THE BRICK

A young and successful executive was travelling down a

neighbourhood street, going a bit too fast in his new Jaguar. He was
watching for kids darting out from between parked cars and slowed
down when he thought he saw something.

As his car passed, no children appeared.

Instead, a brick smashed into the Jag's side door!
He slammed on the brakes and backed the Jag back to the spot where
the brick had been thrown.

The angry driver then jumped out of the car, grabbed the nearest kid
and pushed him up against a parked car shouting, "What was that all
about and who are you? Just what the heck are you doing? That's a
new car and that brick you threw is going to cost a lot of money. Why
did you do it?"

The young boy was apologetic. "Please, mister...please, I'm sorry but I
didn't know what else to do", he pleaded. "I threw the brick because
no one else would stop..." With tears dripping down his face and off
his chin, the youth pointed to a spot just around the parked car. "It's
my brother," he said. "He rolled off the curb and fell out of his
wheelchair and I can't lift him up."

Now sobbing, the boy asked the stunned executive, "Would you
please help me get him back into his wheelchair? He's hurt and he's
too heavy for me." Moved beyond words, the driver tried to swallow
the rapidly swelling lump in his throat. He hurriedly lifted the
handicapped boy back into the wheelchair, then took out a linen
handkerchief and dabbed at the fresh scrapes and cuts. A quick look
told him everything was going to be okay.

"Thank you and may God bless you", the grateful child told the
stranger. Too shook up for words, the man simply watched the boy
push his wheelchair-bound brother toward their home.

It was a long, slow walk back to the Jaguar. The damage was very
noticeable, but the driver never bothered to repair the dented side
door. He kept the dent there to remind him of this message "Don't go
through life so fast that someone has to throw a brick at you to get
your attention!"

God whispers in our souls and speaks to our hearts.

Sometimes when we don't have time to listen, He has to throw a brick
at us. It's our choice whether we listen or not.
****************************************************

THE PICKLE JAR

As far back as I can remember the pickle jar sat on the floor beside the
dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad
would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar. As a small boy
I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were
dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was
almost empty.

Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I
used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and
silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured
through the bedroom window. When the jar was filled, Dad would sit
at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank.

Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked
neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad
and me on the seat of his old truck.

Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me
hopefully. "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill,
son. You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going
to hold you back."

Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the
counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly. "These
are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life
like me."

We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream

cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk
at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the
few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling
the jar again." He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar.
As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each
other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,"
he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."

The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another
town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their
bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its
purpose and had been removed.
A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser
where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words, and
never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and
faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more
eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done. When I
married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly
pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more
than anything else, how much my dad had loved me.

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly

drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off
from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a
week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. To the contrary, as
Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to
make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to
make a way out for me.

"When you finish college, Son," he told me, his eyes glistening,
"You'll never have to eat beans again...unless you want to."

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the
holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each
other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica
began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. "She
probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my
parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back into the living
room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.

She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading
me into the room. "Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a
spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it
had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already
covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my
pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions
choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that
Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes
locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither
one of us could speak.

This truly touched my heart... I know it has yours as well. Sometimes

we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our
blessings.

Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small

gesture you can change a person's life, for better or for worse.
*********************************************

Winner vs Loser
Author Unknown, Source Unknown

The Winner is always part of the answer;

The Loser is always part of the problem.

The Winner always has a program;

The Loser always has an excuse.

The Winner says, "Let me do it for you;

The Loser says; "That's not my job."

The Winner sees an answer for every problem;

The Loser sees a problem for every answer.

The Winner says, "It may be difficult but it is possible";

The Loser says, "It may be possible but it is too difficult."

When a Winner makes a mistake, he says, "I was wrong";

When a Loser makes a mistake, he says, "It wasn't my fault."

A Winner makes commitments;

A Loser makes promises.

Winners have dreams;

Loser have schemes.

Winners say, "I must do something";

Losers say, "Something must be done."

Winners are a part of the team;

Losers are apart from the team.

Winners see the gain;

Losers see the pain.

Winners see possibilities;

Losers see problems.

Winners believe in win/win;

Losers believe for them to win someone has to lose.

Winners see the potential;

Losers see the past.

Winners are like a thermostat;

Losers are like thermometers.

Winners choose what they say;

Losers say what they choose.

Winners use hard arguments but soft words;

Losers use soft arguments but hard words.

Winners stand firm on values but compromise on petty things;

Losers stand firm on petty things but compromise on values.

Winners follow the philosophy of empathy: "Don't do to others what

you
would not want them to do to you";
Losers follow the philosophy, "Do it to others before they do it to
you."

Winners make it happen;

Losers let it happen.

Winners are always lucky;

Losers are always unlucky.

Are you going to be a winner or a loser?

***********************************************

An American decided to write a book about famous churches around

the world.

For his first chapter he decided to write about famous Australian

cathedrals. So he bought a plane ticket and made the trip to Sydney,
Australia, thinking that he would work his way across the country.

On his first day he was inside a church taking photographs when he

noticed a golden telephone mounted on the wall with a sign that read
"$10,000 per call".

The American, being intrigued, asked a priest who was strolling by

what the telephone was used for. The priest replied that it was a direct
line to heaven and that for $10,000 you could talk to God. The
American thanked the priest and went along his way.
Next stop was in Brisbane. There, at a very large cathedral, he saw the
same golden telephone with the same sign under it. He wondered if
this was the same kind of telephone he saw in Sydney and he asked a
nearby nun what it's purpose was. She told him that it was a direct line
to heaven and that for $10,000 he could talk to God.

