Get Your Hankies Ready

[SleepyHead]

I'm a Ham radio operator and spend some time working
with radios and electronics. So when I heard this story
it really made me think! I hope that you will find some
application in your own life as well...

A few weeks ago, I was shuffling toward the basement
shack with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and
the morning paper in the other. What began as a typical
Saturday morning, turned into one of those lessons that
life seems to hand you from time to time. Let me tell
you about it.

I turned the dial up into the phone portion of the band on
my ham radio in order to listen to a Saturday morning
swap net. Along the way, I came across an older sounding
chap, with a tremendous signal and a golden voice. You
know, the kind, he sounded like he should be in the
broadcasting business. He was telling whoever he was
talking with something about "a thousand marbles."

I was intrigued and stopped to listen to what he had to
say. "Well, Tom, it sure sounds like you're busy with your
job. I'm sure they pay you well but it's a shame you have
to be away from home and your family so much. Hard to
believe a young fellow should have to work sixty or seventy
hours a week to make ends meet. Too bad you missed
your daughter's dance recital."

He continued, "Let me tell you something Tom, something
that has helped me keep a good perspective on my own
priorities." And that's when he began to explain his theory
of " a thousand marbles."

"You see, I sat down one day and did a little arithmetic. The
average person lives about seventy-five years. I know, some
live more and some live less, but on average, folks live
about seventy-five years."

"Now then, I multiplied 75 times 52 and I came up with 3,900
which is the number of Saturdays that the average person
has in their entire lifetime. Now stick with me Tom, I'm getting
to the important part."

"It took me until I was fifty-five years old to think about all this
in any detail", he went on, "and by that time I had lived through
over twenty-eight hundred Saturdays. I got to thinking that if I
lived to be seventy-five, I only had about a thousand of them
left to enjoy."

"So I went to a toy store and bought every single marble they
had. I ended up having to visit three toy stores to round-up
1,000 marbles. I took them home and put them inside of a
large, clear plastic container right here in the shack next to
my gear. Every Saturday since then, I have taken one marble
out and thrown it away."

"I found that by watching the marbles diminish, I focused
more on the really important things in life. There is nothing
like watching your time here on this earth run out to help
get your priorities straight."

"Now let me tell you one last thing before I sign-off with you
and take my lovely wife out for breakfast. This morning, I
took the very last marble out of the container. I figure if I make
it until next Saturday then I have been given a little extra time.
And the one thing we can all use is a little more time."

"It was nice to meet you Tom, I hope you spend more time
with your family, and I hope to meet you again."

You could have heard a pin drop on the radio when this fellow
signed off. I guess he gave us all a lot to think about. I had
planned to work on the antenna that morning, and then I was
going to meet up with a few hams to work on the next club
newsletter. Instead, I went upstairs and woke my wife up
with a kiss.

"C'mon honey, I'm taking you and the kids to breakfast."

"What brought this on?" she asked with a smile.

"Oh, nothing special, it's just been a long time since we
spent a Saturday together with the kids. Hey, can we stop
at a toy store while we're out? I need to buy some marbles."

------------------
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Tahoma, Arial, Sans-Serif">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by SleepyHead:
A missionary on furlough told this true story while visiting his home church in Michigan...

"While serving at a small field hospital in Africa, every two weeks I traveled by bicycle through the jungle to a nearby city for supplies. This was a journey of two days and required camping overnight at the halfway point.

On one of these journeys, I arrived in the city where I planned to collect money from a bank, purchase medicine and supplies, and then begin my two-day journey back to the field hospital. Upon arrival in the city, I observed two men fighting; one of whom had been seriously injured. I treated him for his injuries and at the same time talked to him about the Lord.

I then traveled two days, camping overnight, and arrived home without incident. Two weeks later I repeated my journey. Upon arriving in the city, I was approached by the young man I had treated. He told me that he had known I carried money and medicines. He said, 'Some friends and I followed you into the jungle, knowing you would camp overnight. We planned to kill you and take your money and drugs. But just as we were about to move into your camp, we saw that you were surrounded by 26-armed guards.

At this I laughed and said that I was certainly all alone in that jungle campsite. The young man pressed the point, however, and said, "No sir, I was not the only person to see the guards. My five friends also saw them, and we all counted them. It was because of those guards that we were afraid and left you alone."

At this point in the sermon, one of the men in the congregation jumped to his feet, interrupted the missionary, and asked if he could tell him the exact day this happened. The missionary told the congregation the date, and the man who interrupted told him this story: "On the night of your incident in Africa, it was morning here and I was preparing to go play golf. I was about to putt when I felt the urge to pray for you. In fact, the urging of the Lord was so strong; I called men in this church to meet with me here in the sanctuary to pray for you. Would all of those men who met with me on that day stand up?" The men who had met together to pray that day stood up. The missionary wasn't concerned with who they were, he was too busy counting how many men he saw.

There were 26.

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>


Wow, what a coincidence. http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/afraid4.gif


------------------

[SleepyHead]

A missionary on furlough told this true story while visiting his home church in Michigan...

"While serving at a small field hospital in Africa, every two weeks I traveled by bicycle through the jungle to a nearby city for supplies. This was a journey of two days and required camping overnight at the halfway point.

On one of these journeys, I arrived in the city where I planned to collect money from a bank, purchase medicine and supplies, and then begin my two-day journey back to the field hospital. Upon arrival in the city, I observed two men fighting; one of whom had been seriously injured. I treated him for his injuries and at the same time talked to him about the Lord.

I then traveled two days, camping overnight, and arrived home without incident. Two weeks later I repeated my journey. Upon arriving in the city, I was approached by the young man I had treated. He told me that he had known I carried money and medicines. He said, 'Some friends and I followed you into the jungle, knowing you would camp overnight. We planned to kill you and take your money and drugs. But just as we were about to move into your camp, we saw that you were surrounded by 26-armed guards.

At this I laughed and said that I was certainly all alone in that jungle campsite. The young man pressed the point, however, and said, "No sir, I was not the only person to see the guards. My five friends also saw them, and we all counted them. It was because of those guards that we were afraid and left you alone."

At this point in the sermon, one of the men in the congregation jumped to his feet, interrupted the missionary, and asked if he could tell him the exact day this happened. The missionary told the congregation the date, and the man who interrupted told him this story: "On the night of your incident in Africa, it was morning here and I was preparing to go play golf. I was about to putt when I felt the urge to pray for you. In fact, the urging of the Lord was so strong; I called men in this church to meet with me here in the sanctuary to pray for you. Would all of those men who met with me on that day stand up?" The men who had met together to pray that day stood up. The missionary wasn't concerned with who they were, he was too busy counting how many men he saw.

There were 26.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif

In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute To John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

When you came into the world, she held you in her arms.
You thanked her by wailing like a banshee.

When you were 1 year old, she fed you and bathed you.
You thanked her by crying all night long.

When you were 2 years old, she taught you to walk.
You thanked her by running away when she called.

When you were 3 years old, she made all your meals with love.
You thanked her by tossing your plate on the floor.

When you were 4 years old, she gave you some crayons
You thanked her by coloring the dining room table.

When you were 5 years old, she dressed you for the holidays.
You thanked her by plopping into the nearest pile of mud.

When you were 6 years old, she walked you to school.
You thanked her by screaming, "I'M NOT GOING!"

When you were 7 years old, she bought you a baseball.
You thanked her by throwing it through the next-door-neighbor's window.

When you were 8 years old, she handed you an ice cream.
You thanked her by dripping it all over your lap.

When you were 9 years old, she paid for piano lessons.
You thanked her by never even bothering to practice.

When you were 10 years old, she drove you all day, from soccer to gymnastics to one birthday party after another.
You thanked her by jumping out of the car and never looking back.

When you were 11 years old, she took you and your friends to the movies.
You thanked her by asking to sit in a different row.

When you were 12 years old, she warned you not to watch certain TV shows.
You thanked her by waiting until she left the house.

When you were 13, she suggested a haircut that was becoming.
You thanked her by telling her she had no taste.

When you were 14, she paid for a month away at summer camp.
You thanked her by forgetting to write a single letter.

When you were 15, she came home from work, looking for a hug.
You thanked her by having your bedroom door locked.

When you were 16, she taught you how to driver her car.
You thanked her by taking it every chance you could.

When you were 17, she was expecting an important call.
You thanked her by being on the phone all night.

When you were 18, she cried at your high school graduation.
You thanked her by staying out partying until dawn.

When you were 19, she paid for your college tuition, drove you to campus, carried your bags.
You thanked her by saying good-bye outside the dorm so you wouldn't be embarrassed in front of your friends.

When you were 20, she asked whether you were seeing anyone.
You thanked her by saying, "It's none of your business."

When you were 21, she suggested certain careers for your future.
You thanked her by saying, "I don't want to be like you."

When you were 22, she hugged you at your college graduation.
You thanked her by asking whether she could pay for a trip to Europe.

When you were 23, she gave you furniture for your first apartment.
You thanked her by telling your friends it was ugly.

When you were 24, she met your fiance and asked about your plans for the future.
You thanked her by glaring and growling, "Muuhh-ther, please!"

When you were 25, she helped to pay for your wedding, and she cried and told you how deeply she loved you.
You thanked her by moving halfway across the country.

When you were 30, she called with some advice on the baby.
You thanked her by telling her, "Things are different now."

When you were 40, she called to remind you of an relative's birthday.
You thanked her by saying you were "really busy right now."

When you were 50, she fell ill and needed you to take care of her.
You thanked her by reading about the burden parents become to their children.


And then, one day, she quietly died.
And everything you never did came crashing down like thunder.

Let us take a moment just to pay tribute and show appreciation to the person called MOM, though some may not say it openly to their mother.

------------------
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

A Columbine High School student wrote:

The paradox of our time in history is that we have...
taller buildings, but shorter tempers;
wider Freeways, but narrower viewpoints.

We spend more,but have less;
we buy more, but enjoy it less.
We have bigger houses and smaller families;
more conveniences, but less time.
We have more degrees, but less sense;
more knowledge, but less judgment;
more experts, but less solutions;
more medicine, but less wellness.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.
We talk too much,love too seldom, and hate too often.
We've learned how to make a living, but not a life.
We've added years to life, not life to years.
We've been all the way to the moon and back,
but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor.

We've conquered outer space, but not inner space..
We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul...
We've split the atom, but not our prejudice.
We have higher incomes, but lower morals..
We've become long on quantity, but short on quality.

These are the times of tall men, and short character;
steep profits, and shallow relationships.
These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare;
more leisure, but less fun;
more kinds of food, but less nutrition.

These are days of two incomes, but more divorce;
of fancier houses, but broken homes.
It is a time when there is much in the show window
and nothing in the stockroom....

A time when technology can bring this letter to you,
and a time when you can choose either to forward this message and make a difference...
or just hit delete.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

Food for Thought...

In light of the recent shooting in Massachusetts, let's see, I think it started when Madeline Murray O'Hare complained she didn't want any prayer in our schools, and we said OK.

Then someone said you better not read the Bible in school.... the Bible that says thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, and love your neighbour as yourself, And we said, OK.

Dr. Benjamin Spock said we shouldn't spank our children when they misbehave because their little personalities would be warped and we might damage their self-esteem. And we said, an expert should know what he's talking about so we said OK, we won't spank them anymore.

Then someone said teachers and principals better not discipline our children when they misbehave. And the school administrators said no faculty member in this school better touch a student when they misbehave because we don't want any bad publicity, and we surely don't want to be sued (there's a big difference between disciplining and touching,
beating, smacking, humiliating, kicking, etc).

And we accepted their reasoning. Then someone said, let's let our daughters have abortions if they want, and they won't even have to tell their parents. And we said, that's a grand idea.

Then some wise school board member said, since boys will be boys and they're going to do it anyway, let's give our sons all the condoms they want, so they can have all the fun they desire, and we won't have to
tell their parents they got them at school. And we said, that's another great idea.

Then some of our top elected officials said it doesn't matter what we do in private as long as we do our jobs. And agreeing with them, we said it doesn't matter to me what anyone, including the President, does in private as long as I have a job and the economy is good.

And then someone said let's print magazines with pictures of nude women and call it wholesome, down-to-earth appreciation for the beauty of the female body. And we said we have no problem with that.

And someone else took that appreciation a step further and published pictures of nude children and then stepped further still by making them available on the internet. And we said they're entitled to their free speech.

And the entertainment industry said, let's make TV shows and movies that promote profanity, violence, and illicit sex. And let's record music that encourages rape, drugs, murder, suicide, and satanic themes. And we said it's just entertainment, it has no adverse effect, and nobody takes it seriously anyway, so go right ahead.

Now we're asking ourselves why our children have no conscience, why they don't know right from wrong, and why it doesn't bother them to kill strangers,their classmates, and themselves.

Probably, if we think about it long and hard enough, we can figure it out. I think it has a great deal to do with "WE REAP WHAT WE SOW."


Dear God,

Why didn't you save the little girl in Michigan?

Sincerely,

Concerned Student

............................AND THE REPLY

Dear Concerned Student,

I am not allowed in schools.

Sincerely,

God.


Funny how simple it is for people to trash God and then wonder why the world's going to hell. Funny how we believe what the newspapers say, but question what the Bible says. Funny how everyone wants to go to Heaven provided they do not have to believe, think, say, or do anything the Bible says. Funny how someone can say "I believe in God" but still follow Satan; who, by the way, also "believes" in God.

Funny how we are quick to judge but not to be judged.

Funny how you can send a thousand 'jokes' through online and they spread like wildfire, but when you start sending messages regarding the Lord, people think twice about sharing.

Funny how the lewd, crude, vulgar and obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but the public discussion of Jesus is suppressed in the school and workplace.

Funny how someone can be so fired up for Christ on Sunday, but be an invisible Christian the rest of the week.

Are you laughing?

Funny how when you go to pass this message on, you will not send it to many on your address list because you're not sure what they believe, or what they will think of you for sending it to them.

Funny how I can be more worried about what other people think of me than what God thinks of me.

Are you thinking?

Pass it on if you think it has merit! If not then just discard it... no one will ever know what you did, for sure.

But, if you discard this thought process, then don't sit back and complain about what a bad shape the world is in.

------------------

[SleepyHead]

One of my faves, NWM... had that one selected for next, thanks! http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/thumbsup.gif

It really looks like by insisting on our "rights", we've royally messed up our lives... http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/images/icons/frown.gif

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Tahoma, Arial, Sans-Serif">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by SleepyHead:
One of my faves, NWM... had that one selected for next, thanks! http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/thumbsup.gif

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

No worries, plenty more where that came from too. http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/images/icons/grin.gif

------------------

[Tim]

I prefer...

Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.

I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.

I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.

Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.

I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.

And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.

Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.

Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black.



------------------
Tim
------------
Duchy Of Grand Fenwick

[Tim]

Another from Johnny Cash...

I heard on the radio there's rumors of war
People getting ready for battle
And there may be just one more
I heard about an earthquake
And the toll it took away
These are the signs of the times we're in today.

CHORUS
Matthew twenty-four is knocking at the door,
And there can't be too much more to come to pass.
Matthew twenty-four is knocking at the door,
And a day or one more could be the last.

A great bear from the northland has risen from his sleep,
And the Army ranks in red are near two hundred million deep.
The young and old now prophesy a coming
Prince of Peace
And last night I dreamed of lightning in the east.

REPEAT CHORUS



------------------
Tim
------------
Duchy Of Grand Fenwick

Two great ones, Tim! http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/images/icons/smile.gif

------------------

[SleepyHead]

A NICKEL'S WORTH

What a scared little seven year old boy I was when the orphanage finally let me out of that dark closet, after two days. I took my bath, brushed my teeth with soap and dressed myself for school in the clothes that the matron had laid on my bed. Clothes that were always too big, or too small for me.

When I reached Spring Park Elementary I just kept walking past the school building because I was so afraid the other kids in my classroom would make fun of me because of all the black and blue marks on my legs where I had been whipped with the bolo paddle. I walked and walked for what seemed to be hours. Finally I came to this great big wide street which was at the end of Spring Park Road. I had never seen a street that big before and I had never seen so many cars in all my life. Across the street was a big brick store and the sign on top said Preston's Drugs. There was also a sign in the window that read "Everything you'll ever want is here."

It took me almost and hour to get across Atlantic Boulevard, because I was so scared. But finally I ran across the road as fast as I could and none of the cars hit me. Then I walked into the large Preston Drug Store and noticed people sitting at a counter drinking drinks with ice cream in them. I had never seen anything like that before. I don't think I ever had ice cream before, but that is not what I was looking for anyway.

The sign said they had everything that you would ever need, in the whole wide world. I had heard about something very special and I wanted to buy one if they had it. I looked, and I looked, and I looked but I just could not find the thing that I had heard about on the television movie.

Finally this old man grabbed me by the arm, and it scared me real bad, too. "What are you doing in here, boy?" he yelled at me.

"I'm looking for something special," I told him, as I backed against the wall.

"Are you stealing stuff?" he said as he pointed directly at my nose.

"No Sir, Mister," I said. "I'm not a stealer." I was taken into the back office and a policeman came and asked me why I was not in school. I didn't tell him anything because I was afraid that he would take me to jail for running away from the orphanage. So I just started crying really loud. After the policeman left the room this old lady, about twenty-five years old, came in and sat by me.

"Were you stealing?" she asked me.

"No ma'am. I was just looking for something special," I told her.

"And what might that be?" she asked.

"Do you have a 'hug' in this here store?" I asked.

"We always have hugs for kids in this store," she said as she stood up, wrapped her arms around me and squeezed real tight. She smiled, walked out of the small office and when no one came back for a long time I looked out the office door and saw that the back door of the store was open. I quickly walked out of the back door and I ran all the way back to school.

When I got back I found out that I was only 20 minutes late. I was the only kid in my class that day that did not have the five cent milk money for lunch. But that was OK, because I had laid my nickel on the man's desk at the Preston Drug Store to pay for the "hug" that the lady gave me.

It really was the store "that had everything in the world that you would ever need," and nobody can ever say that I stole it either.

~~ Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[This message has been edited by SleepyHead (edited May 12, 2001 at 02:49 AM).]

5 important lessons:

1. Significance of others
During my second month of nursing school, our professor gave us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had breezed through the questions, until I read the last one: "What is the first name of the woman who cleans the school?"

Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the cleaning woman several times. She was tall, dark-haired and in her 50s, but how would I know her name? I handed in my paper, leaving the last question blank.

Just before class ended, one student asked if the last question would count toward our quiz grade. "Absolutely," said the professor. "In your careers, you will meet many people. All are significant. They deserve your attention and care, even if all you do is smile and say 'hello'."

I've never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her name was Dorothy.

2. Helping those in need
One night, at 11:30 PM, an older African-American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing rainstorm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride. Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car.

A young white man stopped to help her, generally unheard of in those conflict-filled 1960s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxi cab. She seemed to be in a big hurry, but wrote down his address and thanked him.

Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door. To his surprise, a giant console color TV was delivered to his home. A special note was attached. It read: "Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes, but also my spirits. Then you came along. Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband's bedside just before he passed away. God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving others."

Sincerely,
Mrs. Nat King Cole.

3. Serving others
In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a 10-year-old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of him.

"How much is an ice cream sundae?" he asked.

"Fifty cents," replied the waitress.

The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied the coins in it. "Well, how much is a plain dish of ice cream?" he inquired. By now more people were waiting for a table and the waitress was growing
impatient. "Thirty-five cents," she brusquely replied."

The little boy again counted his coins. "I'll have the plain ice cream," he said. The waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the table and walked away.

The boy finished the ice cream, paid the cashier and left. When the waitress came back, she began to cry as she wiped down the table. There, placed neatly beside the empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies.

You see, he couldn't have the sundae, because he had to have enough left to leave her a tip.

4. Learning from obstacles
In ancient times, a King had a boulder placed on a roadway. Then he hid himself and watched to see if anyone would remove the huge rock. Some of the king's wealthiest merchants and courtiers came by and simply walked around it. Many loudly blamed the king for not keeping the roads clear, but none did anything about getting the stone out of the way.

Then a peasant came along carrying a load of vegetables. Upon approaching the boulder, the peasant laid down his burden and tried to
move the stone to the side of the road.

After much pushing and straining, he finally succeeded. After the peasant picked up his load of vegetables, he noticed a purse lying in the road where the boulder had been. The purse contained many gold coins and a note from the king indicating that the gold was for the person who removed the boulder from the roadway.

The peasant learned what many of us never understand. Every obstacle presents an opportunity to improve our condition.

5. Giving when it counts
Many years ago, when I worked as a volunteer at a hospital, I got to know a little girl named Liz who was suffering from a rare and serious disease. Her only chance of recovery appeared to be a blood transfusion from her 5-year-old brother, who had miraculously survived the same disease and had developed the antibodies needed to combat the illness.

The doctor explained the situation to her little brother, and asked the little boy if he would be willing to give his blood to his sister. I saw him hesitate for only a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, "Yes, I'll do it if it will save her."

As the transfusion progressed, he lay in bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did, seeing the color returning to her cheeks. Then his face grew pale and his smile faded. He looked up at the doctor and asked with a trembling voice, "Will I start to die right away?"

Being young, the little boy had misunderstood the doctor; he thought he was going to have to give his sister all of his blood in order to save her.

You see, after all, understanding and attitude, are everything.

------------------

[SleepyHead]

Several years ago a preacher moved to Houston, Texas. Some weeks after he arrived, he had occasion to ride the bus from his home to the downtown area. When he sat down, he discovered that the driver had accidentally given him a quarter too much change. As he considered what to do, he thought to himself, "You better give the quarter back. It would be wrong to keep it."

Then he thought, "Oh, forget it, it's only a quarter. Who would worry about this little amount? Anyway the bus company already gets too much fare; they will never miss it. Accept it as a gift from the Lord and keep quiet."

When his stop came, he paused momentarily at the door, then he handed the quarter to the driver and said, "Here, you gave me too much change".

The driver with a smile, replied, "Aren't you the new preacher in town? I have been thinking lately about going to worship somewhere. I just wanted to see what you would do, if I gave you too much change."


When my friend stepped off the bus, he literally grabbed the nearest light pole, and held on, and said, "Oh, Lord, I almost sold your Son for a quarter."

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

Rose

Red roses were her favorites, her name was also Rose.
And every year her husband sent them, tied with pretty bows.

The year he died, the roses were delivered to her door.
The card said, "Be my Valentine," like all the years before.

Each year he sent her roses, and the note would always say,
"I love you even more this year, than last year on this day.

My love for you will always grow, with every passing year."
She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear.

She thought, he ordered roses in advance before this day.
Her loving husband did not know, that he would pass away.

He always liked to do things early, way before the time.
Then, if he got too busy, everything would work out fine.

She trimmed the stems, and placed them in a very special vase.
Then, sat the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face.

She would sit for hours, in her husband's favorite chair.
While staring at his picture, and the roses sitting there.

A year went by, and it was hard to live without her mate.
With loneliness and solitude, that had become her fate.

Then, the very hour, as on Valentines before,
The doorbell rang, and there were roses,
sitting by her door.

She brought the roses in, and then just looked at them in shock.
Then, went to get the telephone, to call the florist shop.

The owner answered, and she asked him, if he would explain,
Why would someone do this to her, causing her such pain?

"I know your husband passed away, more than a year ago,"
The owner said, "I knew you'd call, and you would want to know.

The flowers you received today, were paid for in advance.
Your husband always planned ahead, he left nothing to chance.

There is a standing order, that I have on file down here,
And he has paid, well in advance, you'll get them every year.

There also is another thing, that I think you should know,
He wrote a special little card, he did this years ago.

Then, should ever you find out that he's no longer here,
That's the card that should be sent, to you the following year."

She thanked him and hung up the phone, her tears now flowing hard.
Her fingers shaking, as she slowly reached to get the card.

Inside the card, she saw that he had written her a note.
Then, as she stared in total silence, this is what he wrote...

"Hello my love, I know it's been a year since I've been gone,
I hope it hasn't been too hard for you to overcome.

I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real.
Or if it was the other way, I know how I would feel.

The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life.
I loved you more than words can say, you were the perfect wife.

You were my friend and lover, you fulfilled my every need.
I know it's only been a year, but please try not to grieve.

I want you to be happy, even when you shed your tears.
That is why the roses will be sent to you for years.

When you get these roses, think of all the happiness,
That we had together, and how both of us were blessed.

I have always loved you and I know I always will.
But, my love, you must go on, you have some living still.

Please, try to find happiness, while living out your days.
I know it is not easy, but I hope you find some ways.

The roses will come every year, and they will only stop,
When your door's not answered, when the florist stops to knock.

He will come five times that day, in case you have gone out.
But after his last visit, he will know without a doubt

To take the roses to the place, where I've instructed him.
And place the roses where we are, together once again."

------------------

[SleepyHead]

I love that one, too, NWM http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/images/icons/smile.gif

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

In Brooklyn, New York, Chush is a school that caters to
learning-disabled children. Some children remain in Chush
for their entire school career, while others can be
main-streamed into conventional schools.

At a Chush fund-raising dinner, the father of a Chush child
delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who
attended.

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

The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the
father's anguish and stilled by the piercing query. "I
believe," the father answered, "that when G-d brings a child
like this into the world, the perfection that He seeks is in
the way people react to this child."

He then told the following story about his son Shaya:

One afternoon Shaya and his father walked past a park where
some boys Shaya knew were playing baseball. Shaya asked,
"Do you think they will let me play?" Shaya's father knew
that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys
would not want him on their team. But Shaya's father
understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give
him a comfortable sense of belonging.

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

Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said,
"We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth
inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put
him up to bat in the ninth inning."

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

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

Surprisingly, Shaya was given the bat. Everyone knew that
it was all but impossible because Shaya didn't even know how
to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However,
as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few
steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya should at least be
able to make contact. The first pitch came in and Shaya
swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya's team-mates
came up to Shaya and together they held the bat and faced
the pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took
a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya.

As the pitch came in, Shaya and his team-mate swung the bat
and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher.
The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily
have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shaya would have
been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the
pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right
field, far beyond reach of the first baseman.

Everyone started yelling, "Shaya, run to first. Run to
first!" Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He
scampered down the baseline wide eyed and startled. By the
time he reached first base, the right fielder had the ball.
He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman who
would tag out Shaya, who was still running. But the right
fielder understood what the pitcher's intentions were, so he
threw the ball high and far over the third baseman's head.

Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second." Shaya ran
towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously
circled the bases towards home. As Shaya reached second
base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in the
direction of third base and shouted, "Run to third." As
Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him
screaming, "Shaya, run home!" Shaya ran home, stepped on
home plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and
made him the hero, as he had just hit a "grand slam" and won
the game for his team.

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

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

That's a great one, Sleepy. http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/images/icons/smile.gif Here's another similar one...

------------------

A few years ago, at the Seattle Special Olympics, nine contestants, all physically or mentally disabled, assembled at the starting line for the 100-yard dash.

At the gun, they all started out, not exactly in a dash, but with relish to run the race to the finish and win. All, that is, except one little boy who stumbled on the asphalt, tumbled over a couple of times, and began to cry.

The other eight heard the boy cry. They slowed down and looked back. Then they all turned around and went back... every one of them. One girl with Down's Syndrome bent down and kissed him and said, "This will
make it better." Then all nine linked arms and walked together to the finish line.

Everyone in the stadium stood, and the cheering went on for several minutes.

People who were there are still telling the story. Why? Because deep down we know this one thing: What matters in this life is more
than winning for ourselves. What matters in this life is helping others win, even if it means slowing down and changing our course.

If you help spread this message, we may be able to change our hearts as well as someone else's. Remember, a candle loses nothing by lighting another candle.


------------------

[SleepyHead]

It's a Wednesday night and you are at a church prayer meeting when somebody runs in from the parking lot and says, "Turn on a radio, turn on a radio." While the church listens to a little transistor radio with a microphone stuck up to it, the announcement is made:

"Two women are lying in a Long Island hospital dying from the mystery flu." Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the country. People are working around the clock trying to find an antidote. Nothing is working. California, Oregon, Arizona, Florida, Massachusetts. It's as though it's just sweeping in from the borders. And then, suddenly the news comes out. The code has been broken. A cure can be found. A vaccine can be made. It's going to take the blood of somebody who hasn't been infected, and so, sure enough, all through the Midwest, through all those channels of emergency broadcasting, everyone is asked to do one simple thing: Go to your downtown hospital and have your blood type taken. That's all we ask of you. When you hear the sirens go off in your neighborhood, please make your way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospitals."

Sure enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night, there is a long line, and they've got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it. Your wife and your kids are out there, and they take your blood type and they say, "Wait here in the parking lot. If we call your name, you can be dismissed and go home." You stand around, scared, with your neighbors, wondering what in the world is going on and if this is the end of the world.

