BE A FRIEND TO OTHERS AND YOURSELF

Give people more than they expect and do it cheerfully.

Memorize your favorite poem. 

Don't believe all you hear, spend all you have, or loaf all you want.

When you say, "I love you," mean it. 

When you say, "I'm sorry," look the person in the eye. 

Be engaged at least six months before you get married. 

Believe in love at first sight. 

Never laugh at anyone's dreams. People who don't have dreams don't have much. 

Love deeply and passionately. You may get hurt, but it's the only way to live life completely. 

In disagreements, fight fairly. No name calling. 

Don't judge people by their relatives, or by the life they were born into. 

Teach yourself to speak slowly but think quickly. 

When someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, smile and ask, "Why do you want to know?" 

Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk. 

Call your mother. 

Say, "bless you" when you hear someone sneeze. 

When you lose, don't lose the lesson. 

Follow the three "R's": Respect for self, Respect for others, Responsibility for all your actions. 

Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship. 

When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it. 

Smile when picking up the phone. The caller will hear it in your voice.

Marry a person you love to talk to. As you get older, his/her conversational skills will be more important. 

Spend some time alone. 

Open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values. 

Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer. 

Read more books.

Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you'll be able to enjoy it a second time. 

Trust in God but lock your car. 

A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life. Do all you can to create a tranquil, harmonious home. 

In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don't bring up the past. 

Don;t just listen to what someone is saying. Listen to why they are saying it. 

Share your knowledge. It's a way to achieve immortality. 

Be gentle with the earth. 

Pray or meditate. There's immeasurable power in it. 

Never interrupt when you are being flattered. 

Mind your own business. 

Don't trust anyone who doesn't close his/her eyes when you kiss. 

Once a year, go someplace you've never been before. 

If you make a lot of money, put it to use helping others while you are living. It is wealth's greatest satisfaction. 

Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. 

Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly. 

Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other. 

Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it. 

Live with the knowledge that your character is your destiny.

Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon. 

TO WALK IN ANOTHER'S SHOES

Bill Andrews was a big, awkward, homely guy. He dressed oddly with ill-fitting clothes. There were several fellows who thought it smart to make fun of him. One day one fellow noticed a small tear in his shirt and gave it a small rip. Another worker in the factory added his bit, and before long there was quite a ribbon dangling. Bill went on about his work and as he passed too near a moving belt the shirt strip was sucked into the machinery. In a split second the sleeve and Bill were in trouble. Alarms were sounded, switches pulled, and trouble was avoided. The foreman, however, aware of what had happened, summoned the men and related this story:

In my younger days I worked in a small factory. That's where I first met Mike Havoc. He was big and witty, was always making jokes, and playing little pranks. Mike was a leader. Then there was Pete Lumas who was a follower. He always went along with Mike. And then there was a man named... Jake. He was a little older than the rest of us - quiet, harmless, apart. He always ate his lunch by himself. He wore the same patched trousers for three years straight. He never entered into the games we played at noon, wrestling, horse shoes and such. He appeared to be indifferent, always sitting quietly alone under a tree instead.

Jake was a natural target for practical jokes. He might find a live frog in his dinner pail, or a dead rodent in his hat. But he always took it in good humor. Then one Fall when things were slack, Mike took off a few days to go hunting. Pete went along, of course. And they promised all of us that f they got anything they'd bring us each a piece. So we were all quite excited when we heard that they'd returned and that Mike had got a really nice big buck. We heard more than that. Pete could never keep anything to himself, and it leaked out that they had a real hopper to play on Jake. Mike had cut up the critter and had made a nice package for each of us. And, for the laugh, for the joke of it, he had saved the ears, the tail, the hoofs - it would be so funny when Jake unwrapped them. Mike distributed his packages during the noon hour. We each got a nice piece, opened it, and thanked him. The biggest package of all he saved until last. It was for Jake.

Pete was all but bursting; and Mike looked very smug. Like always, Jake sat by himself; he was on the far side of the big table. Mike pushed the package over to where he could reach it; and we all sat and waited. Jake was never one to say much. You might never know that he was around for all the talking he did. In three years he'd never said a hundred words. So we were all quite astounded with what happened next. He took the package firmly in his grip and rose slowly to his feet. He smiled broadly at Mike -- and it was then we noticed that his eyes were glistening. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down for a moment and then he got control of himself.

"I knew you wouldn't forget me," he said gratefully; "I knew you'd come through! You're big and you're playful, but I knew all along that you had a good heart."

