Stories Worth Sharing:

• Buying Time
• Best Worker I Ever Had
• Don't We All
• Determination
• Sand and Stone
• He Took My Whopping for Me
• The Daffodil Principle
• The Window
• The Cab Ride
• Father's touching story of God's Perfection
• A Date with the other Women
• Holiday
• Easter Thoughts

Buying Time

A man came home from work late again, tired, irritated, and stressed, to find his six year old son waiting for him at the door.

“Daddy, may I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, sure, what is it?” replied the man.

“Daddy, how much money do you make an hour?”

“That is none of your business! What makes you ask such a question?” the man said irritatingly.

“Oh, I just wanted to know. Please tell me, how much do you make an hour?” pleaded the little boy. “Well, if you must know, I make $20.00 an hour.”

“Oh,” the little boy replied, head bowed. Looking up, he said, “Daddy, may I borrow $10.00 please?”

The father was irritated. “If the only reason you want to know how much money I make is so you can borrow some for a dopey toy or other nonsense, then off to your room and think about your selfishness. And besides, you’re only six years old, and six year olds don’t need money. I work long, hard hours every day to earn money for you and your mom, I don’t have time to talk about loaning you money.”

The little boy went quietly to his room and shut the door.

After about an hour, the father had calmed down, and started to think he may have been a little hard on his son. Maybe there really was a reason he needed to borrow $10.00, he had never asked before for money. The father went to the boy’s room and knocked on the door. “May I come in?” inquired the father.

“Yes, Daddy,” replied the little boy.

“I have been thinking, maybe I was too hard on you earlier,” said the man. “It has been a long, tough day and I took my anger out on you. Here’s the $10.00 you asked for.”

The little boy sat up straight and beaming said “Oh thank you Daddy!” Then, reaching under his pillow, he pulled out some crumpled up dollars. The father seeing that the boy already had money started to get angry again. The little boy slowly started to count out his money, then looked up at his father.

“Why did you want more money if you already had some?” the father grumbled. “Because I didn’t have enough, but now I do,” the little boy replied.

“For what,” said his father.

“Daddy, I have $20.00 now. Can I borrow an hour of your time?”

-Author Unknown (Found at www.drlaura.com)

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Stevie—Best Worker I Ever Had

My daughter received this touching story via email. There was a claim that it is true…I hope so but that doesn’t really matter: it inspires.

I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome.

I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade. The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop germ"; the pairs of white shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.

I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot. After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table.

Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto a cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.

Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work.

He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome often had heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.

A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery, and doing fine. Frannie, headwaitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look.

He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked. We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay." "I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?" Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed: "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK" she said. "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is."

Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do. After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a funny look on her face. "What's up?" I asked.

"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup." She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed "Something For Stevie."

"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds.

Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply: "truckers."

That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called ten times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.

Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.

"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins.

"First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.

Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. I turned to his mother.

"There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. "Happy Thanksgiving."

Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well. But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table. Best worker I ever hired.

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Don’t We All

I was parked in front of the mall wiping off my car. I had just come from the car wash and was waiting for my wife to get out of work. Coming my way from across the parking lot was what society would consider a bum. From the looks of him, he had no car, no home, no clean clothes, and no money. There are times when you feel generous but there are other times that you just don't want to be bothered. This was one of those "don't

want to be bothered times."

"I hope he doesn't ask me for any money," I thought. He didn't. He came and sat on the curb in front of the bus stop but he didn't look like he could have enough money to even ride the bus. After a few minutes he spoke. "That's a very pretty car," he said. He was ragged but he had an air of dignity around him. His scraggly blond beard keep more than his face warm. I said, "thanks," and continued wiping off my car. He sat there quietly as I worked. The expected plea for money never came.

As the silence between us widened something inside said, "ask him if he needs any help." I was sure that he would say "yes" but I held true to the inner voice. "Do you need any help?" I asked.

He answered in three simple but profound words that I shall never forget. We often look for wisdom in great men and women. We expect it from those of higher learning and accomplishments. I expected nothing but an outstretched grimy hand. He spoke the three words that shook me.