Suddenly a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He's yelling a name and waving a clipboard. What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says, "Daddy, that's me." Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy. Wait a minute. Hold on! And they say, "It's okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure. We want to make sure he doesn't have the disease. We think he has got the right type." Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and hugging one another - some are even laughing. It's the first time you have seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old doctor walks up to you and says, "Thank you, sir. Your son's blood type is perfect. It's clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine."

As the word begins to spread all across that parking lot full of folks, people are screaming and praying and laughing and crying. But then the gray-haired doctor pulls you and your wife aside and says, "May we see you for a moment? We didn't realize that the donor would be a minor and we need... we need you to sign a consent form." You begin to sign and then you see that the number of pints of blood to be taken is empty.

"H-how many pints?" And that is when the old doctor's smile fades and he says, "We had no idea it would be little child. We weren't prepared. We need it all!"

"But-but..."

"You don't understand. We are talking about the world here. Please sign. We-we need it all!"

"But can't you give him a transfusion?"

"If we had clean blood we would. Can you sign? Would you sign?" In numb silence, you do.

Then they say, "Would you like to have a moment with him before we begin?"

Can you walk back? Can you walk back to that room where he sits on a table saying, "Daddy? Mommy? What's going on?" Can you take his hands and say, "Son, your mommy and I love you, and we would never ever let anything happen to you that didn't just have to be. Do you understand that?"

And when that old doctor comes back in and says, "I'm sorry, we've got to get started. People all over the world are dying", can you leave? Can you walk out while he is saying, "Dad? Mom? Dad? Why, why have you forsaken me?" And then next week, when they have the ceremony to honor your son, and some folks sleep through it, and some folks don't even come because they went to the lake, and some folks come with a pretentious smile and just pretend to care, would you want to jump up and say, "MY SON DIED FOR YOU! DON'T YOU CARE?"

Is that what GOD wants to say? "MY SON DIED FOR YOU. DON'T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE?" Father, seeing it from your eyes breaks our hearts. Maybe now we can begin to comprehend the great Love you have for us."


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

Daddy's Little Girl

Her hair up in a pony tail,
her favorite dress tied with a bow
Today was Daddy's Day at school,
and she couldn't wait to go

But her mommy tried to tell her,
that she probably should stay home
Why the kids might not understand,
if she went to school alone

But she was not afraid;
she knew just what to say
What to tell her classmates,
on this Daddy's Day

But still her mother worried,
for her to face this day alone
And that was why once again,
she tried to keep her daughter home

But the little girl went to school,
eager to tell them all
About a dad she never sees,
a dad who never calls.

There were daddies along the wall
in back, for everyone to meet
Children squirming impatiently,
anxious in their seats

One by one the teacher called,
a student from the class
To introduce their daddy,
as seconds slowly passed

At last the teacher called her name,
every child turned to stare
Each of them were searching,
for a man who wasn't there

"Where's her daddy at?"
she heard a boy call out
"She probably doesn't have one,"
another student dared to shout

And from somewhere near the back,
she heard a daddy say
"Looks like another deadbeat dad,
too busy to waste his day."

The words did not offend her,
as she smiled at her friends
And looked back at her teacher,
who told her to begin

And with hands behind her back,
slowly she began to speak
And out from the mouth of a child,
came words incredibly unique

"My Daddy couldn't be here,
because he lives so far away
But I know he wishes he could be
with me on this day

And though you cannot meet him,
I wanted you to know
All about my daddy,
and how much he loves me so

He loved to tell me stories,
he taught me to ride my bike
He surprised me with pink roses,
and taught me to fly a kite

We used to share fudge sundaes
and ice cream in a cone
And though you cannot see him,
I'm not standing all alone

'Cause my daddy's always with me,
even though we are apart
I know because he told me,
he'll forever be here in my heart"

With that her little hand reached up,
and lay across her chest
Feeling her own heartbeat,
beneath her favorite dress

From somewhere in the crowd of dads,
her mother stood in tears
Proudly watching her daughter,
who was wise beyond her years

She stood up for the love
of a man not in her life
Doing what was best for her,
doing what was right

When she dropped her hand back down,
staring straight into the crowd
She finished with a voice so soft,
but its message clear and loud

"I love my daddy very much,
he's my shining star
If he could he'd be here,
but heaven's just too far

Sometimes
when I close my eyes,
it's like he never went away."
Then she closed her eyes,

To her mother's amazement,
she witnessed with surprise
A room full of daddies and children,
all starting to close their eyes

Who knows what they saw before them,
who knows what they felt inside
Perhaps for a second,
they saw him at her side.

"I know you're with me Daddy,"
to the silence she called out
What happened next made believers,
of those once filled with doubt

No one in that room could explain it,
for each of their eyes had been closed
But there placed on her desktop,
was a beautiful fragrant pink rose

A child was blessed, if only a moment,
by the love of her shining bright star.
And given the gift of believing,
that heaven is never too FAR

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[FPSHOT]

Sleepyhead, I just read the 'when you were ..' story and that is touching.

(haven't read the rest yet, but I'm not the only one - with mixed emotions - Keith/Mick)

------------------
'I was so young when I was born'

[SleepyHead]

If you woke up this morning with more health than
illness, you are more blessed than the million who
will not survive the week.

If you have never experienced the danger of battle,
the loneliness of imprisonment, the agony of torture
or the pangs of starvation, you are ahead of 500
million people around the world.

If you attend a church meeting without fear of
harassment, arrest, torture, or death, you are more
blessed that almost three billion people in the world.

If you have food in your refrigerator, clothes on your
back, a roof over your head and a place to sleep, you
are richer than 75% of this world.

If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and
spare change in a dish someplace, you are among the
top 8% of the worlds wealthy.

If your parents are still married and alive, you are
very rare, even in the United States.

If you hold up your head with a smile on your face and
are truly thankful, you are blessed because the
majority can, but most do not.

If you can hold someone's hand, hug them or even touch
them on the shoulder, you are blessed because you can
offer a healing touch.

If you can read this message, you are more blessed
than over two billion people in the world that cannot
read anything at all.

If you can pass this along you will be blessed in ways
you may never even know.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

Dale Earnhardt

A fine Daytona afternoon, the season just begun. My boys were running
one and two, and I was having fun.

I probably could have won the thing, but something held me back. I was
busy watching Dale and Mike -- and holding off the pack.

I was looking toward the front and not really to the rear. Something
tapped me on my bumper, but still I had no fear.

I thought it might be Sterling - I knew he was nearby. When Sterling
smells the checkered flag, I'll tell you, he ain't shy.

I slipped a bit. I turned the wheel. I sensed something very odd. It
wasn't Sterling's tap I'd felt. It was the tap of God.

"Not now," I said. "I'm racing hard. There's work still here to do."
"You're time is up," He whispered low, "So say a quick adieu."
I wasn't really ready, but I didn't have a choice. He'd tapped me on the
bumper and I'd heard His hallowed voice.

So I did as He instructed. I just packed it in and left. I guess it
can't be helped that I left some of you bereft.

Did you see those birds upon the wall as they scattered in the breeze?
Will it make it any easier to know that one of them was me?

There was also Davey, Dad and Neil and some other guys I've known. And
they all came to Daytona just to escort me on home.

Hey - congratulations, Mikey! You made a worthy run. I wish you many,
many more. You're wins have just begun.

All that fun you had in Victory Lane, I was proud as proud can be. Did
you see a seagull flying low? Yeah, Mikey, that was me.

So, friends and fans and family, don't mourn me for too long. Get on
with life - take care of things - be brave and proud and strong

I'll surely miss you every one. About that I will not lie. But as long
as you remember me - I didn't really die.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[bearkat77]

I haven't been posting in this topic for good reason. I haven't run across anything that would really fit into this topic, until today:

This teenager lived alone with his mother, and the two of them had a very special relationship. Even though the son was always on the bench, his mother was always in the stands cheering. She never missed a game.

This young man was still the smallest of the class when he entered High school. But his mother continued to encourage him but also made it very clear that he did not have to play football if he didn't want to, but the young man loved football and decided to hang in there. He was determined to try his best at every practice, and perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior. All through high school he never missed a practice or a game, but remained a bench warmer all four years. His faithful mother was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him.

When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team as a "walk-on." Everyone was sure he could never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he kept him on the roster because he always puts his heart and soul into every practice, and at the same time, provided the other members with the spirit and hustle they badly needed. The news that he had survived the cut thrilled him so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his mother. His mother shared his excitement and was sent season tickets for all the college games. This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in the game.

It was the end of his senior football season, and as he trotted on to the practice field shortly before the big playoff game, the coach met him with a telegram. The young man read the telegram and he became deathly silent. Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My mother died this morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today?" The coach put his arm gently around his shoulder and said, "Take The rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on Saturday."

Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well. In the third quarter, when the team was ten points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran onto the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful teammate back so soon. "Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close playoff game. But the young man persisted, and finally feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in.

"All right," he said. "You can go in." Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right. The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied. In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass and ran all the way for the winning touchdown. The fans broke loose. His teammates hoisted him onto their shoulders. Such cheering you've never heard!

Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed that the young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me what got into you? How did you do it?"

He looked at the coach, with tears in his eyes, and said, "Well, you knew my Mom died, but did you know that my Mom was also blind?" The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Mom came to all my games, but today was the first time she could see me play, and I wanted to show her I could do it!"

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cat.gif

Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)

[bearkat77]

Louise Redden, a poorly dressed lady with a look of defeat on her face, walked into a grocery store. She approached the owner of the store in a most humble manner and asked if he would let her charge a few groceries.

She softly explained that she had seven children and they needed food.
John Longhouse, the grocer, scoffed at her and requested that she leave his store.

Visualizing the family needs, she said, "Please sir! I will bring you the money just as soon as I can." John told her he could not give her credit, as she did not have a charge account at his store.

Standing beside the counter was a customer who overheard the conversation between the two. The customer walked forward and told the grocer that he would stand good for whatever she needed for her family. The grocer said in a very reluctant voice, "Do you have a grocery list?"

Louise replied, "Yes sir."

"OK", he said, "put your grocery list on the scales and whatever your grocery list weighs, I will give you that amount in groceries." Louise hesitated a moment with a bowed head, then she reached into her purse and took out a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. She then laid the piece of paper on the scale carefully with her head still bowed.The eyes of the grocer and the customer showed amazement when the scales went down and stayed down. The grocer, staring at the scales, turned slowly to the customer and said begrudgingly, "I can't believe it." The customer smiled and the grocer started putting the groceries on the other side of the scales. The scale did not balance. So he continued to put more and more groceries on them until the scales would hold no more. The grocer stood there in utter disgust. Finally, he grabbed the piece of paper from the scales and looked at it with greater amazement. It was not a grocery list, it was a prayer which said:

<UL TYPE=SQUARE>"Dear Lord, you know my needs and I am leaving this in your hands."[/list]

The grocer gave her the groceries that he had gathered and stood in
stunned silence. Louise thanked him and left the store. The customer
handed a fifty dollar bill to the grocer as he said, "It was worth every penny of it."

It was sometime later that John Longhouse discovered the scales were
broken; therefore, only God knows how much a prayer weighs.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cat.gif

Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By bearkat77 On May 20, 2001 12:09 AM]

[This Message Has Been Edited By bearkat77 On May 20, 2001 12:11 AM]

[bearkat77]

Double Post Time Again. http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/angry3.gif

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cat.gif

Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By bearkat77 On May 19, 2001 07:18 PM]

[SleepyHead]

Spring is just around the corner - Here are some ideas for your
garden.
......... FOR THE GARDEN OF YOUR DAILY LIVING

PLANT THREE ROWS OF PEAS:
1. Peace of mind
2. Peace of heart
3. Peace of soul

PLANT FOUR ROWS OF SQUASH:
1. Squash gossip
2. Squash indifference
3. Squash grumbling
4. Squash selfishness

PLANT FOUR ROWS OF LETTUCE:
1. Lettuce be faithful
2. Lettuce be kind
3. Lettuce be patient
4. Lettuce really love one another

NO GARDEN WITHOUT TURNIPS:
1. Turnip for meetings
2. Turnip for services
3. Turnip to help one another

TO CONCLUDE OUR GARDEN WE MUST HAVE THYME:
1. Thyme for each other
2. Thyme for family
3. Thyme for friends

WATER FREELY WITH PATIENCE AND CULTIVATE WITH LOVE THERE WILL BE
MUCH FRUIT IN YOUR GARDEN BECAUSE YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW.
. . . Pass it on!!!!
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ @
\(/ \(/ \(/ \(/ \(/ \(/ \(/

God Bless.......

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)



[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On May 22, 2001 02:13 AM]

<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Tahoma, Arial, Sans-Serif">Quote:</font><HR>Originally Posted By SleepyHead:
Spring is just around the corner
<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

I wish! http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/afraid1.gif

[Tim]

In Germany, they first came for the communists, and I didn't speak up
because I wasn't a communist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a
Jew.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because
I wasn't a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Catholics and I didn't speak up because I
wasn't a Catholic.
Then they came for me -- and by that time there was nobody left to
speak up.
-Martin Niemolle,1945

------------------
Tim
------------
Duchy Of Grand Fenwick

This is a great story, one of my favourites...

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.

The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation. And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window.

The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and colour of the world outside. The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every colour of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.

As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene. One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words.

Then, somewhat unexpectedly, a sinister thought entered his mind. Why should the other man alone experience all the pleasures of seeing everything while he himself never got to see anything?

It didn't seem fair. At first thought the man felt ashamed. But as the days passed and he missed seeing more sights, his envy eroded into resentment and soon turned him sour. He began to brood and he found himself unable to sleep. He should be by that window - that thought, and only that thought now controlled his life.

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

Now there was only silence - deathly silence. The following morning the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths. When she found the lifeless body of the man by the window, she was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take it away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone. Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it all himself.

He strained and slowly turned to look out of the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall. The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window. The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall. She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."

-----

You can interpret this story in any way you like, but one moral stands out: There is tremendous happiness in making others happy, despite our own situations. Shared grief is half the sorrow, but happiness when shared, is doubled. If you want to feel rich, just count all of the things you have that money can't buy.

"Today is a gift, that's why it is called the present."

[SleepyHead]

It is a wonderful to illustrate how, by stealing what we perceive to be someone else's happiness, we may be lessening our own. http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/images/icons/frown.gif

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[Tim]

In Flanders Fields
by Lt. Col. John McCrae, M.D. (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

(I hope this and the poem from last night aren't too heavy)


------------------
Tim
------------
Duchy Of Grand Fenwick

[SleepyHead]

<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Tahoma, Arial, Sans-Serif">Quote:</font><HR>Originally Posted By Tim:
(I hope this and the poem from last night aren't too heavy)<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Me, too, because I specifically requested all readers to get their hankies ready... If they forgot, well...

Post away, Tim, post away... every once in a while we all need a good cry, even if it's a sad subject.



------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

PUPPIES FOR SALE

A farmer had some puppies he needed to sell. He painted a sign advertising the pups and set about nailing it to a post on the edge of his yard. As he was driving the last nail into the post, he felt a tug on his overalls. He looked down into the eyes of a little boy.

"Mister," he said, "I want to buy one of your puppies."

"Well," said the farmer, as he rubbed the sweat off the back of his neck, "these puppies come from fine parents and cost a good deal of money."

The boy dropped his head for a moment. Then reaching deep into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of change and held it up to the farmer. "I've got thirty-nine cents. Is that enough to take a look?"

"Sure," said the farmer. And with that he let out a whistle,"Here,Dolly!" he called. Out from the doghouse and down the ramp ran Dolly followed by four little balls of fur. The little boy pressed his face against the chain link fence. His eyes danced with delight. As the dogs made their way to the fence, the little boy noticed something else stirring inside the doghouse. Slowly another little ball appeared; this one noticeably smaller. Down the ramp it slid. Then in a somewhat awkward manner the little pup began hobbling toward the others, doing its best to catch up....

"I want that one," the little boy said, pointing to the runt.

The farmer knelt down at the boy's side and said, "Son, you don't want that puppy. He will never be able to run and play with you like these other dogs would."

With that the little boy stepped back from the fence, reached down, and began rolling up one leg of his trousers. In doing so he revealed a steel brace running down both sides of his leg attaching itself to a specially made shoe. Looking back up at the farmer, he said, "You see sir, I don't run too well myself, and he will need someone who understands."


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On May 24, 2001 02:46 AM]

A Mother's Dream

A mother and father had an adorable little girl. She was the light of their lives. Then one night she was taken from them by a terrible illness. The mother never recovered. She became so depressed she could not eat or sleep. For seven years she mourned the loss of her child. Then she began to have a dream. In the dream she saw children playing. They were laughing, skipping, so happy. Except for one little girl. She struggled towards the happy children, but could not catch up to them because she was carrying two buckets of water. They were so heavy that she struggled even to walk. The mother had this dream many times.

Finally, one night, she was able to talk to the child. She asked why she was carrying the buckets of water that kept her from playing with the other children. The little girl looked up at her with big eyes and said, "Mommy, these are your tears. You are so sad." The mother realized then that she had to let the child go. A month later, she had the same dream, only this time all the children were laughing and playing happily.

[SleepyHead]

Why Women cry...

A little boy asked his mother "Why are you crying?"

"Because I'm a woman", she told him.

"I don't understand", he said. His mum just hugged him and said, "And you never will."

Later the little boy asked his father, "Why does mother seem to cry for no reason?"

"All women cry for no reason", was all his dad could say.

The little boy grew up and became a man, still wondering why women cry. Finally he put in a call to God; and when God got on the phone, the man said, "God, why do women cry so easily?"

God said: "When I made the woman she had to be special. I made her shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of the world; yet, gentle enough to give comfort.

"I gave her an inner strength to endure childbirth and the rejection that many times comes from her children. I gave a hardness that allows her to keep going when everyone else gives up, and take care of her family through sickness and fatigue without complaining.

"I gave her the sensitivity to love her children under any and all circumstances, even when her child has hurt her very badly.

"I gave strength to carry her husband through his faults and fashioned her from his rib to protect his heart.

"I gave wisdom to know that a good husband never hurts his wife, but sometimes tests her strengths and her resolve to stand beside him unfalteringly.

"And finally, I gave her a tear to shed. This is hers exclusively to use whenever it is needed.

"You see: The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair.

"The beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides."


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

PIZZA, A PARTY AND A MOONLIGHT RIDE

Jenny was so happy about the house they had found
For once in her life it was on the right side of town

She unpacked her things with such great ease
As she watched her new curtains blow in the breeze

How wonderful it was to have her own room
School would be starting, she would have friends over soon

There would be sleep-overs and parties-she was so happy
It's just the way she wanted her life to be

On the first day of school, everything went great
She made new friends and even got a date

She thought, "I want to be popular and I am going to be
Because I just got a date with the star of the football team."

To be recognized in this school you have to have a clout,
And dating this guy would help her out

There is only one problem stopping her fate
Her parents said she was too young to date

"Well I wont tell them the whole truth,
They won't know the difference so what's there to lose?"

Jenny asked to stay with her friends that night
Her parents sulked and said all right

Excited, she got ready for the big event
But as she rushed around like she had no sense,

She began to feel guilty about all the lies
But what's a pizza, a party and a moonlight ride?

Well the pizza was good, and the party was great,
But the moonlight ride had to wait

For Jeff was now half drunk by this time
But he kissed her and said he was fine

Then the room filled with smoke and Jeff took a puff
Jenny couldn't believe he was smoking that stuff

Now Jeff was ready to ride to the point
But only after he had smoked a joint

They jumped in the car for the moonlight ride
Not thinking he was too drunk to drive

They finally made it to the point at last
And Jeff started to make a pass

A pass is not what Jenny wanted at all
And by a pass, I dont mean playing football

"Perhaps my parents were right... maybe I am too young
Boy how could I be so dumb."

She used all her might to push Jeff away
"Please take me home, I dont want to stay."

Jeff cranked up the car and floored the gas
In a matter of seconds they were going too fast

As Jeff drove off in a fit of anger
Jenny knew her life was in danger

She begged and pleaded for him to slow down
But he just got faster as they neared the town

Just let me go home, and I will confess that
tonight
Was just a great lie and I went out for a ride

Then all of a sudden, she saw a big flash
"Oh God, Please help us! We're going to crash!"

She doesn't remember the force of impact
Just everything went really black

She felt someone remove her from the twisted rubble,
And heard, "Call an ambulance, these kids are in trouble."

Voices she heard... a few words at best -
She knew there were two cars involved in the wreck

Then wondered to herself if Jeff was all right
And if the people in the other car were alive

She awoke in the hospital to faces so sad
"You've been in a wreck and it looks pretty bad."

These voices echoed in her head
As they told her softly that Jeff was dead

They said "Jenny we've done all we can do
I'm afraid it looks as if we'll lose you too"

"But the people in the other car!" Jenny cried
"We're sorry, Jenny, they also died."

Jenny prayed "Please God, forgive me for what I have done
I just wanted a real night of fun."

"Tell those people's family, I've made their lives dim
And I wish I could return their families to them."

"Tell Mom and Dad that I am sorry I lied - oh nurse, won't you please tell them that for me?"
The nurse just stood there and never agreed

But took Jenny's hand with tears in her eyes
And a moment later Jenny had died

A man asked the nurse, "Why didn't you do your best
To bid that girl's one last request?"

She looked up at him with eyes so sad
"Because the people in the other car were her mom and her dad."

[FPSHOT]

So sad http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cry3.gifhttp://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cry3.gifhttp://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cry3.gif

------------------
"Having played with other musicians I don't even think the Beatles were that good" George, 1973

[SleepyHead]

Frying Pan Cat"

It was getting late in the afternoon, and I was falling way behind in my schedule. I was worried. By now, I should have had the campsite set up at our local state park. I should have had dinner started.

All of a sudden, the huge SUV (sports utility vehicle) ahead of me on the road hit his brakes so hard and fast, I barely had time to react. I hit the brakes on my little station wagon just as quickly and most of the camping gear (tent, chairs, stove, foodstuff), along with my 3 dogs almost ended up in my lap.

I was horrified by what I saw. Out of the corner of my eye a small feral cat had dashed in front of the vehicle in front of me. It was flung up into the air and landed in the middle of the road. The driver hesitated for a second and then drove over the kitty.

Long ago, I promised myself that I'd stop to move a dead pet from the roadway. After all, someday, it might be my pet who meets that formidable foe in the road. I made sure my "kids" were OK, and pulled my car ahead to within a few feet of the kitten.

I got out and walked slowly to the motionless body. There was blood everywhere -- its back legs twisted in an unusual angle and its tongue was drooped out of its mouth on the hot pavement. I felt nauseous and queasy. Now what do I do? I turned around and suddenly realized I wasn't alone. A huge line of cars were waiting behind me, and some not so patiently. Horns began honking, people were shouting "to get out of the road". I went back to my car to retrieve a pair of gloves or something, anything, to pick up the body. The car was so stuffed with camping gear and dogs that the only thing I could quickly get my hands on was the kitchen supplies.

Without thinking about what it might look like to the growing crowd behind me, I proceeded to use a hamburger spatula to gently lift the kitten into the only thing I could find -- a gourmet omelet pan.

Imagine the looks on their faces when I turned around with what may have appeared to by the beginning of "roadkill" stew in my cookware! The horns and shouting stopped almost immediately. I wasn't sure how I was going to dispose of the little body as I walked back to my car. I just knew I couldn't leave it by the roadside.

As I bent down to gently slide it into an empty grocery bag, I thought I saw the cat's eye blink.

Oh my Lord!

It not only blinked, but it lifted its head. Needless to say, I detoured from my camping trip long enough to get to the closest vet. By the time I arrived, the kitty was shifting its upper body, trying to move out of the bag that I'd set on the front seat. By this time, I'd composed myself enough to tell the vet what had happened.

The vet agreed that it didn't look good. The hind end was motionless, the tail almost severed from the body, and an awful case of road rash - huge flaps of skin hanging from the poor little thing. Through my tears I asked her to do whatever she thought best. If it was as hopeless as it looked, to please put her down. But if there was a chance of saving her, I'd foot the bills and find her a home. (We already had 3 cats.)

She told me that it's unfortunate that more people don't stop immediately to help an injured animal. A large percentage of the dogs and cats hit on roadways are still alive after the impact, but in shock. If someone doesn't stop to get them out of the road, its usually the next few cars that finish then off.

When I went to leave my name and phone number, I had to have a name for the kitten. The vet said that homeless animals rarely make it after such an accident, but the ones who have a name and someone who cares about them stand a better chance.

Right then and there, I named her Bruncher -- the brand name of the omelet pan I'd used. I checked in with the vet over the next few days to see if Miss Bruncher would make it. There was no paralysis, she had only been in shock. The large wounds started healing nicely. Her tail however couldn't be saved. What a sad sight she was, but I knew she was a very special kitty really meant to live a good, long life.

After 3 weeks of TLC (tender loving care) and some fine nursing, the vet told me that she was adopted by one of her clinical technicians. Needless to say, Miss Bruncher always comes to mind when I take my camping Bruncher pan out of storage.

Plus, I usually get a good chuckle with my camping story, "...why, you should have seen the look on the faces of the those motorists behind me when I turned around with the kitty in the frying pan..."

-- Elizabeth Rowland


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[Tim]

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D
by Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd--and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

O powerful, western, fallen star!
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear'd! O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!

In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash'd palings,
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle......and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig, with its flower, I break.

In the swamp, in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary, the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat!
Death's outlet song of life--(for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris; )
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes -- passing the endless grass;
Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil'd women, standing,
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit--with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;
With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour'd around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs--Where amid these you journey
With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang;
Here! coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.

(Nor for you, for one, alone;
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:
For fresh as the morning--thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.
All over bouquets of roses,
O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes;
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)

O western orb, sailing the heaven!
Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk'd
As we walk'd up and down in the dark blue so mystic,
As we walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,
As you droop'd from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look'd on; )

As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep; )
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe;
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night,
As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

Sing on, there in the swamp!
O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes -- I hear your call;
I hear -- I come presently -- I understand you;
But a moment I linger -- for the lustrous star has detain'd me;
The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me.

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?

Sea-winds, blown from east and west,
Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,
I perfume the grave of him I love.

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;
And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.



(this poem was a memorial for Lincoln)

------------------
Tim
------------
Duchy Of Grand Fenwick

[This Message Has Been Edited By Tim On May 26, 2001 10:19 AM]

Awesome poem, Tim!

Below is one of my favourite pieces of poetry, by renowned war poet Wilfred Owen. Sadly, on November 4 1918, just seven days before the Armistice, he was caught in a German machine gun attack and killed. He was only 25. I love this poem because it truly shows the horror of war as it was for these men who sacrificed themselves on the front line.

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

* Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (in Latin) translates to: It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country.




[This Message Has Been Edited By Nowhere Man On May 26, 2001 07:12 PM]

[SleepyHead]

"The Dash"
© Linda Ellis

I read of a reverend who stood to speak at the funeral of his friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone from the beginning...to the end.

He said that the first was the date of her birth, and spoke of the last date
with tears, but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between
those years.

For that dash represents all the time that she spent alive on earth,
and now only those who loved her know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own; the cars, the house, the cash.
What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard, are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left - (you could be at "dash mid-range.")

If we could just slow down enough to consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger, and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives like we've never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect, and more often wear a smile,
remembering that this special dash might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy is being read with your life's action to rehash,
would you be pleased with what they say about how you spent your dash?


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On May 27, 2001 02:22 AM]

[SleepyHead]

In honour of Memorial Day...

"It is the soldier, not the reporter,
Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the soldier, not the poet,
Who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,
Who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.
It is the soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves
beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag,
who allows the protester to burn the flag."

Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

"When my friend Dev sent me this story, I immediately contacted
the author and asked if I could use it in my newsletter. His reply
was a resounding yes, on one condition....that I put it in its entirety
and not butcher it and edit it as so many have done to this story
on the Internet. It is long, true...but says it all...why we are
celebrating
this day.......Memorial Day."

FORMER ENEMIES

Some years ago, while leading a church group on a tour
of Pearl Harbor, I stood among the clergy and their spouses
in the gleaming white-arched and covered Memorial above
the USS Arizona. One minister in our group, a man from
Maine, had been there on December 7th, 1941 — the day
the Japanese flew in to sink our Pacific Naval Fleet. He
had not been aboard the Arizona, but his ship had also
been hit. He described vividly the horror of being aboard
the flaming and sinking vessel as bullets flew and bombs
roared. As I listened, out of the corner of my eye I noticed
a Japanese tourist entering the Memorial.

