamiliar hand writing. Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers called When a Pet Dies. Taped to the inside front cover was the letter we had written to God in its opened envelope. On the opposite page was the picture of Abbey & Meredith and this note:
Abbey arrived safely in heaven. Having the picture was a big help. I recognized Abbey right away.
Abbey isn't sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me just like it stays in your heart. Abbey loved being your dog. Since we don't need our bodies in heaven, I don't have any pockets to keep your picture in, so I am sending it back to you in this little book for you to keep and have something to remember Abbey by.
Thank you for the beautiful letter and thank your mother for helping you write it and sending it to me. What a wonderful mother you have. I picked her especially for you.
I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much.
By the way, I'm easy to find, I am wherever there is love.
THE ANT AND THE CONTACT LENS
A true story by Josh and Karen Zarandona
Brenda was a young woman who was invited to go rock climbing. Although she was very scared, she went with her group to a tremendous granite cliff. In spite of her fear, she put on the gear, took hold of the rope, and started up the face of that rock.
Well, she got to a ledge where she could take a breather. As she was hanging on there, the safety rope snapped against Brenda's eye and knocked out her contact lens.
Well, here she is, on a rock ledge, with hundreds of feet below her and hundreds of feet above her. Of course, she looked and looked and looked, hoping it had landed on the ledge, but it just wasn't there. Here she was, far from home, her sight now blurry. She was desperate and began to get upset so she prayed to the Lord to help her to find it...
When she got to the top, a friend examined her eye and her clothing for the lens, but there was no contact lens to be found. She sat down despondently with the rest of the party, waiting for the rest of them to make it up the face of the cliff. She looked out across range after range of mountains thinking of that verse that says, "The eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth."
She thought, "Lord, You can see all these mountains. You know every stone and leaf, and You know exactly where my contact lens is. Please help me."
Finally, they walked down the trail to the bottom. At the bottom there was a new party of climbers just starting up the face of the cliff. One of them shouted out, "Hey, you guys! Anybody lose a contact lens?"
Well, that would be startling enough, but you know why the climber saw it? An ant was moving slowly across the face of the rock, carrying it on its back.
Brenda told me that her father is a cartoonist. When she told him the incredible story of the ant, the prayer, and the contact lens, he drew a picture of an ant lugging that contact lens with the words,
"Lord, I don't know why You want me to carry this thing. I can't eat it, and it's awfully heavy. But if this is what You want me to do, I'll carry it for You."
I think it would probably do some of us good to occasionally say, "God, I don't know why you want me to carry this load. I can see no good in it and it's awfully heavy. But, if you want me to carry it, I will."
God doesn't call the qualified; He qualifies the called.
Yes, I do love GOD. He is my source of existence and my Savior. He keeps me functioning each and every day. Without Him, I am nothing, but with Him...I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me. (Phil. 4:13)
People always say how mean kids can be, never how nice they can be. This story will either make you cry, give you cold chills or just leave you cold, but it puts life into perspective!
At a fund-raising dinner for a school that serves learning-disabled children, the father of one of the school's students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all that attended.
After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question.
"Everything God does is done with perfection. Yet, my son Shay cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is God's plan reflected in my son?"
The audience was stilled by the query.
"I believe," the father answered, "that when God brings a child like Shay into the world, an opportunity to realize the Divine Plan presents itself and it comes in the way people treat that child."
Then, he told the following story:
Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, "Do you think they will let me play?"
Shay's father knew that the boys would not want him on their team. But the father understood that if his son were allowed to play it would give him much-needed sense of belonging.
Shay's father approached one of the boys on the field and asked if Shay
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."
In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was s
till behind by three. At the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove
and played in the outfield. Although no hits came his way, he was obviously
ecstatic just to be on the field, grinning from ear to ear as his father
waved to him from the stands.
In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again. Now, with two
outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base. Shay was
scheduled to be the next at-bat. Would the team actually let Shay bat at
this juncture and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat.
Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even
know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball. However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to
lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least be able to make contact.
The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and 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. Shay 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, "Shay, run to first, run to first."
Never in his life had Shay ever made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.
Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second!"
By the time Shay was rounding first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman for a tag. But the right
fielder understood what the pitcher's intentions had been, so he threw the
ball high and far over the third baseman's head. Shay ran towards second
base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home.
As Shay reached second base, the opposing shortstop ran to him, turned him
in the direction of third base, and shouted, "Run to third!" As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams were screaming, "Shay Run home!"
Shay ran home, stepped on home plate and was cheered as the hero for hitting a "grand slam" and winning the game for his team.
"That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face,"the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of the Divine Plan into this world."
We all have dozens of opportunities a day to help realize God's plan. So
many seemingly trivial interactions between people present us with a choice;
do we pass along a spark of the Divine-love that God gives to us every day? Or do we pass up that opportunity and leave the world a bit colder in the
A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even. The total had to be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall's Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door. She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
"And what do you want?" the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice.