He swallowed again, and then took in the rest of us. "I know I haven't seemed too chummy with you men; but I never meant to be rude. You see, I've got nine kids at home - and a wife that's been an invalid - bedfast now for four years. She ain't ever going to get any better. And sometimes when she's real bad off, I have to sit up all night to take care of her. And most of my wages have had to go for doctors and medicine. The kids do all they can to help out, but at times it's been hard to keep food in their mouths. Maybe you think it's funny that I go off by myself to eat my dinner. Well, I guess I've been a little ashamed, because I don't always have anything between my sandwich. Or like today - maybe there's only a raw turnip in my pail. But I want you to know that this meat really means a lot to me. Maybe more than to anybody here because tonight my kids," he wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, "...tonight my kids will have a really..." He tugged at the string.

We'd been watching Jake so intently we hadn't paid much notice to Mike and Pete. But we all noticed them now, because they both dove at once to try to grab the package. But they were too late. Jake had broken the wrapper and was already surveying his present. He examined each hoof, each ear, and then he held up the tail. It wiggled limply. It should have been so funny, but nobody laughed -- nobody at all. But the hardest part was when Jake looked up and said thank you while trying to smile. Silently one by one each man moved forward carrying his package and quietly placed it in front of Jake for they had suddenly realized how little their own gift had really meant to them... until now....

This was where the foreman left the story and the men. He didn't need to say anymore; but it was gratifying to notice that as each man ate his lunch that day, they shared part with Bill Andrews and one fellow even took off his shirt and gave it to him.

I AM THANKFUL FOR...

The child who is not cleaning his room, but is watching TV, because that means he is at home and not on the streets.

For the taxes I pay, because it means I'm employed.

For the mess to clean after a party, because it means I have been surrounded by friends.

For the clothes that fit a little too snug, because it means I have enough to eat.

For my shadow that watches me work, because it means I am in the sunshine.

For a lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning and gutters that need fixing, because that means I have a home.

For all the complaints I hear about the government, because it means we have freedom of speech.

For the parking spot I find at the far end of the lot, because it means I am capable of walking and I have been blessed with a car.

For my huge heating bill, because I am warm.

For the lady behind me in church who sings off-key, because that means I can hear.

For the pile of laundry and ironing, for it means I have clothes to wear.

For weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day, for it means I have been capable of working hard.

For the alarm that goes off in the early morning, because it means I am alive.

And finally, for too much e-mail, because it means I have friends who are thinking of me.

HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY

I had not really planned on taking a trip this time of year, and yet I found myself packing rather hurriedly.

This trip was going to be unpleasant and I knew in advance that no real good would come of it.

I'm talking about my annual "Guilt Trip."

I got tickets to fly there on "WISHIHAD" airlines. It was an extremely short flight.

I got my baggage, which I could not check. I chose to carry it myself all the way. It was weighted down with a thousand memories of what might have been.

No one greeted me as I entered the terminal to the Regret City International Airport.

I say international because people from all over the world come to this dismal town.

As I checked into the Last Resort Hotel, I noticed that they would be hosting the year's most important event, the Annual Pity Party.

I wasn't going to miss that great social occasion. Many of the towns leading citizens would be there.

First, there would be the Done family, you know, Should Have, Would Have and Could Have.

Then came the I Had family.

You probably know ol' Wish and his clan.

Of course, the Opportunities would be present, Missed and Lost.

The biggest family would be the Yesterday's. There are far too many of them to count, but each one would have a very sad story to share.

Then Shattered Dreams would surely make and appearance.

And It's Their Fault would regale us with stories (excuses) about how things had failed in his life, and each story would be loudly applauded by Don't Blame Me and I Couldn't Help It.

Well, to make a long story short, I went to this depressing party knowing that there would be no real benefit in doing so. And, as usual, I became very depressed.

But as I thought about all of the stories of failures brought back from the past, it occurred to me that all of this trip and subsequent "pity party" could be cancelled by ME!

I started to truly realize that I did not have to be there. I didn't have to be depressed.

One thing kept going through my mind, I can't change yesterday, but I do have the power to make today a wonderful day.

I can be happy, joyous, fulfilled, encouraged, as well as encouraging. Knowing this, I left the City of Regret immediately and left no forwarding address.

Am I sorry for mistakes I've made in the past? YES! But there is no physical way to undo them.

So, if you're planning a trip back to the City of Regret, please cancel all your reservations now. Instead, take a trip to a place called, Starting Again.

I liked it so much that I have now taken up permanent residence there. My neighbors, the I Forgive Myselfs and the New Starts are so very helpful.

