9/11 A Reality Check An important reminder
for all of us.
From newsday.com 9/9/2002 Letters to the Editor
So many people have so many opinions about the remembrance of 9/11. Even in
my family, we are divided.
I feel we need to remember that day and our vulnerability as a nation. That
day made us all so humble. I remember that for weeks people were friendly to
each other, no one lost patience, no one honked the horns when driving, people
smiled at strangers. It seemed like we were all aware that the person next to
us might in fact be someone who could save our lives in a disaster situation.
We realized how fragile we all are and how we all needed each other.
A year later, that realization has faded. I think we need 9/11 to reflect upon
and remember how we all reacted that day and not lose sight of that feeling.
We need the remembrance to humble us again, to realize once more how vulnerable
we are and how we all do need each other. It seems like everything has gotten
"back to normal," but I'm not sure "back to normal" is where we want to be.
We hope and pray we will never have to live through anything like that again,
but as a nation, as individual people, we need to remember how each one of us
could be forced into the position of hero.
We need 9/11 as a reality check.
Karen Henley
Westbury
FOOTPRINTS...A New Version
Imagine you and the Lord Jesus are walking down the road together. For much
of the way, the Lord's footprints go along steadily, consistently, rarely varying
the pace. But your footprints are a disorganized stream of zigzags, starts,
stops, turnarounds, circles, departures, and returns.
For much of the way, it seems to go like this, but gradually your footprints
come more in line with the Lord's, soon paralleling His consistently. You and
Jesus are walking as true friends!
This seems perfect, but then an interesting thing happens: Your footprints that
once etched the sand next to Jesus' are now walking precisely in His steps.
Inside His larger footprints are your smaller ones, you and Jesus are becoming
one.
This goes on for many miles, but gradually you notice another change. The footprints
inside the large footprints seem to grow larger. Eventually they disappear altogether.
There is only one set of footprints they have become one.
This goes on for a long time, but suddenly the second set of footprints is back.
This time it seems even worse!!!
Zigzags all over the place. Stops. Starts. Gashes in the sand. A variable mess
of prints.
You are amazed and shocked. Your dream ends. Now you pray: "Lord, I understand
the first scene with zigzags end fits. I was a new Christian; I was just learning.
But You walked on through the storm and helped me learn to walk with You.
"That is correct."
"And when the smaller footprints were inside of Yours, I was actually learning
to walk in Your steps; followed You very closely."
"Very good. You have understood everything so far."
"When the smaller footprints grew and filled in Yours, I suppose that I was
becoming like You in every way."
"Precisely."
"So, Lord, was there a regression or something? The footprints separated, and
this time it was worse than at first."
There is a pause as the Lord answers with a smile in His voice. "You didn't
know? That was when we danced."
To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven: A time
to weep, a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
Ecclesiastics 3:1,4.
Funny how you can send a thousand 'jokes' through E-mail and they spread
like wildfire, but when you start sending messages regarding the Lord, people
think twice about sharing. Funny isn't it? Are you laughing? Are you thinking?
Spread the Word and give thanks to the Lord for He is good!
Funny isn't it, when you go to forward this message, how many on your list are
not receiving it because you're not sure they believe in anything?
Sad, it's not WHAT you have in your life, but Whom you have in your life that
counts Think about that.
Send this to whomever you think of as a friend. I did.
The Heart
"Tomorrow morning," the surgeon began, "I'll open up your heart..."
"You'll find Jesus there," the boy interrupted.
The surgeon looked up, annoyed "I'll cut your heart open," he continued, to
see how much damage has been done..."
"But when you open up my heart, you'll find Jesus in there," said the boy.
The surgeon looked to the parents, who sat quietly. "When I see how much damage
has been done, I'll sew your heart and chest back up, and I'll plan what to
do next."
"But you'll find Jesus in my heart. The Bible says He lives there. The hymns
all say He lives there. You'll find Him in my heart."