It was the man’s fine clothes — long tie, buttoned sports jacket,
and shiny brown lace-up shoes — that initially attracted my
attention. In Hawaii, professionals like lawyers, corporate
executives, soldiers and ministers seldom, if ever, wear ties
or jackets. Even network television news anchors wear open-
collared aloha shirts. This man, dressed as he was, stood out.
Two women walked with him. The older one I took to be his
wife, the other perhaps an older daughter. Both wore
conservative dresses and fancy shoes. The man appeared
to be in his sixties, and while he may have spoken English,
I only heard him speak Japanese. In his left hand, he carried,
almost shyly, an ornate and obviously costly multi-flowered
wreath about eighteen inches across.

Our group's veteran continued to speak as we clustered around
him. He described being caught below deck: feeling disoriented
as the ship took on water where he stood, fire coming from above
and the smoke stealing his breath. His buddy lay dead at his feet
as the young sailor struggled in the darkness to escape, fear and
adrenaline propelling him to the surface. Everyone in our group
was so engrossed in his story, that no one, except for me, noticed
the Japanese tourist and his family who walked quite near to us.

As I watched, the tourist stopped, turned to his wife and daughter
and spoke to them. They stood quietly, almost solemnly. Then the
man straightened his tie, first at the neck and then near the belt,
and tugged at the hem of his jacket. As if in preparation, he
squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and then exhaled.
Alone, he somberly stepped forward toward the railing at the
water's edge above the sunken warship.

The other tourists swirled around him. From what I could see
and hear, they were apparently all Americans. They were talking,
laughing, looking, asking questions; some were listening to our
minister's story, but none seemed aware of the tourist who had
captured my attention.

I don't believe the Japanese man understood the minister's
words. As I listened to one man and watched the other, the
Japanese tourist came to the rail, bowed at the waist, and
then stood erect. He began to speak; I heard his words but
could not comprehend them. However from his tone and the
look on his face, I felt their meaning. His manner conveyed
so many things at once — confession, sorrow, hurt, honor,
dignity, remorse and benediction.

When he had finished his quiet prayer, he gravely dropped
the flowered wreath into the seawater — the same water the
minister kept mentioning in his reminiscence — and watched
as the wreath floated away on the tide. The man struggled to
remain formal, to keep face, but his tears betrayed him. I
guessed he must have been a soldier, a warrior of the air,
whose own plane had showered the bombs and bullets that
had torn through our soldiers, sinking their ships. It struck me
that he had come on a pilgrimage of repentance, not to our
government, but to the gravesite of those young men whose
lives he had taken in the name of war.

Stepping backward one pace, the Japanese veteran then closed
his eyes and bowed again, very deeply, and very slowly from the
waist. Then he stood tall, turned around and rejoined his family.
His deed done, they began to leave. All the while, our minister
veteran continued his narrative. He and the group were oblivious
to the poignant counterpoint occurring behind them.

But I was not the only American to witness the Japanese man's
actions. As I watched his family leave, I noticed another American
step away from the wall on which he had been leaning. He was
dressed casually, and wore a red windbreaker with the VFW
emblem on it. He had a potbelly, thinning hair and held his hat
in his hand. I assumed the man was a WW II veteran. Perhaps he
had served in the Pacific, I thought, and was himself on a pilgrimage.

As the Japanese family walked by him, the American stepped directly
into their path, blocking their way. I immediately tensed, fearing a
confrontation. The startled Japanese tourist, who had been deep in
thought, stopped short, surprise and sorrow mixed on his face. His
family, eyes on the ground, stopped abruptly, then crowded closer
around him.

But the American simply stood at attention, once again a strong,
straight-backed soldier. Then he raised his right hand slowly and
stiffly to his forehead, saluting his former enemy.

The American remained in salute until the Japanese, with dawning
understanding, returned the gesture.

As the tourists milled by, the two men stood as if alone, joined by
their
shared pain, glories, honors and memories, until the American, while
remaining at attention, slowly lowered his arm and formally stepped
backward one pace. The Japanese tourist, when his arms were both
once again at his side, bowed formally to the man in front of him. To
my surprise, the American returned the honor.

Neither said a word. Neither had to. Their solemn faces wet with tears,
expressed to each other in a universal language what could never have
been said in words.

I watched as the two men, their reconciliation complete, went their
separate ways, united in a way I had never imagined possible.

By Peter Baldwin Panagore
Reprinted by permission of Peter Baldwin Panagore © 1998

Bree's Balderdash is a FREE e-zine. Issues are published
three times each week. We claim no copyright on anything
published unless otherwise noted.
Bree's Balderdash Copyright © 2001 Bree Schultz. All Rights Reserved.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

"... from these honored dead, we take increased devotion to that
cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion --
that we here highly resolve these dead shall not have died in vain...
~Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg Address~


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

Freedom Isn't Free


I watched the flag pass by one day, it fluttered in the breeze -
A young Marine saluted it, and then he stood at ease.

I looked at him in uniform, so young, so tall, so proud -
With hair cut square and eyes alert, he'd stand out in any crowd.

I thought, how many men like him had fallen through the years?
How many died on foreign soil? How many mothers' tears?

I heard the sound of taps one night, when everything was still.
I listened to the bugler play and felt a sudden chill.

I wondered just how many times that taps had meant "Amen" -
When a flag had draped a coffin of a brother or a friend.

I thought of all the children, of the mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and husbands with interrupted lives.

I thought about a graveyard at the bottom of the sea -
Of unmarked graves in Arlington. No, *Freedom isn't free*!!

By Kelly Strong


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THINK OF ME

You know you can not bring me back
You know that I am gone
I walk the streets of heaven now
It's my eternal home.
But think of me now and then
Just as you do today
Remember that I died for you
So America could stay
A land where men are equal
A land where men are free
A land I lived and died for
When you think of Freedom
Think of me

by Loyde P. "Snake" Arender

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

But You Didn't

Remember the day I borrowed your brand new car and I dented it? I thought you'd kill me, but you didn't.

And remember the time I dragged you to the beach, and you said it would rain, and it did? I thought you'd say, "I told you so." But you didn't.

Do you remember the time I flirted with all the guys to make you jealous, and you were? I thought you'd leave me, but you didn't.

Do you remember the time I spilled strawberry pie all over your car rug? I thought you'd make me scrub it, but you didn't.

And remember the time I forgot to tell you the dance was formal and you showed up in jeans? I thought you'd drop me, but you didn't.

Yes, there were lots of things you didn't do, But you put up with me, and you loved me, and you protected me.

There were lots of things I wanted to make up to you when you returned from Viet Nam.

But you didn't.

Author Unknown


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On May 27, 2001 02:37 AM]

[SleepyHead]

On the Pledge of Allegiance

As a schoolboy, one of Red Skelton's teachers explained the words and meaning of the Pledge of Allegiance to his class. Skelton later wrote down, and eventually recorded, his recollection of this lecture. It is followed by an observation of his own.
<UL TYPE=SQUARE>I- Me; an individual; a committee of one.

Pledge- Dedicate all of my worldly goods to give without self-pity.

Allegiance- My love and my devotion.

To the Flag- Our standard; Old Glory ; a symbol of Freedom; wherever she waves there is respect, because your loyalty has given her a dignity that shouts, Freedom is everybody's job.

United- That means that we have all come together.

States- Individual communities that have united into forty-eight great states. Forty-eight individual communities with pride and dignity and purpose. All divided with imaginary boundaries, yet united to a common purpose, and that is love for country.

And to the Republic- a state in which sovereign power is invested in representatives chosen by the people to govern. And government is the people; and it's from the people to the leaders, not from the leaders to the people.

For which it stands;

One Nation- One Nation--meaning, so blessed by God.

Indivisible- Incapable of being divided.

With Liberty- Which is Freedom; the right of power to live one's own life, without threats, fear, or some sort of retaliation.

And Justice- The principle, or qualities, of dealing fairly with others.

For All - which means, boys and girls, it's as much your country as it is mine.[/list]

And now, boys and girls, let me hear you recite the Pledge of Allegiance:

I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America,
And to the Republic, for which it stands; One nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Since I was a small boy, two states have been added to our country, and two words have been added to the Pledge of Allegiance: Under God.

Wouldn't it be a pity if someone said that was a prayer, and should be eliminated from schools, too?

by Red Skelton


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Tahoma, Arial, Sans-Serif">Quote:</font><HR>Originally Posted By SleepyHead:
Red Skelton
<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Red Skelton, originally from Vincennes. http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/images/icons/grin.gif

The Beauty of the Rose

Think of the stem as the road of life--ever bending,
turning and changing, as we walk along life's road.
Think of the rose, as our hearts--delicate and fragile,
slowly healing, and slowly opening,
as time heals our wounds.
Think of the broken petals--as the broken dreams,
broken hearts, and wounded spirits, that have filled our lives.
Think of the growth of the rose, and the opening of the pedals--
as time that passes, as we forget our pains,
and as we grow, and as we experience new joys,
new dreams, new hope, new love, and new friendships.
Think of the fallen petals as growth--
as we learn to let go of the burdens we need not carry
along the way, as we allow our hearts to open again,
our hearts will heal, we will learn to love again,
we will become stronger. Time is a healer
When we can see the beauty of the rose--
we learn to see the beauties of life--that's when we'll know,
we've healed and we've become as beautiful as the ROSE.

--M. Fortney

Beginning Today

Beginning today I will no longer worry about yesterday.
It is in the past and the past will never change.
Only I can change by choosing to do so.

Beginning today I will no longer worry about tomorrow.
Tomorrow will always be there, waiting for me to make the most of it.
But I cannot make the most of tomorrow without first
making the most of today.

Beginning today I will look in the mirror and I will see a person worthy of my respect and admiration.
This capable person looking back at me is someone I enjoy spending time with and someone I would like to get to know better.

Beginning today I will cherish each moment of my life.
I value this gift bestowed upon me in this world and I will unselfishly share this gift with others.
I will use this gift to enhance the lives of others.

Beginning today I will take a moment to step off the beaten path and to revel in the mysteries I encounter.
I will face challenges with courage and determination.
I will overcome what barriers there may be which hinder my quest for growth and self-improvement.

Beginning today I will take life one day at a time, one step at a time.
Discouragement will not be allowed to taint my positive self-image,
my desire to succeed or my capacity to love.

Beginning today I walk with renewed faith in human kindness.
Regardless of what has gone before, I believe there is hope
for a brighter and better future.

Beginning today I will open my mind and my heart.
I will welcome new experiences. I will meet new people.
I will not expect perfection from myself nor anyone else: perfection does not exist in an imperfect world.
But I will applaud the attempt to overcome human foibles.

Beginning today I am responsible for my own happiness and I will do things that make me happy . . .
admire the beautiful wonders of nature, listen to my favorite music,
pet a kitten or a puppy, soak in a bubble bath . . .
pleasure can be found in the most simple of gestures.

Beginning today I will learn something new; I will try something different; I will savor all the various flavors life has to offer.
I will change what I can and the rest I will let go.
I will strive to become the best me I can possibly be.

Beginning today. And every day.

[SleepyHead]

Wartime Balkan Fairy Tale: There's Gold in These Gills
Associated Press/ L.A. Times

JEZERO, Bosnia-Herzegovina - Every Bosnian child knows the story of a poor woman who caught a golden fish, released it and in return gained wealth and happiness. It's a Balkan fairy tale - but it became reality for one poor family.

"What happened here is beyond good luck, it really is a fable," said Admir Malkoc, reflecting on how his fleeing relatives freed two goldfish and were repaid a hundredfold.

The 150 Muslim families in Jezero, a northwestern village surrounding a lake, lived a quiet life before the Bosnian war- except for holidays, when the men returned from jobs in Western Europe loaded with presents.

In 1990, Smajo Malkoc came back from Austria with an unusual gift for his teenage sons, Dzevad and Catib: two goldfish in an aquarium.

Two years later, war arrived. As Bosnian Serb forces advanced on Jezero, the women and children fled and the men resisted.

Malkoc was killed. When his wife, Fehima, sneaked back into the destroyed village to bury her husband and take what remained of their belongings, she spotted the fish in the aquarium.

She put them in the lake. "This way they might be more fortunate than us," she recalls thinking.

In 1995, Fehima Malkoc returned with her sons to Jezero to find ruins, nothing left from the idyllic past except memories.

Eyes misting over, she turned toward the lake and glimpsed something strange. She came closer-and caught her breath.

"The whole lake was shining from the myriad golden fish in it," she said.

Fehima Malkoc and her sons started feeding the fish and then selling them.

Now homes, bars and coffee shops in the region have aquariums with fish from Jezero - some pure gold, others with black and white spots like the original pair Smajo Malkoc brought home.

The Malkoc house, now rebuilt, is one of the biggest in the village.

Other residents are welcome to catch and sell the fish. But most defer to the Malkocs.

"They threw the fish into the lake," said a villager who identified himself only by his last name, Veladzic. "It's their miracle."

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

Saying Grace

Last week I took my children to a restaurant. My six-year-old son asked if he could say grace. As we bowed our heads he said, "God is good. God is great. Thank you for the food, and I would even thank you more if Mom gets us ice cream for dessert. And Liberty and justice for all! Amen!"

Along with the laughter from the other customers nearby I heard a woman remark, "That's what's wrong with this country. Kids today don't even know how to pray. Asking God for ice-cream! Why, I never!"

Hearing this, my son burst into tears and asked me, "Did I do it wrong? Is God mad at me?"

As I held him and assured him that he had done a terrific job and God was certainly not mad at him, an elderly gentleman approached the table.

He winked at my son and said, "I happen to know that God thought that was a great prayer."

"Really?" my son asked. "Cross my heart," the man replied.

Then in a theatrical whisper he added (indicating the woman whose remark had started this whole thing), "Too bad she never asks God for ice cream. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes."

Naturally, I bought my kid's ice cream at the end of the meal.

My son stared at his for a moment and then did something I will remember the rest of my life.

He picked up his sundae and without a word, walked over and placed it in front of the woman. With a big smile he told her, "Here, this is for you. Ice cream is good for the soul sometimes; and my soul is good already."


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

The Bishop's Gift

Once a church had fallen upon hard times. Only five members were left: the pastor and four others, all over 60 years old.

In the mountains near the church there lived a retired Bishop. It occurred to the pastor to ask the Bishop if he could offer any advice that might save the church. The pastor and the Bishop spoke at length, but when asked for advice, the Bishop simply responded by saying, "I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you."

The pastor, returning to the church, told the church members what the Bishop had said. In the months that followed, the old church members pondered the words of the Bishop. "The Messiah is one of us?" they each asked themselves. As they thought about this possibility, they all began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that that one among them might be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that each member himself might be the Messiah, they also began to treat themselves with extraordinary care.

As time went by, people visiting the church noticed the aura of respect and gentle kindness that surrounded the five old members of the small church. Hardly knowing why, more people began to come back to the church. They began to bring their friends, and their friends brought more friends. Within a few years, the small church had once again become a thriving church, thanks to the Bishop's gift.

[SleepyHead]

It was the mid-1980s and the job situation began to wind down for us in our small town. Though we'd never lived in a city, friends in Las Vegas, Nevada, suggested we stay with them a few days and look the city over. We found a single-level apartment in an adults-only complex, and were settled in the next week enjoying our new home.

Sometime later the state of Nevada ruled that you could not have an adults-only complex, and younger people with families began moving in. Little by little this gave way to young working Mexican families. They were delightful -- always quick with a wave and greeting. When they celebrated a child's birthday on the lawn with balloons, streamers, cakes, and games, we'd be offered a piece of cake or some other delicacy if they saw us. I don't speak Spanish, though, so it limited our conversations.

All during this time we'd been looking at homes, wanting to buy our own rather than continue renting. We eventually found a place we liked at a price we could afford. So began all the paperwork, the packing, and asking the question, "Where did we get all this stuff?" We were packed and ready to move about a week before our new home was ready for us, so we decided to fly back to the Midwestern part of the country to visit family.

As usually happens in a move, there were a few items we decided not to take with us. Ours included a small white leather couch, a couple of lamps, a small table, and a blender. We thought of calling a charitable organization to pick them up, but after discussing it we decided to set it all on the front patio and let the neighbors have first choice while we were gone. We figured that if there was anything left when we returned, that would be the time to call a charity.

We had a wonderful visit with our family, but quite a surprise on our arrival back home. Of all the items we'd left in front of the apartment, not one had been disturbed! They were all sitting just as we'd left them.

Within a half hour of our return, a young Mexican lady with her English-speaking friend came to the door to ask how much we wanted for one particular item. Once they understood it was free for the taking, the patio was empty within an hour, with each item going to a different household.

In a city of more than a quarter-million people, you would expect at least some of those items to be carted off during the week we were away. I've often wondered if our neighbors posted a 24-hour watch over our things. In a time when you hear people say that you can't trust anyone, this episode reinforced my faith in the basic goodness of the average person.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

About two years ago while working downtown at our company's headquarters I met a man I'll call "Martin". At the time, the company
was downsizing. Again. Reducing the work force for six years caused the stock to go up, but it often had the opposite effect on morale.

I'm a morning person, and start my work day around 6:30 a.m. I get off work early for time with my loved ones. Almost every morning I saw Martin on the elevator. We were usually the only people there, so I
made polite conversation as we rode to the 15th floor. We speculated on the weather, or inquired about each other's weekend. Some days I saw him in the company cafeteria. Some days we left work at the same time, and I chatted with him and others in the elevator.

About six months after our daily elevator chats, Martin came to my office and asked if I had a minute to chat. Though we worked on the same floor, I'm sure he had to search to find me. I invited him to sit down. He said, "I wanted to come say goodbye. The company has let me go, today will be my last day."

I didn't know what to say. Though I was too familiar with saying goodbye to co-workers, it was never easy. Honestly, I usually ignored the event because I felt awkward and at a loss for words. I told him I
was sorry and asked if there was anything I could do. He said, "No, I'll be fine, I just wanted to take the time to thank you". I was now confused. He explained that our daily talks had meant a lot to him.

Martin was a short, middle-aged man with a glandular problem. He was obese, used a cane to help maneuver, and was painfully shy. He thanked me not only for chatting with him in the mornings, but for speaking
directly to him and others on the elevator, and for telling him a quick joke in the crowded cafeteria. It seems that no one had ever been his friend before -- or if so they were standoffish to him in public.

He said he didn't want to take up much of my time as he knew I was busy and he needed to pack his personal things. He had tears in his eyes as he shook my hand and left.

I've never seen him since, but I imagine he's doing well. Meeting him changed my life. Now when I'm in a hurry, or have a bad day, I try extra hard to speak kindly to those around me. I remind myself that it's just as easy to say something nice as to say something rude, and I'm awed at how very powerful our daily actions are.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

Our family consists of myself and my husband, who was born in El
Salvador, and our three children, Mito, Daniel, and Missy. This past
summer we traveled to El Salvador for a two-week visit, the first time
the children had been outside the United States. They couldn't speak
the
language, but that didn't stop them from exploring the neighborhood and
trying to communicate with the local people.

Life is quite different in El Salvador. The houses are made of clay
and many have dirt floors. My father-in-law's house had no running
water
and an outhouse toilet, as did all the houses on the same street. We
had
electricity, though some neighbors didn't, and those folks went to bed
and rose with the sun.

Most of the animals were kept for food purposes, and the children
were excited to see chickens and pigs running loose in the streets and
yards. Talking to neighbors, I learned that they also kept dogs so that
no one would steal the livestock and the few luxury items they had,
maybe a TV or radio. Our son Danny just happens to love dogs.

The family living next to the home we were staying in had several
dogs, with two five-week-old puppies. The family living one house
beyond
them also had several dogs and four puppies. Every one of the puppies
was skin and bones. Danny's father explained that those were "common"
dogs and that the people were too poor to feed themselves, never mind
the dogs.

Well, 9-year-old Danny wasn't having that! He counted the money he
had earned all spring and insisted that we buy dog food with it. We had
to drive 10 miles to find a store that even had dog food, but Danny fed
those puppies every day for the two weeks we were in El Salvador. When
we fed the puppies, we always took food for the family, and often we'd
sneak money to the kids so that they could buy a cookie or ice cream.

When Danny returned to the United States, he didn't just forget
about
those puppies, he continued to earn money and send much of it to El
Salvador. We send the money to a responsible relative along with extra
money for the families.

I'm proud of the change in Danny's attitude since that vacation in
El
Salvador. He saw people who live a life that is so different from his
life here in the United States, and he hasn't forgotten them. He made
friends with people from another country. To see a 10-year-old "tough"
boy feeding starving dogs in another country, taught me that not only
people may need help, but that animals need help also. But don't tell
Danny he's "softhearted" -- you'd ruin his "tough man" act. It's all in
a kids days work.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

In 1998 the Association for Global New Thought launched the first
"Season for Nonviolence," honoring the principles of M.K. Gandhi and
Dr.
Martin Luther King Jr. The Unity Church of Overland Park was a sponsor
in the Kansas City area, and I was on the leadership team. Mahatma
Gandhi's grandson, Arun Gandhi, who with his wife Sunanda carries on
his
grandfather's work, accepted our invitation to come speak. We organized
a dinner and fundraiser in his honor.

Because team members had traveled to India, I knew they would wear
clothes purchased there. I wanted that look, too. The afternoon before
the dinner I ventured to an Indian grocer rumored to carry saris.

In the store I found the saris -- which were simply flat pieces of
fabric. I had no idea how to put one on. I asked the manager if someone
could show me. He indicated a woman, "My customer will help you."

Embarrassed, but driven by the knowledge that the dinner was hours
away, I explained my request and its purpose. She questioned: "Do you
have a petticoat? Blouse? Sandals?" I had none.

What happened next amazed me. She said, "Come, I will lend you a
sari." Minutes later, I was driving behind her, her teenage daughter in
my car in case I got lost. At the house, I was led upstairs. She opened
drawers and boxes, pulling out a dazzling display of silk saris. Only
one was off-limits -- her wedding sari!

I chose a deep green silk sari accented with real gold. She found a
blouse in a similar color, and a green petticoat with a drawstring
waist. The drawstring anchors the fabric, which is pleated and tucked
into the petticoat.

She began to fold, pleating the silk and draping it around me,
anchoring it with a few safety pins. She showed me how the pins held
the
pleats in place, so I could put it on to wear for services the next
morning. Next she produced beautiful gold and pearl jewelry: earrings,
necklace and bracelets, as well as a bindi, the decorative accent worn
in the center of the forehead. A pair of sandals (that fit!) completed
the ensemble.

I felt exactly like Cinderella!

In the grand scheme of things, it matters little how I was dressed
for that dinner. Yet I was deeply touched at the trust and generosity
this woman displayed to a stranger. How easy to ignore my request or
just tell me what I needed to purchase. Instead, she invited me to her
home and dressed me from head to toe. She sent me on my way with hugs
and well wishes, with no apparent concern about when she would see her
precious things again. Although I consider myself to be both generous
and trusting, I wonder if I would have done the same, had our positions
been reversed.

I remain deeply grateful for the opportunity to wear her sari, and
for her example of generosity and kindness.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

I have two very active sons. Both are very active in soccer and
generally all sports. They have always been rambunctious and they get
in
arguments with each other -- I guess most siblings do. One Thanksgiving
evening they were both at a neighbor's house playing basketball. My
oldest son, "Bill", and his buddy were playing with the younger kids,
who ranged in age from three to ten.

The neighbor had a mongrel Great Dane that was really massive. He
was
kept chained whenever the kids were playing outside, and had never been
a problem.

My wife and I were in the den watching TV when we heard loud
screaming outside. We are used to noise but this time it was a
shrieking
sound. I went to the back door and saw Bill in the back yard of a
second
neighbor, holding his arm and bleeding. All of the other children were
gone and the great dane was barking at my son through the fence.

As I ran down the deck toward him, I could see my younger son,
"Jake", coming around the front of the house screaming. All of the
other
children were gone. Bill was crying, but angry at the same time, and I
couldn't tell how badly he was hurt.

We took Bill to the hospital that night and he had to have emergency
surgery to repair tendons in his forearm and hand. He was very worried
about his hand and arm because of being a soccer goalie, but the
doctors
assured him that he would be all right after therapy.

The next day our neighbor and his oldest son came to the house and
sat down to tell us what had happened. Somehow the dog had gotten loose
from his chain and started to attack the little kids, including Jake.
Bill caught the dog from behind, jumped on his back and wrapped his arm
around the dog's neck to hold him off. The neighbor's son then got the
little kids out of the back yard and into the house. After they were
safely inside, Bill tried to get away from the dog himself, but the dog
came after him.

Bill shielded himself with his forearm. He kept trying to get over
the fence but the dog kept pulling him back down. My neighbor then came
out of his house and got the dog to let go of my son. Of course by that
time his forearm was shredded and he couldn't get over our fence by
himself.

While our neighbor's son was telling us this story, Jake began to
cry. He had always looked up to Bill as an example for soccer, but had
never seen him as willing to sacrifice himself to help a pesky little
brother. Suddenly his big brother was someone who would risk his life
for him.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[bearkat77]

I don't think that this has been posted just yet.

Teddy and Mrs Thompson
(How many times do we "misjudge" by appearance?)

Her name was Mrs. Thompson. As she stood in the very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. But that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn't play well with the other children. His clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant.

It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big "F" at the top of his papers. At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.

Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. . . He is a joy to be around."

His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."

His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death had been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."

Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school." She was ashamed of herself.

She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one quarter-full of perfume. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.

Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mother used to."

After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded.

By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets".

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer-the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.

The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he'd met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.

Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cat.gif

Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)

For those at Columbine

Dear Parents, Friends and Loved Ones,
Of these precious youth you've lost,
I see your broken spirits,
I know the terrible cost.

Though evil reigned at Columbine,
And horror filled the air,
I wanted all of you to know,
I left Heaven and came there.

I summoned Heaven's Angels,
Long before the call came in,
To share the dreadful warning,
Of what would soon begin.

The angels' wings were folded,
They knew what was to come,
When I said, "I'll lead this mission."
They followed one by one.

"I will go and get these babies,
And bring them home with me,
Where they'll live in Heaven's Schoolhouse,
Where it's safe and terror free."

Yes, I've prepared a Special Schoolhouse,
It stands out from all the rest,
The Welcome Mat reads, "Columbine,"
It's reserved for Heaven's best.
I was hovering all around them,
In the Library and the Hall,
When the evil forces entered,
Your children heard me call.

I wrapped my arms around them,
Pulled them close unto my breast,
"I've come to take you with me,
We must go and leave the rest."

"Your friends will long remember,
All the cool times that we shared,
And the Angels will remind them,
How very much you cared."

Yes, I took those precious children,
In the twinkling of an eye,
We were on our way to Heaven,
To their Schoolhouse in the sky.

I know your hearts are broken,
I know the pain you bear,
My heart is also broken,
By the evil everywhere.

Please help me fight this battle,
To keep our children safe,
Through prayers and love and sharing,
And holding to the Faith,

That Peace will surely reign one day,
In schools throughout the lands,
For all our future hopes and dreams,
Rest in our students' hands.

I'll give you peace to fill your heart,
Send sun to break the night,
Provide the strength to move beyond,
The wrongs and do what's right.

You ask how I can know your pain,
From the loss of your dear one,
It's because it seems like yesterday,
When I, too gave up a Son.

[SleepyHead]

http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cat.gif and http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif I'm going to have to come back later... I have a suspicious leaking of fluids from the occular region of my cranium. http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cry1.gif

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[bearkat77]

The Smell of Rain

At the end of this story, it gives you two options. I think you will figure out what option I chose.

A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the Doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. Still groggy from surgery, her husband David held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.

That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency cesarean to deliver the couple's new daughter, Danae Lu Blessing. At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound and nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature.

Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs. "I don't think she's going to make it," he said, as kindly as he could. "There's only a 10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one". Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Danae would likely face if she survived. She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on. "No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away. Through the dark hours of morning as Danae held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of sleep, growing more and more determined that their tiny daughter would live and live to be a healthy, happy young girl.

But David, fully awake and listening to additional dire details of their daughter's chances of ever leaving the hospital alive, much less healthy, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable. David walked in and said that we needed to talk about making funeral arrangements. Diana remembers 'I felt so bad for him because he was doing everything trying to include me in what was going on, but I just wouldn't listen, I couldn't listen. I said, "No, that is not going to happen, no way! I don't care what the doctors say. Danae is not going to die! One day she will be just fine, and she will be coming home with us!" As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Danae clung to life hour after hour, with the help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure. But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Danae's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially 'raw,' the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Danae struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.

There was never a moment when Danae suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Danae turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero. Danae went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.

Today, five years later, Danae is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an un-quenchable zest for life. She shows no signs, whatsoever, of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she is everything a little girl can be and more, but that happy ending is far from the end of her story. One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Danae was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing. As always, Danae was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent.

Hugging her arms across her chest, Danae asked, "Do you smell that?"

Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain."

Danae closed her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that?"

Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet, it smells like rain.

Still caught in the moment, Danae shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."

Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Danae then happily hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along. During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Danae on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cat.gif

Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

Uh-oh! There I go leaking again... http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cry1.gif

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

If I knew...

If I knew it would be the last time that I'd see you fall asleep,
I would tuck you in more tightly and pray your soul to keep.

If I knew it would be the last time that I see you walk out the door,
I would give you a hug and a kiss and call you back for one more.

If I knew it would be the last time I'd hear something you had to say,
I would video tape each action and word, so I could play them back day after day.

If I knew it would be the last time, I could spare an extra minute or two to
Stop and say "I LOVE YOU", instead of assuming you would know I do.

If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day,
Well, I'm sure you'll have so many more, so I can let just this one slip away.

For surely there's always tomorrow to make up for an oversight,
And we always get a second chance to make everything right.

There will always be another day to say our "I love you's",
And certainly there's another chance to say our "Anything I can do's?"

But just in case I might be wrong, and today is all I get,
I'd like to say how much I love you and I hope we never forget.

Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, young or old alike,
And today may be the last chance you get to hold your loved one tight.

So if you're waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes, you'll surely regret this day,

That you didn't take that extra time for a smile or hug and kiss,
And you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their one last wish.

So hold your loved ones close today, whisper in their ear.
Tell them how much you love them and that you'll always hold them dear.

Take time to say "I'm sorry," "please forgive me," "thank you" or "it's okay".
And if tomorrow never comes, you'll have no regrets today.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

[SleepyHead]

<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Tahoma, Arial, Sans-Serif">Quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Nowhere Man:
If I knew it would be the last time, I could spare an extra minute or two to
Stop and say "I LOVE YOU", instead of assuming you would know I do.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Sounds like veddy good advice... Know some who should maybe consider following it...

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[bearkat77]

Heaven's Messenger

Barbara was driving her six-year-old son, Benjamin, to his piano lesson.

They were late, and Barbara was beginning to think she should have cancelled it. There was always so much to do, and Barbara, a night-duty nurse at the local hospital, had recently worked extra shifts. She was
tired. The sleet storm and icy roads added to her tension. Maybe she should turn the car around.

Mom!" Ben cried. "Look!" Just ahead a car had lost control on a patch of ice. As Barbara tapped the brakes, the other car spun wildly, rolled over, then crashed sideways into a telephone pole.

Barbara pulled over, skidded to a stop and threw open her door. Thank goodness she was a nurse-she might be able to help these unfortunate passengers.

Then she paused. What about Ben? She couldn't take him with her-little boys shouldn't see scenes like the one she anticipated. But was it safe to leave him alone? What if their car were hit from behind? For a brief moment Barbara considered going on her way. Someone else was sure to come along.

No! "Ben, honey, promise me you'll stay in the car!"

"I will, Mommy," he said as she ran, slipping and sliding, toward the crash site. It was worse than she'd feared.

Two girls of high school age were in the car. One, the blonde on the passenger side, was dead, killed on impact. The driver, however was still breathing. She was unconscious and pinned in the wreckage. Barbara quickly applied pressure to the wound in the teenager's head while her practiced eye catalogued the other injuries. A broken leg, maybe two, along with probable internal bleeding. But if help came soon, the girl would live. A trucker had pulled up and was calling for help on his cellular phone. Soon Barbara heard the ambulance sirens. A few moments later she surrendered her lonely post to rescue workers.

"Good job," one said as he examined the driver's wounds. "You probably saved her life, ma'am."

Perhaps. But as Barbara walked back to her car a feeling of sadness overwhelmed her, especially for the family of the girl who had died. Their lives would never be he same. Oh God, why do such things have to happen?

Slowly Barbara opened her car door. What should she tell Benjamin? He was staring at the crash site, his blue eyes huge. "Mom," he whispered, "did you see it?"

"See what, Honey?" she asked.

"The angel, Mom! He came down from the sky while you were running to the car. And he opened the door, and he took that girl out."

Barbara's eyes filled with tears. "Which door, Ben?"

"The passenger side. He took the girl's hand, and they floated up to Heaven together."

"What about the driver?"

Ben shrugged. "I didn't see anyone else."

Later Barbara was able to meet the families of the victims. They expressed their gratitude for the help she had provided. Barbara was able to give them something more; Ben's vision. There was no way he could have known-by ordinary means-who was in the car or what had happened to either of the passengers. Nor could the passenger door have been opened; Barbara had seen it's tangle of immovable steel herself. Yet Ben's account brought consolation to a grieving family. Their daughter was safe in Heaven. And they would see her again.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cat.gif

Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)

[Catswalk]

<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Tahoma, Arial, Sans-Serif">Quote:</font><HR>Originally Posted By Nowhere Man:
If I knew...

If I knew it would be the last time that I'd see you fall asleep,
I would tuck you in more tightly and pray your soul to keep.

If I knew it would be the last time that I see you walk out the door,
I would give you a hug and a kiss and call you back for one more.

If I knew it would be the last time I'd hear something you had to say,
I would video tape each action and word, so I could play them back day after day.

If I knew it would be the last time, I could spare an extra minute or two to
Stop and say "I LOVE YOU", instead of assuming you would know I do.

If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day,
Well, I'm sure you'll have so many more, so I can let just this one slip away.

For surely there's always tomorrow to make up for an oversight,
And we always get a second chance to make everything right.

There will always be another day to say our "I love you's",
And certainly there's another chance to say our "Anything I can do's?"

But just in case I might be wrong, and today is all I get,
I'd like to say how much I love you and I hope we never forget.

Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, young or old alike,
And today may be the last chance you get to hold your loved one tight.

So if you're waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes, you'll surely regret this day,

That you didn't take that extra time for a smile or hug and kiss,
And you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their one last wish.

So hold your loved ones close today, whisper in their ear.
Tell them how much you love them and that you'll always hold them dear.

Take time to say "I'm sorry," "please forgive me," "thank you" or "it's okay".
And if tomorrow never comes, you'll have no regrets today.


<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

How beautiful Nowhere Man! It made me think of Paul's song, "This One".

------------------

[SleepyHead]

THE SUNSET TRAIN

by Jack Blanchard

He headed for the cashier's counter, hoping that the curtain
rods he was carrying were the ones she wanted, when he
saw it for the first time. Funny! He'd been in this store and
up and down these aisles dozens of times, but he had never
noticed those wall pictures before. He wasn't much of an art
critic, he guessed. Didn't really know much about it, but he
DID know he'd never seen anything quite like that train picture.

The surface of the picture was textured to look like a genuine
oil painting, and somehow that scene looked MORE REAL
THAN LIFE! The silver steam from the old engine glowing in
the sunset, billowing against the yellow-blue-orange-pink sky.
The brightly colored, but weather-worn railroad cars. The red
caboose so real you could almost step right into it. Each piece
of gravel along the track, each clump of vegetation on the lone-
some prairie clearly defined and casting a long, late afternoon
shadow. The mountains were a bluish haze against the distant
horizon. It was a painting you could stare at for a long time,
finding details previously overlooked.

A bell rang. The store was closing. On impulse he hurried to
the Customer Service Desk and put the picture on "layaway"
with a five dollar bill that should really have gone toward overdue
bills.He didn't know when he'd be able to manage the eleven-
ninety-five balance. He paid for the curtain rods and went home,
feeling a little guilty.

She stood back and looked critically at the curtains she'd hung.

He told her that they sure made a big difference in the little
apartment. She laughed that, at least, the curtains looked
better than the view of the trash cans in the alley that they
blocked. He held her and said he wished he could provide
her with a decent home, with enough furnishings to go around,
and she replied that they weren't doing too badly for newlyweds,
and that she believed in him. He didn't mention the money he'd
foolishly spent on a picture of a train.

Pay day again, and another losing battle with arithmetic.
If only a single tree or a patch of grass could be seen from
their window, it might raise their spirits by interrupting the
stark drabness surrounding their dingy, lowering apartment.
He felt especially sorry for her, being stuck there all day. At
least taking the bus to the factory everyday gave him a change
of scene. These were his thoughts as he paid the cashier and
waited for the large picture to be wrapped.

He centered it carefully on the wall over the big easy chair with
the broken spring, and called her to come in from the kitchenette
and take a look at the "surprise". Wiping her hands on her apron,
she glanced around the room until her eyes stopped at the
unexpected explosion of color. It was so beautiful she almost cried!
Why, it was just like having a window overlooking a lovely, peaceful
valley locked in eternal sunset. They held hands and stared at the
painting until dinner almost burned.

Years struggled by, and the broken spring chair was replaced
by a new living room suite, complete with payment book. They
moved several times in the course of their lives, first to a couple
of larger apartments, then to a house in a suburban development
and finally, anti-climactically, back to another cheap dingy apartment,
where they were to spend their autumn years.

The infirmities of old age often require a tightening of purse strings.
They weren't complaining though. They'd been through rough times
before. Through the years they'd managed to hang on to two treasures:
The Sunset Train painting and an undying love for each other. Perhaps
they weren't so poor after all.

It hit him hard when she passed away. Somehow, he's always imagined
he'd be the first to go.He wasn't prepared for the horrible emptiness.
Nobody ever is. He took the habit of conversing with her, even though
she was gone. He'd stare at the painting and talk over old times.

Sometimes he'd sit for hours in front of the television, but his eyes
would
wander back to the Sunset Train, their most prized possession. He'd
imagine that they were together in that valley, or riding on the train
itself.
The neighbors, aware of his condition since her death, occasionally
dropped in to check on him. Conversations always gravitated to the
unusual picture.

Several days had passed before anyone noticed the milk bottles
and newspapers accumulated outside his front door. Fearing the
old man had died, and after receiving no answer to their knocking
and calling, the neighbors set their shoulders to the door and the
old wood gave way.

Finding no one in the apartment, all clothes intact in the closets,
and the television left on, the neighbors notified the police of the
old man's disappearance.They arrived shortly after.

While the premises were being inspected, an officer casually
commented to a neighbor, "Unusual painting in there! So realistic,
I mean."

"Yeah," replied the other, "everybody remarks about that train
picture. It's real pretty."

"No," said the policeman, "I'm talkin' about that big picture of the
valley and the sunset, and all that. There's a railroad track runnin'
through it, I guess, but no train. Yep, I'm absolutely sure there was
no train in that picture."