"I'm talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven't seen in ages," he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
"Well, I want to talk to you about my brother," Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. "He's really, really sick... and I want to buy a miracle."
"I beg your pardon?" said the pharmacist.
"His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?"
"We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I'm sorry but I can't help you," the pharmacist said, softening a little.
"Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn't enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs."
The pharmacist's brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, "What kind of a miracle does your brother need?"
"I don't know," Tess replied with her eyes welling up. "I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can't pay
for it, so I want to use my money."
"How much do you have?" asked the man from Chicago.
"One dollar and eleven cents," Tess answered barely audibly. "And it's all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to."
"Well, what a coincidence," smiled the man. "A dollar and eleven cents---the exact price of a miracle for little brothers."
He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said "Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let's see if I have the miracle you need."
That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon, specializing
in neuro-surgery. The operation was completed without charge and it wasn't long until Andrew was home again and doing well. Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.
"That surgery," her Mom whispered, "was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?" Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost...one dollar and eleven cents ...plus the faith of a little child. A miracle is not the suspension of natural law, but the operation of a higher law......(A TRUE STORY)
written by Susan Morton Leonard, as told to her by her husband, Mark Leonard aka Santa Mark
Three years ago, a little boy and his grandmother came to see Santa at Mayfair Mall in Wisconsin .. The child climbed up on his lap, holding a picture of a little girl. "Who is this?" asked Santa smiling. "Your friend? Your sister?"
"Yes, Santa," he replied. "My sister Sarah, who is very sick," he said sadly.
Santa glanced over at the grandmother who was waiting nearby, and saw her dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
"She wanted to come with me to see you, oh, so very much, Santa!" the child exclaimed. "She misses you," he added softly.
Santa tried to be cheerful and encouraged a smile to the boy's face, asking him what he wanted Santa to bring him for Christmas. When they finished their visit, the Grandmother came over to help the child off his lap, and started to say something to Santa, but halted.
"What is it?" Santa asked warmly.
"Well, I know it's really too much to ask you, Santa, but...", the old woman began shooing her grandson over to one of Santa's elves to collect the little gift which Santa gave all his young visitors.
"The girl in the photograph... my granddaughter...well, you see, she has leukemia and isn't expected to make it even through the holidays," she said through tear-filled eyes. "Is there any way, Santa� any possible way that you could come see Sarah? That�s all she's asked for, for Christmas, is to see Santa."
Santa blinked and swallowed hard and told the woman to leave information with his elves as to where Sarah was, and he would see what he could do.
Santa thought of little else the rest of that afternoon. He knew what he had to do. "What if it were MY child lying in that
hospital bed, dying," he thought with a sinking heart. "This is the least I can do."
When Santa finished visiting with all the boys and girls that evening, he retrieved from his helper the name of the hospital where Sarah was staying. He asked the assistant location manager how to get to Children's Hospital.
"Why?" Rick asked, with a puzzled look on his face.
Santa relayed to him the conversation with Sarah's grandmother earlier that day.
"C'mon.... I'll take you there," Rick said softly.
Rick drove them to the hospital and came inside with Santa. They found out which room Sarah was in. A pale Rick said he would wait out in the hall. Santa quietly peeked into the room through the half-closed door and saw little Sarah on the bed. The room was full of what appeared to be her family; there was the Grandmother and the girl's brother he had met earlier that day.
A woman whom he guessed was Sarah's mother stood by the bed, gently pushing Sarah's thin hair off her forehead. And another woman who he discovered later was Sarah's aunt, sat in a chair near the bed with a weary, sad look on her face. They were talking quietly, and
Santa could sense the warmth and closeness of the family, and their love and concern for Sarah.
Taking a deep breath, and forcing a smile on his face, Santa entered the room, bellowing a hearty, "Ho, ho, ho!"
"Santa", shrieked little Sarah weakly, as she tried to escape her bed to run to him, IV tubes in tact.
Santa rushed to her side and gave her a warm hug. A child the tender age of his own son -- 9 years old -- gazed up at him with wonder and excitement. Her skin was pale and her short tresses bore telltale bald patches from the effects of chemotherapy. But all he saw when he looked at her was a pair of huge, blue eyes. His heart melted, and he had to force himself to choke back tears.
Though his eyes were riveted upon Sarah's face, he could hear the gasps and quiet sobbing of the women in the room. As he and Sarah
began talking, the family crept quietly to the bedside one by one, squeezing Santa's shoulder or his hand gratefully, whispering, "Thank you" as they gazed sincerely at him with shining eyes.
Santa and Sarah talked and talked, and she told him excitedly all the toys she wanted for Christmas, assuring him she'd been a very good girl that year.