"Don't we all?" he said.

I was feeling high and mighty, successful and important, above a bum in the street, until those three words hit me like a twelve gauge shotgun.

Don't we all?

I needed help. Maybe not for bus fare or a place to sleep, but I needed help. I reached in my wallet and gave him not only enough for bus fare, but enough to get a warm meal and shelter for the day. Those three little words still ring true. No matter how much you have, no matter how much you have accomplished, you need help too. No matter how little you

have, no matter how loaded you are with problems, even without money or a place to sleep, you can give help. Even if it's just a compliment, you can give that. You never know when you may see someone that appears to have it all. They are waiting on you to give them what they don't have. A different perspective on life, a glimpse at something beautiful, a respite from daily chaos, that only you through a torn world can see. Maybe the man was just a homeless stranger wandering the streets. Maybe he was more than that. Maybe he was sent by a power that is great and wise, to minister to a soul too comfortable in themselves.

Maybe God looked down, called an Angel, dressed him like a bum, then said, "go minister to that man cleaning the car, that man needs help." Don't we all?

Author Unknown (Source: http://www.indianchild.com/inspiring_stories.htm)

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Determination

One of the best examples of a never-say-die attitude

In 1883, a creative engineer named John Roebling was inspired by an idea to build a spectacular bridge connecting New York with Long Island. However, bridge building experts throughout the world thought it an impossible feat and told Roebling to forget the idea because it was so impractical and frankly could not be done.

Roebling could not ignore the vision he had in his mind. He convinced his son Washington, an up and coming engineer, that the bridge in fact could be built.

Working together, the father and son developed concepts of how it would be accomplished and how the obstacles overcome. With great excitement, inspiration, and the headiness of a wild challenge before them, they hired their crew and began to build their dream.

The project started well, but only a few months into it a tragic onsite accident took the life of John Roebling. Then Washington, his son and partner in the incredible venture, became extremely ill with the dreaded caisson disease, which he contracted due to circumstances in connection with his work on the bridge. He lost his ability to walk, talk, and soon he could barely move.

Under the circumstances the project would surely be scrapped. The Roeblings were the only ones who knew how to build the bridge. But what no one anticipated was that in spite of his handicap Washington did not give up.

The task too daunting for friends, Washington’s attempts to inspire and pass his enthusiasm on to some of his friends was unsuccessful. As he lay on his bed he formulated an idea. Although about all he could do was move a finger, that proved to be enough. He slowly developed a code of communication with his wife.

It seemed foolish but the project was under way again.

For 13 years ! Washington directed the building of the bridge through his intelligent and capable wife Emily who had everything to do with directing the project from this time forward. Washington watched from his bed and out his window as the construction proceeded and the magnificent bridge took shape and eventually opened.

Today the spectacular Brooklyn Bridge stands in all its glory as a tribute to the triumph of one man's indomitable spirit and his determination to not be defeated by circumstances. It was called the “eighth wonder of the world” when it opened in 1883. In 1964 the National Park Service designated the bridge a national historic landmark.

But what of the story of unbelievable determination behind the building of this magnificent structure? That is the real wonder and it serves as great motivation to everyone that knows the story.

Dreams that seem impossible can be realized with determination and persistence, no matter what the odds.

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Sand and Stone

This is a story that was printed on a random newsletter I got from a home lending company. There was no author listed. It makes a good point so I thought you might like to share it with your family.

Two friends went on a long journey together. As they walked through a dessert they began to argue. One friend got so angry that he slapped the other in the face. The one who got slapped was hurt but without saying anything he wrote in the sand, “today my best friend slapped me in the face.”

After more walking the two came to what appeared to be a refreshing pool of water, and they decided to take a bath. However, the one who had been slapped got stuck in the mire and started drowning. His friend saved him. After he recovered from the near drowning, he wrote on a stone, “today my best friend saved my life.”

The friend who had slapped and then saved his friend asked him, “after I hurt you, you wrote in the sand and now you write on a stone. Why?”

He replied: “When someone hurts us we should write it down in sand where winds of forgiveness can erase it away. But, when someone does something good for us, we must engrave it in stone where no wind can ever erase it.”