And that was absolutely right.

~~~~~~~~

You can email Jack and tell him what you thought of his story.
Email: jack@jackandmisty.com



------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE PERFECT DOG
Author Unknown

Minnie was the funniest looking dog I'd ever seen.

During summer vacations, I volunteered at the vet's, and I'd |
seen a lot of dogs. Thin curly hair barely covered her sausage-
shaped body. Her bugged-out eyes always seemed surprised.
And her tail looked like a rat's tail.

She was brought to the vet to be put to sleep because her owners
didn't want her anymore. I thought Minnie had a sweet personality
though. No one should judge her by her looks, I thought. So the vet
spayed her and gave her the necessary shots. Finally, I advertised
Minnie in the local paper:

"Funny-looking dog, well behaved,
needs loving family."

When a young man called, I warned him that Minnie was strange
looking. The boy on the phone told me that his grandfather's
sixteen-year-old dog had just died.They wanted Minnie no matter
what. I gave Minnie a good bath and fluffed-up what was left of her
scraggly hair. Then we waited for them to arrive.

At last, an old car drove up in front of the vet's. Two kids raced to
the door. They grabbed Minnie into their arms and rushed her
out to the grandfather. He was waiting in the car. I hurried behind
them to see his reaction to Minnie.

Inside the car, the grandfather cradled Minnie in his arms and
stroked her soft hair. She licked his face. Her rat-tail wagged
around so quickly that it looked like it might fly off her body.
It was love at first lick.

"She's perfect!" the old man exclaimed.

I was thankful that Minnie had found the good home that she
deserved. That's when I saw that the grandfather's eyes were
a milky-white color; he was blind.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE GREATEST OF THESE

by Nanette Thorsen-Snipes

My day began on a decidedly sour note when I saw my six-year-old
wrestling with a limb of my azalea bush. By the time I got outside,
he'd broken it. "Can I take this to school today?" he asked. With a
wave of my hand, I sent him off. I turned my back so he wouldn't see
the tears gathering in my eyes. I loved that azalea bush. I touched
the broken limb as if to say silently, "I'm sorry."

I wished I could have said that to my husband earlier, but I'd been
angry. The washing machine had leaked on my brand-new linoleum.
If he'd just taken the time to fix it the night before when I asked him
instead of playing checkers with Jonathan. 'What are his priorities
anyway?' I wondered. I was still mopping up the mess when Jonathan
walked into the kitchen. "What's for breakfast, Mom?"

I opened the empty refrigerator. "Not cereal," I said, watching the
sides of his mouth drop. "How about toast and jelly?" I smeared
the toast with jelly and set it in front of him. 'Why was I so angry?'

I tossed my husband's dishes into the sudsy water. It was days
like this that made me want to quit. I just wanted to drive up to
the mountains, hide in a cave, and never come out.

Somehow I managed to lug the wet clothes to the laundromat.
I spent most of the day washing and drying clothes and thinking
how love had disappeared from my life. Staring at the graffiti
on the walls, I felt as wrung-out as the clothes left in the washers.

As I finished hanging up the last of my husband's shirts, I looked
at the clock. 2:30. I was late. Jonathan's class let out at 2:15.
I dumped the clothes in the back seat and hurriedly drove to the
school.

I was out of breath by the time I knocked on the teacher's door
and peered through the glass. With one finger, she motioned
for me to wait. She said something to Jonathan and handed
him and two other children crayons and a sheet of paper.

'What now?' I thought, as she rustled through the door and took
me aside. "I want to talk to you about Jonathan," she said. I pre-
pared myself for the worst. Nothing would have surprised me.

"Did you know Jonathan brought flowers to school today?"
she asked. I nodded, thinking about my favorite bush and
trying to hide the hurt in my eyes. I glanced at my son busily
coloring a picture. His wavy hair was too long and flopped
just beneath his brow. He brushed it away with the back of
his hand. His eyes burst with blue as he admired his handi-
work.

"Let me tell you about yesterday," the teacher insisted. "See
that little girl?" I watched the bright-eyed child laugh and point
to a colorful picture taped to the wall. I nodded.

"Well, yesterday she was almost hysterical. Her mother and
father are going through a nasty divorce. She told me she
didn't want to live, she wished she could die. I watched that
little girl bury her face in her hands and say loud enough for
the class to hear, 'Nobody loves me.' I did all I could to console
her, but it only seemed to make matters worse."

"I thought you wanted to talk to me about Jonathan," I said.

"I do," she said, touching the sleeve of my blouse. "Today your
son walked straight over to that child. I watched him hand her
some pretty pink flowers and whisper, 'I love you.'"

I felt my heart swell with pride for what my son had done. I smiled
at the teacher. "Thank you," I said, reaching for Jonathan's hand,
"you've made my day."

Later that evening, I began pulling weeds from around my lopsided
azalea bush. As my mind wandered back to the love Jonathan
showed the little girl, a biblical verse came to me: "...now these three
remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."
While
my son had put love into practice, I had only felt anger.

I heard the familiar squeak of my husband's brakes as he pulled into
the drive. I snapped a small limb bristling with hot pink azaleas off
the bush. I felt the seed of love that God planted in my family
beginning
to bloom once again in me. My husband's eyes widened in surprise
as I handed him the flowers. "I love you," I said.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

Struggling to Kneel - a true story by John Ashcroft

Though we all enjoy the brilliant array of fall colors, few of us
understand the process that produces the glorious display. As days
grow shorter, trees produce less green chlorophyll and leaves reveal their
natural, spectacular color.

Much like a tree, my dad's true colors were most vivid at the end of
his life. When he had just hours left to live, I saw my father at his
brightest and finest. It was a day I will never forget.

Before each of my inaugurations as governor of Missouri, I requested
there be a special time where friends and officials join together to ask
God's guidance in the inaugural festivities and in the administration I
would direct. I wanted to show my individual dependence on God and our
government's corporate dependence on His mercy. In 1985 and 1989,
people from every corner of the state attended these services.

The night before I was sworn in to the Senate in 1995, my father
arranged a dinner for 15 to 20 close friends and family. My father eyed a
piano
in the corner of the room and said, "John, why don't you play the piano
and we'll sing?"

"You name it, I'll play it, Dad."

"Let's sing, 'We Are Standing on Holy Ground.'"

After the song, I found myself thinking out loud. "We're having a good
time," I said, "but I really wish this was a dedication service." The
impending responsibilities of the Senate were weighing heavily on me.
I didn't have an inflated view of my importance as a senator, but I
wasn't lackadaisical about it either. The people of Missouri had chosen me
to represent them, and I wanted to do so with integrity and character.

My lifelong friend, Dick Foth, spoke up. "We can do something about a
dedication service, John."

At Dick's suggestion, we gathered early the next morning at a
beautiful house near the Capitol maintained by friends to bring Congress
members together for spiritual enrichment.

We chatted informally and then sang a hymn or two. At the time I
didn't realize how weak my father was, but he had been losing weight in
November and December and had told an acquaintance of his, "I'm hanging on by
a
thread, and it's a thin thread at that, but I'm going to see John
sworn into the Senate."

As we talked, the earnestness of my father's voice suddenly commanded
everyone's attention. "John," Dad said, "please listen carefully." My
children and I turned our full attention on Dad. The others leaned in.

"The spirit of Washington is arrogance and the spirit of Christ is
humility. Put on the spirit of Christ. Nothing of lasting value has
ever been accomplished in arrogance." The room was absolutely still.
"Someday I hope that someone will come up to you as you're fulfilling your
duties as
a senator, tug on your sleeve, and say, 'Senator, your spirit is
showing.'"

Back when I was eight years old, my father had used a breathtaking
dive in an old Piper Cub airplane to convince me that my actions had great
consequences; now, nearly a half century later, he wanted me to
remember that how I did what I did would have eternal impact.

I asked for prayer. "It's too bad we don't have any oil," I added. In
the Bible, David and Saul were anointed as they each undertook their duty
as king of Israel, as were some leaders in the early church. I had
adopted that practice -- being anointed prior to each of my terms as
governor.

"Let's see if there's some in the kitchen," my father suggested. Dick
Foth disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tiny bowl of Crisco
oil. I knelt in front of the sofa where my father was seated, and everyone
gathered around me. Then I noticed my father swinging his arms,
trying to lift himself out of the couch. Given my father's weakness-a damaged
heart operating at less than one-third capacity -- getting out of that couch
was a major feat.

I felt terrible. Knowing he didn't have strength to spare, I said,
"Dad, you don't have to struggle to stand and pray over me with these
friends."

"John," my father answered, "I'm not struggling to stand, I'm
struggling to kneel."

Some statements take awhile to sink in; other hit you with the force
of a nuclear explosion. I thought my father's words would vaporize me on
the spot. A thousand reflections raced through my mind in the first half
second.

There was a measure of shame, but a good shame, the kind that arises
when you realize you have vastly underestimated the character of someone
or his actions. I was overwhelmed, humbled, and inspired.

He was not struggling to stand -- he was struggling to kneel. I was
taken back to those early mornings fifty years before when I slipped
underneath my father and joined him on his knees. He prayed that we would do
noble things. Now, still on his knees, he was taking me there.


"Editor's note: John Ashcroft was sworn into the Senate on January 4,
1995. His father died the next evening."

Excerpted from Lessons from a Father to His Son, by John Ashcroft.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

I'M NOBODY . . . BUT MY FATHER

When Queen Elizabeth of England was still a princess, she and some of her
royal cousins were staying incognito at a country estate. As the children
were playing one pleasant summer day, they wandered over a hill that put
them beyond the view of the main house.

Laughing and giggling away the afternoon, the four girls didn't notice the
caretaker approach them. He had no way to know who these children were,
but he loved their obvious enthusiasm for life and watched their antics
with some curiosity.

When he spoke, the girls were startled back into reality. His kind face
and soft voice certainly carried no threat of harm, but Elizabeth, being
the oldest, stood tall and asked the obvious questions: "Who are you...
and what do you want?"

He smiled and replied, "I live here and I take care of these grounds for
the people who own the estate. All the trees and flowers and animals here
are in my charge." Eyeing Elizabeth and her three friends, he went on,
"But, I think I should ask the same question you did: "Who are
you? Judging from your fine clothes and refined manners, I assume you're
somebody special."

"Oh no," Princess Elizabeth answered. "I'm nobody special at all. But my
Father... he's the King!"


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

I'M NOBODY . . . BUT MY FATHER

When Queen Elizabeth of England was still a princess, she and some of her
royal cousins were staying incognito at a country estate. As the children
were playing one pleasant summer day, they wandered over a hill that put
them beyond the view of the main house.

Laughing and giggling away the afternoon, the four girls didn't notice the
caretaker approach them. He had no way to know who these children were,
but he loved their obvious enthusiasm for life and watched their antics
with some curiosity.

When he spoke, the girls were startled back into reality. His kind face
and soft voice certainly carried no threat of harm, but Elizabeth, being
the oldest, stood tall and asked the obvious questions: "Who are you...
and what do you want?"

He smiled and replied, "I live here and I take care of these grounds for
the people who own the estate. All the trees and flowers and animals here
are in my charge." Eyeing Elizabeth and her three friends, he went on,
"But, I think I should ask the same question you did: "Who are
you? Judging from your fine clothes and refined manners, I assume you're
somebody special."

"Oh no," Princess Elizabeth answered. "I'm nobody special at all. But my
Father... he's the King!"


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

At the prodding of my friends, I am writing this story. My name is Mildred
Hondorf. I am a former elementary school music teacher from Des Moines,
Iowa. I've always supplemented my income by teaching piano
lessons--something I've done for over 30 years. Over the years, I found
that children have many levels of musical ability. I've never had the
pleasure of having a protege though I have taught some talented students.

However, I've also had my share of what I call "musically challenged"
pupils. One such student was 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 with his piano lessons and from the beginning I thought
it was a hopeless endeavor. 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 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'd always say, "My
mom's going to hear me play some day."

But 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 stopped in.

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

Several weeks later, I mailed to the student's homes a flyer on the
upcoming recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked me if
he could be in the recital. I told him that the recital was for current
pupils and because he had dropped out he really did not qualify. He said
that his mom had been sick and unable to take him to piano lessons but he
was still practicing. "Miss Hondorf...I've just got to play!" he insisted.

I don't know what led me to allow him to play in the recital. Maybe it was
his persistence or maybe it was something inside of me saying that it would
be alright.

The night for the recital came. The high school gymnasium was packed with
parents, friends and relatives. I put Robby up last in the program before I
was to come up and thank all the students and play a finishing piece. I
thought that any damage he would 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 stage. His clothes were
wrinkled and his hair looked like he'd run an egg-beater through it. "Why
didn't he dress 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 began. I was surprised when he
announced that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #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 someone 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've never heard you play like
that Robby! How'd you do it?"

Through the microphone Robby explained: "Well, Miss Hondorf ... remember I
told you my mom was sick? Well, actually, she had cancer and passed away
this morning. And well ... she was born deaf so tonight was the first time
she ever heard me play. 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 into foster care, I noticed
that even their eyes were red and puffy and I thought to myself how much
richer my life had been for taking Robby as my pupil.

No, I've never had a protege, but that night I became a protege ... of
Robby's. He was the teacher and I was the pupil. For it is he that taught
me the meaning of perseverance and love and believing in yourself and maybe
even taking a chance in someone and you don't know why.

This is especially meaningful to me since, after serving in Desert Storm,
Robby was killed in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal
Building in Oklahoma City in April of 1995, where he was
reportedly....playing the piano.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

ARE YOU GOING TO HELP ME NOW?

In 1989 an 8.2 earthquake flattened most of Armenia, killing over 30,000
people in less than four minutes.

In the midst of utter devastation and chaos, a father left his wife
securely at home and rushed to the school where his son was supposed to be,
only to discover that the building had been leveled.

After the traumatic initial shock, he remembered the promise he had made to
his son: "No matter what, I'll always be there for you!" And tears began
to fill his eyes. As he looked at the pile of debris that once was the
school, it looked hopeless, but he kept thinking of his commitment to his son.

He began to concentrate on where he walked his son to class at school each
morning. Remembering his son's classroom would be in the back right corner
of the building, he rushed there and started digging through the rubble.

As he was digging, other forlorn parents arrived, clutching their hearts,
saying, "My son!" "My daughter!" Other well meaning parents tried to pull
him off what was left of the school saying:
"It's too late!"
"They're dead!"
"You can't help!"
"Go home!"
"Face reality, there's nothing you can do!"
"You're just going to make things worse!"

To each parent he responded with one line - "Are you going to help me
now?" And then he proceeded to dig for his son, stone by stone.

The fire chief showed up and tried to pull him off the school's debris
saying, "Fires are breaking out, explosions are happening
everywhere. You're in danger. We'll take care of it. Go home. Be
safe!" To which he replied, "Are you going to help me now" No one did.

The police came and said, "You're angry, distraught and it's over. You're
endangering others. Go home. We'll handle it." To which he replied, "Are
you going to help me now?" No one helped.

Courageously he proceeded alone because he needed to know for himself: "Is
my boy alive or dead?" He dug for eight hours... 12 hours... 24 hours...
then, in the 38th hour, he pulled back a piece of concrete and heard his
son's voice. he screamed his son's name, "ARMAND!" He heard back,
"Dad!?! It's me, Dad! I told the other kids not to worry. I told 'em
that if you were alive, you'd save me and when you saved me.. they'd be
saved, too. You promised, 'No matter what, I'll always be there for
you!' You did it Dad!"

"What's going on in there! How are you?" the father asked.

"There are 14 of us left out of 33, Dad. We're scared, hungry and
thirsty. Most of all... we're thankful you're here. When the building
collapsed, it made a wedge like a triangle... and it saved us."

"Come on out, son!"

"No, Dad. Let the other kids out first... I know you'll get
me. No matter what, I know you'll be there for me!"


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS

In 1923, young Bill Havens' lifelong dream came true when he qualified to
compete in the 1924 Olympic Games. In fact, Havens represented one of
America's best prospects for a medal because he had established himself as
a world-class contender in the singles and the four-man canoeing events.

Several months before he was scheduled to leave for Paris, the site of the
1924 Olympics, Havens' wife joyfully told him that he would soon fulfill
another great dream...they were expecting a baby. Coincidentally, the baby
was due smack dab in the middle of the two-week Olympic competition.

In the 1920s, traveling from the United States to Europe required a
two-week voyage across the Atlantic on an ocean liner. With the trip there
and back, and the two weeks of competition, Havens would be gone more than
a month-and-a-half. If he went to Paris, he would almost certainly miss
the birth of his child.

Bill faced a quandary...two wonderful landmark events loomed before him,
but he could not possibly attend both. When he asked his family and
friends what he should do, they all encouraged him to go and compete. He
could win glory for himself and for his country and, after all, his child
would be waiting for him when he returned home. His wife's doctor assured
him that the pregnancy was progressing perfectly and that his wife and
child would be fine. Even Sharon urged her husband to follow his dream of
Olympic gold.

Still, Bill Havens spent many days deep in thought before he felt
comfortable making his crucial decision. On the one hand, he would
possibly win a medal...but on the other, one moment of glory paled in
comparison to a mother's and child's life. Finally, Bill chose...he would
not go to Paris. Instead, he would stay home with his wife, by her
bedside, and welcome their child into the world.

Bill Havens could have easily told his wife, "I love you and I'll be with
you in spirit," then kissed her good-bye and boarded the boat. Instead, he
chose to show her (and their unborn child) the sincerity of his love for
them. On August 1, 1924, Bill's son was born...four days after the Paris
Games concluded. If he had gone to the Games, he would have been aboard a
ship in the mid-Atlantic at the moment his son Frank came into the world.

Bill never questioned that he made the right decision, but he could not
keep himself from imagining over the years what it would have felt like to
stand on the victory platform with the Star Spangled Banner playing and the
crowd cheering. He sometimes doubted whether anyone cared about his
sacrifice. In the long run, had what he'd done at home really mattered
more than what he might have done in Paris?

In the summer of 1952, Bill Havens finally got his answer. That year the
Olympics took place in Helsinki, Finland, and in the midst of the games, a
telegram arrived at the Havens' home from his son. That telegram read...
"Dear Dad, Thanks for waiting around for me to get born in 1924. I'm coming
home with the gold medal you should have won... Your loving son, Frank."

Frank Havens had competed in the 10,000-meter singles canoeing event, one
that his father might have won in 1924. When young Frank won Olympic gold,
his first thought turned to his father who had sacrificed the same glory in
favor of his love for his family.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

I Wish You Enough

Recently, a writer overheard a father and daughter in their last moments
together at the airport. They had announced her departure and standing
near the security gate, they hugged and he said, "I love you. I wish you
enough." She in turn said, "Daddy, our life together has been more than
enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough, too, Daddy."

They kissed and she left.

He walked over toward the window where I was seated. Standing there, I
could see he wanted and needed to cry. I tried not to intrude on his
privacy, but he welcomed me in by asking, "Did you ever say goodbye to
someone knowing it would be forever?"

"Yes, I have," I replied. Saying that brought back memories I had of expressing my love and
appreciation for all my Dad had done for me. Recognizing that his days
were limited, I took the time to tell him face to face how much he meant
to me. So I knew what this man was experiencing.

"Forgive me for asking,
but why is this a forever goodbye?" I asked.

"I am old and she lives much
too far away. I have challenges ahead and the reality is, the next trip
back would be for my funeral," he said.

"When you were saying goodbye I heard you say, 'I wish you enough.' May I ask what that means?"

He began to smile. "That's a wish that has
been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to
everyone." He paused for a moment and looked up as if trying to remember
it in detail, he smiled even more. "When we said 'I wish you enough,' we
were wanting the other person to have a life filled with just enough good
things to sustain them," he continued. Then, turning toward me, he
shared the following as if he were reciting it from memory.

"I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.

I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.

I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.

I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear
much bigger.

I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.

I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.

I wish you enough hellos to get you through the final goodbye."


He then began to sob and walked away.


My friends, I wish you enough!


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

A lady in a faded gingham dress and her husband in a homespun threadbare
suit, stepped off the train in Boston and walked timidly without an
appointment into the Harvard University President's outer office.

The secretary could tell in a moment that such backwoods, country hicks
had no business at Harvard and probably didn't even deserve to be in
Cambridge. She frowned.

"We want to see the President, " the man said softly. "He'll be busy all
day," the secretary snapped. "We'll wait," the lady replied.

For hours, the secretary ignored them, hoping that the couple would
finally become discouraged and go away. They didn't and the secretary
grew frustrated and finally decided to disturb the President, even
though it was a chore she always regretted. "Maybe if they just see you
for a few minutes, they'll leave," she told him. He sighed in
exasperation and nodded.

Someone of his importance obviously didn't have the time to spend with
them, but he detested gingham dresses and homespun suits cluttering up
his outer office. The President, stern faced with dignity, strutted
toward the couple.

The lady told him, "We had a son who attended Harvard for one year.
Harvard. He was happy here. But about a year ago, he was accidentally
killed. And my husband and I would like to erect a memorial to him,
somewhere on campus.

The President was not touched, he was shocked. "Madam," he said gruffly,
"We can't put up a statue for every person who attended Harvard and
died. If we did, this place would look like a cemetery."

Oh, no," the lady explained quickly. "We don't want to erect a statue.
We thought we would like to give a building to Harvard."

The president rolled his eyes. He glanced at the gingham dress and
homespun suit, then exclaimed, "A building! Do you have any earthly idea
how much a building costs? We have over seven and a half million dollars
in the physical plant at Harvard."

For a moment the lady was silent. The President was pleased. He could
get rid of them now. And the lady turned to her husband and said
quietly, " Is that all it costs to start a university? Why don't we just
start our own?"

Her husband nodded. The President's face wilted in confusion and
bewilderment. And Mr. and Mrs. Leland Stanford walked away traveling to
Palo Alto, California where they established the university that bears
their name, a memorial to a son that Harvard no longer cared about.

You can easily judge the character of others by how they treat those who
can do nothing for them or to them.

By
Malcolm Forbes


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On July 13, 2001 02:45 AM]

[SleepyHead]

THE TATTOOED STRANGER

Author Unknown

He was kind of scary. He sat there on the grass with his
cardboard sign, his dog (actually his dog was adorable)
and tattoos running up and down both arms and even on
his neck. His sign proclaimed him to be "stuck and hungry"
and to please help.

I'm a sucker for anyone needing help. My husband both
hates and loves this quality in me. I pulled the van over and
in my rear-view mirror, contemplated this man, tattoos and
all. He was youngish, maybe forty. He wore one of those
bandannas tied over his head, biker/pirate style. Anyone
could see he was dirty and had a scraggly beard. But if
you looked closer, you could see that he had neatly tucked
in the black T-shirt, and his things were in a small, tidy bundle.
Nobody was stopping for him. I could see the other drivers
take one look and immediately focus on something else -
anything else.

It was so hot out. I could see in the man's very blue eyes how
dejected and tired and worn-out he felt. The sweat was trickling
down his face. As I sat with the air-conditioning blowing, the
scripture suddenly popped into my head. "Inasmuch as ye
have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, so ye have
done it unto me."

I reached down into my purse and extracted a ten dollar bill.
My twelve-year old son, Nick knew right away what I was
doing. "Can I take it to him, Mom?"

"Be careful, honey." I warned and handed him the money.
I watched in the mirror as he rushed over to the man, and
with a shy smile, handed it to him. I saw the man, startled,
stand and take the money, putting it into his back pocket.
"Good," I thought to myself, "now he will at least have a hot
meal tonight." I felt satisfied, proud of myself. I had made
a sacrifice and now I could go on with my errands.

When Nick got back into the car, he looked at me with sad,
pleading eyes. "Mom, his dog looks so hot and the man is
really nice." I knew I had to do more.

"Go back and tell him to stay there, that we will be back in
fifteen minutes," I told Nick. He bounded out of the car and
ran to tell the tattooed stranger. We then ran to the nearest
store and bought our gifts carefully. "It can't be too heavy,"
I explained to the children. "He has to be able to carry it
around with him." We finally settled on our purchases.
A bag of "Ol' Roy" (I hoped it was good - it looked good
enough for me to eat! How do they make dog food look
that way?); a flavored chew-toy shaped like a bone; a
water dish, bacon flavored snacks (for the dog); two
bottles of water (one for the dog, one for Mr. Tattoos);
and some people snacks for the man.

We rushed back to the spot where we had left him, and there
he was, still waiting. And still nobody else was stopping for
him. With hands shaking, I grabbed our bags and climbed
out of the car, all four of my children following me, each
carrying gifts. As we walked up to him, I had a fleeting
moment of fear, hoping he wasn't a serial killer. I looked
into his eyes and saw something that startled me and made
me ashamed of my judgment. I saw tears. He was fighting
like a little boy to hold back his tears. How long had it been
since someone showed this man kindness?

I told him I hoped it wasn't too heavy for him to carry and
showed him what we had brought. He stood there, like a
child at Christmas, and I felt like my small contributions
were so inadequate. When I took out the water dish, he
snatched it out of my hands as if it were solid gold and
told me he had had no way to give his dog water. He
gingerly set it down, filled it with the bottled water we
brought, and stood up to look directly into my eyes.
His were so blue, so intense and my own filled with
tears as he said "Ma'am, I don't know what to say."
He then put both hands on his bandanna- clad head
and just started to cry. This man, this "scary" man,
was so gentle, so sweet, so humble.

I smiled through my tears and said "Don't say anything."
Then I noticed the tattoo on his neck. It said "Mama tried."

As we all piled into the van and drove away, he was on his
knees, arms around his dog, kissing his nose and smiling.
I waved cheerfully and then fully broke down in tears.

I have so much. My worries seem so trivial and petty now.
I have a home, a loving husband, four beautiful children.
I have a bed. I wondered where he would sleep tonight.
My step-daughter, Brandie turned to me and said in the
sweetest little- girl voice, "I feel so good."

Although it seemed as if we had helped him, the man with
the tattoos gave us a gift that I will never forget. He taught
that no matter what the outside looks like, inside each of
us is a human being deserving of kindness, of compassion,
of acceptance. He opened my heart.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[Tim]

A.E. Housman: To an Athlete Dying Young
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder high-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It whithers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echos fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.



------------------
Tim
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/churchill.gif

[Tim]

Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. I have been in ballparks for 17 years and have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans. Look at these grand men. Which of you wouldn't consider it the highlight of his career just to associate with them for even one day? Sure I'm lucky. Who wouldn't consider it an honor to have known Jacob Ruppert? Also, the builder of baseball's greastest empire, Ed Burrow? To have spent six years with that wonderful little fellow, Miller Huggins? Then to have spent the next nine years with the best manager in baseball today, Joe McCarthy? Sure I'm lucky. When the New York Giants, a team you would give your right arm to beat, and vice versa, sends you a gift - that's something. When everybody down to the groundskeepers and those boys in the white coats remember you with trophies - that's something. When you have a wonderful mother-in-law who takes sides with you in squabbles with her own daughter - that's somehing. When you have a father and a mother who work all their lives so you can have an education and build your body - it's a blessing. When you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you dreamed existed - that's the finest I know. So I close in saying that I may had a tough break, but I have an awful lot to live for.

-Lou Gehrig July 4 1939,Yankee Stadium New York{/i]


------------------
[i]Tim
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/churchill.gif

[This Message Has Been Edited By Tim On July 13, 2001 04:46 AM]

[Tim]

To LOU GEHRIG

We've been to the wars together;
We took our foes as they came;
And always you were the leader,
And ever you played the game.
Idol of cheering millions,
Records are yours by sheaves;
Iron of frame they hailed you
Decked you with laurel leaves.
But higher than that we hold you,
We who have known you best;
Knowing the way you came through
Every human test.
Let this be a silent token
Of lasting Friendship's gleam,
And all that we've left unspoken;
Your Pals of the Yankees Team

-On a Trophy given to Lou Gehrig on his Day at Yankee Stadium July 4,1939

------------------
Tim
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/churchill.gif

[SleepyHead]

Relief

I'm not quite sure when the turning point came. But I know that it
came after a fight I had with my mother. It was a typical fight for
that rebellious summer. You know how it is, you lie once, and then
they all start to pile up. And nothing happens evenly - it's always
all at once. That summer I drifted apart from my mother, and my two
best friends, whom I needed to turn to, were angry with me. That's
where I learned my second lesson (the first being not to lie) - never
keep your feelings hidden. That's what my friends did, and when I
found out, it was too late.

Anyway, my house was a battle zone. I'd sleep till I had to go to
work and then sleep after work. In between, I'd cry and feel sorry
for myself, well, when I wasn't fighting with my mom. That day it
all changed.

She was screaming at me about how I wasn't a part of the family
anymore - that no one liked being around me because I was always so
hostile. I yelled back, as most sixteen-year-olds would. But my mom
doesn't ground me (well, I was already grounded) or take away the phone;
she assigns essays. My assignment was to apologize for my behavior.

I cried tears of rage in my room, yelling about what I could possibly
write. But then I started to write. And the apology turned into an
explanation. I poured out every pain and emotion, ones that I had
hidden behind my rage, the ones I cried about at night. I didn't know
how to get back to being me, and I hated what I had become. I felt so
lost. And, most of all, I felt like everyone that I had depended on
had left me. Alone.

I left the letter on her bed and went to sleep, exhausted from sobbing.
I wrapped myself up in my warm, flannel blankets to ease the cold.
Although it was a warm and humid summer night, I shivered. The next
morning I woke up early enough to go to work so that no one was awake
yet. I crept into the bathroom and noticed a card with my name written
on it in my mother's handwriting taped to the mirror. I opened it. It
said that she understood. She understood that I was lost and scared.
And she promised that she would help me.

I got into the hot shower, silently sobbing. My salty tears mixed with
the water on my face. Except this time, the tears were of relief, not
of despair.

by Kathryn Litzenberger
Reprinted by permission of Kathryn Litzenberger (c) 2000, from
Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III by Jack Canfield, Mark
Victor Hansen and Kimberly Kirberger.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

~*~ The Front Porch Swing ~*~

The front porch swing, all weathered and gray,
has a bounty of stories from another day.

Grampa had built it and hung it with pride,
his very first gift to his young bride.

During the winter, spring, summer and fall,
the front porch swing always seemed to call.

Every evening they'd sit in their swing,
wondering what the future would bring.

In that swing, on a night so mild,
she told him they were to have a child.

He held her close and wished for a son,
someone to carry on when his life was done.

The son was born and a daughter too,
their lives were blessed, this much was true.

Still every evening, all the days of their life,
they sat in that swing, husband and wife.

Granny and Grampa have gone on to their reward,
I didn't know saying goodbye could be so hard.

Now the old weathered swing belongs to me,
I hung it proudly for the world to see.

Pamela G. Smith
copyright 1997

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On July 13, 2001 05:31 AM]

[Tim]

A young man rode with his head held high,
under the Texas sun.
And no one guessed that a man so blessed
would perish by the gun
Lord,would perish by the gun.

A shot rang out like a sudden shout,
and Heaven held its breath,
For the dreams of a multitude of men
rode with him to his death,
Lord,rode with him to his death.

Yes,the heart of the world weighs heavy
with the helplessness of tears,
For the man cut down in a Texas town
in the summer of his years.
And we who stay must never lose
the voctories that he won,
For wherever we look to freedom,
his soul goes riding on.
Lord,his soul goes riding on

From BBC's That Was The Week that Was 11/23/63

------------------
Tim
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/churchill.gif

[SleepyHead]

Legacy of Love

A package came in the mail today. I knew before opening it that it was
from Gram. Two months before, I traveled to England to say good-bye
to Gramps. He died in his sleep and the world had lost a wonderful
man. I lost my best friend.

Gram and I spent two weeks together. Unfortunately, she was only a
shadow of what she'd once been. The spark had left her eyes and the
spring in her step was gone. I never saw her cry.

I wanted to take her home with me, but she refused. Gramps' presence
was in the house and she wanted to stay there.

The day before I was to leave, Gram asked if I'd like something of his to
take home with me. She led me into their bedroom and began to sort
through his watches, rings and cuff links. Recalling how he disliked
dressing up for "putting on airs," I asked for something special to him -
his gardening sweater.

Gram laughed, saying that she had tried for years to get him to throw the
old thing out. Feeling sad that she didn't understand, I accepted a pair
of cuff links.

That night, a sound woke me. I padded to the den and there was Gram,
sitting in his chair. She was crying softly. As I made my way back to
my room, I realized something. She was wearing his gardening sweater.

I left with a heavy heart the next morning. As time passed, in her letters
and phone calls, she sounded more like her old self. She was continuing on.

Then the phone call came from her dear friend. She told me Gram had
died in her sleep the night before. As a final request, she asked that I
not come out for her funeral. There was no one there for me to see.
I respected her wishes with a heavy heart. Before hanging up, her friend
said she would be sending a parcel by Gram's instructions.

I glanced down at the package on my table through tear-filled eyes, and
slowing began to tear at the wrappings, sobbing. Inside were tiny boxes
containing my grandparents' jewelry, which I will pass on to my own
children someday. More importantly, I will tell them about two wonderful
people I was blessed enough to have for my grandparents.

As I picked up the box, I noticed a thick layer of tissue covering its
bottom. I reached in to remove it, and there, folded neatly, was Gramps'
love-worn gardening sweater.

I took it out and slipped it on. Faintly, beneath the scent of laundry soap,
sunshine, vegetable gardens, and a hint of pipe tobacco, linger the memories
of Gramps. Smiling, I recall how he used to hide behind the shed to smoke
that pipe, not wanting Gram to know.

I will go on to build my own family and memories that come with it. But
these two dear people will never be forgotten.

By Hope Saxton
Reprinted by permission of Hope Saxton (c) 1999, from A 6th Bowl
of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

SUNDAY MORNINGS

I remember Sunday mornings when I was quite young,
our day didn't start till Grampa's favorite song was sung.

"When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder" was the start of our day,
then at the breakfast table we'd bow our heads and pray.

When the meal was finished and the dishes were all done,
Grampa would say "Let's go visit with the Father and his Son"

We'd drive to the little Church just down the road,
'cause Grampa said we had some seed that needed to be sowed.

I'd sit in our pew, my Bible clutched in my small hand,
in anticipation of a Sunday service really very grand.

We'd sing the old songs and the preacher would shout,
when he was through, you knew what sinning was all about.

I'd scoot close to Grampa and he'd whisper "don't you fear,
you're still a young girl and your soul is crystal clear".

Well, now I've grown a lot older and this is no longer true,
my soul is marked with sin, but I know what to do.

This Sunday I'll go with Grampa to where they meet with one accord,
'cause to miss another Sunday is something my soul can't afford.

I'll sit in that same pew, my childhood Bible by my side,
and pray Gods' love and forgiveness will in my soul abide.

Pamela G. Smith
copyright 1997


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

Mind Pictures

While driving down an old forgotten highway,
mind pictures of the past became bright as day.

The old red barn with it's "SEE ROCK CITY" sign,
brought back treasured memories that were all mine.

A trip to a Great-Uncle's in Tennessee,
I made with my Grandad when I was three.

Some men were there, paint buckets in hand,
to paint the barn roof, the first in the land.

My Grandad ask why, as we sat under a tree,
Great-Uncle said why not, they do it for free.

Grandad and I went back every year,
when it was time for the painters to appear.