"O.K., thank you", said the American. He then travelled to Melbourne,

Adelaide, Perth, Darwin, and Cairns and in every church he saw the
same golden telephone with the same "10,000 per call" sign under it.

With his first chapter going well, he left mainland Australia and
travelled to Hobart, and again, there in St Mary's Cathedral was the
same golden telephone, but this time the sign under it read "10 cents
per call."

The American was surprised so he asked the priest about the sign.
"Father, I've travelled all over Australia, and I've seen this same
golden telephone in many churches. I'm told that it is a direct line to
heaven, but in all the cities in mainland Australia the price per call
was $10,000 per call. Why is it so cheap here?"

The priest smiled and answered, "You're in Tasmania now son. It's
only a local call".
********************************************************

Subject: Touching

It had been some time since Jack had seen the old man. College, girls,
career, and life itself got in the way. In fact, Jack moved clear across
the country in pursuit of his dreams. There, in the rush of his busy life,
Jack had little time to think about the past and often no time to spend
with his wife and son. He was working on his future, and nothing
could stop him.

Over the phone, his mother told him, "Mr. Belser died last night. The
funeral is Wednesday." Memories flashed through his mind like an old
newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days.

"Jack, did you hear me?"

"Oh, sorry, Mum. Yes, I heard you. It's been so long since I thought of
him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said.

"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you
were doing. He'd reminisce about the many days you spent over 'his
side of the fence' as he put it," Mum told him.
"I loved that old house he lived in," Jack said.

"You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr Belser stepped in to make
sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.

"He's the one who taught me carpentry," he said. "I wouldn't be in this
business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me
things he thought were important...Mum, I'll be there for the funeral,"
Jack said.

As busy as he was, he kept his word. Jack caught the next flight to his
hometown. Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no
children of his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.

The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mum stopped by
to see the old house next door one more time. Standing in the
doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into
another dimension, a leap through space and time. The house was
exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories. Every picture,
every piece of furniture....Jack stopped suddenly.

"What's wrong, Jack?" his Mum asked.

"The box is gone," he said.

"What box?" Mum asked.

"There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I
must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever
tell me was 'the thing I value most,'" Jack said.

It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how Jack
remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the
Belser family had taken it.

"Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said. "I
better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mum."

It had been about two weeks since Mr. Belser died. Returning home
from work one day Jack discovered a note in his mailbox. "Signature
required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post
office within the next three days," the note read.

Early the next day Jack retrieved the package. The small box was old
and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The
handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his
attention. "Mr. Harold Belser" it read. Jack took the box out to his car
and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an
envelope. Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside.

"Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Jack
Bennett, It's the thing I valued most in my life." A small key was taped
to the letter. His heart racing, tears filling his eyes, Jack carefully
unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket
watch.

Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched
the cover. Inside he found these words engraved: "Jack, Thanks for
your time! -Harold Belser."

"The thing he valued most...was...my time."

Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and
cleared his appointments for the next two days.

"Why?" Janet, his assistant asked.

"I need some time to spend with my son," he said. "Oh, by the way,
Janet...thanks for your time!"

*****************************

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the

moments that take our breath away. You may not realize it, but it's
100% true.

1. At least 2 people in this world love you so much they would die for
you.
2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.
3. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't
like you.
4. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you before they go to sleep.
5. You mean the world to someone.
6. If not for you, someone may not be living.
7. You are special and unique.
8. When you think you have no chance of getting what you want, you
probably won't get it, but if you trust God to do what's best, and wait
on His time, sooner or later, you will get it or something better.
9. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good can still
come from it.
10. When you think the world has turned its back on you, take a look:
you most likely turned your back on the world.
11. Someone that you don't even know exists loves you.
12. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget about the
rude remarks.
13. Always tell someone how you feel about them; you will feel much
better when they know and you'll both be happy.
14. If you have a great friend, take the time to let them know that they
are great.

Sidney O. Becker
Administrative Assistant
Lutheran Retirement Ministries of Alamance County, North Carolina
Twin Lakes Community.

*********************************************

STATE OF MIND

If you think you are beaten, you are.

If you think you dare not, you don’t.
If you like to win, but think you can’t,
It’s almost a cinch you won’t.
If you think you will lose, you are lost.
For out in the world we find
Success begins with a fellow’s will;
It’s all n the state of mind.
For many a race is lost
Ere even a step is run,
And many a coward fails
Ere even his work is begun.
Think big and your deed will grow,
Think small and you will fall behind.
Think that you can and you will-
It’s all in the state of mind.
If you think you are outclassed, you are.
You have got to think high to rise.
You have got to be sure of yourself
Before you win a prize.
Life’s battles don’t always go
To the stronger or faster man.
But sooner of later the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.

Might need a few tissues for this one.....

A drunk man in an Oldsmobile
They said had run the light
That caused the six-car pile up
On Highway 109 that night.

When broken bodies lay about

And blood was everywhere,
The sirens screamed out eulogies,
For death was in the air.

A mother, trapped inside her car,

Was heard above the noise;
Her plaintive plea near split the air:
Oh, God, please spare my boys!
She fought to loose her pinned hands;
She struggled to get free,
But mangled metal held her fast
In grim captivity.

Her frightened eyes then focused

On where the back seat once had been,
But all she saw was broken glass and
Two children's seats crushed in.
Her twins were nowhere to be seen;
She did not hear them cry,
And then she prayed they'd been thrown free,
Oh, God, don't let them die!