Learn to write your hurts in sand and to carve your benefits in stone.

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He Took My Whooping For Me

Reverend A.C. Dixon, a Baptist preacher who was born in the mountains of Virginia, relates the following:

Years ago, there was a certain school in my area which no teacher could handle. The boys were so rough that the teachers all resigned. One year a teacher applied and the director, after a quick scan of the young man said, “Young feller, do you know what you are asking? An awful beatin’. Every teacher we have had for years has had to take it.”

“I’ll risk it,” the teacher replied, and on the first day that he was to teach one of the bigger students, Tom, whispered, “I won’t need any help, I can lick him myself.”

The teacher began, “good morning boys, we have come to conduct school. Now I want a good school, but confess I do not know how unless you help me. Suppose we have a few rules. You tell me what they should be and I will write them on the board.”

One fellow yelled, “no stealin’.” Another yelled, “be on time.” Soon ten rules appeared.

“Now,” said the teacher, “a rule is no good unless there is a penalty attached. What shall we do with the one who breaks a rule?”

“Beat him across the back ten times without his coat on,” said a student.

“That is pretty severe boys, are you ready to stand by it?” The boys yelled wildly in the affirmative.

One day, “big Tom” found his lunch was stolen. Upon inquiry the thief was located—a scrawny kid named Jim, about ten years old. The next morning the teacher announced that the thief had been found and that he must be punished according to the rule—ten stripes across the back! “Jim, come up here.”

The little fellow, trembling, came up slowly with a big coat fastened up to the neck. Jim pleaded, “teacher, you can lick me as hard as you like, but please don’t make me take my coat off!”

“Take the coat off. You helped make the rules,” the teacher replied.

“Oh teacher, don’t make me!” He began to unbutton the coat, and to the teacher’s great dismay, the lad had no shirt on. “How can I whip this child?” thought the teacher. “But I must do something to enforce the rules.”

Everything was dead quiet, and the teacher asked, “how come you came to school without a shirt Jim?”

“My father died, and my mother is very poor. I have only one shirt, and she is washing it today, so I wore my brother’s coat to keep warm.”

The teacher, with rod in hand, hesitated. Just then “big Tom” jumped to his feet and said, “teacher, if you don’t mind, I will take Jim’s lickin’ for him.”

“Very well,” said the teacher. “There are laws that one can become a substitute for another. Are you all agreed?” Off came Tom’s coat, and after five strokes, the rod broke! The teacher bowed his head in his hands, and thought, “how can I finish this awful task?”

The entire classroom was sobbing, and when the teacher looked up, what did he see? Little Jim had reached up and caught Tom with both arms around the neck. “Tom, I was awful hungry. I’ll love you till I die for taking my licking for me! Yes, I’ll love you forever.”

We have all broken many rules for which there is a price to be paid. But Jesus Christ took your scourging for you, died in your stead, and now offers to clothe you in His garments of salvation. Will you not fall at His feet and tell Him you will love and follow Him forever? “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

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The Daffodil Principle

By Jaroldeen Asplund Edwards (permission given by author)

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you must come and see the daffodils before they are over." I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. Going and coming took most of a day--and I honestly did not have a free day until the following week.

"I will come next Tuesday, " I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call.

Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and so I drove the length of Route 91, continued on I-215, and finally turned onto Route 18 and began to drive up the mountain highway. The tops of the mountains were sheathed in clouds, and I had gone only a few miles when the road was completely covered with a wet, gray blanket of fog. I slowed to a crawl, my heart pounding. The road becomes narrow and winding toward the top of the mountain.

As I executed the hazardous turns at a snail's pace, I was praying to reach the turnoff at Blue Jay that would signify I had arrived. When I finally walked into Carolyn's house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren I said, "Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these darling children that I

want to see bad enough to drive another inch!"

My daughter smiled calmly," We drive in this all the time, Mother."

"Well, you won't get me back on the road until it clears--and then I'm

heading for home!" I assured her.

"I was hoping you'd take me over to the garage to pick up my car. The mechanic just called, and they've finished repairing the engine," she answered.