The surgeon had had enough. "I'll tell you what I'll find in your heart. I'll
find damaged muscle, low blood supply, and weakened vessels. And I'll find out
if I can make you well."
"You'll find Jesus there too. He lives there."
The surgeon left. The surgeon sat in his office, recording his notes from the
surgery, "...damaged aorta, damaged pulmonary vein and widespread muscle degeneration.
No hope for transplant, no hope for cure.
Therapy: painkillers and bed rest. Prognosis:, here he paused, "death within
one year."
He stopped the recorder, but there was more to be said. "Why?" he asked aloud.
"Why did You do this? You've put him here; You've put him in this pain; and
You've cursed him to an early death. Why?"
The Lord answered and said, "The boy, My lamb, was not meant for your flock
for long, for he is a part of My flock, and will forever be.
Here, in My flock, he will feel no pain, and will be comforted as you cannot
imagine. His parents will one day join him here, and they will know peace, and
My flock will continue to grow."
The surgeon's tears were hot, but his anger was hotter. "You created that boy,
and You created that heart. He'll be dead in months. Why?"
The Lord answered, "The boy, My lamb, shall return to My flock, for He has done
his duty: I did not put My lamb with your flock to lose him, but to retrieve
another lost lamb."
The surgeon wept. The surgeon sat beside the boy's bed; the boy's parents sat
across from him. The boy awoke and whispered, "Did you cut open my heart?"
"Yes," said the surgeon. "What did you find?" asked the boy. "I found Jesus
there," said the surgeon.
Author Unknown - Celebrate Jesus in 2002! If you aren't ashamed to do this,
please follow the directions listed below:
Jesus said, "If you are ashamed of me, I will be ashamed of you before my
Father.."
I Am Not Ashamed. Pass this on only if you mean it. "Yes, I do Love God. He
is my source of existence and Savior. He keeps me functioning each and everyday.
Without Him, I will be nothing. Without him, I am nothing, but with Him I can
do all things through Christ that strengthens me."
(Phil 4:13)
This is the simplest test. If you Love God, and are not ashamed of all the marvelous
things he has done for you. Send this to ten people and the person who sent
it to you!
Subject: The Lawyer
After living a "decent" life, my time on earth came to an end. The first thing
I remember is sitting on a bench in the waiting room of what I thought to be
a court house.
The doors opened and I was instructed to come in and have a seat by the defense
table. As I looked around I saw the "prosecutor." He was a villainous looking
gent who snarled as he stared at me. He definitely was the most evil person
I have ever seen.
I sat down and looked to my left and there sat my lawyer, a kind and gentle
looking man whose appearance seemed familiar to me.
The corner door flew open and there appeared the judge in full flowing robes.
He commanded an awesome presence as he moved across the room.
I couldn't take my eyes off of him. As he took his seat behind the bench, he
said, "Let us begin."
The prosecutor rose and said, "My name is Satan and I am here to show you why
this man belongs in hell."
He proceeded to tell of lies that I told, things that I stole, and in the past
when I cheated others. Satan told of other horrible perversions that were once
in my life and the more he spoke, the further down in my seat I sank. I was
so embarrassed that I couldn't look at anyone, even my own lawyer, as the Devil
told of sins that even I had completely forgotten about.
As upset as I was at Satan for telling all these things about me, I was equally
upset at my representative who sat there silently not offering any form of defense
at all. I know I had been guilty of those things, but I had done some good in
my life - couldn't that at least equal out part of the harm I've done?
Satan finished with a fury and said, "This man belongs in hell, he is guilty
of all that I have charged and there is not a person who can prove otherwise.
When it was his turn, my lawyer first asked if he might approach the bench.
The judge allowed this over the strong objection of Satan, and beckoned him
to come forward.
As he got up and started walking, I was able to see him in his full splendor
and majesty. I realized why he seemed so familiar.
This was Jesus representing me, my Lord and my Savior. He stopped at the bench
and softly said to the judge, "Hi Dad," and then he turned to address the court.