I was ten when Great-Uncle died,
Grandad and I were by his side.

Great-Uncle whispered in a voice so low,
as I was staring at the barn from his window.

Grandad smiled and nodded his head,
I ask him later what Great-Uncle had said.

Through tears, Grandad said, with his eyes held aloof,
"They're coming tomorrow to paint the roof."

Pamela G. Smith
copyright1995


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE BIRTHDAY CHECK

By Kathleen Dixon

In the 1950s, local banks sent personalized checks to
non-customers to try to generate new business. I was
eight years old, proud of my new writing and spelling
ability, so I begged for these checks from my parents.

In our family, special occasions meant gifts from parents,
siblings and friends, but from others it meant cards with
money. Cards with crisp ones, fives, tens or twenties
meant "I love you." So using these advertisements -
gimmick checks - I did the same. My homemade cards,
heavily colored and flowery with prose and poetry, with
a bogus check inside, were made out to the honoree in
the amount appropriate to the extent of my love. For my
brothers, it was a dollar. For my parents, it was thousands.
For my Uncle Howard, it was a million dollars.

In July of 1958, we held a Sunday dinner birthday celebration
for my uncle. He opened the card I'd made, read the message
inside and looked at the check enclosed for a long time. Smiling
at me from across the dinner table, he thanked me for the card
and check. Then he took his wallet out of his back pocket, folded
and tucked the check away, saying, "I'll just keep this with me until
I need it."

Thirty-five years later, I sat drinking coffee, early in the morning,
at that same table, across from the same smile, hearing the same
voice, sharing the same memories of those thirty-five years, with
the same Uncle Howard - probably for the last time. My uncle was
dying of cancer. Radiation and chemotherapy had been admini-
stered without success and ended so his crew cut was growing
back. The nausea that had plagued him during treatments was
no longer a problem. He was eating again and putting on the
weight he had lost. Sitting there talking about the good old days,
I fooled myself into thinking this was a pleasure visit and there
would be others to come. But deep down, I knew that this visit
was for good-bye.

Putting down his coffee mug, he reached for his hip pocket.
Unfolding his wallet, he reached inside and handed me a pale
blue slip of paper, folded in half, saying, "Remember this?"
There was the birthday check for a million dollars. He had kept
it, carrying it with him, shifting it from old wallet to new wallet for
thirty-five years.

"You never tried to cash it," I joked.

"I never needed it," he said. "I'll just keep this with me a little
longer in case I need it yet." He put it away once more.

I left him that afternoon with final hugs, kisses, and the final
good-byes. Four days later, he was gone.

Shortly after the funeral, I returned home from work and found
a package on the kitchen table mailed to me, the handwritten
return address from my aunt. Inside was another small package
with a short note in Uncle Howard's handwriting. "Since I don't
need this anymore, I thought you might want it back. With love,
Uncle Howard."

Enclosed was the check for a million dollars, mounted inside a
frame. Thanks, Uncle Howard, for a million-dollar love that lasts
longer than a lifetime.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On July 13, 2001 05:42 AM]

[SleepyHead]

Carl's Garden

Carl was a quiet man. He didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a
big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well. Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The lone sight of him walking down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound received in WW II II. Watching him, we worried that although he had survived W.W.II, he may not make it through our changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random violence, gangs, and drug activity.

When he saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he responded in his characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he just signed up. He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally happened.

He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would you like a drink from the hose?" The tallest and toughest-looking of the three said, "Yeah, sure," with a malevolent little smile. As Carl offered the hose to him, the other two grabbed Carl's arm,throwing him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, Carl's assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then fled. Carl tried to get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him. Although the minister had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn't get there fast enough to stop it.

"Carl, are you okay? Are you hurt?" the minister kept asking as he helped Carl to
his feet.Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head.

"Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise-up someday." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He adjusted the nozzle again and started to water. Confused and a little concerned, the minister asked, "Carl, what are you doing?"

"I've got to finish my watering. It's been very dry lately", came the calm reply. Satisfying himself that Carl really was all right, the minister could only marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and place.

A few weeks later the three returned. Just as before their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head to foot in the icy water. When they had finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, falling over another laughing at the hilarity of what they had just done. Carl just watched them. Then he turned toward the warmth giving sun, picked up his hose, and went on with his watering.

The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer tormentors reaching down for him. He braced himself for the expected attack. "Don't worry old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this time." The young man spoke softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Carl.

As he helped Carl get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and handed it to Carl. "What's this?" Carl asked. "It's your stuff," the man explained. "It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet." "I don't understand," Carl said. "Why would you help me now?"

The man shifted his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease. "I learned something from you", he said. "I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us for hating you. You kept showing love against our hate." He stopped for a moment. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."

He paused for another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." And with that, he walked off down the street. Carl looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his retirement watch and put it back on his wrist. Opening his wallet, he checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride that still smiled back at him from all those years ago.

He died one cold day after Christmas that winter. Many people attended his funeral in spite of the weather. In particular the minister noticed a tall young man that he didn't know sitting quietly in a distant corner of the church. The minister spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life. In a voice made thick with unshed tears, he said, "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can. We will never forget Carl and his garden."

The following spring another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." The flyer went unnoticed by the busy parishioners until one day when a knock was heard at the minister's office door. Opening the door, the minister saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said.

The minister recognized him as the same young man who had returned the stolen watch and wallet to Carl. He knew that Carl's kindness had turned this man's life around. As the minister handed him the keys to the garden shed, he said, "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honor him."

The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and vegetables just as Carl had done. In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory and kept the garden as beautiful as he thought Carl would have kept it.

One day he approached the new minister and told him that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. He explained with a shy and happy smile, "My wife just had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday." "Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the garden shed
keys.

"That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"

"Carl," he replied.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

A GUY NAMED BILL

By Rebecca Manley Pippert


His name was Bill. He had wild hair, wore a T-shirt with holes
in it, blue jeans and no shoes. In the entire time I knew him I
never once saw Bill wear a pair of shoes. Rain, sleet or snow,
Bill was barefoot. This was literally his wardrobe for his whole
four years of college.

He was brilliant and looked like he was always pondering
the esoteric. He became a Christian while attending college.
Across the street from the campus was a church full of well-
dressed, middle-class people. They wanted to develop a
ministry to the college students, but they were not sure how
to go about it.

One day, Bill decided to worship there. He walked into the
church, complete with his wild hair, T-shirt, blue jeans and
bare feet. The church was completely packed, and the
service had already begun. Bill started down the aisle to
find a place to sit. By now the people were looking a bit
uncomfortable, but no one said anything.

As Bill moved closer and closer to the pulpit, he realized
there were no empty seats. So he squatted and sat down
on the carpet right up front. (Although such behavior would
have been perfectly acceptable at the college fellowship,
this was a scenario this particular congregation had never
witnessed before!) By now, the people seemed uptight,
and the tension in the air was thickening.

Right about the time Bill took his “seat,” a deacon began
slowly making his way down the aisle from the back of the
sanctuary. The deacon was in his eighties, had silver gray
hair, a three-piece suit and a pocket watch. He was a godly
man -- very elegant, dignified and courtly. He walked with
a cane and, as he neared the boy, church members thought,
“You can’t blame him for what he’s going to do. How can you
expect a man of his age and background to understand
some college kid on the floor?”

It took a long time for the man to reach the boy. The church
was utterly silent except for the clicking of his cane. You
couldn’t even hear anyone breathing. All eyes were on
the deacon.

But then they saw the elderly man drop his cane on the floor.
With great difficulty, he sat down on the floor next to Bill and
worshipped with him. Everyone in the congregation choked
up with emotion. When the minister gained control, he told
the people, “What I am about to preach, you will never
remember. What you’ve just seen, you will never forget.”


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

A LOVE TO LAST

By Sherry Jones

While the distinctive smells of illness and antiseptic swirled
around me, I patiently waiting outside the room to take another
useless blood sample. Useless because they didn't expect the
patient to make it through the morning much less the day. (This
is a common occurrence when doctors forget to keep their orders
current.)

While I waited, an 85 year old woman was saying goodbye
to her husband. Her hunched back was curved even further
as she leaned to be closer to the man she had shared her life
with. Her brilliant red hair color was a sharp contrast to the
snow white hair of the man in the bed. She was wearing what
I was sure were her good blouse and slacks, and her lipstick
had been carefully applied.

I wondered, did she still resemble the girl he first fell in love with?

He gripped her hand tightly and said with conviction, "I do not have
one single regret besides not being able to stay with you. I have never
wasted one minute on you or our children. You have given me such a
good life."

Together they both said, "I love you."

Then they broke down in tears and hugged as best they could amid
the tubes and I.V.'s. It was right then and there when I decided that
if I couldn't have that kind of love, then I didn't want to be bothered.

When at last she emerged, I went in. He smiled weakly at me. His
faded blue eyes shone with that peculiar light that terminal patients
seem to take on. It's as though a small piece of heaven has already
begun to shine through.

While I drew his blood he said, "You know, we made love every week
right up until two weeks ago."

I didn't know what to say to that, but told him I thought that was
great.

His tears began anew as he struggled to get out the words. "I am so
selfish!"

All thoughts of keeping my schedule flew rapidly out the window.
I sat down and asked him why he would say that. He said that
he was glad that he was dying and not her. I told him that wasn't
selfish in the least. He said that it was because he knew that if it
were the other way around, he wouldn't want to be the one left
behind without her.

I just sat and let him cry while I held his hand. After a brief while,
his son arrived from out of town. I leaned down, gave him a quick
hug and whispered, "Safe journey."

He passed away about six hours after I last saw him. I wound up
going to his funeral. All his family could talk about at the service
was his devotion to them and their mother. He was obviously a
wonderful father and husband. He left an enormous legacy behind.

Hopefully his two sons and three grandsons learned from him what
is really important in this life. Seeing this kind of love made my
spirit
feel lighter. It is possible, though rare. It takes very special
people
with a deep commitment. The love changes over the years, but if
you're lucky the roots go down deep instead of sideways.

The doctors said that he died from heart failure. But I don't think
that his heart ever failed either him or the people that he loved.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead64]

Paco, Come Home

In a small town in Spain, a man named Jorge had a bitter argument with
his young son Paco. The next day Jorge discovered that Paco's bed was
empty -- he had run away from home.

Overcome with remorse, Jorge searched his soul and realized that his son
was more important to him than anything else. He wanted to start over.
Jorge went to a well-known store in the center of town and posted a large
sign that read, "Paco, come home. I love you. Meet me here tomorrow
morning."

The next morning Jorge went to the store, where he found no less than
seven young boys named Paco who had also less than seven young boys
named Paco who had also run away from home. They were all answering
the call for love, each hoping it was his dad inviting him home with open
arms.


By Alan Cohen
Reprinted from Chicken Soup for the Soul 3rd Serving by Jack
Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep1.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

RED MARBLES
Author Unknown

During the waning years of the depression in a small south
eastern Idaho community, I used to stop by Brother Miller's
roadside stand for farm-fresh produce as the season made
it available. Food and money were still extremely scarce and
bartering was used, extensively.

One particular day Brother Miller was bagging some early
potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and
feature, ragged but clean, hungrily appraising a basket of
freshly picked green peas. I paid for my potatoes but was
also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a push-
over for creamed peas and new potatoes.

Pondering the peas I couldn't help overhearing the conversation
between Brother Miller and the ragged boy next to me.

"Hello Barry, how are you today?"

"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas.....
.sure look good."

"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"

"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla'time."

"Good. Anything I can help you with "

"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."

"Would you like to take some home?"

"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."

"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"

"All I got's my prize aggie - best taw around here."

"Is that right? Let me see it."

"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."

"I can see that. Hmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and
I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"

"Not 'zackley . . . but, almost."

"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and
next trip this way let me look at that red taw."

"Sure will. Thanks, Mr. Miller."

Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help
me. With a smile she said: "There are two other boys like him
in our community; all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim
just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes or
whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and
they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he
sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble
or an orange one, perhaps."

I left the stand, smiling to myself, impressed with this man.
A short time later I moved to Utah but I never forgot the story
of this man, the boys and their bartering.

Several years went by each more rapid than the previous
one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends
in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that
Brother Miller had died. They were having his viewing that
evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to
accompany them.

Upon our arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the
relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of
comfort we could. Ahead of us in line were three young
men. One was in an Army uniform and the other two wore
short haircuts, dark suits and white shirts, obviously potential
or returned missionaries.

They approached Mrs. Miller, standing smiling and composed,
by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her,
kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on
to the casket. Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one
by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own
warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the
mortuary, awkwardly, wiping his eyes.

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and
mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles.
Eyes glistening she took my hand and led me to the casket.
"This is an amazing coincidence," she said. "Those three
young men, that just left, were the boys I told you about.
They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim
"traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change
his mind about color or size...they came to pay their debt.
We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world,"
she confided, "but, right now, Jim would consider himself
the richest man in Idaho."

With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her
deceased husband. Resting underneath were three,
magnificently shiny, red marbles.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On July 31, 2001 01:05 PM]

[SleepyHead]

The Greatest Gift (http://www.webspirations.net/tomychild)

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

HENRY

By Jennifer Oliver

"Death is not a period, but a comma in the story of life."
-- Amos J. Farver

He was visibly relaxed, using his heels to rock the porch
swing back and forth. Observing the antics of squirrels
in a cluster of pecan trees. Gauging the weather with
squinting eyes. Watching time stroll by.

My husband, Stephen, had been on the job a few days now,
watching his customer. It was the same thing everyday. The
man sat on a double swing suspended from the ceiling of the
back porch, and the only breaks away from his post were lunch
and calls of nature.

He was in his late eighties, Henry Foster was. A slight man
in coveralls with soft blue eyes and wispy hair. He lived roughly
an hour from us in a small community, and Stephen was tasked
through his company to paint the exterior of Henry's two-story
home. It was arduous work, scraping off old paint and priming
the surface prior to layering on it fresh coats of eggshell white.

At first, Stephen figured he had an anxious customer who wanted
an excuse, as odd as it was, to oversee his work without being
overt about it. He had had customers in the past that hovered
over his every brush stroke, but this one took the cake, candles
and all.

Stephen couldn't stand it anymore.

"Why do you stay out here all day?" he asked.

Henry's smile vanished. He rose from the swing, leaned
against the post, and cast his eyes skyward as if he would
find the answer etched there. Stephen was startled to see
tears forming in the old man's eyes.

Finally--

"I can't stand to stay inside the house for long."

Seeing the puzzled look on Stephen's face, he continued,
"My wife died over a year ago, and everything in the house
reminds me of her."

"Oh, gosh, I'm really sorry to hear that," Stephen said. He
resisted the temptation to hug this sweet man.

Henry motioned with his hand for Stephen to come closer.

"Do you have a minute?" he asked, opening the back door.
"I'll show you what I mean."

Stephen was taken aback.

"Uh...sure. Let me clean up a bit first."

Henry proceeded to give a tour of the house, pointing out one
prized possession after another, his voice quavering as he
relived each moment.

"My wife and I bought this lamp when we were on vacation at..."

The tour ended up on the back porch where they sat down on
the swing, sipping iced tea. Henry divulged his entire life to
Stephen. His wife's cancer. The children he had outlived.
The grandchildren who never wrote. When the shadows grew
long, it was time for Stephen to go.

That night, Stephen related his experience to me.

With tears in my eyes, I scanned the living room, staring at our
antique collection garnered from years of canvassing small,
dusty towns for that perfect bargain. Antique-ing was our
shared passion. I had never thought about it that much before,
attaching significance of an item to a time or place that Stephen
and I had visited. My eyes settled on an owl clock we bought the
day we were pronounced husband and wife.

"Do you remember where we got that clock?" I asked.

"Stop it. You're going to make me cry."

But he already was.

Stephen stretched out the job longer than normal, taking his
sweet time with the details. Henry didn't seem to mind. There
were days when Henry cut Stephen's work short so they could
sit on that back porch swing together. Just sipping lemonade
and watching time stroll by.

About a month following the completion of the job, I overheard
Stephen on the phone.

"I'll be there in about an hour or so."

"Who was that?" I asked when he hung up.

"That was Henry Foster."

"I thought you were finished with his job."

"Well, not exactly," he answered with a sly smile. "I pretended
to forget a few things at his house. I just wanted an excuse to
go back. See how he's
doing and all."

I gave him a crushing hug.

"You are just the sweetest thing."

"Oh, hush."

Stephen continued making excuses to visit Henry until he ran
out of excuses. He began visiting his friend just for the sake
of visiting.

Not long after his last visit to Henry, the early arrival of our first
baby steered our lives in a different direction, then another baby
ten months later eclipsed our social calendar. Living in a fixer-
upper consumed us as well. Everything outside our home became
secondary. Including a sweet old man named Henry Foster.

We don't know how it happened. As we immersed ourselves
into our home and family, the years rolled by. We had two more
babies, and our house demanded our full attention to accommodate
our burgeoning family. Our priorities shifted, and soon Henry was
relegated to the rank of a distant relative. Guilt bubbled up every
now and then when we took a moment to inventory our collection
and reminisce about the time we bought a particular piece.
Stephen would sigh and say, "I wonder how the old guy is doing."

One Sunday we filled up our gas tank and took to the back roads,
soaking up the scenery. We were on our usual prowl for that perfect
bargain. Stephen took a sudden turn.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"You'll see."

He navigated a myriad of streets unfamiliar to me, then slowed
down in front of one particular house, a two-story structure with
plastic toys littering the front yard and Christmas lights, one
month out of season, still stapled to the eaves. Several pecan
trees arched up from behind the home, the winter sun streaming
through their bare branches.

"Who lives here, Daddy?" one of our boys piped up.

Stephen swallowed hard.

"I knew a man who used to live here. His name was Henry Foster."

"Was he a nice man?"

"Yes, Cody, he was a nice man. A very nice man."

"Where is he?"

Stephen took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Well," he finally replied, his eyes misting. "I believe he went
on a long vacation with his wife."

Pulling from the curb, I noticed two squirrels chasing each
other up one of the pecan trees.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER

By Diseree Lyon, "I Will Love You Forever" (edited)

My fiancé, James, and I were engaged less than twenty-four
hours when we received the staggering news that he had
been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. His prognosis was
terminal, and he was given only two months to live.

For two people consumed with love for one another, this
was an indescribably devastating blow. But after several
tearful discussions, we decided we still wanted to marry.
Surrounded by loving family and friends, we were married
at James's home in a beautiful ceremony scheduled be-
tween radiation and chemotherapy. Our anticipated honey-
moon trip to Paris was replaced with a majestic show of
the Grand canyon at the IMAX Theater.

But we were happy together.

In the following months, which miraculously stretched into
three years, we learned very quickly to treasure every
moment and to create our own happy days and enchanted
evenings. Our romantic interludes were spent dancing in
the garage. One evening, when James was in the hospital,
we brought along a music tape and listened to Ella Fitzgerald
sing our favorite love songs while the chemotherapy dripped
into James's veins.

Eventually my husband's condition dramatically worsened
and physicians told us that his death was imminent. Our
wedding anniversary was only two days away. Within hours
of hearing this news, James tenderly took my hand and
asked if we should celebrate early -- in case he didn't survive
that long. I agreed, but I couldn't help thinking how wonderful
it would be if James could live to see our anniversary. And
what if celebrating earlier somehow released him to let go
of life sooner?

Laying aside my qualms, that very night James and I joyfully
celebrated three years of marriage. We repeated our marriage
vows, we prayed together, we shared Communion, and of
course, we cried.

James lived through that day and the next. As midnight finally
arrived on the eve of our wedding anniversary, he motioned
for me to help him sit up in bed. Then, in a sweet whisper still
audible in my memory, he said, "I wanted to show you my
devotion by living long enough to say 'I will love you forever.
Happy anniversary.'"

The next morning, James went with the Lord. But he left me...
more cherished memories of love... than in a lifetime of marriage.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

The Apple Tree

A long time ago, there was a huge apple tree. A little boy loved to come and play around it everyday. He climbed to the tree top, ate the apples, took a nap under the shadow... He loved the tree and the tree loved to play with him. Time went by...the little boy had grown up and he no longer played around the tree everyday.

One day, the boy came back to the tree and he looked sad. "Come and play with me," the tree asked the boy.
"I am no longer a kid, I don't play around trees anymore." The boy replied, "I want toys. I need money to buy them."
"Sorry, but I don't have money... but you can pick all my apples and sell them. So, you will have money."
The boy was so excited. He grabbed all the apples on the tree and left happily. The boy never came back after he picked the apples. The tree was sad.

One day, the boy returned and the tree was so excited. "Come and play with me" the tree said.
"I don't have time to play. I have to work for my family. We need a house for shelter. Can you help me?"
"Sorry, but I don't have a house. But you can chop off my branches to build your house."
So the boy cut all the branches of the tree and left happily. The tree was glad to see him happy but the boy never came back since then. The tree was again lonely and sad.

One hot summer day, the boy returned and the tree was delighted. "Come and play with me!" the tree said.
"I am sad and getting old. I want to go sailing to relax myself. Can you give me a boat?"
"Use my trunk to build your boat. You can sail far away and be happy."
So the boy cut the tree trunk to make a boat. He went sailing and never showed up for a long time.

Finally, the boy returned after he left for so many years. "Sorry, my boy. But I don't have anything for you anymore. No more apples for you..." the tree said.
"I don't have teeth to bite" the boy replied.
"No more truck for you to climb on"
"I am too old for that now" the boy said.
"I really can't give you anything... the only thing left is my dying roots," the tree said with tears.
"I don't need much now, just a place to rest. I am tired after all these years." The boy replied.
"Good! Old tree roots is the best place to lean on and rest.
Come, come sit down with me and rest."
The boy sat down and the tree was glad and smiled with tears.......

This is a story of everyone. The tree is our parents. When we were young, we loved to play with Mom and Dad... When we've grown up, we've left them... only came to them when we needed something or when we were in trouble. No matter what, parents will always be there and give everything they could to make you happy. You may think the boy is cruel to the tree but that's how all of us are treating our parents.



------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

Sisters By Choice

Long brown and curly hair,
all glasses and braces,
gee, how I miss you,
and all your smiling faces.

We belonged together,
everybody knew that we would,
because we were sisters by choice,
and not because of our blood.

We miss you so much,
our own special Jessica Ann,
some days don't know how to manage,
but we just do what we can.

The pain of missing you,
is supposed to subside,
supposed to start receding,
like a remorseful turning tide.

But you were part of us,
the pain just lingers on,
like a record stuck in a groove,
playing the same lines to a song.

But we know you'll understand,
when we let go of our grief,
maybe you'd be happy,
even show signs of relief.

Because you know we'll always love you,
and treasure the memories we hold,
and we'll tell our grandchildren,
a story that must be told.

A story of a love so strong,
that you was the sister that we chose,
and the day that you died,
an angel woke and rose.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

Footprints

A life, a story,
a brother, a friend.
I still can't reason why,
your journey had to end.

I try not to get angry.
Gee, how I've tried.
I've tried to see your anguish,
and the pain you felt inside.

But there is a certain stigma,
its something I wish I'd never heard,
I wish that it just wasn't possible,
I wish that there was no such word.

Because life can be a roller coaster,
most times its a bumpy ride,
but why did you have to get off,
and choose to suicide ?

Caitlin is such a beautiful girl,
she was the apple of your eye.
You loved her so very much,
but she also keeps asking "Why ?"

I know that your life,
was cut way too short,
I've tried adding up the logic,
and at times it comes to nought.

You were always searching for something,
but I'm not quite sure what,
you did everything with a passion,
you gave it your very best shot.

And life is not forever,
time only goes one way,
and everyone will leave this earth,
everybody has that day.

And all that is ever left,
are the memories to hand,
to treasure against the tides of time,
like footprints in the sand.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

"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 the holiday. But I hurried the best I could through all the people to the toy department. Once once again I mumbled to myself at the prices of all these toys. I 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 years young, 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 his aunt, he called her 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 moment, I asked the boy who the doll was for. He said, "It is 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 Momma to it take to my sister". 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 Momma 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 Momma not to go yet. I told him to tell her to wait until 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 had taken at the front of the store.

He said, "I want my Momma to take this with her so she doesn't ever forget me. I love my Momma 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 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." Then the boy said, "I just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll so Momma 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 Momma a white rose, but I didn't ask Him, but he gave me enough to buy the doll and a rose for my Momma. 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. I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper several days earlier about a drunk driver hitting a car, 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 for the mother of the little girl and just kept wondering if the boy was 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 mother 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 little sister and his mother was overwhelming. And in a split second a drunk driver had ripped the life of that little boy to pieces."

-Anonymous


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

Gary

Some things in life,
are rotten and just unfair,
some people get a good run,
others just don't get their share.

Life doesn't last forever,
sometimes its cut way too short,
try adding up the logic,
and at times it'll come to nought.

You would do anything for anyone,
you would have given them the shirt off your back,
you were kind, generous and caring,
they were qualities that you never lacked.

And some people live their life,
and they get their three scores and ten,
but some don't get to leave their mark,
and others die lonely old men.

But you will always be remembered,
I'm sorry that you were cut in your prime,
there can be no other explanation,
other than it was simply your time.

And everything for a reason,
even though it's not that clear,
but your spirit is with us,
you will always be near.

And so life must go on,
just like it has done before,
just know you'll always be with us,
yesterday, now and for evermore.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

A hard lesson to learn:

"On November 12th 1998 my phone rang early in the morning. I was laying on the couch in one of those half awake half asleep modes. I almost got up to get it, but I thought to myself that no one calls this early unless it’s bad news. Well, I unfortunately was right about that. My Mom left a message: "Joey, your father passed away today at his home. I’ll call you from work later on today". I laid there with no emotion. I wanted to feel something, anything. But, it was such an odd relationship between my biological father and I.

He had walked out on us when I was just young. He was a gambler, a drinker, and a wife beater. For all those bad things, he still had a way of making you forgive him anything with his quick wit, contagious laugh, and the ability he had of making you believe the most outlandish tale. He was the tough guy in his younger days. A very large man of over 6 feet. Most of the town I live in knew him. He was even voted Man of the year by our local boys and girls club. Unreal. You could call him a bully, but you’d also have to say that he had a kind heart, too. For every negative about the man, there was a positive. Something that I find very hard to put into words.

I was due to deliver a daughter on the 15th of November, and my birthday was on the 14th. What a time. If you knew him, you would think that he planned it that way. Just his final way of making sure he wasn’t forgotten. So I lay there on the couch, really awake at this point but trying to make myself believe that I was able to go back to sleep if I really wanted to. I thought of my Dad. Not my biological Dad, but the man that raised me. If that call would have been about him, I would be insane with grief. Yet, here I lay trying to figure an emotion out. Maybe because I hadn’t talked to my Dad in two years, maybe because I didn’t even call him Dad but rather by his first name. I don’t know.

I started thinking back to being a kid. Playing "tickle monster" on the couch. The one and only time I ever remember him hitting me, when I got beat up at school and came home crying about it. (My Dad was big on being able to beat anybody up anywhere, anytime and was, and probably still is, known for this). I was remembering the time that he was playing with me on the playground and I fell off the slide and fractured my skull and how afraid he was for me. The times we went to the shore and he let me beat him in pong and let me get on the carousal by myself like a big girl.

The funny stories he used to tell and the mouse people he drew for me. He kept a diary for a while about how much he loved me and the daily events that went on. I’d give anything to know where that was now. Then there was his voice. He could sing so smooth and nice. He used to sing me songs all the time when he lived with nanny after my parents got divorced. Usually he sang me Puff the Magic Dragon and I cried every time when Jakie Paper got killed even though I knew Dad would bring him back to life in the song.

Then the negative hit. The time he hit my mom and broke her nose, the time he walked out on us with no money or food in the house and didn’t care that I was crying and wanting him to stay. His drinking. The affairs he had right in front of me that I knew better then to tell my Mom about. When he didn’t show up to court to defend his parental rights and my "new" Dad adopted us. I really honestly thought he’d show up. The worst memory was when my Nanny died and I tried to call him to make sure he was all right and the phone was disconnected. That was the last time I saw him for over 5 years. For that whole time he was gone, I had someone else teaching me right from wrong and being my Dad.

When I turned 18, I found him again. Things were strange between us. I got such a different story from him than I did from my Mom. A lot of what he said I knew wasn’t true. But, that old charm came in and how could I resist? I think a lot of it was that I had grown up thinking that if I had been a good daughter, he wouldn’t have left me. Again, a bombshell hit, and Dad and I had an argument. We didn’t talk to one another for another few years. I had a Dad and a Mom and I was fine. I didn’t need him to be my Dad. So, I started to refer to him by first name. It got easier and easier to call him by his name as the months turned into years. I started to hate him. It was no longer my fault that he wasn’t there, now I blamed him for being a rotten father who didn’t care about anybody but himself.

A phone call. My Aunt called me right about Thanksgiving two years ago. Dad was in the hospital and they didn’t think he was going to make it. His large intestine had exploded and it was very unlikely that he was going to make it through the night, will I get over to the hospital to see him right away. Well, now what should I do? My husband told me to go. That I needed to make sure that I didn’t have any regrets if he were going to die. I called my Dad (the one who adopted me) and he told me I should go to. Off I went.

My legs felt like lead in that elevator going up to his floor. I had trouble finding enough air. Then to his room. How many machines and tubes can possibly be fit into one man. He looked so helpless. For the first time in my life that I ever remember, he looked helpless. I stayed there with him then for a long time. I talked to the doctors, talked to my family, and mostly talked to my Dad about not letting go and getting better. True to his nature, he beat all the odds and came home. He was still dying. He had cancer throughout his body and refused the treatment he needed to prolong his life. He started drinking again, and slowly but surely the phone calls between us got fewer and further apart until we fought again and stopped talking.

Now, two years later, I find myself in a funeral home looking at a man I hardly know at all. Between his wife, his sister, and myself, we managed to be able to tell the funeral director enough about what we thought to be true of him to get a nice obituary in the paper. He always had a way of making you believe he did things or had been to places that just didn’t happen. I walked into that funeral room. There was my Dad, laying on a table that was so out of place for him in that it just didn’t seem to fit. He had on a bright red sweater. His favourite sweater I was told. It almost makes you laugh in a sad way; My Dad, on a funeral table wearing a bright red sweater, it’s just so like what he would have done himself if he could have chose how it was going to be.

He looked like he was sleeping. I didn’t want to go up to him, but with some assistance I did. Here I am with this big old belly going up to see my Dad after two years of nothing between us. From somewhere inside of me I cried out in an anguish that surprised myself. I could only say, "I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry". I was told it was okay, and he knew I was sorry. Sorry for what? Sorry that I didn’t show him respect as a human and love him just because he gave me life. Sorry that I was never going to be able to tell him that he hurt me but that I forgave him anyhow. So sorry that I was never going to be able to say goodbye. It was so hard. I couldn’t stop shaking. I found the emotion that I was looking for so much. It was painful, even agonizing to me.

I swear, I kept thinking he was going to breath. My brother sat beside me thinking the same thing. We just kept watching that bright red sweater waiting for it to rise or fall slowly. It wouldn’t be at all beyond my Dad to jump up and say "gotcha" if he could have. He never lost a battle in his life. He either beat his way, cheated his way, lied his way, or charmed his way out of anything. It was to hard for my mind to comprehend that he didn’t manage to beat death.

It’s funny how your so much a part of the people that enter into your life. From this man I thought I hated, I learned probably the most important lesson anyone has ever taught me. Don’t waste a day, not even a minute, of life. Every bad thing that my Dad did seems so minute when compared to how I feel about not getting to talk to him one last time. I may have thought that I shut that door to my heart, but this made me realize that the places you keep people in your heart do not come with a lock and key. At some point in time those emotions come out, and it’s those emotions that help define who you are.