"How far will we have to drive?" I asked cautiously.

"Just a few blocks," Carolyn said cheerfully.

So we buckled up the children and went out to my car. "I'll drive,"

offered. "I'm used to this." We got into the car, and she began driving.

In a few minutes I was aware that we were back on the Rim-of-the-World Road heading over the top of the mountain. "Where are we going?" I exclaimed, distressed to be back on the mountain road in the fog. "This isn't the way to the garage!"

"We're going to my garage the long way," Carolyn smiled, "by way of the daffodils."

"Carolyn," I said sternly, trying to sound as if I was still the mother and in charge of the situation, "please turn around. There is nothing in the world that I want to see enough to drive on this road in this weather."

"It's all right, Mother," She replied with a knowing grin. "I know what I'm doing. I promise, you will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience."

And so my sweet, darling daughter who had never given me a minute of difficulty in her whole life was suddenly in charge -- and she was kidnapping me! I couldn't believe it. Like it or not, I was on the way to see some ridiculous daffodils -- driving through the thick, gray silence of the mist-wrapped mountaintop at what I thought was risk to life and limb.

I muttered all the way. After about twenty minutes we turned onto a small gravel road that branched down into an oak-filled hollow on the side of the mountain. The Fog had lifted a little, but the sky was lowering, gray and heavy with clouds.

We parked in a small parking lot adjoining a little stone church. From our vantage point at the top of the mountain we could see beyond us, in the mist, the crests of the San Bernardino range like the dark, humped backs of a herd of elephants. Far below us the fog-shrouded valleys, hills, and flatlands stretched away to the desert.

On the far side of the church I saw a pine-needle-covered path, with towering evergreens and manzanita bushes and an inconspicuous, lettered sign "Daffodil Garden."

We each took a child's hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path as it wound through the trees. The mountain sloped away from the side of the path in irregular dips, folds, and valleys, like a deeply creased skirt.

Live oaks, mountain laurel, shrubs, and bushes clustered in the folds, and in the gray, drizzling air, the green foliage looked dark and monochromatic. I shivered. Then we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped. Before me lay the most glorious sight, unexpectedly and completely splendid. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes where it had run into every crevice and over every rise. Even in the mist-filled air, the mountainside was radiant, clothed in massive drifts and waterfalls of daffodils. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow.

Each different-colored variety (I learned later that there were more than thirty-five varieties of daffodils in the vast display) was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue.

In the center of this incredible and dazzling display of gold, a great cascade of purple grape hyacinth flowed down like a waterfall of blossoms framed in its own rock-lined basin, weaving through the brilliant daffodils. A charming path wound throughout the garden. There were several resting stations, paved with stone and furnished with Victorian wooden benches and great tubs of coral and carmine tulips. As though this were not magnificence enough, Mother Nature had to add her own grace note -- above the daffodils, a bevy of western bluebirds flitted and darted, flashing their brilliance. These charming little birds are the color of sapphires with breasts of magenta red. As they dance in the air, their colors are truly like jewels above the blowing, glowing daffodils. The effect was spectacular.

It did not matter that the sun was not shining. The brilliance of the daffodils was like the glow of the brightest sunlit day. Words, wonderful as they are, simply cannot describe the incredible beauty of that flower-bedecked mountain top.

Five acres of flowers! (This too I discovered later when some of my questions were answered.) "But who has done this?" I asked Carolyn. I was overflowing with gratitude that she brought me -- even against my will. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

"Who?" I asked again, almost speechless with wonder, "And how, and why, and when?"

"It's just one woman," Carolyn answered. "She lives on the property. That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame house that looked small

and modest in the midst of all that glory.

We walked up to the house, my mind buzzing with questions. On the patio we saw a poster. " Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking" was the headline. The first answer was a simple one. "50,000 bulbs," it read. The second answer was, "One at a time, by one woman, two hands, two feet, and very little brain." The third answer was, "Began in 1958."

There it was. The Daffodil Principle!

For me that moment was a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than thirty-five years before, had begun -- one bulb at a time -- to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top. One bulb at a time.