Then firemen came and cut her loose,

But when they searched the back,
They found therein no little boys,
But the seat belts were intact.
They thought the woman had gone mad
And was traveling alone,
But when they turned to question her,
They discovered she was gone.

Policemen saw her running wild

And screaming above the noise
In beseeching supplication,
Please help me find my boys!
They're four years old and wear blue shirts;
Their jeans are blue to match.
One cop spoke up, They're in my car,
And they don't have a scratch.
They said their daddy put them there
And gave them each an ice cream cone,
Then told them both to wait for Mom
To come and take them home.
I've searched the area high and low,
But I can't find their dad.

He must have fled the scene,

I guess, and that is very bad.
The mother hugged the twins and said,
While wiping at a tear,
He could not flee the scene, you see,
For he's been dead a year.

The cop just looked confused and asked,

Now, how can that be true?
The boys said, Mommy, Daddy came
And left a kiss for you.
He told us not to worry
And that you would be all right,
And then he put us in this car with
The pretty, flashing light.

We wanted him to stay with us,

Because we miss him so,
But Mommy, he just hugged us tight
And said he had to go.
He said someday we'd understand
And told us not to fuss,
And he said to tell you, Mommy,
He's watching over us.

The mother knew without a doubt

That what they spoke was true,
For she recalled their dad's last words,
I will watch over you.
The firemen's notes could not explain
The twisted, mangled car,
And how the three of them escaped
Without a single scar.

But on the cop's report was scribed,

In print so very fine,
An angel walked the beat tonight on Highway 109.
*****************************************

Robby plays Mozart

My name is Mildred Honor and I am a former elementary school music
teacher from Des Moines, Iowa. I have always supplemented my income by
teaching piano lessons – something I have done for over 30 years.

During those years I found that children have many levels of musical ability,
and even though I have never had the pleasure of having a prodigy, I have
taught some very talented students.

However, I have also had my share of what I call "musically challenged’

pupils – one such pupil being Robby. Robby was 11 years old when his
mother (a single mom) dropped him off for his first piano lesson. I prefer
that students (especially boys) begin at an earlier age, which I explained to
Robby. But Robby said that it had always been his mother’s dream to hear
him play the piano, so I took him as a student.
Well, Robby began his piano lessons and from the beginning I thought it was
a hopeless endeavour. As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone
and basic rhythm needed to excel.

But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some elementary piano pieces that I
require all my students to learn. Over the months he tried and tried while I
listened and cringed and tried to encourage him.

At the end of each weekly lesson he would always say "My mom’s going to
hear me play someday. But to me, it seemed hopeless, he just did not have
any inborn ability. I only knew his mother from a distance as she dropped
Robby off or waited in her aged car to pick him up. She always waved and
smiled, but never dropped in.

Then one day Robby stopped coming for his lessons. I thought about calling
him, but assumed that because of his lack of ability he had decided to pursue
something else. I was also glad that he had stopped coming – he was a bad
advertisement for my teaching!

Several weeks later I mailed a flyer recital to the students’ homes. To my

surprise, Robby (who had received a flyer) asked me if he could be in the
recital. I told him that the recital was for current pupils and that because he
had dropped out, he really did not qualify. He told me that his mother had
been sick and unable to take him to his piano lessons, but that he had been
practicing. "Please Miss Honor, I’ve just got to play" he insisted.
I don’t know what led me to allow him to play in the recital – perhaps it was
his insistence or maybe something inside of me saying that it would be all
right. The night of the recital came and the high school gymnasium was
packed with parents, relatives and friends.
I put Robby last in the program, just before I was to come up and thank all
the students and play a finishing piece. I thought that any damage he might
do would come at the end of the program and I could always salvage his
poor performance through my "curtain closer".

Well, the recital went off without a hitch, the students had been practicing
and it showed. Then Robby came up on the stage. His clothes were wrinkled
and his hair looked as though he had run an egg beater through it. "Why
wasn’t he dressed up like the other students?" I thought. "Why didn’t his
mother at least make him comb his hair for this special night?"

Robby pulled out the piano bench, and I was surprised when he announced
that he had chosen to play Mozart’s Concerto No. 21 in C Major. I was not
prepared for what I heard next.

His fingers were light on the keys, they even danced nimbly on the ivories.
He went from pianissimo to fortissimo, from allegro to virtuoso; his
suspended chords that Mozart demands were magnificent! Never had I heard
Mozart played so well by anyone his age.

After six and a half minutes he ended in a grand crescendo, and everyone
was on their feet in wild applause! Overcome and in tears, I ran up on stage
and put my arms around Robby in joy.

"I have never heard you play like that Robby, how did you do it?"
Through the microphone Robby explained: "Well, Miss Honor ….
remember I told you that my mom was sick? Well, she actually had cancer
and passed away this morning. And well ….. she was born deaf, so tonight
was the first time she had ever heard me play, and I wanted to make it
special."

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house that evening. As the people from Social
Services led Robby from the stage to be placed in to foster care, I noticed
that even their eyes were red and puffy. I thought to myself then how much
richer my life had been for taking Robby as my pupil.

No, I have never had a prodigy, but that night I became a prodigy …. Of
Robby. He was the teacher and I was the pupil, for he had taught me the
meaning of perseverance and love and believing in yourself, and may be
even taking a chance on someone and you didn’t know why.

Robby was killed some years later in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P.
Murray Federal Building in Oklahoma City in April, 1995.