As their time together dwindled, Santa felt led in his spirit to pray for Sarah, and asked for permission from the girl's mother, who nodded in agreement. The entire family circled around Sarah's bed, holding hands.
Santa looked intensely at Sarah and asked her if she believed in angels.
"Oh, yes, Santa... I do!" she exclaimed.
"Well, I'm going to ask that angels watch over you," he
said. Then laying one hand on the child's head, Santa closed his eyes and prayed. He asked that God touch little Sarah, and heal her body from this disease. He asked that angels minister to her, watch and keep her. And when he finished praying, still with eyes closed, he started singing softly,
Silent Night, Holy Night.... all is calm, all is bright.
The family joined in, still holding hands, smiling at Sarah, and crying tears of hope, tears of joy for this moment, as Sarah beamed at them all.
When the song ended, Santa sat on the side of the bed again and
held Sarah's frail, small hands in his own. "Now, Sarah," he said authoritatively, "you have a job to do, and that is to
concentrate on getting well. I want you to have fun playing with your friends this summer, and I expect to see you at my house at Mayfair Mall this time next year!"
He knew it was risky proclaiming that to this little girl who had
terminal cancer, but he "had" to. He had to give her the
greatest gift he could -- not dolls or games or toys -- but the gift of HOPE.
"Yes, Santa!" Sarah exclaimed, her eyes bright.
He then leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and left the room. Out in the hall, the minute Santa's eyes met Rick's, a look passed between them and they wept unashamed. Sarah's mother and grandmother slipped out of the room quickly and rushed to Santa's side to thank him.
"My only child is the same age as Sarah," he explained
quietly. "This is the least I could do."
They nodded with understanding and hugged him.
One year later, Santa Mark was again back on the set in Milwaukee for his six-week, seasonal job which he so loves to do. Several weeks went by and then one day a child came up to sit on his lap.
"Hi, Santa! Remember me?"
"Of course, I do," Santa proclaimed (as he always did), smiling down at her. After all, the secret to being a "good" Santa is to always make each child feel as if they
are the "only" child in the world at that moment.
"You came to see me in the hospital last year!"
Santa's jaw dropped. Tears immediately sprang in his eyes, and he grabbed this little miracle and held her to his chest.
"Sarah!" he exclaimed.
He scarcely recognized her, for her hair was long and silky and
her cheeks were rosy -- much different from the little girl he had visited just a year before.
He looked over and saw Sarah's mother and grandmother in the sidelines smiling and waving and wiping their eyes.
That was the best Christmas ever for Santa Claus. He had witnessed--and been blessed to be instrumental in bringing about -- this miracle of hope. This precious little child was healed.
Cancer-free. Alive and well. He then silently looked up to Heaven
and humbly whispered, "Thank you, Father. 'Tis a very, Merry
Some years ago, on a hot summer day in south
Florida, a little boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole behind his house. In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out the back door, leaving behind shoes, socks, and shirt as he went.
He flew into the water, not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore.
His father working in the yard saw the two as they got closer and closer together. In utter fear, he ran toward the water, yelling to his son as loudly as he could.
Hearing his voice, the little boy became alarmed and made a U-turn to swim to his father. It was too late. Just as he reached his father, the alligator reached him. From the dock, the father grabbed his little boy by the arms just as the alligator snatched his legs. That began an incredible tug-of-war between the two. The alligator was much stronger than the father, but the father was much too passionate to let go. A farmer happened to drive by, heard his screams, raced from his truck, took aim and shot the alligator.
Remarkably, after weeks and weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived. His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the animal. And, on his arms, were deep scratches where his father's fingernails dug into his flesh in his effort to hang on to the son he loved.
The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma, asked if he would show him his scars. The boy lifted his pant legs. And then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, "But look at my arms. I have great scars on my arms, too. I have them because my Dad wouldn't let go."
You and I can identify with that little boy. We have scars, too. No, not from an alligator, but the scars of a painful past. Some of those scars are unsightly and have caused us deep regret. But, some wounds, my friend, are because God has refused to let go. In the midst of your struggle, He's been there holding on to you.
The Scripture teaches that God loves you. You are a child of God He wants to protect you and provide for you in every way. But sometimes we foolishly wade into dangerous situations, not knowing what lies ahead. The swimming hole of life is filled with peril - and we forget that the enemy is waiting to attack. That's when the tug-of-war begins - and if you have the scars of His love on your arms, be very, very grateful. He did not and will not ever let you go.
T he brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry, to reopen a church in suburban Brooklyn , arrived in early October excited about their opportunities. When they saw their church, it was very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve.
T hey worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, etc, and on December 18were ahead of schedule and just about finished.
O n December 19 a terrible tempest - a driving rainstorm hit the area and lasted for two days.
O n the 21st, the pastor went over to the church. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high.