"Satan was correct in saying that this man had sinned, I won't deny any of these
allegations. And yes the wage of sin is death, and this man deserves to be punished."
Jesus took a deep breath and turned to his Father with outstretched arms and
proclaimed, "However, I died on the cross so that this person might have eternal
life and he has accepted me as his Savior, so he is mine."
My Lord continued with, "His name is written in the book of life and no one
can snatch him from me. Satan still does not understand yet. This man is not
to be given justice, but rather mercy."
As Jesus sat down, he quietly paused, looked at his Father and replied, "There
is nothing else that needs to be done. I've done it all."
The judge lifted his mighty hand and slammed the gavel down. The following words
bellowed from his lips... "This man is free. The penalty for him has already
been paid in full. Case dismissed."
As my Lord led me away, I could hear Satan ranting and raving, "I won't give
up, I'll win the next one."
I asked Jesus as he gave me my instructions where to go next, "Have you ever
lost a case?" Christ lovingly smiled and said, "Everyone that has come to me
and asked me to represent them has received the same verdict as you, Paid in
Full."
If you do not pass this along, absolutely nothing will happen. No curse, no
bad fortune, absolutely nothing.
Passing this on to anyone you consider a friend will bless you both.
Dandelions
When I look at a patch of dandelions, I see a bunch of weeds that are going
to take over my yard.
My kids see flowers for Mom and blowing white fluff you can wish on.
When I look at an old drunk and he smiles at me, I see a smelly, dirty person
who probably wants money and I look away.
My kids see someone smiling at them and they smile back.
When I hear music I love, I know I can't carry a tune and don't have much
rhythm so I sit self-consciously and listen.
My kids feel the beat and move to it. They sing out the words. If they
don't know them, they make up their own.
When I feel wind on my face, I brace myself against it. I feel it messing
up my hair and pulling me back when I walk.
My kids close their eyes, spread their arms and fly with it, until they
fall to the ground laughing.
When I pray, I say thee and thou and grant me this, give me that.
My kids say, "Hi God! Thanks for my toys and my friends. Please keep the
bad dreams away tonight. Sorry, I don't want to go to Heaven yet. I would
miss my Mommy and Daddy."
When I see a mud puddle I step around it. I see muddy shoes and dirty carpets.
My kids sit in it. They see dams to build, rivers to cross, and worms to
play with.
I wonder if we are given kids to teach or to learn from? No wonder God loves
the little children!
Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize
they were the big things.
I wish you Big Mud Puddles and Sunny Yellow Dandelions!!!
Cally
A Trucker's story...
I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie.
His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy.
But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted
one. I wasn't sure how my Customers would react to Stevie.
He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued
speech of Down Syndrome. I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers
because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf
platter is good and the pies are homemade.
The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college
kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware
with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truckstop germ"; the pairs
of white shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truckstop
waitress wants to be flirted with.
I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched
him for the first few weeks.
I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped
around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had adopted
him as their official truckstop mascot. After that, I really didn't care what
the rest of the customers thought of him.
He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager
to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties.
Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or
coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table.
Our only problem was 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 the 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 truckstop. Their Social worker, which stopped
to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks.
Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them
being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home.
That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first
morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in
Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart.
His social worker said that people with Down syndrome often had heart problems
at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would
come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.
A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came
that he was out of surgery, in recovery and doing fine. Frannie, head waitress,
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 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 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful
that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy.
I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot
and invited them both 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.
Plant a seed and watch it grow.
At this point, you can bury this inspirational message or forward it fulfilling
the need! If you shed a tear, hug yourself because you are a compassionate person.
Regarding September 11, 2001
An e-mailI received:
This is worth forwarding to everyone you know.....Sherb
Subject: Fw: Food for Thought
In light of the many perversions and jokes we send to one another for a laugh,
this is a little different: This is not intended to be a joke, it's not funny,
it's intended to get you thinking.
Billy Graham's daughter was interviewed on the Early Show and Jane Clayson
asked her "How could God let something like this happen?" (regarding the attacks
on Sept. 11).