There Are Angels In Indiana

Author Unknown, Source Unknown
In September 1960, I woke up one morning with six hungry babies and just
75 cents in my pocket. Their father was gone. The boys ranged from three
months to seven years; their sister was two.
Their Dad had never been much more than a presence they feared.
Whenever they heard his tyres crunch on the gravel driveway they would
scramble to hide under their beds. He did manage to leave 15 dollars a week
to buy groceries. Now that he had decided to leave, there would be no more
beatings, but no food either. If there was a welfare system in effect in
southern Indiana at that time, I certainly knew nothing about it.
I scrubbed the kids until they looked brand new and then put on my best
homemade dress. I loaded them into the rusty old 51 Chevy and drove off to
find a job. The seven of us went to every factory, store and restaurant in our
small town. No luck. The kids stayed, crammed into the car and tried to be
quiet while I tried to convince whomever would listen that I was willing to
learn or do anything. I had to have a job. Still no luck.
The last place we went to, just a few miles out of town, was an old Root
Beer Barrel drive-in that had been converted to a truck stop. It was called the
Big Wheel. An old lady named Granny owned the place and she peeked out
of the window from time to time at all those kids. She needed someone on
the graveyard shift, 11 at night until seven in the morning. She paid 65 cents
an hour and I could start that night.
I raced home and called the teenager down the street that baby-sat for
people. I bargained with her to come and sleep on my sofa for a dollar a
night. She could arrive with her pajamas on and the kids would already be
asleep. This seemed like a good arrangement to her, so we made a deal. That
night when the little ones and I knelt to say our prayers we all thanked God
for finding Mommy a job. And so I started at the Big Wheel.
When I got home in the mornings I woke the baby-sitter up and sent her
home with one dollar of my tip money – fully half of what I averaged every
night. As the weeks went by, heating bills added another strain to my meager
wage. The tyres on the old Chevy had the consistency of penny balloons and
began to leak. I had to fill them with air on the way to work and again every
morning before I could go home. One bleak fall morning, I dragged myself
to the car to go home and found four tyres in the back seat. New tyres! There
was no note, no nothing, just those beautiful brand new tyres. Had angels
taken up residence in Indiana? I wondered. I made a deal with the owner of
the local service station. In exchange for his mounting the new tyres, I
would clean up his office. I remember it took me a lot longer to scrub his
floor than it did for him to do the tyres.
I was now working six nights instead of five and it still wasn’t enough.
Christmas was coming and I knew there would be no money for toys for the
kids. I found a can of red paint and started repairing and painting some old
toys. Then I hid them in the basement so there would be something for Santa
to deliver on Christmas morning. Clothes were a worry too. I was sewing
patches on top of patches on the boys pants and soon they would be too far
gone to repair.
On Christmas Eve the usual customers were drinking coffee in the Big
Wheel. These were the truckers, Les, Frank, and Jim, and a state trooper
named Joe. A few musicians were hanging around after a gig at the Legion
and were dropping nickels in the pinball machine. The regulars all just sat
around and talked through the wee hours of the morning and then left to get
home before the sun came up. When it was time for me to go home at seven
o’clock on Christmas morning I hurried to the car. I was hoping the kids
wouldn’t wake up before I managed to get home and get the presents from
the basement and place them under the tree. (We had cut down a small cedar
tree by the side of the road down by the dump.)
It was still dark and I couldn’t see much, but there appeared to be some dark
shadows in the car – or was that just a trick of the night? Something
certainly looked different, but it was hard to tell what. When I reached the
car I peered warily into one of the side windows. Then my jaw dropped in
amazement. My old battered Chevy was full to the top with boxes of all
shapes and sizes. I quickly opened the driver’s side door, scrambled inside
and kneeled in the front facing the back seat. Reaching back, I pulled off the
lid of the top box. Inside was a whole case of little blue jeans, sizes 2-10! I
looked inside another box: It was full of shirts to go with the jeans. Then I
peeked inside some of the other boxes: There were candy and nuts and
bananas and bags of groceries. There was an enormous ham for baking, and
canned vegetables and potatoes. There was pudding and Jell-O and cookies,
pie filling and flour. There was a whole bag of laundry supplies and cleaning
items. And there were five toy trucks and one beautiful little doll. As I drove
back through empty streets as the sun slowly rose on the most amazing
Christmas Day of my life, I was sobbing with gratitude. And I will never
forget the joy on the faces of my little ones that precious morning.
Yes, there were angels in Indiana that long-ago December.
And they all hung out at the Big Wheel truck stop.
***************************************
State Of Mind
I don’t know who wrote this letter/poem but it was given to me by a good
mate from Deloraine.in Tasmania.
If you think you are beaten, you are.
If you think you dare not, you don't.
If you like to win, but think you can't,
It's almost a cinch you won't.
If you think you will lose, you are lost.
For out in the world we find
Success begins with a fellow's will;
It's all n the state of mind.
For many a race is lost
Ere even a step is run,
And many a coward fails
Ere even his work is begun.
Think big and your deed will grow,
Think small and you will fall behind.
Think that you can and you will-
It's all in the state of mind.
If you think you are outclassed, you are.
You have got to think high to rise.
You have got to be sure of yourself
Before you win a prize.
Life's battles don't always go
To the stronger or faster man.
But sooner of later the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.
You don’t have to be religious to understand the truths' in this little piece.
**************************************
Please Don’t Save for a Special Occasion
by Ann Wells (Los Angeles Times)
My brother-in-law opened the bottom drawer of my sister’s bureau and lifted
out a tissue-wrapped package. “This,” he said, “is not a slip. This is
lingerie.” He discarded the tissue and handed me the slip. It was exquisite;
silk, handmade and trimmed with a cobweb of lace. The price tag with an
astronomical figure on it was still attached. “Jan bought this the first time we
went to New York, at least 8 or 9 years ago. She never wore it. She was
saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is the occasion.” He took
the slip from me and put it on the bed with the other clothes we were taking
to the mortician. His hands lingered on the soft material for a moment, then
he slammed the drawer shut and turned to me. “Don’t ever save anything for
a special occasion. Every day you’re alive is a special occasion.”
I remembered those words through the funeral and the days that followed
when I helped him and my niece attend to all the sad chores that follow an
unexpected death. I thought about them on the plane returning to California
from the Midwestern town where my sister’s family lives. I thought about
all the things that she hadn’t seen or heard or done. I thought about the
things that she had done without realizing that they were special.
I’m still thinking about his words, and they’ve changed my life. I’m reading
more and dusting less. I’m sitting on the deck and admiring the view without
fussing about the weeds in the garden. I’m spending more time with my
family and friends and less time in committee meetings. Whenever possible,
life should be a pattern of experience to savor, not endure. I’m trying to
recognize these moments now and cherish them.
I’m not “saving” anything; we use our good china and crystal for every