T he pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone
the Christmas Eve service, headed home. On the way he noticed that a local business was
having a flea market type sale for charity so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church.
B y this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was
trying to catch the bus.. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45 minutes later. She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor
while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor
could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area.
T hen he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet. "Pastor," she asked, "where did you get that tablecloth?":
The pastor then explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before in Austria.
T he woman could hardly believe it as the pastor
told how he had just gotten the Tablecloth. The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria. When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week. He was captured, sent to prison and never saw her husband or her home again.
T he pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the pastor keep it for the church. The pastor insisted on driving her home, that was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.
W hat a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return. One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the pastor wondered why he wasn't leaving.
T he man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when
they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike.
H e told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a prison.. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years in between.
T he pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier.
H e helped the man climb the three flights of
stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Christmas
reunion he could ever imagine.
One night a man had a dream that he was walking along the beach with the LORD. Across
the sky flashed scenes from his life. For each scene, he noticed two sets of footprints in
the sand; one belonging to him, the other belonging to the LORD.
When the last scene of his life flashed before him, he looked back at the footprints in
the sand. He noticed that many times along the path of his life there was only one set of
footprints, and that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times in his life...
This really bothered him and he questioned the LORD about it. "LORD, you said that
once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way. But during the most
troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why
when I needed you most you would leave me."
The LORD replied, "My precious, precious child. I love you and I would never leave
you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it
was then that I carried you."
A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole which he
carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was
perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the
stream to the master's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full. For a full two years
this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in
his master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect
to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own
imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been
made to do.
After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water
bearer one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to
you." "Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?" "I
have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack
in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my
flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your
efforts," the pot said.
The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said,
"As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along
Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming
the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the
end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again
it apologized to the bearer for its failure.
The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your
side of your path, but not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known
about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the
path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them. For two years
I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without
you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."
Each of us has our own unique flaws. We are all cracked pots. But if we will allow it,
the Lord will use our flaws to grace His Father's table. In God's great economy, nothing
goes to waste.
So as we seek ways to minister together, and as God calls you to the tasks He has
appointed for you, don't be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them, and allow Him to take
advantage of them, and you, too, can be the cause of beauty in His pathway.
Go out boldly, knowing that in our weakness we find His strength, and that "In Him
every one of God's promises is a Yes".
Six minutes to six, said the clock over the information booth in New York's Grand
Central Station. The tall young Army officer lifted his sunburned face and narrowed his
eyes to note the exact time. His heart was pounding with a beat that choked him. In six
minutes he would see the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for the
past 18 months, the woman he had never seen yet whose words had sustained him unfailingly.
Lt. Blandford remembered one day in particular, the worst of the fighting, when his
plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of enemy planes.
In one of those letters, he had confessed to her that often he felt fear, and only a
few days before this battle, he had received her answer:"Of course you fear...all
brave men do." Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to
you: 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of Death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art
with me.'....He had remembered that and it renewed his strength.
He was going to hear her voice now. Four minutes to six.
A girl passed closer to him, and Lt. Blandford started. she was wearing a flower, but
it was not the little red rose they had agreed upon. Besides, this girl was only about
eighteen, and Hollis Maynel had told him she was 30. "What of it?" he had
answered, "I'm 32." He was 29.
His mind went back to that book he had read in the training camp. "Of Human
Bondage" it was; and throughout the book were notes in a woman's handwriting. He had
never believed that a woman could see into a man's heart so tenderly, so understandingly.
Her name was on the bookplate: Hollis Maynell. He got a hold of a New York City telephone
book and found her address. He had written , she had answered. Next day he had been
shipped out, but they had gone on writing. For thirteen months she had faithfully replied.
When his letters did not arrive, she wrote anyway, and now he believed he loved her, and
she loved him.
But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph. She had explained:
"If your feeling for me had no reality, what I look like won't matter. Suppose I am
beautiful. I'd always be haunted that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that
kind of love would disgust me. Suppose that I'm plain, (and you must admit that this is
more likely), then I'd always fear that you were only going on writing because you were
lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you
shall see me and then you shall make your own decision."
One minute to six...he flipped the pages of the book he held. Then Lt. Blandford's
A young woman was coming toward him. Her figure was long and slim; her blond hair lay
back in curls from delicate ears. Her eyes were blue as flowers, her lips and chin had a
gentle firmness. In her pale-green suit, she was like springtime come alive.
He started toward her, forgetting to notice that she was wearing no rose, and as he
moved, a small, provacative smile curved her lips.
"Going my way, soldier?" she murmured.
He made one step closer to her. Then he saw Hollis Maynell.
She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past 40, her graying
hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump. Her thick-ankled feet were thrust
into low-heeled shoes. But she wore a red rose on her rumpled coat. The girl in the green
suit was walking quickly away.