By the way, you don't have to carry around heavy baggage, because the load is lifted from your shoulders upon arrival.

God bless you in finding this great town. If you can find it — it's in your own heart — please look me up.

I live on ICANDOIT street.

INFORMATION PLEASE

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood.

I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.

I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person — her name was Information, Please and there was nothing she did not know.

Information, Please could supply anybody's number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor.

Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.

I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone!

Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.

Information, Please, I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.

A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear, Information.

"I hurt my finger," I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.

"Nobody's home but me." I blubbered.

"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.

"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."

"Can you open your icebox?" she asked.

I said I could. "Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called Information, Please for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk, that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called Information, Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child, but I was inconsolable.

I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone for "Information, Please."

Information, said the now familiar voice.

"How do you spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. Information, Please belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.

As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.

Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, Information,Please. Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, Information.

I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft-spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."

I laughed. "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?"

"I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me? I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls."

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

"Please do," she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, Information.

I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?" she asked.

"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally has been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."

Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you."

The note said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

HAVE YOU TASTED MY JESUS?

At the University of Chicago Divinity School each year they have what is called "Baptist Day". It is a day when all the Baptists in the area are invited to the school because they want the Baptist dollars to keep coming in. 

On this day each one is to bring a lunch to be eaten outdoors in a grassy picnic area. Every "Baptist Day" the school would invite one of the greatest minds to lecture in the theological education enter. 

One year they invited Dr. Paul Tillich. Dr. Tillich spoke for 2 ½ hours proving that the resurrection of Jesus was false. He quoted scholar after scholar and book after book. He concluded that since there was no such thing as the historical resurrection the religious tradition of the church was groundless, emotional mumbo-jumbo, because it was based on a relationship with a risen Jesus, who in fact, never rose from the dead in any literal sense. He then asked if there were any questions. After about 30 seconds, an old, dark skinned preacher with a head of short-cropped, woolly white hair stood up in the back of the auditorium. 

Docta Tillich, I got one question, he said as all eyes turned toward him. He reached into his sack lunch and pulled out an apple and began eating it. 

"Docta Tillich (crunch, munch), My question is a simple question (crunch, munch). Now, I ain't never read them books you read (crunch, munch) and I can't recite the Scriptures in the original Greek (crunch, munch). I don't know nothin' about Niebuhr and Heidegger (crunch, munch)..." He finished the apple. 

"All I wanna know is: This apple I just ate, was it bitter or sweet?" 

Dr. Tillich paused for a moment and answered in exemplary scholarly fashion: I cannot possibly answer that question, for I haven't tasted your apple. 

The white-haired preacher dropped the core of his apple into his crumpled paper bag, looked up at Dr. Tillich and said calmly, "Neither have you tasted my Jesus." The 1000 plus in attendance could not contain themselves. The auditorium erupted with applause and cheers. 

Dr. Tillich thanked his audience and promptly left the platform. 

Have you tasted Jesus? Please pass this on Saints! God has risen, and he's coming back one day! 

Taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him. If you have, rejoice in the hope of the resurrection that your faith in Him brings || Psalm 34:8 

GOD'S MESSAGE TO WOMAN

When I created the heavens and the earth, I spoke them into being. When I created man, I formed him and breathed life into his nostrils. But you, woman, I fashioned after I breathed the breath of life into man because your nostrils are too delicate. I allowed a deep sleep to come over him so I could patiently and perfectly fashion you. 

Man was put to sleep so that he could not interfere with the creativity. From one bone I fashioned you. I chose the bone that protects man's life. I chose the rib, which protects his heart and lungs and supports him, as you are meant to do. 

Around this one bone I shaped you. I modeled you. I created you perfectly and beautifully. Your characteristics are as the rib, strong yet delicate and fragile. You provide protection for the most delicate organ in man, his heart. His heart is the center of his being; his lungs hold the breath of life. The rib cage will allow itself to be broken before it will allow damage to the heart. 

Support man as the rib cage supports the body. You were not taken from his feet, to be under him, nor were you taken from his head, to be above him. You were taken from his side, to stand beside him and be held close to his side. You are my perfect angel. You are my beautiful little girl. You have grown to be a splendid woman of excellence, and my eyes fill when I see the virtue in your heart. Your eyes - don't change them. Your lips - how lovely when they part in prayer. Your nose so perfect in form, your hands so gentle to touch. 

I've caressed your face in your deepest sleep; I've held your heart close to mine. Of all that lives and breathes, you are the most like me. 