There was no other way to do it. One bulb at a time. No shortcuts -- simply loving the slow process of planting. Loving the work as it unfolded.

Loving an achievement that grew so slowly and that bloomed for only three weeks of each year. Still, just planting one bulb at a time,

year after year, had changed the world.

This unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived. She had created something of ineffable magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principle of celebration: learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time -- often just one baby-step at a time -- learning to love the doing,

learning to use the accumulation of time.

When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.

"Carolyn," I said that morning on the top of the mountain as we left the haven of daffodils, our minds and hearts still bathed and bemused by the splendors we had seen, "it's as though that remarkable woman has needle-pointed the earth! Decorated it. Just think of it, she planted every single bulb for more than thirty years. One bulb at a time! And that's the only way this garden could be created. Every individual bulb had to be planted. There was no way of short-circuiting that process.

Five acres of blooms. That magnificent cascade of hyacinth!

All, all, just one bulb at a time."

The thought of it filled my mind. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the implications of what I had seen. "It makes me sad in a way," I admitted to Carolyn. "What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five years ago and had worked away at it 'one bulb at a time' through all those years.

Just think what I might have been able to achieve!"

My wise daughter put the car into gear and summed up the message of the day in her direct way. "Start tomorrow," she said with the same knowing smile she had worn for most of the morning. Oh, profound wisdom!

It is pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson a celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask,

"How can I put this to use tomorrow?"

By Jeraldeen Asplund Edwards (permission granted by author)

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The Window

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour a day to drain the fluids 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 next to 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 would live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the outside world. The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake, the man had said. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Lovers walked arm in arm amid 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 distance. 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 picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man could not hear the band, he could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words. Unexpectedly, an alien thought entered his head: Why should he have all the pleasure of seeing everything while I never get to see anything? It didn't seem fair. As the thought fermented, the man felt ashamed at first. But as the days passed and he missed seeing more sights, his envy eroded into resentment and soon turned him sour. He began to brood and found himself unable to sleep. He should be by that window - and that thought now controlled his life.

Late one night, as he lay staring at the ceiling, the man by the window began to cough. He was choking on the fluid in his lungs. The other man watched in the dimly lit room as the struggling man by the window groped for the button to call for help. Listening from across the room, he never moved, never pushed his own button, which would have brought the nurse running. In less than five minutes, the coughing and choking stopped, along with the sound of breathing. Now, there was only silence--deathly silence.

The following morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths. When she found the lifeless body of the man by the window, she was saddened and called the hospital attendant to take it away--no words, no fuss. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the 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. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it all himself. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall.

Moral: The pursuit of happiness is a matter of choice… It is not a gift that gets delivered to our doorstep each morning, nor does it come through the window…. our circumstances are just a small part of what makes us joyful. If we wait for them to get just right, we will never find lasting joy. Author unknown (http://www.indianchild.com/inspiring_stories.htm)

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The Cab Ride

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware. "Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness. "It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated". "Oh, you're such a good boy", she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice".

I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long." I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

"What route would you like me to take?" I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator

operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired.

Let's go now." We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

“You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware--beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel!

(Author Unknown)

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A Touching Story by a Father—God’s Perfection

Note: The following is a story that my son shared in a religion class as part of an assignment. The students were very touched and he shared the experience and story with me. Later I ran across it, and learned of its origin and that it is said to be a true story

(see http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/g/godsperfection.htm)

In Brooklyn, New York, Chush is a school that caters to learning disabled children. At a Chush fund-raising dinner, the father of a Chush child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended.

After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, "Where is the perfection in my son Shaya? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God's perfection?"

The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father's anguish, stilled by the piercing query.

" I believe," the father answered, "that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that he seeks is in the way people react to this child."

He then told the following story about his son Shaya:

One afternoon Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys Shaya knew were playing baseball.

Shaya asked, "Do you think they will let me play?"

Shaya's father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya's father understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging.

Shaya's father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his 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."

Shaya's father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled broadly. Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shaya's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shaya's team scored again and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game? Surpassingly, Shaya was given the bat.

Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya should at least be able to make contact.