Blandford felt as though he were being split in two, "so keen was his desire to
follow the girl, yet so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly
companioned and upheld his own", and there she stood. He could see her pale face was
gentle and sensible; her gray eyes had a warm twinkle.
Lt. Blandford did not hesitate. His fingers gripped the worn copy of "Of Human
Bondage" which was to identify him to her. This would not be love, but it would be
something special, a friendship for which he had been and must be ever grateful...
He squared his shoulders, saluted, and held the book out toward the woman, although
even while he spoke he felt the bitterness of his disappointment.
"I'm Lt. Blandford, and you're Miss Maynell. I'm so glad you could meet me.
May--may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened in a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is all
about, son," she answered. "That young lady in the green suit, she begged me to
wear this rose on my coat. And she said that if you asked me to go out with you, I should
tell you she's waiting for you in that restaurant across the street. She said it was some
kind of test."
A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had Everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art.
When the Viet Nam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son.
About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your love for art."
The young man held out his package.
"I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this."
The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the portrait.
"Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift."
The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected. The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection. On the platform sat the painting of the son.
The auctioneer pounded his gavel. "We will start the bidding with this portrait of the son. Who will bid for this painting?"
There was silence. Then a voice in the back of the room shouted. "We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one."
But the auctioneer persisted. "Will someone bid for this painting? Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?"
Another voice shouted angrily. "We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Goghs, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids!"
But still the auctioneer continued. "The son! The son! Who'll take the son?"
Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the long-time gardener of the man and his son. "I'll give $10 for the painting." Being a poor man, it was all he could afford.
"We have $10, who will bid $20?"
"Give it to him for $10. Let's see the masters."
"$10 is the bid, won't someone bid $20?"
The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the painting of the son. They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections.
The auctioneer pounded the gavel. "Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!"
A man sitting on the second row shouted. "Now let's get on with the collection!"
The auctioneer laid down his gavel.
"I'm sorry, the auction is over. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings. The man who took the son gets everything!"
God gave his son 2,000 years ago to die on a cruel cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is, "The son, the son, who'll take the son?"
One Sunday morning during service, a 2,000-member congregation was
surprised to see two men enter, both covered from head to toe in black and
carrying sub-machine guns. One of the men proclaimed, "Anyone willing to take a
bullet for Christ remain where you are." Immediately, the choir fled, the
deacons fled, and most of the congregation fled. Out of the 2,000 there only
remained around 20.
The man who had spoken took off his hood, looked at the preacher and said,
Okay Pastor, I got rid of all the hypocrites. Now you may begin your service.
Have a nice day!"
A young man who had been raised as an atheist was training to be an Olympic
diver. The only religious influence in his life came from his outspoken
Christian friend. The young diver never really paid much attention to his
friend's sermons, but he heard them often.
One night the diver went to the indoor pool at the college he attended. The
lights were all off, but as the pool had big skylights and the moon was bright,
there was plenty of light to practice by. The young man climbed up to the
highest diving board and as he turned his back to the pool on the edge of the
board and extended his arms out, he saw his shadow on the wall. The shadow of
his body in the shape of a cross. Instead of diving, he knelt down and asked God
to come into his life. As the young man stood, a maintenance man walked in and
turned the lights on. The pool had been drained for repairs.
His name is Bill. He has wild hair, wears a T-shirt with holes in it, jeans
and no shoes. This was literally is wardrobe for his entire four years of
college. He is brilliant. Kind of esoteric and very, very bright. He became
a Christian recently while attending college.
Across the street from the campus is a well-dressed, very conservative
church. One day Bill decides to go there. He walks in with no shoes, jeans,
his T-shirt, and wild hair. The service has already started and So Bill
starts down the aisle looking for a seat.
The church is completely packed and he can't find a seat. By now people are
really looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one says anything. Bill gets closer
and closer and closer to the pulpit and, when he realizes there are no seats,
he just squats down right on the carpet. (Although perfectly acceptable
behavior at a college fellowship, trust me, this had never happened in this
By now the people are really uptight, and the tension in the air is thick.
About this time, the minister realizes that from way at the back of the
church, an Elder is slowly making his way toward Bill. Now the Elder is in
his eighties, has silver-gray hair, and a three-piece suit. A godly man,
very elegant, very dignified, very courtly. He walks with a cane and, as he
starts walking toward this boy, everyone is saying To themselves that you
can't blame him for what he's going to do.
How can you expect a man of his age and of his background to understand some
college kid on the floor? It takes a long time for the man to reach the boy.
The church is utterly silent except for the clicking of the man's cane.
All eyes are focused on him. You can't even hear anyone breathing. The
minister can't even preach the sermon until the Elder does what he has to do.
And now they see this elderly man drop his cane on the floor. With great
difficulty he lowers himself and sits down next to Bill and worships with
him so he won't be alone.