Anne Graham gave an extremely profound and insightful response. She said
"I believe God is deeply saddened by this, just as we are, but for years we've
been telling God to get out of our schools, to get out of our government and
to get out of our lives.
And being the gentleman He is, I believe He has calmly backed out. How can
we expect God to give us His blessing and His protection if we demand He leave
us alone?"
In light of recent events...terrorists attack, school shootings, etc. I think
it started when Madeleine Murray O'Hare (she was murdered, her body found
recently) complained she didn't want prayer in our schools, and we said OK.
Then someone said you better not read the Bible in school ... the Bible says
thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, and love your neighbor as yourself.
And we said OK.
Then Dr. Benjamin Spock said we shouldn't spank our children when they misbehave
because their little personalities would be warped and we might damage their
self-esteem (Dr. Spock's son committed suicide). We said an expert should
know what he's talking about. And we said OK.
Then someone said teachers and principals better not discipline our children
when they misbehave. The school administrators said no faculty member in this
school better touch a student when they misbehave because we don't want any
bad publicity, and we surely don't want to be sued (there's a big difference
between disciplining, touching, beating, smacking, humiliating, kicking, etc.).
And we said OK.
Then someone said, let's let our daughters have abortions if they want, and
they won't even have to tell their parents. And we said OK.
Then some wise school board member said, since boys will be boys and they're
going to do it anyway, let's give our sons all the condoms they want so they
can have all the fun they desire, and we won't have to tell their parents
they got them at school. And we said OK.
Then some of our top elected officials said it doesn't matter what we do
in private as long as we do our jobs. Agreeing with them, we said it doesn't
matter to me what anyone, including the President, does in private as long
as I have a job and the economy is good.
Then someone said let's print magazines with pictures of nude women and call
it wholesome, down-to-earth appreciation for the beauty of the female body.
And we said OK.
And then someone else took that appreciation a step further and published
pictures of nude children and then further again by making them available
on the Internet. And we said OK, they're entitled to free speech.
Then the entertainment industry said, let's make TV shows and movies that
promote profanity, violence, and illicit sex. Let's record music that encourages
rape, drugs, murder, suicide, and satanic themes. And we said it's just entertainment,
it has no adverse effect, nobody takes it seriously anyway, so go right ahead.
Now we're asking ourselves why our children have no conscience, why they
don't know right from wrong, and why it doesn't bother them to kill strangers,
their classmates, and themselves.
Probably, if we think about it long and hard enough, we can figure it out.
I think it has a great deal to do with "WE REAP WHAT WE SOW."
Funny how simple it is for people to trash God and then wonder why the world's
going to hell. Funny how we believe what the newspapers say, but question
what the Bible says.
Funny how you can send 'jokes' through E-mail and they spread like wildfire
but when you start sending messages regarding the Lord, people think twice
about sharing.
Funny how lewd, crude, vulgar and obscene articles pass freely through cyberspace,
but public discussion of God is suppressed in the school and workplace.
Are you laughing?
Funny how when you forward this message, you will not send it to many on
your address list because you're not sure what they believe, or what they
WILL think of you for sending it. Funny how we can be more worried about what
other people think of us than what God thinks of us.
Pass it on if you think it has merit. If not then just discard it...
America Bless God
AND
God will Bless America
"S.H.M.I.L.Y."
My grandparents were married for over half a century and played their own special
game from the time they had met each other.
The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for
the other to find.
They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house and as soon as one of them
discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.
They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers,
to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on
the windows overlooking the patio. "Shmily" was written in the steam left on
the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one
point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper, to leave
"shmily" on the very last sheet.
There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily"
scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering
wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily"
was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace.
This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture.
It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents'
game. Skepticism had kept me from believing in true love - one that is pure
and enduring. However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had
love down pat. It was more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way
of life. Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection,
which not everyone is lucky enough to experience.