The first pitch came in and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya's teammates came up to Shaya and together the held the bat and faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya. As the pitch came in, Shaya and his teammate swung at the bat and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman.

Everyone started yelling, "Shaya, run to first. Run to first." Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide-eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman who would tag out Shaya, who was still running. But the right fielder understood what the pitcher's intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman's head. Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second." Shaya ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Shaya reached second base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, "Run to third." As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, "Shaya run home."

Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero, as he had just hit a "grand slam" and won the game for his team.

"That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, "those 18 boys reached their level of God's perfection."

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A Date with the other Woman

--Author Unknown

After 21 years of marriage, I discovered a new way of keeping alive the spark of love. A little while ago I started to go out with another woman. It was really my wife's idea.

"I know you love her," she said one day, taking me by surprise.

"But I love YOU!" I protested.

"I know, but you also love her."

The other woman my wife wanted me to visit was my mother, who has been a widow for 19 years. The demands of my work and my three children had made it possible to visit her only occasionally. That night I called to invite her to go out for dinner and a movie.

"What's wrong, are you well," she asked? My mother is the type of woman who suspects that a late night call or a surprise invitation is a sign of bad news.

"I thought it would be pleasant to pass some time with you," I responded. "Just the two of us."

She thought about it for a moment then said, "I would like that very much."

That Friday after work as I drove over to pick her up I was a bit nervous. When I arrived at her house I noticed that she too seemed to be nervous about our date. She waited in the doorway with her coat on. She had curled her hair and was wearing the dress that she had worn to celebrate her last wedding anniversary. She smiled from a face that was as radiant as an angel's.

"I told my friends that I was going to go out with my son, and they were impressed," she said as she got into the car. "They can't wait to hear about our meeting."

We went to a restaurant that although not elegant was very nice and cozy. My mother took my arm as if she were the First Lady.

After we sat down I had to read the menu. Her eyes could only read large print. Halfway through the entree I lifted my eyes and saw Mom sitting there staring at me. A nostalgic smile was on her lips.

"It was I who used to have to read the menu when you were small," she said.

"Then it's time you relaxed and let me return the favor," I responded.

During the dinner we had an agreeable conversation – nothing extraordinary - just catching up on recent events of each other's lives. We talked so much that we missed the movie.

As we arrived at her house later she said, "I'll go out with you again, but only if you let me invite you." I agreed and kissed her good night.

"How was your dinner date?" asked my wife when I got home.

"Very nice. Much nicer than I could have imagined," I answered.

A few days later, my mother died of a massive heart attack. It happened so suddenly that I didn't have a chance to do anything for her.

Sometime later I received an envelope with a copy of a restaurant receipt from the same place mother and I had dined. An attached note said: "I paid this bill in advance. I was almost sure that I couldn't be there but never-the-less, I paid for two plates --one for you and the other for you wife. You will never know what that night meant to me. I love you."

At that moment I understood the importance of saying "I LOVE YOU" in time, and to give our loved ones the time that they deserve. Nothing in life is more important than God and your family. Give them the time they deserve because these things cannot always be put off to "some other time."

*A note from the submitter of this story: My mother passed away suddenly 17 years ago when she was only 61. On Mother’s Days especially I long to tell her “ I sure love you mom!” Now go give your mom a call and tell her how much you love her. If that’s impossible then make her happy by doing good in the world.

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Holiday Stories

Roses Always on Valentine’s Day

Some time ago I heard a sweet story that I would like to share with you in my own words. Of course this is the month we remember special loved ones, and especially those we call our lovers. The blessing of a loving relationship with a mate, that grows through time and lasts forever, is one of the most touching things, and deeply desired hopes of one’s heart. So let me tell you about Rose.

Rose always received roses—red ones, because they were her favorite—on Valentine’s Day. Every time they came to her door dressed up with bows, and a note from her loving husband which said, “I love you even more this year than last, and my love for you will grow with each passing year. Be my Valentine.”