special event-such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, the first
camellia blossom.
I wear my good blazer to the market if I feel like it. My theory is if I look
prosperous, I can shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries without
wincing. I’m not saving my good perfume for special parties; clerks in
hardware stores and tellers in banks have noses that function as well as my
party-going friends’.
“Someday” and “one of these days” are losing their grip on my vocabulary.
If it’s worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now.
I’m not sure what my sister would have done had she known that she
wouldn’t be here for the tomorrow we all take for granted. I think she would
have called family members and a few close friends. She might have called
a few former friends to apologize and mend fences for past squabbles. I like
to think she would have gone out for a Chinese dinner, her favorite food. I’m
guessing-I’ll never know.
It’s those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew that
my hours were limited. Angry because I put off seeing good Friends whom I
was going to get in touch with-someday. Angry because I hadn’t written
certain letters that I intended to write, one of these days. Angry and sorry
that I didn’t tell my husband and daughter often enough how much I truly
love them. I’m trying very hard not to put off, hold back, or save anything
that would add laughter and luster to our lives.
And every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special.
Every day, every minute, every breath truly is…a gift from God.
********************************
The Doll and A White Rose
I hurried into the local department store to grab some last minute Christmas
gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled to myself. I would be in here
forever and I just had so much to do.
Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I kinda wished that I could
just sleep through Christmas. But I hurried as best I could through all the
people to the toy department. Once again I kind of mumbled to myself at the
prices of all these toys. And wondered if the grandkids would even play with
them. I found myself in the doll aisle.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy about five holding a lovely
doll. He kept touching her hair and he held her so gently. I could not seem to
help myself, I just kept looking over at the little boy and wondered who the
doll was for. I watched him turn to a woman and he called his aunt by name
and said, “Are you sure I don’t have enough money” She replied a bit
impatiently, “You know that you don’t have enough money for it. The aunt
told the little boy not to go anywhere that she had to go get some other
things and would be back in a few minutes. And then she left the aisle.
The boy continued to hold the doll. After a bit I asked the boy who the doll
was for. He said, “It’s the doll my sister wanted so badly for Christmas. She
just knew that Santa would bring it.” I told him that maybe Santa was going
to bring it. He said “No, Santa can’t go where my sister is…I have to give
the doll to my Mama to take to her”. I asked him where his sister was. He
looked at me with the saddest eyes and said “She has gone to be with Jesus”.
My Daddy says that Mama is going to have to go be with her. My heart
nearly stopped beating. Then the boy looked at me again and said, “I told my
Daddy to tell Mama not to go yet. I told him to tell her to wait till I got back
from the store”. Then he asked me if I wanted to see his picture. I told him I
would love to. He pulled out some pictures he’d had taken at the front of the
store. He said “I want my Mama to take this with her so she don’t ever
forget me.” “I love my Mama so very much and I wish she did not have to
leave me”. “But Daddy says she will need to be with my sister.”
I saw that the little boy had lowered his head and had grown so very quiet.
While he was not looking I reached into my purse and pulled out a handful
of bills. I asked the little boy, “Shall we count that money one more time?”
He grew excited and said “Yes, I just know it has to be enough”.
So I slipped my money in with his and we began to count it. Of course it
was plenty for the doll. He softly said, “Thank you Jesus for giving me
enough money.” Then the boy said “I just asked Jesus to give me enough
money to buy this doll so Mama can take it with her to give to my sister.”
“And he heard my prayer. “I wanted to ask him for enough to buy my Mama
a white rose, but I didn’t ask him, but he gave me enough to buy the doll and
a rose for my Mama.” “She loves white roses so very, very much”. In a few
minutes the aunt came back and I wheeled my cart away.
I could not keep from thinking about the little boy as I finished my shopping
in a totally different spirit than when I had started. And I kept remembering
a story I had seen in the newspaper several days earlier about a drunk driver
hitting a car and killing a little girl and the Mother was in serious condition.
The family was deciding on whether to remove the life support. Now surely
this little boy did not belong with that story.
Two days later I read in the paper where the family had disconnected the life
support and the young woman had died. I could not forget the little boy and
just kept wondering if the two were somehow connected. Later that day, I
could not help myself and I went out and bought some white roses and took
them to the funeral home where the young woman was. And there she was
holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful doll, and the picture of the little
boy in the store. I left there in tears, my life changed forever.
The love that little boy had for his sister and his mother was overwhelming.
And in a split second a drunk driver had ripped the life of that little boy to
pieces.
**********************************
So You Think You’re Having A Bad Day
The following took place near Asheville, NC and was in the Asheville
Citizen Times, back in the middle 70’s. True story.
A man was working on his motorcycle on his patio and his wife was in the
house in the kitchen. The man was racing the engine on the motorcycle and
somehow the motorcycle slipped into gear. The man, still holding the
handlebars, was dragged through a glass patio door and along with the
motorcycle dumped onto the floor inside the house. The wife, hearing the
crash, ran into the dining room, and found her husband lying on the floor,
cut and bleeding, the motorcycle lying next to him and the patio door
shattered. The wife ran to the phone and summoned an ambulance.
Because they lived on a fairly large hill, the wife went down the several
flights of long steps to the street to direct the paramedics to her husband.
After the ambulance arrived and transported the husband to the hospital, the
wife uprights the motorcycle and pushed it outside. Since fuel had spilled on
the floor, the wife obtained some paper towels, blotted up the gasoline, and
threw the towels in the toilet. The husband was treated at the hospital and
was released to come home. After arriving home, he looked at the shattered
patio door and the damage done to his motorcycle.
He became despondent, went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and smoked
a cigarette. After finishing the cigarette, he flipped it between his legs into
the toilet bowl while still seated.
The wife, who was in the kitchen, heard a loud explosion and her husband
screaming. She ran into the bathroom and found her husband lying on the
floor. His trousers had been blown away and he was suffering burns on the
buttocks, the back of his legs and his groin. The wife again ran to the phone
and called for an ambulance.
The same ambulance crew was dispatched and the wife met them at the
street. The paramedics loaded the husband on the stretcher and began
carrying him to the street. While they were going down the stairs to the
street accompanied by the wife, one of the paramedics asked the wife how
the husband had burned himself. She told them and the paramedics started
laughing so hard, one of them tipped the stretcher and dumped the husband
out. He fell down the remaining steps and broke his arm. Now THAT is a
bad day…