Everyone chokes up with emotion. When the minister gains control, he says,
"What I'm about to preach, you will never remember. What you have just seen,
you will never forget. Be careful how you live. You may be the only Bible
some people will ever read."
Satan called a worldwide convention. In his opening address to his evil angels, he said, "We can't keep Christians from going to church. We can't keep them from reading their Bibles and knowing the truth. We can't even keep them from conservative values. But we can do something else. We can keep them from forming an intimate, abiding relationship experience in Christ. If they gain that connection with Jesus, our power over them is broken. So let them go to church, let them have their conservative lifestyles, but steal their time, so they can't gain that experience in Jesus Christ. This is what I want you to do, angels. Distract them from gaining hold of their Savior and maintaining that vital connection throughout their day!"
"How shall we do this?" shouted his angels.
"Keep them busy in the nonessentials of life and invent unnumbered schemes to occupy their minds" he answered. "Tempt them to spend, spend, spend then borrow, borrow, borrow. Convince the wives to go to work for long hours and the husbands to work six or seven days a week, ten to twelve hours a day so they can afford their lifestyles. Keep them from spending time with their children. As their family fragments, soon their homes will offer no escape from the pressures of work."
"Overstimulate their minds so that they cannot hear that still small voice. Entice them to play the radio or cassette player whenever they drive, to keep the TV, VCR, CD's and their PC's going constantly in their homes. And see to it that every store and restaurant in the world plays non-biblical music constantly. This will jam their minds and break that union with Christ."
"Fill their coffee tables with magazines and newspapers. Pound their minds with news 24 hours a day. Invade their driving moments with billboards. Flood their mailboxes with junk mail, sweepstakes, mail order catalogues, and every kind of newsletter and promotional offering, free products, services and false hopes."
"Even in their recreation, let them be excessive. Have them return from their recreation exhausted, disquieted, and unprepared for the coming week. Don't let them go out in nature to reflect on God's wonders. Send them to amusement parks, sporting events, concerts and movies instead. And when they meet for spiritual fellowship, involve them in gossip and small talk so that they leave with troubled consciences and unsettled emotion."
"Let them be involved in soul-winning. But crowd their lives with so many good causes they have no time to seek power from Christ. Soon they will be working in their own strength, sacrificing their health and family unity for the good of the cause."
It was quite a convention in the end. And the evil angels went eagerly to their assignments causing Christians everywhere to get busy, busy, busy and rush here and there.
Has the devil been successful at his schemes? You be the judge.
I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes.
I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprizing a basket of freshly picked green peas.
I paid for my potatoes, but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas.
I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me.
"Hello Barry, how are you today?"
"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"
"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."
"Good. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."
"Would you like take some home?" asked Mr. Miller.
"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."
"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"
"All I got's my prize marble here."
"Is that right? Let me see it," said Miller.
"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."
"I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?" the store owner asked.
"Not zackley but almost."
"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble," Mr. Miller told the boy.
"Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller."
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever.
When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store."
I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man.
A short time later I moved to Colorado , but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles.
Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one.
Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died.
They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them.
Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.
Ahead of us in line were three young men.
One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts...all very professional looking.
They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket.
Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket.
Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket.
Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband's bartering for marbles.
With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.
"Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them.
Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size.. ..they came to pay their debt."
"We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho."
With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.
The Moral : We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds. Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.
A pastor concluded that his church was getting into very serious financial troubles. While checking the church storeroom, he discovered several cartons of new bibles that had never been opened and distributed.
So at his Sunday sermon, he asked for three volunteers from the congregation who would be willing to sell the bibles door-to-door for $10 each to raise the desperately needed money for the church.
Jack, Paul and Louie all raised their hands to volunteer for the task.
The minister knew that Jack and Paul earned their living as salesmen and were likely capable of selling some bibles. But he had serious doubts about Louie who was a local farmer, who had always kept to himself because he was embarrassed by his speech impediment. Poor Louis stuttered badly. But, not wanting to discourage Louis, the minister decided to let him try anyway.
He sent the three of them away with the back seat of their cars stacked with bibles. He asked them to meet with him and report the results of their door-to-door selling efforts the following Sunday.
Anxious to find out how successful they were, the minister immediately asked Jack, "Well, Jack, how did you make out selling our bibles last week?"
Proudly handing the reverend an envelope, Jack replied, "Using my sales prowess, I was able to sell 20 bibles, and here's the $200 I collected on behalf of the church."
"Fine job, Jack!" The minister said, vigorously shaking his hand. "You are indeed a fine salesman and the Church is indebted to you."
Turning to Paul, "And Paul, how many bibles did you sell for the Church last week?"
Paul, smiling and sticking out his chest, confidently replied, "I am a professional salesman. I sold 28 bibles on behalf of the church, and here's $280 I collected."
The minister responded, "That's absolutely splendid, Paul. You are truly a professional salesman and the church is indebted to you."