I can just hear my Dad now asking what's wrong with me. Why am I crying over him? He’d say something like "Don’t worry kiddo, you’ll be here soon enough". I still don’t understand how you can hate someone so much, and love them so much at the same time. Dad, if you're up there; And I know you talked yourself through the pearly gates somehow, I just wanted you to know that I think you were the best person that you knew how to be. That you were the best Dad that you knew how to be. I know this because I’m old enough now to realize that you were what was taught to you. And Dad, when I get there, I can still beat you in Pong."

- Joey L. Eddins



------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

I MISS

I miss your special light,
your shoulder to cry on,
your smile,
your jokes,
and you making fun of me,
I miss you a lot.

I miss your hugs,
your kisses,
your warmth,
your kind heart,
your love,
your selflessness,
I miss you a lot.

I miss a great man,
a great father,
a best friend,
I miss you a lot.

I miss our talks,
our drives,
our walks,
our Christmas together,
our phone conversations,
our time,
I miss you a lot.

(But your special light shines on,
in me and in all the people
that ever loved you.

And they are a lot).


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

Just Say No

I once knew a girl,
you was a friend of mine,
we grew up together,
we were doing just fine.

And then we answered questions,
just one of the choices that you make,
do you give in to drugs ?
and which ones do you take ?

Supply was never a problem,
my oldest brother done the deal,
it's hard to imagine, I know,
somehow just doesn't seem real.

But clocks only go one way,
there is no turning them back,
and once you start taking drugs,
it's a despair ridden track.

Now I've lost you my friend,
I'm so sorry you didn't pull through,
and all I've left is the guilt,
to keep reminding me of you.

I've also lost my brother,
he used the shit that he dealt,
can't imagine his dying thoughts,
can't imagine how he felt.

And now I'm clean and going straight,
looking forward through my tears,
battle weary and forever scarred,
far too old for my years.

So if you are out there,
and are thinking about the choice,
just scream a very loud NO,
I beg you, use your voice.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

Angel

A wet dark road,
a truck and a tree,
add one too many drinks,
and we were no longer a "we".

We miss you so very much,
on every single day,
the pain doesn't dim,
and just won't go away.

Because some things in life,
are rotten and just unfair,
that's why you were taken from us,
that's why, at the time, you were there.

We miss you our friend,
our sister, our soul mate,
you took one too many bends,
in the turns and twists of fate.

You were so much a part of us,
you were the sister that we chose,
and we know the day that you died,
an angel awoke and rose.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

[SleepyHead]

I WON'T EVER

I saw him in the church building for the first time on Wednesday.
He was in his mid-70's, with thinning silver gray hair and a neat
brown suit.

Many times in the past I had invited him to come. Several other
Christian friends had talked about the Lord and had tried to share the
good news with him. He was a well-respected, honest man with many
characteristics a Christian should have, but he had never put on
Christ, nor entered the doors of the church.

"Have you ever been to a church service in your life?" I had ask him a
few years ago. We had just finished a pleasant day visiting and
talking.

He hesitated. Then with a bitter smile he told me of his childhood
experience some fifty years ago.

He was one of many children a large impoverished family. His parents
had struggled to provide food, with little left for housing and
clothing. When he was about ten, some neighbors invited him to worship
with them.

The Sunday School class had been exciting! He had never heard such
songs and stories before! He had never heard anyone read the Bible!
After class was over, the teacher took him aside and said ,"Son, please
don't come again dressed as you are now. We want to look our best when
we come into God's house."

He stood in his ragged, un-patched overalls. Then looking at his dirty
bare feet, he answered softly, "No, ma'am, I won't ever." "And I never
did," he said, abruptly ending our conversation.

There must have been other factors to have hardened him so, but this
experience formed a significant part of the bitterness in his heart.
I'm sure the Sunday School teacher meant well. But did she really
understand the love of Christ? Had she studied and accepted the teachings
found in the second chapter of James? What if she had put her arm
around the dirty, ragged little boy and said "Son. I am glad you are
here, and I hope you will come every chance you get to hear more about
Jesus." I reflected on the awesome responsibility a teacher or pastor or
a parent has to welcome little ones in His name. How far reaching her
influence was!

I prayed that I might be ever open to tenderness of a child's heart,
and that I might never fail to see beyond the appearance and behavior
of a child to the eternal possibilities within.

Yes I saw him in the church house the first time on Wednesday. As I
looked at that immaculately dressed old gentleman lying in his casket,
I thought of the little boy of long age. I could almost hear him say,
"No, Ma'am, I won't ever."

And I wept.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

"About a month ago Tim and I decided to take a walk through Toronto's oldest cemetery, the St. James Cemetery. A cemetery can make for a great walk on a sunny, summer's day--lots of trees and interesting markers of so many lives lived. One of the markers caught my eye. It listed the births and deaths of a number of members of a family around the turn of the century. At the very bottom of the list was an inscription for a three year old girl. It said that her final words were: 'Sing me to sleep'."

--David

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/king2.gif

[SleepyHead]

JUST A SIMPLE SOLDIER

Author Unknown

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast -
And he sat around the Legion telling stories of the past.
Of a war that he had fought in, and the deeds that he had done
In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, everyone.

And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors, his tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer, for old Bob has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer, for a soldier died today.

No, he won't be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary, very quiet sort of life,
He held a job and raised a family, quietly going on his way;
And the world won't note his passing; 'tho a soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great,
Papers tell of their life stories from the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed, and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land
Some jerk who breaks his promise and cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life?

The politician's stipend and the style in which he lives
Are sometimes disproportionate to the services he gives,
While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal, and perhaps a pension small.

It's so easy to forget them, for it was so long ago
That our Bob's and Jim's and Johnny's went to battle, but we know
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom that our country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger with your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out with his ever waffling stand?
Or would you want a soldier who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin, and country, and would fight until the end?

He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin
But his presence should remind us, we may need his like again.
For when countries are in conflict, then we find the soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honor while he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage at the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline in the paper that might say:
OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING, FOR A SOLDIER DIED TODAY.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE MOST PRECIOUS GIFT

By Linda Rivers

I'll never forget that warm summer day in July 1965, when my
mother unexpectedly died of a still unexplained illness at the
young age of thirty-six. Later that afternoon, a police officer
stopped by to ask my father's permission for the hospital to
use my mother's aortic valve and the corneas from her eyes.
I was absolutely stunned. The doctors want to dissect Mom
and give her away to other people, I thought as I ran into the
house in tears.

At fourteen, I could not understand why anyone would take
apart a person I loved. To top it off, my father told them, "Yes."

"How can you let them do that to her?" I screamed at him.
"My mom came into this world in one piece and that is how
she should go out."

"Linda," he said quietly, putting his arm around me, "the
greatest gift you can give is a part of yourself. Your mother
and I decided long ago that if we can make a difference in
just one person's life after we die, then our death will have
meaning." He went on to explain they had both decided to
be organ donors.

The lesson my father taught me that day became one of the
most important in my life.

Years passed. I married and had a family of my own. In 1980,
my father became seriously ill with emphysema and moved in
with us. For the next six years, we spent many hours talking
about life and death.

He cheerfully told me that when he died, he wanted me to
donate whatever was in good condition, especially his eyes.
"Sight is one of the greatest gifts a person can give," he said,
noting how wonderful it would be if a child could be helped to
see, and draw horses the way my daughter Wendy did.

She had been drawing horses all her life, winning award after
award. "Just imagine how proud another parent would feel if
her daughter could draw like Wendy," Dad said. "Think how
proud you would feel knowing that my eyes were making it
possible."

I told Wendy what her grandpa had said, and, with tears in her
eyes, she went into her grandpa's room and gave him a big hug.

She was only fourteen years old - the same age at which I was
introduced to the donor program. What a difference!

My father died April 11, 1986, and we donated his eyes as he
had wanted. Three days later Wendy said, "Mom, I'm so proud
of you for what you did for Grandpa."

"That makes you proud?" I asked.

"You bet! Have you ever thought what it would be like not to
see? When I die, I want my eyes donated just like Grandpa."

At that moment, I realized that my father gave much more than
his eyes. What he left behind sparkled in my daughter's eyes --
pride.

What I couldn't know that day, as I held Wendy in my arms, was
that only two weeks later I would be once again signing papers
for the donor program.

My lovely, talented Wendy was killed when a truck hit her and the
horse she was riding along the roadside. As I signed the papers,
her words echoed over and over: "You bet! Have you ever thought
what it would be like not to see?"

Three weeks after Wendy's death, I received a letter from the
eye bank.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Rivers,
We want you to know that the corneal transplantation
was successful and now two people who were blind
have regained their sight. They represent a living
memorial to your daughter - a person who cared
enough about life to share its beauties.

If somewhere a recipient discovers a new love for horses
and sits down to sketch one out, I think I'll know who the
donor was. A blond-haired, blue-eyed girl will still be drawing.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE SMELL OF GRASS

By Adelaide Isaac

Oh, how cool and tranquil it was, lying in the freshly cut jade
grass. The aroma of wet grass was enough to take Amber
back to when she was four. Spread out in that grass, she
gazed into the soft, blue heavens. She and her father would
make clouds into animals, and her father would always say
they looked like elephants. The cicadas would buzz, a sound
of summer. Even though the heat was sweltering, the cool
backyard grass was just the trick to refresh Amber and
her father.

Every time she thinks of her early childhood summers, she
remembers grass, melon, Popsicles, plastic pools, sprinklers,
blue skies, clear water and green, green grass. Amber snapped
out of her memory and unlocked the front door. Lately, she had
been thinking a lot about her backyard and those summers she
spent with her dad.

Amber's father had died August 24, 1990, when she was five
years old. He'd been diagnosed with cancer that summer but
kept it a secret from Amber, not wanting to ruin their last few
weeks together. She'd missed him a lot lately; last Tuesday
he would have been forty-five years old. Even though she was
so young when he died, she remembered everything about him.
His big smile, tan complexion, his comforting laugh. She loved
every second of the day she spent with him; she was definitely
her father's daughter.

Amber plopped her stuff down on her mother's desk and started
her history work. After twenty minutes had passed, she stretched
and looked around. She needed a pencil sharpener. She fumbled
through every drawer of the old oak desk. She came across a
ragged blue book in a pile of others. Her hand trembled as she
felt the leather cover.

She took a deep breath. She opened it up and began to read
the black scribbly writing:

July 26, 1990
I still haven't broken the news to my little angel.
Every time I look into her sweet eyes, I can't find the
words to put it lightly. I know I will miss her the most.
If only I could stay to see her grow; we are so much alike.
I pray to the Lord every day to keep her strong and
beautiful, and I know I will watch over her, when I no
longer exist in this world. I will desperately miss all of
our fun times playing in the grass in our yard. I will be
waiting for the day she comes to play with me up in heaven.

Amber put the book down. She did not need to read any more.
She was already sobbing quietly - partly out of sadness, partly
out of happiness, but mostly because four small blades of dried
grass fell out of the book and into her hands.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

A FATHER'S EYES

By Amanda Krug

The noonday sun stared overhead as heavy, humid air draped
cloudless skies with temperatures reaching nearly one hundred
degrees. Beads of sweat dripped relentlessly from my husband's
narrowed brow, trickling along a path of tired lines etched in his
forehead, then finally mingling with the tears that continuously
welled in his deep brown eyes. My heart ached for him, as I
knew his did for me.

I watched intently from a distance, keeping my eyes focused on his.
My mind wandered back to easier days like our very first meeting
and how I gazed into those tender, dark eyes as they spoke directly
to my soul when Michael unflinchingly declared he would marry me
someday. He later sealed that first promise when we knelt across
a holy altar and pledged our lives one to the other for eternity,
Michael's loving eyes mirroring my reflection as though I were truly
the greatest treasure he'd ever beheld. I reminisced about how his
beautiful eyes danced with pure joy in the delivery rooms at the
hospital when each of our children was born. And how Michael
carefully followed every detail of their arrivals with great interest,
charming the doctor and nurses with his natural curiosity and
obvious devotion. Oh, how he loves his children! His eyes truly
sparkle with delight each time the kids dash out the door to greet
him when he arrives home from work, pummeling him with hugs
and kisses before he is barely able to get out of the car. Somehow
he manages to walk with children hanging from his arms and waist,
his eyes searching for me to appear and complete the daily family
reunion in a big group hug.

As my eyes followed his, I remembered the difficult times when his
eyes would become fraught with worry as illness or hardship struck,
and the few times I have even witnessed a hint of justifiable anger
behind his normally controlled gaze. Or the playful gleam he gets
when he thinks he's outsmarted me.

I thought I knew each look, each glance, behind every emotion and
thought, but his eyes now revealed an intense pain and sadness I
had never seen in them before. The sorrow of a father's broken heart.

Michael's steps seemed measured and heavy as he approached
the limousine that had ushered our newborn babies from the funeral
home to the century old, family-filled cemetery. With the sheltering
touch known only by fathers, he lifted the tiny, white casket they
shared from the seat of the car and gingerly carried it to the newly
opened and painfully undersized gravesite. Michael carefully set
aside the cascade of daisies and multi-colored roses that lay atop
the casket and lovingly lowered the bodies of our precious twin sons
into the ground as though he had simply found Max and Ben fast
asleep on our family room floor with the TV buzzing nearby -- gently
lifting them into bed, tucking them in for a good night's rest.

I felt my knees buckle and reached for his hand. Michael's hand
instinctively gripped mine as he drew me into his strong arms
and held me close while I laid my head on his shoulder. We wept.

He kissed my tear-stained cheeks, lifted my chin with his hand and
looked directly into my eyes. From a distance, I had only focused
on the pain in his eyes, but up close, I once again recognized within
his gaze a familiar, protective reassurance.

"I have to finish this now. They're too little, Hon, I have to make
sure they are safe." Michael whispered as he pulled away from me.

He picked up the heavy shovel that he had taken care to request
from the cemetery caretaker, and in the sweltering heat, lovingly
covered the tiny grave,one shovel-full of dirt at a time.

Our babies had been born without the breath of life - still and silent.
They had never felt the warmth of their daddy's tender touch or heard
the soothing tones of his deep voice. They never had an opportunity
to crawl upon poppa's lap and giggle endlessly at vintage cartoons
or sneak off with him to the nearby pond to sit quietly and watch the
turtles when they got too wiggly during church services. Perhaps they
would miss a lifetime of cherished father-son moments and even the
guarded instruction that only a father can give to his children. But, I
am convinced our sons watched with great pride as their daddy
courageously laid their mortal bodies to rest and, from heaven that
day, looked deep into their father's eyes and understood the harmony
of a father's perfect love.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

I BE YOUR LEGS

Author Unknown

Bob Butler lost his legs in a 1965 land mine explosion
in Vietnam. He returned home a war hero. Twenty years
later, he proved once again that heroism comes from
the heart.

Butler was working in his garage in a small town in Arizona
on a hot summer day when he heard a woman's screams
coming from a nearby house.

He began rolling his wheelchair toward the house but the
dense shrubbery wouldn't allow him access to the back door.
So he got out of his chair and started to crawl through the dirt
and bushes.

"I had to get there," he says. "It didn't matter how much it hurt."

When Butler arrived at the pool there was a three-year-old
girl named Stephanie Hanes lying at the bottom. She had
been born without arms and had fallen in the water and
couldn't swim. Her mother stood over her baby screaming
frantically.

Butler dove to the bottom of the pool and brought little Stephanie
up to the deck. Her face was blue, and she had no pulse and
was not breathing. Butler immediately went to work performing
CPR to revive her while Stephanie's mother telephoned the fire
department. She was told the paramedics were already out on
a call.

Helplessly, she sobbed and hugged Butler's shoulders.

As Butler continued with his CPR, he calmly reassured her.
"Don't worry," he said. "I was her arms to get out of the pool.
It'll be okay. I am now her lungs. Together we can make it."

Seconds later the little girl coughed, regained consciousness,
and began to cry. As they hugged and rejoiced together the
mother asked Butler how he knew it would be okay.

"The truth is, I didn't know," he told her. "But when my legs
were blown off in the war, I was all alone in a field. No one
was there to help me except a little Vietnamese girl. As she
struggled to drag me into her village, she whispered in broken
English, 'It's okay. You live. I be your legs. Together we make it.'
Her kind word brought hope in my soul and I wanted to do the
same for Stephanie."

There are simply those times when we cannot stand alone.
There are those times when we need someone to be our
legs, arms, and our friend.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

MOMENT OF REGRET

By Daniel James

I was covering the hospital registration desk at lunch. A tall,
striking, angular woman came hesitantly to my window I had
the distinct impression she would have gone to another window,
had that option been available. Sometimes, for certain conditions
or tests, some women subtly display discomfort in having a man
take information from them.

As she sat down, our eyes met. She had sad, frightened eyes.
She looked quickly down. The physician's order she handed to
me was for a lab test, and the diagnosis was HIV - AIDS.

As we went through the registration for the test, her circumstances
became clearer to me. Her information was not on our computer,
usually the sign of a healthy person or a newcomer to the area.

"Address?"

"124 B Street, Apartment #4," she said.

"Telephone?"

"Ahhh... let me think... I just had it installed and never had to
call it," she said as she smiled slightly.

New to the area, living in a simple, functional, but not upscale
apartment, I thought.

"Who can we list at an emergency contact?"

"Well, I have a friend who lives in... " and she named a state a
thousand miles away.

No local support. Newly diagnosed with HIV.

As I had her sign the hospital forms, she said quietly, "you'll tell
them to be careful when they do the test? To wear gloves.......
I don't want anyone else..." Her voice trailed off as she looked
down.

"There won't be a problem," I said. "They glove up routinely with everyone."

She looked up, her cheeks slightly flushed. Her eyes rimmed with
tears, and her chin quivered just a bit. But she did not cry.
Bravely she composed herself.

I smiled, and if her hand would have been on the desk, I know I
would have had the urge to reach across and pat it reassuringly.
I would not, of course, but I would have had the urge. But her hands
were folded on her lap. I wanted to tell her it would be OK, but those
would have been hollow words. And a lie. I, of course, would not tell
her of my other thoughts-- the memories of a horrible death recently
suffered by a close friend with HIV. Even with today's wonder drugs,
she faced much uncertainty.

So I simply said, "Let me walk you back." Normally I only do this
for people who truly need physical assistance. But somehow I felt
a connection with this woman.

I walked around the counter, and scooted out the chair for her as
she stood up. I motioned her towards the lab with a sweep of my
hand. We made sparse small talk as we walked down the hallway.
As I opened the door for her to enter the waiting area of the lab, she
paused momentarily, and our eyes met once again. We looked at
each other for what was a moment too long to be comfortable. Every
instinct told me to reach out, gently wrap my arms around her, and
draw her head close to my chest, and show her that someone cared.
The length of the look into each other's eyes left us both awkward,
even though it was only a second or two. I looked away for an instant
and then back to those winsome eyes.

"Take care," I said.

"I will, thanks."

And she was gone from my life.

There are some of us who will look back on our lives as we lay near
death, and regret some of the things we did in this life. And there are
some of us who will look back on our lives and regret the things we did
not do. I view not giving that hug -- not making a basic, caring, human
gesture as one of my greatest failures in this life.

You can be certain as I lay in that twilight at the margin of life and
death, be that in 10 days or 10,000 days, I will be regretting the
hug I did not give.

May God bless her and forgive me.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[McCharlenstar]

These are all very good reading.
Thanks for the posts!!

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/dance.gif

[ImaginePeace78]

I have a tearjerker story for you all. I got it from the 'Chicken Soup for the Veteran's Soul.' (I'll be paraphrasing the story in my own words from what I remember reading...my book is buried on the shelf and I can't get to it at the moment). Anyway, on to the story...

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP

Another young boy was brought into the Evac Hospital. He was around eighteen or nineteen, the age most of these young men were--fighting in Vietnam. The nurse took care of so many of these men, some made it, other's didn't. One thing this nurse did not do--was cry. You had to be strong. This nurse would tell the truth.
"Am I going to die?" asked the wounded soldier.
"Do you feel like you're going to die?" asked the nurse.
"Yeah."
"Do you pray?"
"I know 'Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep."
Before he recited the prayer, he asked her one more question.
"Can you hold my hand?"
"I'll do something better," she said.
She got up onto the gurney with him and held the boy, kissing him on the cheek and holding him close. She could tell he was in a lot of pain. Then, the two of them recited 'The Lord's Prayer.'
"Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep..."
After the prayer, the young soldier said, "I love you, Mama" and closed his eyes forever.
The nurse got off the gurney and looked around the room. Everyone in the room was crying and so was she.
Later that night, she wrote a letter to the boy's parents saying that he was thinking of his mother before he died.
All You Need Is Love,
Kristi




------------------
You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one..." ~John Lennon

Kristi's Writing Desk (http://www.geocities.com/lennon4080forever/index.html)

[ImaginePeace78]

I got this story from the 'Chicken Soup for the Veteran's Soul.' It's not the entire story, but a part of it stood out. I am paraphrasing it here, because I am unable to get to my book at the moment. Here it is:

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP

Another boy came into the Evac Hospital. He was around eighteen or nineteen years old...like most of them were--fighting in Vietnam. The nurse had seen so many of these young men, some made it, other's didn't. But this nurse did not cry--you had to be strong. This nurse also told the truth.
"Am I going to die?" asked the young soldier.
"Do you feel like you're going to die?" asked the nurse.
"Yeah."
"Do you pray?"
"I know 'Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep."
Before he could recite the prayer, he asked another question.
"Can you hold my hand?"
"I can do something better." To her, holding his hand wasn't enough. She could tell he was in a lot of pain. The nurse climbed onto the bed with the boy, held him close and kissed his cheek. The two of them then recited "The Lord's Prayer."
"Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep..."
Afterward, the boy said, "I love you, Mama" and closed his eyes forever.
The nurse got off of the bed and looked around the room. Everyone was crying (the other nurses and wounded patients). The nurse too, was crying.
Later that night, she wrote a letter to the boy's parents, saying that he was thinking of his mother before he died. http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cry1.gif http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cry2.gif
All You Need Is Love,
Kristi http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/cry4.gif

------------------
You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one..." ~John Lennon

Kristi's Writing Desk (http://www.geocities.com/lennon4080forever/index.html)

[ImaginePeace78]

Sorry for the double post...I actually rewrote the story because it erased and I got that 'internal server error.' I thought the story didn't go through...but I guess it did. Sorry!
-Kristi

------------------
You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one..." ~John Lennon

Kristi's Writing Desk (http://www.geocities.com/lennon4080forever/index.html)

[SleepyHead]

Blue Ribbon

A teacher in New York decided to honor each of her seniors in high
school by telling them the difference they each made. She called each
student to the front of the class, one at a time. First she told each of
them how they had made a difference to her and the class. Then she
presented each of them with a blue ribbon imprinted with gold letters,
which read, "Who I. Am Makes a Difference."

Afterwards the teacher decided to do a class project to see what kind of
impact recognition would have on a community. She gave each of the
students three more ribbons and instructed them to go out and spread
this acknowledgment ceremony. Then they were to follow up on the
results, see who honored whom and report back to the class in about a
week.

One of the boys in the class went to a junior executive in a nearby
company and honored him for helping him with his career planning. He
gave him a blue ribbon and put it on his shirt. Then he gave him two
extra ribbons and said, "We're doing a class project on recognition, and
we'd like you to go out find somebody to honor, give them a blue
ribbon, then give them the extra blue ribbon so they can acknowledge a
third person to keep this acknowledgment ceremony going. Then please
report back to me and tell me what happened."

Later that day the junior executive went in to see his boss, who had
been noted, by the way, as being kind of a grouchy fellow. He sat his
boss down and he told him that he deeply admired him for being a
creative genius. The boss seemed very surprised. The junior executive
asked him if he would accept the gift of the blue ribbon and would he
give him permission to put it on him. His surprised boss said, "Well,
sure." The junior executive took the blue ribbon and placed it right on
his boss's jacket above his heart. As he gave him the last extra ribbon,
he said, "Would you do me a favor? Would you take this extra ribbon and
pass it on by honoring somebody else. The young boy who first gave me
the ribbons is doing a project in school and we want to keep this
recognition ceremony going and find out how it affects people."

That night the boss came home to his 14-year-old son and sat him down.
He said, "The most incredible thing happened to me today. I was in my
office and one of the junior executives came in and told me he admired
me and gave me a blue ribbon for being a creative genius. Imagine. He
thinks I'm a creative genius. Then he put this blue ribbon that says
"Who I Am Makes a Difference." on my jacket above my heart. He gave me
an extra ribbon and asked me to find somebody else to honor. As I was
driving home tonight, I started thinking about whom I would honor with
this ribbon and I thought about you. I want to honor you. My days are
really hectic and when I come home I don't pay a lot of attention to
you. Sometimes I scream at you for not getting good enough grades in
school and for your bedroom being a mess, but somehow tonight, I just
wanted to sit here and, well, just let you know that you do make a
difference to me. Besides your mother, you are the most important person
in my life. You're a great kid and I love you!"

The startled boy started to sob and sob, and he couldn't stop crying.
His whole body shook. He looked up at his father and said through his
tears, "Dad, earlier tonight I sat in my room and wrote a letter to you
and Mom explaining why I had killed myself and asking you to forgive me.
I was going to commit suicide tonight after you were asleep. His father
walked upstairs and found a heartfelt letter full of anguish and pain.
The envelope was addressed, "Mom and Dad".

The boss went back to work a changed man. He was no longer a grouch but
made sure to let all his employees know that they made a difference. The
junior executive helped several other young people with career planning
and never forgot to let them know that they made a difference in his
life...one being the boss's son. And the young boy and his classmates
learned a valuable lesson. Who you are DOES make difference.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

The Boys of Iwo Jima

By Michael T. Powers


Each year my video production company is
hired to go to Washington, D.C. with the eighth
grade class from Clinton, Wisconsin where I
grew up, to videotape their trip. I greatly enjoy
visiting our nation's capitol, and each year I take
some special memories back with me. This fall's
trip was especially memorable.

On the last night of our trip, we stopped at the
Iwo Jima memorial. This memorial is the largest
bronze statue in the world and depicts one of the
most famous photographs in history-that of the
six brave men raising the American flag at the
top of Mount Surabachi on the Island of Iwo Jima,
Japan during WW II. Over one hundred students
and chaperones piled off the buses and headed
towards the memorial. I noticed a solitary figure
at the base of the statue, and as I got closer he
asked, "Where are you guys from?"

I told him that we were from Wisconsin.

"Hey, I'm a Cheesehead, too! Come gather
around Cheeseheads, and I will tell you a story."

James Bradley just happened to be in Washington,
D.C. to speak at the memorial the following day. He
was there that night to say good-night to his dad,
who has since passed away. He was just about to
leave when he saw the buses pull up. I videotaped
him as he spoke to us, and received his permission
to share what he said from my videotape. It is one
thing to tour the incredible monuments filled with
history in Washington, D.C. but it is quite another
to get the kind of insight we received that night.

When all had gathered around he reverently began
to speak. Here are his words from that night:

"My name is James Bradley and I'm from Antigo,
Wisconsin. My dad is on that statue, and I just
wrote a book called Flags of Our Fathers which
is #5 on the New York Times Best Seller list right
now. It is the story of the six boys you see behind
me. Six boys raised the flag. The first guy putting
the pole in the ground is Harlon Block. Harlon was
an all-state football player. He enlisted in the Marine
Corps with all the senior members of his football team.
They were off to play another type of game, a game
called "War." But it didn't turn out to be a game.
Harlon, at the age of twenty-one, died with his
intestines in his hands. I don't say that to gross
you out; I say that because there are generals
who stand in front of this statue and talk about
the glory of war. You guys need to know that
most of the boys in Iwo Jima were seventeen,
eighteen, and nineteen years old.

(He pointed to the statue)

You see this next guy? That's Rene Gagnon
from New Hampshire. If you took Rene's helmet
off at the moment this photo was taken, and
looked in the webbing of that helmet, you would
find a photograph. A photograph of his girlfriend.
Rene put that in there for protection, because he
was scared. He was eighteen years old. Boys
won the battle of Iwo Jima. Boys. Not old men.

The next guy here, the third guy in this tableau,
was Sergeant Mike Strank. Mike is my hero. He
was the hero of all these guys. They called him
the "old man" because he was so old. He was
already twenty-four. When Mike would motivate
his boys in training camp, he didn't say, "Let's
go kill the enemy" or "Let's die for our country."
He knew he was talking to little boys. Instead he
would say, "You do what I say, and I'll get you
home to your mothers."

The last guy on this side of the statue is Ira Hayes,
a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira Hayes walked off
Iwo Jima. He went into the White House with my
dad. President Truman told him, "You're a hero."
He told reporters, "How can I feel like a hero when
250 of my buddies hit the island with me and only
twenty-seven of us walked off alive?" So you take
your class at school. 250 of you spending a year
together having fun, doing everything together.
Then all 250 of you hit the beach, but only
twenty-seven of your classmates walk off alive.
That was Ira Hayes. He had images of horror in his
mind. Ira Hayes died dead drunk, face down at the
age of thirty-two, ten years after this picture was taken.

The next guy, going around the statue, is Franklin
Sousley from Hilltop, Kentucky, a fun-lovin' hillbilly
boy. His best friend, who is now 70, told me, "Yeah,
you know, we took two cows up on the porch of
the Hilltop General Store. Then we strung wire across
the stairs so the cows couldn't get down. Then we
fed them Epson salts. Those cows crapped all night."
Yes, he was a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. Franklin died
on Iwo Jima at the age of nineteen. When the
telegram came to tell his mother that he was
dead, it went to the Hilltop General Store. A
barefoot boy ran that telegram up to his mother's
farm. The neighbors could hear her scream all
night and into the morning. The neighbors lived
a quarter of a mile away.

The next guy, as we continue to go around the
statue, is my dad, John Bradley from Antigo,
Wisconsin, where I was raised. My dad lived
until 1994, but he would never give interviews.
When Walter Kronkite's producers, or the New
York Times would call, we were trained as little
kids to say, "No, I'm sorry sir, my dad's not here.
He is in Canada fishing. No, there is no phone
there, sir. No, we don't know when he is coming back."
My dad never fished or even went to Canada.
Usually he was sitting right there at the table
eating his Campbell's soup, but we had to tell
the press that he was out fishing. He didn't
want to talk to the press. You see, my dad
didn't see himself as a hero. Everyone thinks
these guys are heroes, 'cause they are in a
photo and a monument. My dad knew better.
He was a medic. John Bradley from Wisconsin
was a caregiver. In Iwo Jima he probably held
over 200 boys as they died, and when boys died
in Iwo Jima, they writhed and screamed in pain.
When I was a little boy, my third grade teacher
told me that my dad was a hero. When I went
home and told my dad that, he looked at me and
said, "I want you always to remember that the
heroes of Iwo Jima are the guys who did not
come back. DID NOT come back."

So that's the story about six nice young boys. Three
died on Iwo Jima, and three came back as national
heroes. Overall, 7000 boys died on Iwo Jima in the
worst battle in the history of the Marine Corps. My
voice is giving out, so I will end here. Thank you for
your time."

Suddenly the monument wasn't just a big old piece
of metal with a flag sticking out of the top. It
came to life before our eyes with the heartfelt
words of a son who did indeed have a father
who was a hero. Maybe not a hero in his own
eyes, but a hero nonetheless.

End Note: A few days before placing the flag, John
Bradley had braved enemy mortar and machine-gun
fire to administer first aid to a wounded Marine and
then drag him to safety. For this act of heroism he
would receive the Navy Cross, an award second
only to the Medal of Honor. Bradley never mentioned
his feat to his family. Only after his death did
Bradley's son, James, begin to piece together
the facts of his father's heroism.

Michael T. Powers
HeartTouchers@aol.com

*****
Michael is happily married to his high school
sweetheart Kristi, and has two young boys.
The story above is from his new book:
Straight From the Heart "A Celebration
of Life" which is now available! To preview it
or to join Heart Touchers, a daily inspirational
e-mail list, visit: http://www.HeartTouchers.com

Do you have comments for James Bradley, the
author of the book Flags of our Fathers ?
He can be reached at: jbradley@IwoJima.com

________________________________________

Editors: Permission is granted to use this article
as long as the info paragraphs at the end stay
attached to the story.
Thanks!

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On November 23, 2001 11:48 AM]

[MaccaTwst9]

How cow..that was ALOT to read
::blink blink::

http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/bigeyes1.gif



------------------
~*Liz*~

[McCharlenstar]

<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Tahoma, Arial, Sans-Serif">Quote:</font><HR>Originally Posted By ImaginePeace78:
Sorry for the double post...I actually rewrote the story because it erased and I got that 'internal server error.' I thought the story didn't go through...but I guess it did. Sorry!
-Kristi

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
Great story to read. Thanks for the post. Don't you just want to "SCREAM" about double posts!!!


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/dance.gif

[HMVNipper]

This isn't a sad story, but it brought tears to my eyes anyway...my mother (my son's beautiful grandma) sent it to me...

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

An elderly woman and her little grandson, whose face was sprinkled with bright freckles, spent the day at the zoo. Lots of children were waiting in line to get their cheeks painted by a local artist who was decorating them with tiger paws.

"You've got so many freckles, there's no place to paint!" a girl in the line said to the little fella.

Embarrassed, the little boy dropped his head.

His grandmother knelt down next to him. "I love your freckles. When I was a little girl I always wanted freckles," she said, while
tracing her finger across the child's cheek. "Freckles are beautiful!"

The boy looked up, "Really?"

"Of course," said the grandmother. "Why, just name me one thing that's prettier than freckles."

The little boy thought for a moment, peered intensely into his grandma's face, and softly whispered, "Wrinkles."


------------------
Rooftop Sessions - The Finest In Beatles-Related Fiction. November 2001 Issue up now! About.com BEST OF THE NET, April 2001! www.rooftopsessions.com (http://www.rooftopsessions.com)

"O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than steel!" -- Walt Whitman

[McCharlenstar]

Good story and thanks for sharing!!

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/dance.gif

[SleepyHead]

YOU'LL FIND GOD THERE

"Tomorrow morning," the surgeon began, "I'll open up your heart..."

"You'll find Jesus there," the boy interrupted.

The surgeon looked up, annoyed. "I'll cut your heart open," he
continued, "to see how much damage has been done..."

"But when you open up my heart, you'll find Jesus in there."

The surgeon looked to the parents, who sat quietly. "When I see how
much damage has been done, I'll sew your heart and chest back up and
I'll plan what to do next."

"But you'll find Jesus in my heart. The Bible says He lives there.
The hymns all say He lives there. You'll find Him n my heart."

The surgeon had had enough. "I'll tell you what I'll find in your
heart. I'll find damaged muscle, low blood supply, weakened vessels.
And I'll find out if I can make you well."

"You'll find Jesus there too. He lives there."

The surgeon left. The surgeon sat in his office later, recording his
notes from the surgery, "damaged aorta, damaged pulmonary vein,