All The Good Things

Sister Helen P. Mrosia
“The purpose of this letter is to encourage everyone to compliment the
people you love and care about. We often tend to forget the importance of
showing our affections and love. Sometimes the smallest of things could
mean the most to another. I am asking you to please send this letter around
and spread the message and encouragement, to express your love and caring
by complimenting and being open with communication. The density of
people in society is so thick, that we forget that life will end one day. And
we don’t know when that one day will be. So please, I beg of you, tell the
people you love and care for that they are special and important. Tell them,
before it is too late. Yes, I do love you.”
He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary’s School. All 34
of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million.
Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made
even his occasional, mischievousness delightful. Mark talked incessantly. I
had to remind him again and again that talking without permission was not
acceptable.
What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I
had to correct him for misbehaving — “Thank you for correcting me,
Sister!” I didn’t know what to make of it at first, but before long I became
accustomed to hearing it many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too
often, and then I made a novice-teacher’s mistake. I looked at him and said,
“If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!”
It wasn’t ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, “Mark is talking again.”
I hadn’t asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had
stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it.
I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my
desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking
tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark’s desk, tore off two pieces
of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth.
I then returned to the front of the room. As I glanced at Mark to see how he
was doing, he winked at me. That did it! I started laughing. The class
cheered as I walked back to Mark’s desk, removed the tape and shrugged my
shoulders. His first words were, “Thank you for correcting me, Sister.”
At the end of the year I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years flew
by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more
handsome than ever and just as polite, (but) he did not talk as much in ninth
grade as he had in the third.
One Friday, things just didn’t feel right. We had worked hard on a new
concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated
with themselves — and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness
before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other
students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each
name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each
of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish the assignment, and as the
students left the room, each one handed me the papers.
Charlie smiled. Mark said, “Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good
weekend.”

That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of
paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On
Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was
smiling. “Really?” I heard whispered. “I never knew that meant anything to
anyone!” “I didn’t know others liked me so much!”
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they
discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn’t matter. The
exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with
themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from
vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home,
Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip — the weather, my
experiences in general. There was a light lull in the conversation. Mother
gave Dad a sideways glance and simply says, “Dad?”
My father cleared his throat as he usually did before something important.
“The Eklunds called last night,” he began. “Really?” I said. “I haven’t heard
from them in years. I wonder how Mark is.”
Dad responded quietly. “Mark was killed in Vietnam,” he said. “The funeral
is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend.” To this day I
can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so
handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark, I would
give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.
The Church was packed with Mark’s friends. Chuck’s sister sang “The
Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Why did it have to rain on the day of the
funeral? It was difficult enough at the grave side. The pastor said the usual
prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one, those who loved Mark took
a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water.
I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers
who had acted as pallbearer came up to me. “Were you Mark’s math
teacher?” he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. “Mark
talked about you a lot,” he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark’s former classmates headed to Chuck’s
farmhouse for lunch. Mark’s mother and father were there, obviously
waiting for me. “We want to SHOW you something,” his father said, taking
a wallet out of his pocket. “They found this on Mark when he was killed. We
thought you might recognize it.”

Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook

paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times.
I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed
all the good things each of Mark’s classmates had said about him. “Thank
you so much for doing that” Mark’s mother said. “As you can see, Mark
treasured it.”