But, there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' lives: my grandmother had breast
cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. Now the cancer was
again attacking her body.
With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they went to church
every morning. But, my grandmother grew steadily weaker until; finally, she
could not leave the house anymore. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally
happened. Grandma was gone. "Shmily"... It was scrawled in yellow on the pink
ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet.
As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles,
cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one
last time.
Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother's casket and (taking a shaky breath) he
began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came (a deep and
throaty lullaby).
Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that
(although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love) I had been privileged
to witness its' unmatched beauty.
S-H-M-I-L-Y
(See How Much I Love You)
Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa, for letting me see also.
Author Unknown
The Room
By 17 year old Brian Moore whom God took home May 27, 1997
17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a class.
The subject was what Heaven was like. "I wowed 'em," he later told his father,
Bruce. "It's a killer. It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote." It
also was the last.
Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning
out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School. Brian had been dead only
hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them-notes
from classmates and teachers, his homework.
Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus
in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life. But
it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their
son had described his view of heaven. It makes such an impact that people want
to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr. Moore said.
Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was driving home
from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in Pickaway County
and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on
a downed power line and was electrocuted.
The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits
in the living room. "I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant
to find it and make something out of it, " Mrs Moore said of the essay. She
and her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy
for Brian. I know he's in heaven.
I know I'll see him.
Brian's Essay:
"The Room..."
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There
were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index
card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author
or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor
to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings.
As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that
read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards.
I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on
each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.
This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life.
Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail
my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror,
stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content.
Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense
that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed."
The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read,"
"Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some
were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers."
Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have
Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the
contents.
Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.
I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible
that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions
of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting.
Each signed with my signature.
When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched," I realized the
files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet
after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed,
not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file
represented.
When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through
my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and
drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that
such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought
dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards!
No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I
yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn
the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I
could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card,
only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead
against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it.. The
title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With."
The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled
on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands.
I could count the cards it contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I
began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook
through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming
shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No
one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But
then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.
No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as
He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His
response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw
a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes.
Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across
the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't
anger me.
I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He
walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But
He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.
Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of
the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine
on each card.
"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled
the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written
in red so rich, so dark, so alive.
The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took
the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think
I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed
I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand
on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."
I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There
were still cards to be written.
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."- Phil.4:13 "For God
so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall
not perish but have eternal life." - John 3:16
If you feel the same way forward it to as many people as you can so the love
of Jesus will touch their lives also. My "People I shared the gospel with" file
just got bigger, how about yours?
If there is one e-mail that I have read that needs to go around the world, it
is this one, please pass this to everyone you know, Christian or not! "let's
fill our own file card" and may God bless you all!
You don't have to share this with anybody, no one will know whether you did
or not, but you will know and so will He.
God Is Under The Bed.
My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his bed. At least that's what I heard
him say one night. He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and I stopped
outside his closed door to listen. Are you there, God?" he said.
Where are you? Oh, I see. Under the bed."
I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room. Kevin's unique perspectives
are often a source of amusement. But that night something else lingered long
after the humor.
I realized for the first time the very different world Kevin lives in.
He was born 30 years ago, mentally disabled as a result of difficulties during
labor. Apart from his size (he's 6-foot-2); there are few ways in which he is
an adult. He reasons and communicates with the capabilities of a 7-year-old,
and he always will.
He will probably always believe that God lives under his bed, that Santa Claus
is the one who fills the space under our tree every Christmas, and that airplanes
stay up in the sky because angels carry them I remember wondering if Kevin realizes
he is different. Is he ever dissatisfied with his monotonous life?
Up before dawn each day, off to work at a workshop for the disabled, home to
walk our cocker spaniel, return to eat his favorite macaroni-and-cheese for
dinner, and later to bed. The only variation in the entire scheme are laundry,
when he hovers excitedly over the washing machine like a mother with her newborn
child.