Adam walked with me in the cool of the day and yet he was lonely. He could not see me or touch me. He could only feel me. So everything I wanted Adam to share and experience with me, I fashioned in you: my holiness, my strength, my purity, my love, my protection and support. 

You are special because you are the extension of me. Man represents my image - woman, my emotions. Together, you represent the totality of God.

So man - "treat woman well. Love her, respect her, for she is fragile". In hurting her, you hurt me. What you do to her, you do to me. In crushing her, you only damage your own heart, the heart of your Father and the heart of her Father. Woman, support man. In humility, show him the power of emotion I have given you. In gentle quietness show your strength. In love, show him that you are the rib that protects his inner self.

BUILD YOUR HOUSE

An elderly carpenter was ready to retire. He told his employer-contractor of his plans to leave the house building business and to live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family. He would miss the paycheck, but he needed to retire. They could get by. The contractor was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but in time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end his career. 

When the carpenter finished his work and the builder had inspected the house, the contractor handed the front-door key to the carpenter. "This is your house," he said. "My gift to you." 

What a shock! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently. Now he had to live in the home he had built none too well.

So it is with us. We build our lives in a distracted way, reacting rather than acting, willing to put up with less than the best. At important points we do not give the job our best effort. Then with a shock we look at the situation we have created and find that we are now living in the house we have built. If we had realized, we would have done it differently. 

How well do you build your house?

Think of yourself as the carpenter. Think about your house. Each day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. Build wisely. It is the only life you will ever build. Even if you live it for only one day more, that day deserves to be lived graciously and with dignity. 

The plaque on the wall says, "Life is a do-it-yourself project." Who could say it more clearly? Your life today is the result of your attitudes and choices in the past. Your life tomorrow will be the result of your attitudes and the choices you make today. - make today count. 

DOES GOD STILL SPEAK TO US?

A young man had been to Wednesday night Bible Study. The Pastor had shared about listening to God and obeying the Lord’s voice. The young man couldn’t help but wonder, “Does God still speak to people?” After service he went out with some friends for coffee and pie and they discussed the message. Several different ones talked about how God had led them in different ways. It was about ten o’clock when the young man started driving home. Sitting in his car, he just began to pray, “God, if you still speak to people, speak to me. I will listen. I will do my best to obey.”

As he drove down the main street of his town, he had the strangest thought – stop and buy a gallon of milk. He shook his head and said out loud, “God is that you?” He didn’t get a reply and started on toward home. But again, the thought – buy a gallon of milk. The young man thought about Samuel and how he didn’t recognize the voice of God, and how little Samuel ran to Eli. “Okay, God,in case that is you, I will buy the milk.” It didn’t seem like too hard a test of obedience. He could always use the milk.

He stopped and purchased the gallon of milk and started off toward home. As he passed Seventh Street, he again felt the urge, “Turn down that street.” “This is crazy!” he thought, and drove on pass the intersection. Again, he felt that he should turn down Seventh street. At the next intersection, he turned back and headed down Seventh. Half jokingly, he said out loud, “Okay, God, I will”. He drove several blocks, when suddenly, he felt like he should stop.

He pulled over to the curb and looked around. He was in a semi-commercial area of town. It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worst of neighborhoods either. The businesses were closed and most of the houses looked dark, as if the people were already in bed. Again, he sensed something, “Go and give the milk to the people in the house across the street. The young man looked at the house. It was dark and it looked like the people were either gone or they were already asleep.

He started to open the door and then sat back in the car seat. “Lord, this is insane. Those people are asleep and if I wake them up, they are going to be mad and I will look stupid.” Again, he felt like he should go and give the milk. Finally, he opened the door, “Okay God, if this is you, I will go to the door and I will give them the milk. If you want me to look like a crazy person, okay. I want to be obedient. I guess that will count for something but if they don’t answer right away, I am out of here.” He walked across the street and rang the bell. He could hear some noise inside.

A man’s voice yelled out, “Who is it? What do you want?” Then the door opened before the young man could get away. The man was standing there in his jeans and t-shirt. He looked like he just got out of bed. He had a strange look on his face, and he didn’t seem too happy to have some stranger standing on his doorstep. “What is it?” The young man thrust out the gallon of milk, “Here, I brought this to you.” The man took the milk, and rushed down a hallway speaking loudly in Spanish. Then from down the hall came a woman carrying the milk toward the kitchen. The man was following her holding a baby. The baby was crying.