Mark’s classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather

sheepishly and said, “I still have my list. It’s in the top drawer of my desk at
home.” Chuck’s wife said, “Chuck asked me to put this in our wedding
album.” “I have mine, too,” Marilyn said. “It’s in my diary.”
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her
wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. “I carry this with
me at all times,” Vicki said without batting an eyelash. “I think we all saved
our lists.”
That’s when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his
friends who would never see him again.
~ Written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosia
*******************************
A Message To Garcia by Elbert Hubbard
Originally published in 1899, This is one of the classics of business
literature and one of top ten selling books of the all time.
Foreword: This literary trifle, A Message To Garcia, was written one evening
after supper, in a single hour. It was on the 22nd of February 1899,
Washington’s Birthday: we were just going to press with the March
Philistine.
The thing leaped hot from my heart, written after a trying day, when I had
been endeavouring to train some rather delinquent villagers to abjure the
comatose state and get radioactive.
The immediate suggestion, though, came from a little argument over the
teacups, when my boy Bert suggested that Rowan was the real hero of the
Cuban War. Rowan had gone alone and done the thing – carried the message
to Garcia.
It came to me like a flash! Yes, the boy is right, the hero is the man who does
his work – who carries the message to Garcia. I got up from the table, and
wrote A Message To Garcia.
I thought so little of it that we ran it in the Magazine without a heading. The
edition went out, and soon orders began to come for extra copies of the
March Philistine, a dozen, fifty, a hundred, and when the American News
Company ordered a thousand, I asked one of my helpers which article it was
that stirred up the cosmic dust. “It’s the stuff about Garcia,” he said.
The next day a telegram came from George H. Daniels, of the New York
Central Railroad thus, “Give price on one hundred thousand Rowan article
in pamphlet form – Empire State Express advertisement on back – also how
soon can ship.”

I replied giving price, and stated we could supply the pamphlets in two
years. Our facilities were small and a hundred thousand booklets looked like
an awful undertaking.

The result was that I gave Mr. Daniels permission to reprint the article in his
own way. He issued it in booklet form in editions of half a million.
Mr. Daniels sent out two or three of these half-million lots, and in addition
the article was reprinted in over two hundred magazines and newspapers. It
has been translated into all written languages.
At the time Mr. Daniels was distributing A Message To Garcia, Prince
Hilakoff, Director of Russian Railways, was in this country. He was the
guest of the New York Central, and made a tour of the country under the
personal direction of Mr. Daniels. The Prince saw the little book and was
interested in it, more because Mr. Daniels was putting it out in big numbers,
probably, than otherwise.
In any event, when he got home he had the matter translated into Russian,
and a copy of the booklet given to every railroad employee in Russia.
Other countries then took it up, and from Russia it passed into Germany,
France, Spain, Turkey, Hindustan and China. During the war between Russia
and Japan, every Russian soldier who went to the front was given a copy of
A Message To Garcia. The Japanese, finding the booklets in possession of
the Russian prisoners, concluded it must be a good thing, and accordingly
translated it into Japanese.
And on an order of the Mikado, a copy was given to every man in the
employ of the Japanese Government, soldier or civilian. Over forty million
copies of A Message To Garcia have been printed.
This is said to be a larger circulation than any other literary venture has ever
attained during the lifetime of an author, in all history – thanks to a series of
lucky accidents.

Elbert Hubbard – December 1, 1913.

*********************************
A Message To Garcia by Elbert Hubbard

In all this Cuban business there is one man stands out on the horizon of my
memory like Mars at perihelion.
When war broke out between Spain and the United States it was very
necessary to communicate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents. Garcia
was somewhere in the mountain vastness of Cuba – no one knew where. No
mail nor telegraph message could reach him. The President must secure his
cooperation, and quickly. What to do!

Some one said to the President, “There’s a fellow by the name of Rowan
will find Garcia for you, if anybody can.”
Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How “the
fellow by the name of Rowan” took the letter, sealed it up in an oil-skin
pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast
of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, and in three weeks
came out on the other side of the Island, having traversed a hostile country
on foot, and delivered his letter to Garcia – are things I have no special
desire now to tell in detail.
The point that I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be
delivered to Garcia; Rowan took the letter and did not ask, “Where is he at?”
By the Eternal! There is a man whose form should be cast in deathless
bronze and the statue placed in every college of the land. It is not book-
learning young men need, nor instruction about this and that, but a stiffening
of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly,
concentrate their energies: do the thing – “Carry a message to Garcia!”
General Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcia’s. No man who has
endeavoured to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed, but
has been well-nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man –
the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it.
Slipshod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference, and half-
hearted work seem the rule; and no man succeeds, unless by hook or crook
or threat he forces or bribes other men to assist him; or mayhap, God in His
goodness performs a miracle, and sends him an Angel of Light for an
assistant.
You, reader, put this matter to a test: You are sitting now in your office – six
clerks are within call. Summon any one and make this request: “Please look
in the encyclopaedia and make a brief memorandum for me concerning the
life of Correggio.” Will the clerk quietly say, “Yes, sir,” and go do the task?
On your life, he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye and ask one
or more of the following questions:
Who was he?
Which encyclopaedia?
Where is the encyclopaedia?
Was I hired for that?
Don’t you mean Bismarck?
What’s the matter with Charlie doing it?
Is he dead?
Is there any hurry?
Shan't I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself?
What do you want to know for?
And I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered the questions, and
explained how to find the information, and why you want it, the clerk will
go off and get one of the other clerks to help him try to find Garcia – and
then come back and tell you there is no such man. Of course I may lose my
bet, but according to the Law of Average, I will not.
Now, if you are wise, you will not bother to explain to your “assistant” that
Correggio is indexed under the C’s, not in the K’s, but you will smile very
sweetly and say, “Never mind,” and go look it up yourself. And this
incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, this infirmity of the
will, this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold and lift -these are the things
that put pure Socialism so far into the future.
If men will not act for themselves, what will they do when the benefit of
their effort is for all? A first-mate with knotted club seems necessary; and
the dread of getting “the bounce” Saturday night holds many a worker to his
place. Advertise for a stenographer, and nine out of ten who apply can
neither spell nor punctuate – and do not think it necessary to.
Can such a one write a letter to Garcia?