He does not seem dissatisfied. He lopes out to the bus every morning at 7:05,
eager for a day of simple work. He wrings his hands excitedly while the water
boils on the stove before dinner, and he stays up late twice a week to gather
our dirty laundry for his next day's laundry chores.
And Saturdays-oh, the bliss of Saturdays! That's the day my Dad takes Kevin
to the airport to have a soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly
on the destination of each passenger inside. "That one's goin' to Chi-car-go!"
Kevin shouts as he claps his hands. His anticipation is so great he can hardly
sleep on Friday nights.
And so goes his world of daily rituals and weekend field trips. He doesn't know
what it means to be discontent.
His life is simple. He will never know the entanglements of wealth of power,
and he does not care what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he
eats.
His needs have always been met, and he never worries that one day they may not
be. His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as when he is working. When
he unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the carpet, his heart is completely in
it. He does not shrink from a job when it is begun, and he does not leave a
job until it is finished.
But when his tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax. He is not obsessed with
his work or the work of others. His heart is pure. He still believes everyone
tells the truth, promises must be kept, and when you are wrong, you apologize
instead of argue. Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin is
not afraid to cry when he is hurt, angry or sorry.
He is always transparent, always sincere.
And he trusts God. Not confined by intellectual reasoning, when he comes to
Christ, he comes as a child. Kevin seems to know God-to really be friends with
Him in a way that is difficult for an "educated" person to grasp.
God seems like his closest companion. In my moments of doubt and frustrations
with my Christianity, I envy the security Kevin has in his simple faith. It
is then that I am most willing to admit that he has some divine knowledge that
rises above my mortal questions.
It is then I realize that perhaps he is not the one with the handicap----I am.
My obligations, my fear, my pride, my circumstances-----they all become disabilities
when I do not submit them to Christ.
Who knows if Kevin comprehends things I can never learn?
After all, he has spent his whole life in that kind of innocence, praying after
dark and soaking up the goodness and love of the Lord. And one day, when the
mysteries of heaven are opened, and we are all amazed at how close God really
is to our hearts, I'll realize that God heard the simple prayers of a boy who
believed that God lived under his bed.
Kevin won't be surprised at all!
When you receive this, say a prayer. That's all you have to do. There is nothing
attached. This is powerful. Just send this to four people and do not break this,
please. Prayer is one of the best free gifts we receive.
There is no cost, but a lot of rewards.
May today there be peace within you. May you trust God that you are exactly
where you are meant to be. "I believe that friends are quiet angels who lift
us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly."
Just send this to (4) people and see what happens on the fourth day. Do not
break this, please.
Author unknown, received in an E-mail .
Love or infatuation?
- Infatuation is fleeting desire -- one set of glands calling to another.
It is marked by a feeling of insecurity. You are excited and eager but not
genuinely happy. There are nagging doubts, unanswered questions, little bits
and pieces about the relationship that you would just as soon not examine
too closely. It might spoil the dream.
- Love is friendship that has caught fire. It takes root and grows,
one day at a time. It is quiet understanding and a mature acceptance of imperfection. It gives you strength and grows beyond you to bolster
your beloved. You are warmed by his or her presence, even when he or she is
away. Miles do not separate you. But near or far, you know he or she is yours
and you can wait.
- Infatuation says, "We must get married right away. I can't risk losing
him or her."
- Love says, "Be patient. Don't panic. Plan your future with confidence."
- Infatuation has an element of sexual excitement. Whenever you are
together, you hope it will end in intimacy.
- Love is not based on sex. It is the maturation of friendship that
makes sex so much sweeter. You must be friends before you can be lovers.
- Infatuation lacks confidence. When he or she is away, you wonder
if he or she is being unfaithful. Sometimes, you check.
- Love knows that when he or she is away they are thinking only of
you.
- Sorry I do not know who the author is.
"How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!" Romans 10:15
A minister passing through his church in the middle of the day, decided to
pause by the altar and see who had come to pray. Just then the back door opened,
a man came down the aisle. The minister frowned as he saw the man hadn't shaved
in a while.