The man had tears streaming down his face. The man began speaking and half crying, “We were just praying. We had some big bills this month and we ran out of money. We didn’t have any milk for our baby. I was just praying and asking God to show me how to get some milk.” His wife in the kitchen yelled out, “I asked him to send an Angel with some… Are you an Angel?” The young man reached into his wallet and pulled out all the money he had on him and put it in the man’s hand. He turned and walked back toward his car and the tears were streaming down his face. He knew that God still answers prayers, and that He still speaks to us!

THE DAFFODIL PRINCIPLE

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you must come see the daffodils before they are over."  I wanted to go,  but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. "I will come next Tuesday, " I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call.



Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy.  Still, I had promised, and so I drove there.  When I finally walked into Carolyn's house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren, I said, "Forget the daffodils, Carolyn!



The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these children that I want to see bad enough to drive another inch!" My daughter smiled calmly and said, "We drive in this all the time, Mother." "Well, you won't get me back on the road until it clears, and then I'm heading for home!" I assured her.



"I was hoping you'd take me over to the garage to pick up my car." How far will we have to drive?"  "Just a few blocks," Carolyn said.   "I'll drive.  I'm used to this."  After several minutes, I had to ask, "Where are we going?  This isn't the way to the garage!"



"We're going to my garage the long way," Carolyn smiled, "by way of the daffodils."  "Carolyn," I said sternly, "please turn around."



"It's all right, Mother, I promise.  You will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience."



After about twenty minutes, we turned onto a small gravel road and I saw a small church.  On the far side of the church, I saw a hand-lettered sign that read, "Daffodil Garden."  We got out of the car and each took a child's hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path.  Then, we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped.  Before me lay the most glorious sight.  It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes.  The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns-great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow.  Each different-colored variety was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue.  There were five acres of flowers.



"But who has done this?" I asked Carolyn.



"It's just one woman," Carolyn answered.  "She lives on the property.  That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a well kept A frame house that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory.  We walked up to the house.  On the patio, we saw a poster. "Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking" was the headline.



The first answer was a simple one.  "50,000 bulbs," it read.  The second answer was, "One at a time, by one woman.  Two hands, two feet, and very little brain." The third answer was, "Began in 1958."



There it was, The Daffodil Principle.  For me, that moment was a life-changing experience.



I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than forty years before, had begun-one bulb at a time-to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top.  Still, just planting one bulb at a time, year after year, had changed the world. This unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived.  She had created something of ineffable magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.



The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principles of celebration.  That is, learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time-often just one baby-step at a time - and learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time.  When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.



"It makes me sad in a way," I admitted to Carolyn. "What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five or forty years ago and had worked away at it 'one bulb at a time' through all those years.  Just think what I might have been able to achieve!"



My daughter summed up the message of the day in her usual direct way. "Start tomorrow," she said.

It's so pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays.  The way to make learning a lesson of celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, "How can I put this to use today?"

A CHILDREN'S THANKSGIVING

They had got "way through," as Terry said, to the nuts. It had been a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner so far. Grandmother's sweet face beamed down the length of the great table, over all the little curly grand-heads, at Grandfather's face. Everybody felt very thankful.

"I wish all the children this side of the North Pole had some turkey, too, and squash, and cranberry - and things," Silence said quietly. Silence was always thinking of beautiful things like that.

"And some nuts," Terry said, setting his small white teeth into the meat of a big fat walnut. "It wouldn't seem like Thanksgiving without nuts."

"I know somebody who would be thankful with just nuts," smiled Grandfather. 

"Indeed, I think that he would rather have them for all the courses of his Thanksgiving dinner!"

"Just nuts! No turkey, or pudding, or anything?" The curly grand-heads all bobbed up from their plates and nut pickers in amazement. Just nuts!

"Yes! Guess who he is." Grandfather's laughing eyes twinkled up the long table at Grandmother. "I'll give you three guesses apiece, beginning with Heart's Delight. Guess number one, Heart's Delight."

"Chip." Heart's Delight had guessed it at the very first guess.

"Chip!" laughed all the little grand-boys and girls. "Why, of course! Chip! He would rather have just nuts for his Thanksgiving dinner."

"I wish he had some of mine," cried Silence.

"And mine!" cried Terry, and all the others wished that he had some of theirs. 

What a Thanksgiving dinner little Chip would have had!

"He's got plenty, thank you." It was the shy little voice of Heart's Delight. A soft pink color had come into her round cheeks. Everybody looked at her in surprise, for how did Heart's Delight know that Chip had plenty of nuts? Then Terry remembered something.