“You see that bookkeeper,” said the foreman to me in a large factory. “Yes,
what about him?” “Well he’s a fine accountant, but if I’d send him up town
on an errand, he might accomplish the errand all right, and on the other
hand, might stop at four saloons on the way, and when he got to Main Street
would forget what he had been sent for.” Can such a man be entrusted to
carry a message to Garcia?
We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy expressed for the
“downtrodden denizens of the sweat-shop” and the “homeless wanderer
searching for honest employment,” and with it all often go many hard words
for the men in power.

Nothing is said about the employer who grows old before his time in a vain
attempt to get frowsy ne’er-do-wells to do intelligent work; and his long,
patient striving after “help” that does nothing but loaf when his back is
turned.
In every store and factory there is a constant weeding-out process going on.
The employer is constantly sending away “help” that have shown their
incapacity to further the interests of the business, and others are being taken
on.
No matter how good times are, this sorting continues: only, if times are hard
and work is scarce, the sorting is done finer – but out and forever out the
incompetent and unworthy go. It is the survival of the fittest. Self-interest
prompts every employer to keep the best – those who can carry a message to
Garcia.
I know one man of really brilliant parts who has not the ability to manage a
business of his own, and yet who is absolutely worthless to any one else,
because he carries with him constantly the insane suspicion that his
employer is oppressing, or intending to oppress, him. He cannot give orders;
and he will not receive them.
Should a message be given him to take to Garcia, his answer would
probably be, “Take it yourself!”

Tonight this man walks the streets looking for work, the wind whistling
through his threadbare coat. No one who knows him dare employ him, for
he is a regular firebrand of discontent. He is impervious to reason, and the
only thing that can impress him is the toe of a thick-soled Number Nine
boot.
Of course I know that one so morally deformed is no less to be pitied than a
physical cripple; but in our pitying, let us drop a tear, too, for the men who
are striving to carry on a great enterprise, whose working hours are not
limited by the whistle, and whose hair is fast turning white through the
struggle to hold in line dowdy indifference, slipshod imbecility, and the
heartless ingratitude which, but for their enterprise, would be both hungry
and homeless.
Have I put the matter too strongly? Possibly I have; but when all the world
has gone a-slumming I wish to speak a word of sympathy for the man who
succeeds – the man who, against great odds, has directed the efforts of
others, and having succeeded, finds there’s nothing in it: nothing but bare
board and clothes. I have carried a dinner pail and worked for day’s wages,
and I have also been an employer of labour, and I know there is something
to be said on both sides.
There is no excellence, per se, in poverty; rags are no recommendation; and
all employers are not rapacious and high-handed, any more than all poor
men are virtuous. My heart goes out to the man who does his work when the
“boss” is away, as well as when he is at home. And the man who, when
given a letter for Garcia, quietly takes the missive, without asking any
idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the
nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets “laid off” nor
has to go on a strike for higher wages.
Civilization is one long anxious search for just such individuals. Anything
such a man asks shall be granted. He is wanted in every city, town and
village – in every office, shop, store and factory. The world cries out for
such: he is needed and needed badly – the man who can “Carry a Message to
Garcia.”
Elbert Hubbard – 1899

****************************
Creation - A Sioux Indian Story

The Creator gathered all of Creation and said,

"I want to hide something from the humans until they are ready for it.

It is the realisation that they create their own reality."

The eagle said, "Give it to me, I will take it to the moon."

The Creator said, "No. One day they will go there and find it."

The salmon said, "I will bury it on the bottom of the ocean."
"No. They will go there too."

The buffalo said, "I will bury it on the Great Plains."

The Creator said, "They will cut into the skin of the Earth and find it
even there."

Grandmother Mole, who lives in the breast of Mother Earth, and who
has no physical eyes but sees with spiritual eyes, said,
"Put it inside of them."

And the Creator said, "It is done."

********************************************

Donkey in the Well

A parable about life.

One day a farmer's donkey fell down into a well. The animal cried
piteously for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do.

Finally he decided the animal was old, that the well needed to be
covered anyway and that it just wasn't worth retrieving the donkey. So
he invited all his neighbours to come over and help him.

They all grabbed a shovel and began to shovel dirt into the well. At
first, the donkey realised what was happening and cried horribly.

Then, to everyone's amazement, he quietened down. A few shovel

loads later, the farmer finally looked down the well and was
astonished at what he saw.

With every shovel of dirt that hit his back, the donkey was doing
something amazing.

He would shake it off and take a step up. As the farmer's neighbours
continued to shovel dirt on top of the animal, he would shake it off
and take a step up.

Pretty soon, everyone was amazed as the donkey stepped up over the
edge of the well and trotted off!

Life is going to shovel dirt on you, all kinds of dirt. The trick to
getting out of the well is to shake it off and take a step up.
******************************************************

Life may not be the party we anticipated, but while we're here,
we might as well dance....

Read this line very slowly and let it sink in...

If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it.

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