Apprehensively, the minister turned to Louie and said, "And Louie, did you manage to sell any bibles last week?" Louie silently offered the minister a large envelope.
The minister opened it and counted the contents. "What is this?" the minister exclaimed. "Louie, there's $3200 in here! Are you suggesting that you sold 320 bibles for the church, door to door, in just one week?"
Louie just nodded. "That's impossible!" both Jack and Paul said in unison. "We are professional salesmen, yet you claim to have sold 16 times as many bibles as we could."
"Yes, this does seem unlikely," the minister agreed. "I think you'd better explain how you managed to accomplish this, Louie."
Louie shrugged. "I-I-I re-re-really do-do-don't kn-kn-know f-f-f-for sh-sh-sh-sure," he stammered.
Impatiently Paul interrupted, "For crying out loud, Louie, just tell us what you said to them when they answered the door!"
"A-a-a-all I-I-I s-s-said wa-wa-was," Louis replied, "W-w-w-w-would y-y-y-you l-l-l-l-l-like t-t-to b-b-b-buy th-th-th-this b-b-b-b-bible F-f-for t-t-ten b-b-b-bucks o-o-o-or wo-wo-would yo-you j-j-j-just l-like m-m-me t-t-to st-st-stand h-h-here and r-r-r-r-r-read it t-to y-y-you??"
It was one of the hottest days of the dry season. We had not seen rain in almost a month. The crops were dying. Cows had stopped giving milk. The creeks and streams were long gone back into the earth. It was a dry season that would bankrupt several farmers before it was through. Every day, my husband and his brothers would go about the arduous process of trying to get water to the fields. Lately this process had involved taking a truck to the local water rendering plant and filling it up with water. But severe rationing had cut everyone off. If we didn't see some rain soon... we would lose everything.
It was on this day that I learned the true lesson of sharing and witnessed the only miracle I have seen with my own eyes. I was in the kitchen making lunch for my husband and his brothers when I saw my six-year old son, Billy, walking toward the woods. He wasn't walking with the usual carefree abandon of a youth but with a serious purpose. I could only see his back. He was obviously walking with a great effort...trying to be as still as possible.
Minutes after he disappeared into the woods, he came running out again, toward the house. I went back to making sandwiches, thinking that whatever task he had been doing was completed. Moments later, however, he was once again walking in that slow purposeful stride toward the woods. This activity went on for an hour. He would walk carefully to the woods, run back to the house. Finally I couldn't take it any longer and I crept out of the house and followed him on his journey (being very careful not to be seen...as he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his Mommy checking up on him).
He was cupping both hands in front of him as he walked, being very careful not to spill the water he held in them...maybe two or three tablespoons were held in his tiny hands. I sneaked close as he went into the woods. Branches and thorns slapped his little face but he did not try to avoid them. He had a much higher purpose. As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw the most amazing site. Several large deer loomed in front of him. Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamed for him to get away. A huge buck with elaborate antlers was dangerously close. But the buck did not threaten him...he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And I saw a tiny fawn laying on the ground, obviously suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hand.
When the water was gone, Billy jumped up to run back to the house and I hid behind a tree. I followed him back to the house, to a spigot that we had shut off the water to. Billy opened it all the way up and a small trickle began to creep out. He knelt there, letting the drip, drip slowly fill up his makeshift "cup", as the sun beat down on his little back. And it came clear to me. The trouble he had gotten into for playing with the hose the week before. The lecture he had received about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him.
It took almost twenty minutes for the drops to fill his hands. When he stood up and began the trek back, I was there in front of him. His little eyes just filled with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said.
As he began his walk, I joined him...with a small pot of water from the kitchen. I let him tend to the fawn. I stayed away. It was his job.
I stood on the edge of the woods watching the most beautiful heart I have ever known working so hard to save another life. As the tears that rolled down my face began to hit the ground, they were suddenly joined by other drops...and more drops...and more. I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping with pride.
Some will probably say that this was all just a huge coincidence. That miracles don't really exist. That it was bound to rain sometime. And I can't argue with that...I'm not going to try. All I can say is that the rain that came that day saved our farm...just like the actions of one little boy saved another.
I don't know if anyone will read this...but I had to send it.... To honor the memory of my beautiful Billy, who was taken from me much too soon.... but not before showing me the true face of God, in a little sunburned body.
He was driving home one evening, on a two-lane country road. Work, in this small Midwestern community, was almost as slow as his beat-up Pontiac, but he never quit looking. Ever since the factory closed, he'd been unemployed, and with winter raging on, the chill had finally hit home.
It was a lonely road. Not many people had a reason to be on it, unless they were leaving. Most of his friends had already left. They had families to feed and dreams to fulfill, but he stayed on. After all, this was where he buried his mother and father. He was born here and knew the country.