He died suddenly in the dead of winter one year, leaving Rose sad and lonely. She was not surprised that on that Valentine’s Day her gift arrived as it always did, for it was not unlike him to have made arrangements, and prepaid for the gift a little early. She cut the stems and tenderly placed the flowers in a vase, right next to a picture of his smiling face. She sat for hours and admired their beauty, and reminisced of days gone by spent with her mate: wonderful times, happy times.

A year went by and by now Rose had consigned herself to a life of fond memories, yet loneliness. To her surprise, on Valentine’s Day at the usual time, and on her doorstep as always, she found red roses. While still in shock she called the florist wanting to know the meaning of this. He informed her that arrangements had been made by her dear husband many years earlier, for her to receive roses every year. The florist told her that he had been instructed to give her the special note attached this year, after his passing. She hung up the phone, and with trembling hands opened the treasured letter. It was hand written by her husband.

"Hello my love, I know it's been awhile since I've been gone. I hope it hasn't been too hard. I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real. For if it was the other way, I know how I would feel. The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life.

I loved you more than words can say; you were the perfect wife.

"You were my friend and lover, you fulfilled my every need. Please try not to grieve. I want you to be happy, and that is why the roses will be sent to you for years.

"When you get these roses, think of all the happiness we had together, and how both of us were blessed. I have always loved you and I know I always will.

"Please try to find happiness, while living out your days. The roses will come every year, and they will only stop when your door is not answered. The florist will come five times that day, in case you are just out for a time. But after his last visit, he will know to take the roses to the place where I've instructed him, and place them where we are together once again.”

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did!

The Clock Maker—A Christmas Story

It was almost Christmas day. In the bustling town square there was excitement in the air—the same feeling that accompanied each Christmas season in this tiny part of the world. Every member of the community anxiously looked forward to the annual Christmas Day celebration near the town’s most treasured display of art. Near the town’s center was a large statue of the virgin mother holding the Holy Child in her arms. Each Christmas Day people from far and wide would come and lay gifts at the feet of the fair and beautiful Mary, hoping that their gift would be the one chosen by Mary’s infant son. Legend had it that when a gift, fully accepted of the Lord, was placed at the feet of His mother, bells would ring, and He would reach down and pick it up. Although no one had ever witnessed the miracle, everyone believed it to be true, and every wealthy man made great efforts to bestow their finest gifts on the child.

For the most part the gifts consisted of expensive perfumes, incense, and oils: the finest woven cloth, jewels, and precious metals. The gift giving became a competition of sorts amongst the wealthy, each desiring more than anything to be the one that finally laid the acceptable gift at the feet of Christ’s mother. Ah, what an honor it would be to claim the miracle! Beggars, and the less than wealthy citizens of the community were obliged to watch the annual event, from a distance, having no precious gifts to give.

In this town lived a poor, old, clock maker. He lived in a tiny room behind a tiny shop where he worked repairing, and crafting simple timepieces. This year his shop had a little different feel to it, thanks to the most handsome, intricately carved, and meticulously crafted clock that hung on his wall. It was his life-long dream come to fruition! He had scrimped and saved, missing meals, and using a little less coal in the furnace, for nearly a year, for he so desired to present the baby with a gift, at least once in his life. Shortly after Christmas Day last year, the clock maker decided that, “next year I will present the baby Jesus with the very finest clock ever made!” And so for nearly twelve months he had sacrificed, working late nights, and denying himself even some necessities, so that all his wages and energies might go toward the purchase of fine materials, and creating this wonderful masterpiece.

The townspeople watched with interest as the magnificent clock took shape over the course of days, weeks and months. The wealthiest in town often tried to buy the clock from the poor, old man, offering him huge sums of money. Without even a thought, each time the clock maker repeated, “I’m sorry, that clock is not for sale.” As Christmas Day approached the clock maker continued to stay up long into the night, making sure that the clock was perfect in every way.

Finally on Christmas Eve, the marvelous timepiece was complete. Because the community was focused on Christmas, especially the week just prior the big celebration, making ends meet had been even more challenging than usual for the clock maker. Business had taken it’s usual mid December dip. The fact that all he had left in his tiny dwelling to eat was a red apple and one crust of bread didn’t concern the clock maker, for he could hardly wait for the next day to arrive, when he at last would present the baby Jesus with his gift—a way of thanking his beloved Savior.