His shirt was kinda shabby and his coat was worn and frayed, the man knelt,
he bowed his head, then rose and walked away.
In the days that followed, each noon time came this chap, each time he knelt
just for a moment, a lunch pail in his lap.
Well, the minister's suspicions grew, with robbery a main fear, he decided
to stop the man and ask him, "What are you doing here?"
The old man said, he worked down the road. Lunch was half an hour. Lunchtime
was his prayer time, for finding strength and power.
"I stay only moments, see, because the factory is so far away; as I kneel
here talking to the Lord, this is kinda what I say:
"I JUST CAME AGAIN TO TELL YOU, LORD, HOW HAPPY I'VE BEEN, SINCE WE FOUND
EACH OTHER'S FRIENDSHIP AND YOU TOOK AWAY MY SIN. DON'T KNOW MUCH OF HOW TO
PRAY, BUT I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERYDAY. SO, JESUS, THIS IS JIM CHECKING IN."
The minister feeling foolish, told Jim, that was fine. He told the man he
was welcome to come and pray just anytime.
Time to go, Jim smiled, and said "Thanks." He hurried to the door. The minister
knelt at the altar, he'd never done it before.
His cold heart melted, warmed with love, and met with Jesus there. As the
tears flowed, in his heart, he repeated old Jim's prayer:
"I JUST CAME AGAIN TO TELL YOU, LORD, HOW HAPPY I'VE BEEN, SINCE WE FOUND
EACH OTHER'S FRIENDSHIP AND YOU TOOK AWAY MY SIN. I DON'T KNOW MUCH OF HOW
TO PRAY, BUT I THINK ABOUT YOU EVERYDAY. SO, JESUS, THIS IS ME CHECKING IN."
Past noon one day, the minister noticed that old Jim hadn't come. As more
days passed without Jim, he began to worry some.
At the factory, he asked about him, learning he was ill. The hospital staff
was worried, but he'd given them a thrill.
The week that Jim was with them brought changes in the ward. His smiles, a
joy contagious. Changed people were his reward.
The head nurse couldn't understand why Jim was so glad, when no flowers, calls
or cards came, not a visitor he had.
The minister stayed by his bed, he voiced the nurse's concern: No friends
came to show they cared. He had nowhere to turn.
Looking surprised, old Jim spoke up and with a winsome smile; "the nurse is
wrong, she couldn't know, that in here all the while everyday at noon He's
here, a dear friend of mine, you see; He sits right down, takes my hand, leans
over and says to me:
"I JUST CAME AGAIN TO TELL YOU, JIM, HOW HAPPY I HAVE BEEN, SINCE WE FOUND
THIS FRIENDSHIP, AND I TOOK AWAY YOUR SIN. ALWAYS LOVE TO HEAR YOU PRAY, I
THINK ABOUT YOU EACH DAY,
AND SO JIM, THIS IS JESUS CHECKING IN."
I am sorry I do not know who the author is. If you do, please let me know
for I'd love to give them the credit they deserve.
And they call some of these people "retarded"...
A few years ago, at the Seattle Special Olympics, nine contestants, all physically
or mentally disabled, assembled at the starting line for the 100-yard dash.
At the gun, they all started out, not exactly in a dash, but with a relish to
run the race to the finish and win. All, that is, except one little boy who
stumbled on the asphalt, tumbled over a couple of times, and began to cry. The
other eight heard the boy cry.
They slowed down and looked back. Then they all turned around and went back......
every one of them! One girl with Down's Syndrome bent down and kissed him and
said, "This will make it better." Then all nine linked arms and walked together
to the finish line. Everyone in the stadium stood, and the cheering went on
for several minutes.
People who were there are still telling the story. Why? Because deep down we
know this one thing: What matters in this life is more than winning for ourselves.
What matters in this life is helping others win, even if it means giving up
our own victory.
And they call some of these people "retarded"...
Author's Note: For Life to be "successful", it's more of what's in your Heart
than in your Head that counts!