"Oh, that's where her nuts went to!" he cried. "Heart's Delight gave them to Chip! We couldn't think what she had done with them all."

Heart's Delight's cheeks grew pinker - very pink indeed.

"Yes, that's where," said Silence, leaning over to squeeze one of Heart's Delight's little hands. And sure enough, it was. In the beautiful nut month of October, when the children went after their winter's supply of nuts, Heart's Delight had left all her little rounded heap just where bright-eyed, nut-hungry Squirrel Chip would be sure to find them and hurry them away to his hole. And Chip had found them, she was sure, for not one was left when she went back to see the next day.

"Why, maybe, this very minute - right now - Chip is cracking his Thanksgiving dinner," Terry laughed.

"Just as we are! Maybe he's come to the nut course - but they are all nut courses. And maybe he's sitting up at his table with the rest of his folks, thanksgiving to Heart's Delight," Silence said.

Heart's Delight's little shy face nearly hid itself over her plate. This was dreadful! It was necessary to change the conversation at once, and a dear little thought came to her aid.

"But I'm afraid Chip hasn't got any grandfather or grandmother at his Thanksgiving," she said softly. "I should think it would be hard to give thanks without any grandfather and grandmother."

BORN WITHOUT EARS

"Can I see my baby?" the happy new mother asked. When the bundle was nestled in her arms, and she moved the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny face, she gasped. The doctor turned quickly and looked out the tall hospital window. The baby had been born without ears. Time proved that the baby's hearing was perfect. It was only his appearance that was marred.

When he rushed home from school one day and flung himself into his mother's arms, she sighed, knowing that his life was to be a succession of heartbreaks. He blurted out the tragedy."A boy, a big boy...called me a freak." He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his fellow students, he might have been class president, but for that. He developed a gift, a talent for literature and music. "You might mingle with other young people," his mother reproved him, but felt a tenderness in her heart.

The boy's father had a session with the family physician. Could nothing be done? "I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they could be procured," the doctor decided. Whereupon the search began for a person who would make such a sacrifice for a young man.

Two years went by. Then, "You are going to the hospital, son. Mother and I have someone who will donate the ears you need. But it's a secret," said the father. The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged. His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became a series of triumphs. Later, he married and entered the diplomatic service. "But I must know!" he urged his father. "Who gave so much for me? I could never do enough for him." 

"I do not believe you could," said the father, "but the agreement was that you are not to know...not yet."

The years kept their profound secret, but the day did come... one of the darkest days that ever pass through a son. He stood with his father over his mother's casket. 

Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth a hand and raised the thick, reddish-brown hair to reveal... that the mother had no outer ears. "Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be cut," he whispered gently, "and nobody ever thought mother less beautiful, did they?"

Real beauty lies not in the physical appearance, but in the heart. Real treasure lies not in what can be seen, but what cannot be seen. Real love lies not in what is done and known, but in what is done but not known.

I STILL KNOW WHO SHE IS

 

It was a busy morning, about 8:30, when an elderly gentleman in his 80’s arrived to have stitches removed from his thumb. He said he was in a hurry as he had an appointment at 9:00 am.

 

I took his vital signs and had him take a seat, knowing it would be over an hour before someone would to able to see him.. I saw him looking at his watch and decided, since I was not busy with another patient, I would evaluate his wound. On exam, it was well healed, so I talked to one of the doctors, got the needed supplies to remove his sutures and redress his wound.



While taking care of his wound, I asked him if he had another doctor's appointment this morning, as he was in such a hurry.

The gentleman told me no, that he needed to go to the nursing home to eat breakfast with his wife. I inquired as to her health.



He told me that she had been there for a while and that she was a victim of Alzheimer's Disease.

As we talked, I asked if she would be upset if he was a bit late.

He replied that she no longer knew who he was, that she had not recognized him in five years now.

I was surprised, and asked him, 'And you still go every morning, even though she doesn't know who you are?'

 

 

He smiled as he patted my hand and said, 'She doesn't know me,

but I still know who she is.'

 

 

I had to hold back tears as he left, I had goose bumps on my arm, and thought, 'That is the kind of love I want in my life.'



True love is neither physical, nor romantic.

True love is an acceptance of all that is, has been, will be, and will not be.

 

 

The happiest people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the best of everything they have.  

 

'Life isn't about how to survive the storm,

but how to dance in the rain.

With all the jokes and trash that are circulating around the web, it is difficult to come across a story as powerful and worth-retelling as this. Share this with someone you care about. I just did.