It was with a feeling of overwhelming satisfaction that the clock maker went to lay his head on his pillow before the Christmas dawn, for he was so very weary after a year of long hours of work. As he was about to do so, he thought he heard crying outside his tiny shop. As he went to the window to look down the narrow walk outside his door, he heard the noise again. He opened the door to find a woman in tears. She seemed embarrassed and apologized when he began to inquire about her situation. Through kindly persistence he learned that the woman’s husband was critically ill, and in need of medical care which they could not afford. The Drs. had turned them away, and she was on her way home from purchasing a little medicine to relieve her husband’s suffering. Near the clock shop she was overcome with her situation, and paused to cry a moment before facing her husband.

Immediately the clock maker snatched timepieces from his wall, and began going door to door, explaining the woman’s situation, asking, and then begging that people buy a clock from him so that he could help. Everyone turned him away saying something like, “why it’s Christmas Eve! We are not interested in clocks tonight. Go home old man.” Before turning him away, a few made him offers on the wonderful clock that was meant for the baby Jesus. At first, he answered as he always had, “that clock is not for sale,” but soon it became evident that it was his only hope of helping the woman.

As the clock maker slowly made his way back to his shop, his former feelings of great anticipation, and complete satisfaction were dashed--broken into a million pieces, impossible to ever be collected and put back together again. When he reached his shop he informed the woman that he would soon have the money she needed, and he slipped the masterpiece under his tattered coat. Away he went into the cold, dark night to sell his dream.

So Christmas Eve was another sleepless night, but this one borne of despair, rather than excitement. When the dawn came, although he didn’t have much of an appetite, he decided he’d better eat what little food he had. He stared at the small red apple as he ate the crust of bread. He knew that everyone was expecting him to participate in the Christmas Day celebration in the town square. Oh, what was he to do? His grief overwhelmed him. He began to polish the little apple and decided that that was about all he had to give. The few clocks he had hanging on his wall were plain and simple, and didn’t seem the right thing to offer the baby.

It was agonizing to step out of his door and walk to the square. He made sure that he did not arrive until the celebration was nearly over and most of the gifts presented. As he approached the stairs that lay before the magnificent statue, the crowd became hushed. By now his eyes were filled with tears, and he stumbled as he approached to lay his gift at the feet of the mother of his Lord. He could hear whispers and gasps from the crowd when they saw the tiny apple; some saying, “I knew he couldn’t give that fine clock away after all that work. He has kept it for himself!” Others were heard to say, “he has finally sold it, so he too can be a wealthy man!” Their mocking only added to the difficulty of his task, and the clock maker began to sob uncontrollably at that moment when he was about to lay down his gift.

Suddenly, heavenly bells began to peel. People were struck with awe as they witnessed the miracle. All eyes were on Mary’s little one as He reached down from his mother’s arms and took the apple from the clock maker.

Many lessons were learned that glorious Christmas Day.

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Easter Thoughts

It’s quite a claim isn’t it!? That Easter story that tells of a man who died and then rose again, and through it all paid the price for our sins so that we will live again after we leave this earthly existence too! Millions have and do believe it so that makes the Easter story either the biggest lie ever swallowed by men or a miracle beyond comprehension.

I had a Science teacher in college whose perspective I greatly appreciated and have never forgotten. He claimed he was not a religious man, and so through his words—which seemed full of “faith” to me--he gained a great deal of respect in my eyes. What he said one day I’ve given lots of thought to. He said, “There are different ways of knowing things. Science is one way of knowing, but there are others which are not less significant.”

Something like the Easter story is one of those things that may not be known through science per se, for a very long time; and yet, it can be known to be true. The few words of the chorus of a favorite Easter song are worth at least some contemplation. Perhaps you will read and discuss them with your family this Easter season and through shared activities come to know for yourselves, if you don’t already, the truth about Easter.

“Nations fall behind Him. The rivers crawl to find Him. Mountains move, just to let Him through. Come and never leave Him, just let your heart believe Him, and never let His love go, never let your light grow dim.”