He could go down this road blind, and tell you what was on either side, and with his headlights not working, that came in handy. It was starting to get dark and light snow flurries were coming down. He'd better get a move on.
You know, he almost didn't see the old lady, stranded on the side of the road. But even in the dim light of day, he could see she needed help. So he pulled up in front of her Mercedes and got out. His Pontiac was still sputtering when he approached her.
Even with the smile on his face, she was worried. No one had stopped to help her for the last hour or so. Was he going to hurt her? He didn't look safe, he looked poor and hungry.
He could see that she was frightened, standing out there in the cold. He knew how she felt. It was that chill that only fear can put in you. He said, "I'm here to help you ma'am. Why don't you wait in the car where it's warm? By the way, my name is Joe."
Well, all she had was a flat tire, but for an old lady, that was bad enough. Joe crawled under the car looking for a place to put the jack, skinning his knuckles a time or two. Soon he was able to change the tire, but he had to get dirty and his hands hurt. As he was tightening the lug nuts, she rolled down her window and began to talk to him. She told him that she was from St. Louis and was only passing through. She couldn't thank him enough for coming to her aid.
Joe just smiled as he closed her trunk. She asked him how much she owed him. Any amount would have been all right with her. She had already imagined all the awful things that could have happened had he not stopped.
Joe never thought twice about the money. This was not a job to him. There was someone in need, and God knows there were plenty who had given him a hand in the past. He had lived his whole life that way, and it never occurred to him to act any other way. He told her that if she really wanted to pay him back, the next time she saw someone who needed help, she could give that person the assistance that they needed, and Joe added "...think of me".
He waited until she started her car and drove off. It had been a cold and depressing day, but he felt good as he headed home, disappearing into the twilight. A few miles down the road the lady saw a cafe. She went in to grab a bite to eat, and take the chill off before she made the last leg of her trip home. It was a dingy looking restaurant. Outside were two old gas pumps. The whole scene was unfamiliar to her. The cash register was like the telephone of an out of work actor-it didn't ring much.
Her waitress came over and brought a clean towel to wipe her wet hair. She had a sweet smile, one that even being on her feet for the whole day couldn't erase. The lady noticed that the waitress was nearly eight months pregnant, but she never let the strain and aches change her attitude. The old lady wondered how someone who had so little could be so giving to a stranger. Then she remembered Joe.
After the lady had finished her meal, and the waitress went to get her change from a hundred dollar bill, the lady slipped right out the door. She was gone by the time the waitress came back. She wondered where the lady could be, then she noticed something written on a napkin. There were tears in her eyes, when she read what the lady wrote. It said, "You don't owe me a thing, I've been there too. Someone once helped me out, the way I'm helping you. If you really want to pay me back, here's what you do...Don't let the of love end with you."
Well, there were tables to clear, sugar bowls to fill, and people to serve, but the waitress made it through another day. That night when she got home from work and climbed into bed, she was thinking about the money and what the lady had written. How could she have known how much she and her husband needed it? With the baby due next month, it was going to be hard.
She knew how worried her husband was, and as he lay sleeping next to her, she gave him a soft kiss and whispered soft and low, "Everything's gonna be all right. I love you Joe."
Last week I took my children to a restaurant. My six-year-old son
asked if he could say grace. As we bowed our heads he said, "God is good. God is great. Thank
you for the food, and I would even thank you more if mom gets us ice cream
for dessert. And Liberty and justice for all! Amen."
Along with the laughter from the other customers nearby, I heard a
woman remark, "That's what's wrong with this country. Kids today don't
even know how to pray. Asking God for ice-cream! Why, I never!"
my son burst into tears and asked me, "Did I do it wrong? Is God mad at
As I held him and assured him that he had done a terrific job and God was certainly not mad at him, an elderly gentleman approached the table.
He winked at my son and said, "I happen to know that God thought that was a
"Really?" my son asked.
"Cross my heart." Then in a theatrical whisper he added (indicating the woman whose remark had started this whole thing), "Too bad she never asks God for ice cream. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes."
Naturally, I bought my kids ice cream at the end of the meal.
My son stared at his for a moment and then did something I will
remember the rest of my life. He picked up his sundae and without a
word walked over and placed it in front of the woman. With a big smile he
told her, "Here, this is for you. Ice cream is good for the soul
sometimes, and my soul is good already."
Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One
man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help
drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only
window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.
The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and
families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military
service, where they had been on vacation.
And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit
up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things
he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live
for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and
enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.
The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played
on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm
in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced
the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the
As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the
man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the
One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing
by. Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it in
his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with
Days and weeks passed.
One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths
only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died
peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital
attendants to take the body away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the
other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was
happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she
left him alone.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow
to take his first look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the
joy of seeing it for himself. He strained to slowly turn to look out
the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall.
The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased
roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window.
The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the
wall. She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."