widespread muscle degeneration. No hope for transplant, no hope for
cure. Therapy: painkillers and bed rest. Prognosis: "here he paused,
"death within one year." He stopped the recorder, but there was more
to be said.

"Why?" he asked aloud. "Why did You do this? You've put him here;
You've put him in this pain; and You've cursed him to an early
death. Why?"

The Lord answered and said, "The boy, My lamb, was not meant for your
flock for long, for he is a part of My flock, and will forever be.
Here, in My flock, he will feel no pain, and will be comforted as you
cannot imagine. His parents will one day join him here, and they will
know peace, and My flock will continue to grow."

The surgeon's tears were hot, but his anger was hotter. "You created
That boy, and You created that heart. He'll be dead in months. Why?"

The Lord answered, "The boy, My lamb, shall return to My flock, for
he has done his duty: I did not put My lamb with your flock to lose
him, but to retrieve another lost lamb." The surgeon wept.

The surgeon sat beside the boy's bed; the boy's parents sat across
from him.

The boy awoke and whispered, "Did you cut open my heart?"

"Yes," said the surgeon.

"What did you find?" asked the boy.

"I found Jesus there," said the surgeon.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE HAND

Thanksgiving Day was near. The first grade teacher gave her class a fun
assignment -- to draw a picture of something for which they were thankful.

Most of the class might be considered economically disadvantaged, but still
many would celebrate the holiday with turkey and other traditional goodies
of the season. These, the teacher thought, would be the subjects of most of
her student's art. And they were.

But Douglas made a different kind of picture. Douglas was a different kind
of boy. He was the teacher's true child of misery, frail and unhappy. As
other children played at recess, Douglas was likely to stand close by her
side. One could only guess at the pain Douglas felt behind those sad eyes.

Yes, his picture was different. When asked to draw a picture of something
for which he was thankful, he drew a hand. Nothing else. Just an empty hand.

His abstract image captured the imagination of his peers. Whose hand could
it be? One child guessed it was the hand of a farmer, because farmers raise
turkeys. Another suggested a police officer, because the police protect and
care for people. Still others guessed it was the hand of God, for God feeds
us. And so the discussion went -- until the teacher almost forgot the young
artist himself.

When the children had gone on to other assignments, she paused at Douglas'
desk, bent down, and asked him whose hand it was.

The little boy looked away and murmured, "It's yours, teacher."

She recalled the times she had taken his hand and walked with him here or
there, as she had the other students. How often had she said, "Take my
hand, Douglas, we'll go outside." Or, "Let me show you how to hold your
pencil." Or, "Let's do this together." Douglas was most thankful for his
teacher's hand.

Brushing aside a tear, she went on with her work.

The story speaks of more than thankfulness. It says something about
teachers teaching and parents parenting and friends showing friendship, and
how much it means to the Douglases of the world. They might not always say
thanks. But they'll remember the hand that reaches out.

Author Unknown


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[This Message Has Been Edited By SleepyHead On December 29, 2001 11:09 AM]

[SleepyHead]

Why would God lower Himself to come to
Earth as a man?

There was once a man who didn't believe in God, and he didn't hesitate to
let others know how he felt about religion and religious holidays, like
Christmas. His wife, however, did believe, and she raised their children to
also have faith in God and Jesus, despite his disparaging comments.

One snowy Christmas Eve, his wife was taking their children to a Christmas
Eve service in the farm community in which they lived. She asked him to
come, but he refused.

"That story is nonsense!" he said. "Why would God lower Himself to come to
Earth as a man? That's ridiculous!" So she and the children left, and he
stayed home.

A while later, the winds grew stronger and the snow turned into a blizzard.
As the man looked out the window, all he saw was a blinding snowstorm. He
sat down to relax before the fire for the evening. Then he heard a loud
thump. Something had hit the window. Then another thump. He looked out, but
couldn't see more than a few feet. When the snow let up a little, he
ventured outside to see what could have been beating
on his window. In the field near his house he saw a flock of wild geese.
Apparently they had been flying south for the winter when they got caught in
the snowstorm and couldn't go on. They were lost and stranded on his farm,
with no food or shelter. They just flapped their wings and flew around the
field in low circles, blindly and aimlessly. A couple of them had flown into
his window, it seemed.

The man felt sorry for the geese and wanted to help them. The barn would
be a great place for them to stay, he thought. It's warm and safe; surely
they could spend the night and wait out the storm. So he walked over to the
barn and opened the doors wide, then watched and waited, hoping they would
notice the open barn and go inside. But the geese just fluttered around
aimlessly and didn't seem to notice the barn or realize what it could mean
for them. The man tried to get their attention, but that just seemed to
scare them and they moved further away. He went into the house and came with
some bread, broke it up, and made a breadcrumb trail leading to the barn.
They still didn't catch on.

Now he was getting frustrated. He got behind them and tried to shoo them
toward the barn, but they only got more scared and scattered in every
direction except toward the barn. Nothing he did could get them to go into
the barn where they would be warm and safe.

"Why don't they follow me?!" he exclaimed. "Can't they see this is the only
place where they can survive the storm?"

He thought for a moment and realized that they just wouldn't follow a human.
"If only I were a goose, then I could save them," he said out loud.

Then he had an idea. He went into barn, got one of his own geese, and
carried it in his arms as he circled around behind the flock of wild geese.
He then released it. His goose flew through the flock and straight into the
barn--and one by one the other geese followed it to safety.

He stood silently for a moment as the words he had spoken a few minutes
earlier replayed in his mind: "If only I were a goose, then I could save
them!" Then he thought about what he had said to his wife earlier. "Why
would God want to be like us? That's ridiculous!"

Suddenly it all made sense. That is what God had done. We were like the
geese--blind, lost, perishing. God had His Son become like us so He could
show us the way and save us. That was the meaning of Christmas, he realized.
As the winds and blinding snow died down, his soul became quiet and pondered
this wonderful thought. Suddenly he understood what Christmas was all
about, why Christ had come.

Years of doubt and disbelief vanished like the passing storm. He fell to his
knees in the snow, and prayed his first prayer: "Thank You, God, for coming
in human form to get me out of the storm!"


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE ROSE

The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us
to get to know someone we didn't already know.

I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder.

I turned around to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a
smile that lit up her entire being.

She said, "Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I'm eighty - seven years old.
Can I give you a hug?"

I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave
me a giant squeeze.

"Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked.

She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, have a
couple of children, and then retire and travel."

"No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be
taking on this challenge at her age.

"I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!"
she told me.

After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate
milkshake. We became instant friends.

Every day for the next three months we would leave class together and talk
nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she
shared her wisdom and experience with me.

Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made
friends wherever she went.

She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her
from the other students. She was living it up.

At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football
banquet. I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and
stepped up to the podium.

As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five
cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the
microphone and simply said "I'm sorry I'm so jittery. I gave up beer for
Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in
order so let me just tell you what I know."

As we laughed she cleared her throat and began: "We do not stop playing
because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only
four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success.

"You have to laugh and find humor every day."

"You've got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die. We have
so many people walking around who are dead and don't even know it!"

"There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up. If you
are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one
productive thing, you will turn twenty years old. If I am eighty-seven
years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn
eighty-eight. Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or
ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding the opportunity in change."

"Have no regrets. The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did,
but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are
those with regrets."

She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose."

She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our
daily lives.

At the years end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those
years ago.

One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep.

Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the
wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all
you can possibly be.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

CHRISTMAS LOVE
© 1998 - Candy Chand


Each December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm
and peaceful experience.

I had cut back on nonessential obligations -
extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating,
and even overspending. Yet still, I found myself
exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family
moments, and of course, the true meaning of Christmas.

My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year.
It was an exciting season for a six year old. For
weeks, he'd been memorizing songs for his school's
"Winter Pageant." I didn't have the heart to tell
him I'd be working the night of the production.
Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with
his teacher. She assured me there would be a dress
rehearsal the morning of the presentation. All parents
unable to attend that evening were welcome to come then.
Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise.

So, the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in
ten minutes early, found a spot on the cafeteria floor
and sat down. Around the room, I saw several other
parents quietly scampering to their seats. As I
waited, the students were led into the room. Each
class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged
on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to
perform their song. Because the public school system
had long stopped referring to the holiday as "Christmas",
I didn't expect anything other than fun, commercial
entertainment - songs of reindeer, Santa Claus,
snowflakes and good cheer. So, when my son's class
rose to sing, "Christmas Love," I was slightly taken
aback by its bold title.

Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates,
adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters, and bright
snowcaps upon their heads.

Those in the front row - center stage - held up
large letters, one by one, to spell out the title
of the song.

As the class would sing "C is for Christmas", a child
would hold up the letter C. Then, "H is for Happy",
and on and on, until each child holding up his portion
had presented the complete message, "Christmas Love".

The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly,
we noticed her - a small, quiet, girl in the front
row holding the letter "M" upside down - totally
unaware her letter "M" appeared as a "W".

The audience of 1st through 6th graders snickered
at this little one's mistake. But she had no idea
they were laughing at her, so she stood tall, proudly
holding her "W".

Although many teachers tried to shush the children,
the laughter continued until the last letter was raised,
and we all saw it together. A hush came over the audience
and eyes began to widen. In that instant, we understood
the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday
in the first place, why even in the chaos, there was a
purpose for our festivities.

For when the last letter was held high, the message
read loud and clear: CHRIST WAS LOVE.

And, I believe, He still is.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

~ SANTA ~

Snowflakes softly falling
Upon your window they play
Your blankets snug around you,
Into sleep you drift away.

I bend to gently kiss you,
when I see that on the floor
there's a letter, neatly written
I wonder who it's for.

I quietly unfold it
making sure you're still asleep,
It's a Christmas list for Santa
one my heart will always keep.

It started just as always
with the toys seen on TV,
A new watch for your father
and a winter coat for me.

But as my eyes read on
I could see that deep inside
there were many things you wished for
that your loving heart would hide.

You asked if your friend Molly
could have another Dad;
It seems her father hits her
and it makes you very sad.

Then you asked dear Santa
if the neighbors down the street
Could find a job, that he might have
some food, and clothes, and heat.

You saw a family on the news
whose house had blown away,
"Dear Santa, send them just one thing,
a place where they can stay."

"And Santa, those four cookies that
I left you for a treat,
Could you take them to the children
who have nothing else to eat."

"Do you know that little bear I have
the one I love so dear?
I'm leaving it for you to take
to Africa this year".

"And as you fly your reindeer
on this night of Jesus' birth,
Could your magic bring to everyone
goodwill and peace on earth".

"There's one last thing before you go,
so grateful I would be,
If you'd smile at Baby Jesus
in the manger by our tree."

I pulled the letter close to me'
I felt it melt my heart.
Those tiny hands had written
what no other could impart.

"And a little child shall lead them,"
was whispered in my ear
As I watched you sleep on Christmas Eve
while Santa Claus was here.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

TIME SERVED

The soldier stood and faced his God
which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining
just as brightly as his brass.
"Step forward now, you soldier,
how shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
"No, Lord, I guess I ain't
Because those of us who carry guns
can't always be a saint.
I had to work most Sundays
and at times my talk was tough,
And sometimes I've been violent,
because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took a penny
that wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime
when the bills got really steep.
And I never passed a cry for help,
though at times I shook with fear,
And sometimes, God forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.
I know I don't deserve a place
among the people here,
They never wanted me around
except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
it needn't be so grand,
I never expected or had too much,
so if you don't, I'll understand.
There was a silence all around the throne
where the saints had often trod
As the soldier waited quietly,
for the judgment of his God.
"Step forward now, you soldier,
you've borne your burdens well,
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets.
You've done your time in Hell."

Author Unknown

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

FIFTEEN MINUTES

By Irene Budzynski

It was going to be a long trip back home after a week
on the West Coast, so the young man settled himself
on the plane and picked up a book.

Exhausted from a whirlwind visit with his old college
roommate, all he wanted to do was to stretch out his
long frame and read to pass the time. He wasn't thrilled
with the thought of having to make two plane changes,
but he decided to make the best of what promised to be
a boring day. The weather was spectacular and takeoff
from Los Angeles was prompt. He knew for certain that
he'd make his connecting flight in Texas.

He hadn't, however, counted on the constant chatter of a
little girl sitting next to him.

It didn't take long for him to figure out that she was travel-
ing alone. Initially, he nodded his head and answered her
questions, but, when she spilled her orange juice he knew
it was time to close the cover of the novel and give her the
attention she needed. There would be no isolating himself.

After he cleaned her mess and got her settled again, the
two of them began to chat. It was then that he discovered
why she was unaccompanied. A child of divorce, she had
been visiting her father and his new wife for a month and
was now winging her way to the Southwest. She had hated
the 30 days spent in California, didn't get along with her
stepmother, and never, ever wanted to return. It was
obvious that she missed her mother and grandmother
and she talked nonstop about them. The loneliness
didn't need to be explained. Her face spoke volumes.

At the approximate time of landing, the plane began to circle
repeatedly over the airport, but there was no indication it would
be touching ground. A routine occurrence at the major airports,
he didn't give it a second thought. He was relaxing during the
final moments before landing, relieved that the first leg of the trip
was over.

So deep in his thoughts, he almost didn't hear the captain's voice
competing with the din of the engines and the cacophonous cabin.
It was only when a deathly pall settled over the passengers that the
seatmates looked at each other with alarm and heard a most
unsettling message.

The plane's flaps weren't operating properly, and the captain
was declaring an emergency situation. The passengers were
to follow the stewardesses' instructions, and to prepare for an
unusually fast landing. They reviewed how to use the slide to
exit the plane and everybody crouched over, arms gripping legs,
heads down. The captain and crew maintained a steady stream
of calm professionalism, but it wasn't enough to still the passengers'
wildly beating hearts.

Panic set in and the little girl began to cry, "I love you, Mommy!
I love you, Mommy," as the young man put his arm around her
shoulders and rocked her, telling her that he was there to help
her, and that everything would be all right. He didn't believe it,
but she didn't need to know that. He was too terrified to think.
If it was so traumatic for him, a 27 year old man, what was it
like for a 12 year old who had no family with her? If he acted
confident, surely the power to play the role would follow.

Crying and calling out, she held onto him for dear life as the
plane descended in dizzying speeds. Thoughts of his own
family streaked through his mind, but he couldn't allow himself
the luxury of removing his focus from her. He calmly reminded
her of what she needed to do and reassured her that she would
see her mother again. Did she believe him? Could she sense
his terror?

After what had felt like a lifetime, the wheels touched terra firma.
Intact. Unhurt. The entire incident took 15 minutes, a quarter of
an hour he would never forget for the rest of time. Passengers
bolted upright, looking outside to reassure themselves that they
had survived what could have been a horrible disaster.

After the cheers subsided and the captain, with audible relief,
thanked his crew and the travelers, the girl turned to her adopted
guardian and gave him a bear hug, whispering, "Thank you for
being my friend,"before running into the arms of the two most
precious people in her world.

Why were they brought together on that particular flight to
become seatmates? A frightened child needed a protector
in a crisis situation, and an unassuming young man, who didn't
know he had the valor to sustain them both for 15 minutes, was
provided.

The young man?

Late that night, my son, my hero, came home.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE MATCHLESS GIFT

By Stephanie Ray Brown


After my 21 second graders completed reciting the
Pledge of Allegiance, my students settled back in their
seats.

But Duane remained standing. Duane was an exceptionally
bright and lovable student. However his home life was far
from perfect. His mother was a single parent who had so
many problems, such as drinking, that she had difficulty
being a good parent.

Duane and his three younger sisters were often taken out
of the home until social services thought that it was safe for
them to return. Thinking that maybe he had had a bad night,
I walked over to him to see what was the matter.

As he looked up at me with his dark brown eyes, I could
see his hurt and disappointment.

"Mrs. Brown, aren't you going to open my present?", he
asked. "I put it on your desk."

As I looked at my desk, all I could see was an avalanche
of papers, stickers, and books. Seeing my puzzled look,
Duane went to the front of the room and retrieved his gift
from my desk. As he handed it to me, I noticed that the
wrapping paper was a napkin from the lunchroom.

Carefully removing the napkin, my gift appeared to be
a matchbox.

Although I had only been a teacher for three months, I had
learned the important lesson of asking a child to explain a
picture or, in this case, a gift, instead of disappointing him
with a wrong guess. So I asked Duane to tell me about his
gift.

First of all, Duane instructed that I had to use my imagination
before opening my gift. He then began to tell me that this
wasn't really a matchbox but a jewelry box. Inside, if I would
use my imagination, I would find two precious gems. As I
opened my jewelry box, I was surprised by the sight and the
smell of two beer caps. Duane informed me that instead of
beer caps they were really two precious silver earrings. He
had noticed that I never wore earrings and wanted me to have
some pretty ones.

As my eyes began to tear, I was touched by his creativity
and the thoughtfulness of Duane's precious gift. Since birth,
one of my ears was slightly deformed. Fearing that wearing
earrings might draw attention to the ear, I never wore them.
But how could I not wear these precious earrings given by
this special child?

As I placed the earrings on my ears with masking tape,
my class clapped, and Duane stood proudly beside me.

Every year after that, the matchbox remained on my desk.
It reminded me of Duane's act of kindness and of the lessons
he taught me. Although his situation at home was not the best,
Duane continued to see the good in life. The beer caps were
an ugly reminder of some problems at home, but Duane had
made them into something beautiful - two precious gems.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

DANCE WITH ME

By Jean Harper

When we're young and we dream of love and fulfillment,
we think perhaps of moon-drenched Parisian nights or
walks along the beach at sunset.

No one tells us that the greatest moments of a lifetime are
fleeting, unplanned and nearly always catch us off guard.

Not long ago, as I was reading a bedtime story to my seven-
year-old daughter, Annie, I became aware of her focused gaze.
She was starring at me with a faraway, trancelike expression.
Apparently, completing The Tale of Samuel Whiskers was not
as important as we first thought.

I asked what she was thinking about.

"Mommy," she whispered, "I just can't stop looking at your
pretty face."

I almost dissolved on the spot.

Little did she know how many trying moments the glow of
her sincerely loving statement would carry me through over
the following years.

Not long after, I took my four-year-old son to an elegant
department store, where the melodic notes of a classic
love song drew us toward a tuxedoed musician playing
a grand piano. Sam and I sat down on a marble bench
nearby, and he seemed as transfixed by the lilting theme
as I was.

I didn't realize that Sam had stood up next to me until he turned,
took my face in his little hands and said, "Dance with me."

If only those women strolling under the Paris moon knew the
joy of such an invitation made by a round-cheeked boy with
baby teeth. Although shoppers openly chuckled, grinned and
pointed at us as we glided and whirled around the open atrium,
I would not have traded a dance with such a charming young
gentleman if I'd been offered the universe.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[IamtheWalrus]

I got this in am email and thought I would post it.

There was a little girl named "Ann", who had a good family. Loving parents, a nice younger brother, and a steady allowance. Then one day her mother told her that "Johnny" (her brother) had to be taken to the hospital. Ann stayed home with her father. They went fishing. When her mother got back she put Johnny to bed and told Ann what happened. "Johnny is very sick, Ann. He will have to go back to the hospital again next week. Please pray for him." Ann smiled. "Okay. Johnny will get better." And she went outside to play.
The weeks dragged on. Johnny went to the doctor more often, and he was always sad and tired. Ann got worried, and wondered if there was something she could do. Then one night, she heard her parents talking. "He won't live unless they remove it. That's why he's had headaches. We need a miracle." Ann ran into her room and emptied her piggy bank. "I have two dollars and eleven cents. That should be enough." Then she quietly slipped out the back door and ran across the street to the general store.
Ann was tired. She had walked up and down every aisle, looking. She couldn't find what she wanted. Then she saw a man further up the aisle, and walked up to him. "Exuse me, but could you help me?" The man turned around, and saw Ann. "Hello. What do you need help with?" "Well, I need a miracle and I can't find one. I have enough money, though, I'm sure of it!" Ann told him. The man raised his eyebrows. "Really! What kind of miracle do you need?" Ann frowned. "My little brother has something in his head, and my parents cant afford the operation. They said they need a miracle, and I could buy that! Do you know where they are?" The man stared at her for a moment, and then smiled. "It just so happens, that I bought the last miracle in stock. I could sell it to you, if you want." It just so happened that the kind man in the store was a brain surgeon. Ann gave him all her money, and the doctor removed the tumor.
Later, her mother said aloud, "It was a miracl! I wonder how much that operation would have cost!" Ann spoke up. "IT cost 2 dollars and 11 cents!

------------------
There are 3 kinds of people:
The kind who can count, and the kind that can't.

[PaulsPrincess]

Wow! Many of these stories brought a tear to my eye...they also really put things in perspective. I didn't read them all but the ones that I did read were very touching. Thank you for posting something positive. Sleepyhead, the one about moms (I think it was the 3rd or 4th post) really made me realize that I'm not always as openly appreciative as I could be, I'm going to go give my mom (and dad) a big hug right now!
Thanks again and keep posting positive!
Love is all you need,
PaulsPrincess http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/flower.gif

------------------
"...and in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make."

[SleepyHead]

PRIORITIES
Author Unknown


While at the park one day, a woman sat down next
to a man on a bench near a playground. "That's
my son over there," she said, pointing to a little
boy in a red sweater who was gliding down the slide.

"He's a fine looking boy," the man said. "That's
my son on the swing in the blue sweater." Then,
looking at his watch, he called to his son,"What
do you say we go, Todd?"

Todd pleaded, "Just five more minutes, Dad. Please?
Just five more minutes."

The man nodded and Todd continued to swing to his
heart's content. Minutes passed and the father stood
and called again to his son, "Time to go now."

Again Todd pleaded, "Five more minutes, Dad. Just
five more minutes."

The man smiled and said, "O.K."

"My, you certainly are a patient father," the
woman responded.

The man smiled and then said, "My older son, Tommy,
was killed last year while he was riding his bike
near here. I never spent much time with Tommy and
now I'd give anything for just five more minutes
with him. I've vowed not to make the same mistake
with Todd. He thinks he has five more minutes to
swing. The truth is, I get five more minutes to
watch him play."

Life is all about making priorities.

What are your priorities?


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

My Angel

I would like to introduce you to my angel. My angel was 8 years old
when I was born, and when we met she began calling me "Her Baby". My
angel took care of me. She rode me on the handlebars of her bicycle,
and she fixed my lunch on Saturdays.

My angel had the most beautiful, long, brown hair. I loved to brush
it while she watched TV. My angel taught my Sunday School class in a
small church where everyone was kin to each other. She also played
the piano while I stood on the piano bench beside her and sang "Jesus
Loves Me" in front of the small church congregation. My Grandmother
was so proud.

My angel was so smart. She made good grades in school, and she made
me want to do well in school. In fact, my fourth grade teacher called
me by my angel's name all year long, and you know what? I didn't mind
it at all. I just answered her.

My angel taught me how to sing alto in the choir. We would sing our
little hearts out. My angel taught me about faith and determination.
At the young age of 23 my angel became a widow with two small
children. She was determined to make a life for those babies. She
became a nurse and a good one too. My angel fell in love again, and I
got to see her excited and full of life again. That was good!

Years passed, a lot quicker than I ever imagined they would. We both
had our families. We lived in separate towns and away from our
childhood homes. We were together at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and
we spoke on the phone on occasion. I never hesitated to pick up the
phone and ask her for advice whether it be medical or otherwise. I was
still "Her Baby". She was a part of me.

One day my angel told me she was sick, and I said, "Well, God's not
through with you yet." I was right. In the face of death, my angel
taught me how to live. She showed me that death was not a bad thing.
Being locked in a body that couldn't move was a prison from which
only God could release her. My angel taught me that how you deal
with each day is a decision, and in the end of her illness she and
God would win.

One day my angel closed her eyes, and I had to say good-bye to her.
That was her victory day. I thought to myself, whose baby will I be
now? At her celebration into heaven ceremony, a song was sung that
said, "In the arms of the angel, fly away from here...In the arms of
the angel may you find some comfort here." I knew she was whole again.
She was with God.

I thought I had lost my angel. I was wrong. Not long after I had to
say good-bye, my son broke his arm. In medical emergencies I always
called my angel. Now I couldn't. I drove 300 miles missing her,
worried about my son, wondering what I needed to do. I drove straight
to the doctor's office, walked up to the nurses station to fill out
the necessary forms, and my son said, "Hey Mom, listen!" Over the
sound system I heard... "In the arms of the angel, fly away from
here.In the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort here." My
angel was there. Everything was going to be okay.

Carole Williams copyright 2001
carolew@stephenscountyschools.com


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

The Cab Ride

"Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's
life, a life for someone who wanted no boss.What I didn't realize was

that it was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab
became a moving confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind
me in total anonymity, and told me about their lives. I encountered
people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, made me laugh and
weep. But none touched me more than a woman I picked up
late one August night.

I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet
part
of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, or
someone
who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an
early
shift at some factory for the industrial part of town.


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

assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and
knocked.

"Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear
something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the
door
opened. A small woman in her 80s stood
before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a
veil
pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a
small nylon
suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for
years.
All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on
the
walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was
a
cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.


"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the
suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my
arm
and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my
kindness.
"It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the
way I would want my mother treated".
"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Can
you
drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a
hospice".

I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I
don't
have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have
very
long." I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route
would
you like me to take?" I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through
the
city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an
elevator
operator.


We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had
lived
when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture

warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as
a
girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building
or
corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

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

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.
It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a
driveway
that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as
soon
as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every
move.
They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the
small
suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers," I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.
She held onto me tightly.

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

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light.
Behind
me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I
didn't
pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in
thought. For
the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had
gotten
an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I
had
refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a
quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important
in my
life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great
moments. But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully
wrapped in
what others may consider a "small one."

From "Make me an instrument of your peace"
~~ Kent Nerburn ~~


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

* The Gift *

His parents acquired the Bendix washer when John Claypool
was a small boy. It happened during World War II. His family
owned no washing machine and, since gasoline was rationed,
they could ill afford trips to the laundry several miles
away. Keeping clothes clean became a problem for young
John's household.

A family friend was drafted into the service, and his wife
prepared to go with him. John's family offered to store their
furniture while they were away. To the family's surprise, the
friends suggested they use their Bendix while they were gone.

"It would be better for it to be running," they said, "than
sitting up rusting."

So this is how they acquired the washer. Young John helped
with the washing, and through the years he developed an
affection for the old, green Bendix.

Eventually the war ended. Their friends returned. In the
meantime he had forgotten how the machine came to be in their
basement in the first place. When the friends came to take it
away, John grew terribly upset -- and said so! His mother,
wise as she was, sat him down and said,

"Wait a minute, Son. You must remember, that machine never
belonged to us in the first place. That we ever got to use
it at all was a gift. So, instead of being mad at it being
taken away, let's use this occasion to be grateful that we
had it at all."

The lesson proved invaluable. Years later, John watched his
eight year old daughter die a slow and painful death of
leukemia. Though he struggled for months with her death,
John could not begin healing from the loss until he
remembered the old Bendix.

"I am here to testify," he said, "that this is the only
way down the mountain of loss -- when I remember that Laura
Lou was a gift, pure and simple, something I neither earned
nor deserved nor had a right to."

"And when I remember that the appropriate response to a gift,
even when it is taken away, is gratitude, then I am better
able to try and thank God that I was ever given her in the
first place."

His daughter was a gift. When he realized that simple fact,
everything changed. He could now begin healing from the
tragedy of her loss by focusing instead on the wonder of
her life.

He started to see Laura Lou as a marvelous gift that he
was fortunate enough to share for a time. He felt grateful.
He found strength and healing. He knew he could get through
the valley of loss.

We all experience loss -- loss of people, loss of jobs, loss
of relationships, loss of independence, loss of esteem, loss
of things.

When what you held dear can be viewed as a gift, a wonder
that you had it at all, the memory can eventually become
one more of gratitude than tragedy. And you will find the
healing you need.

~ Author Unknown ~


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

CAFE LEBANON

I watched the minutes slowly tick by in anticipation of a relaxing
meal at my favorite workweek lunch spot -- Cafe Lebanon.
My stomach growled as I envisioned devouring my favorite meal. Six
dollars will entitle me to an appetizer of olives and a deliciously
different Lebanese salad called Fattoush. Perfectly marinated chicken
medallions will arrive before long, accompanied by a tangy garlic
mayonnaise sauce, served over a bed of rice with pita
bread blanketing the chicken skewers.
The waitress appears to be there for the sole intention of pleasing
me. For an hour, I am able to forget about the stresses of my job. For
this gift, I generally leave a thirty-percent tip and the promise of a
return visit.
One o'clock finally arrived. As I walked the short distance to the
restaurant, nearly every car that passed by me carried the increasingly
familiar sound of a flag rippling through the breeze on the vehicles'
antennas.
Because it was Thursday (the restaurant's busiest day), I quickened my
pace to avoid having to wait for a table. As I entered the door, the
tension instantly left my body as I encountered the familiar aroma of
Lebanese fare.
I saw Nadim, the owner, in the kitchen and said hello. As he waved
back, his pleasant smile was missing. It was only then that I turned to
face the immaculate, yet impossibly empty, dining room. Even the
enchanting Middle Eastern music was absent.
As a substitute, the television at the bar was predictably tuned in to
the endless drone of CNN, mimicking nearly every other business or
household I had entered during the past few days.
My waitress approached me and jokingly said, "I think I can squeeze
you in at a table by the television if you'd like."
"That would be fine," I said. "Where is everyone today?"
She frowned a bit and said, "It was like this yesterday also.
Sometimes silence can speak so much louder than words."
She changed the subject as she asked, "Will you be having the usual
today?"
"Yes, of course," I said. "Thank you."
The food arrived and it was even better than I had earlier imagined
it would be. While I was eating, Nadim made his usual appearance and asked
me, "How is your dinner today? To your liking, I hope!"
"It's delicious Nadim! You've really outdone yourself," I
complimented. He smiled and winked at me.
As he walked back into the kitchen, I thought about all the effort he
puts into his cooking and the pleasant atmosphere he provides. Nadim's
pride is evident as I take in my surroundings -- pictures of what I assume
to be his homeland adorn the walls, linen napkins and tablecloths line his
tables, instead of less intimate paper products.
I finished my lunch and approached the bar to settle my bill. It was
only then that I noticed the small Lebanese flag crossing over the American
flag by the register. I couldn't help but wonder if Nadim had put up the
flags within the past two days, like so many of us Johnny-come-lately
patriots, or had they been there all along blending into the background?
As I felt the fabric of these two flags, I found meaning in their
symbolic display and decided that I had answered my question. The flags
had always been there.
Although he has love for Lebanon, Nadim has traveled far for the right
to freedom represented in our flag. A flag too many of us take for granted
on a daily basis.
The waitress said, "That comes to $6.30, please." I handed her twenty
dollars.
"Thank you for an excellent meal," I complimented as I walked toward
the door.
"Miss, you forgot your change!"
"Keep it, and please don't think we are all like your customers who
have chosen not to eat here recently," I muttered with emotion as I walked
out the door and returned to work.
I spent my lunch hour viewing harsh new realities in America, not of
the results of terrorism unfolding on television, but of what was so
silently screamed by the missing patrons of a popular little restaurant,
who's owner happened to be of Middle Eastern descent.

Jodie Zimmerman &lt;mymyheyhay @ yahoo.com&gt;




------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

LUCKY LADY

Author Unknown

Mary and her husband Jim had a dog, Lucky. Lucky was
a real character. Whenever Mary and Jim had company
come for a weekend visit they would warn their friends to
not leave their luggage open because Lucky would help
himself to whatever struck his fancy.

Inevitably someone would forget and something would
come up missing. Mary or Jim would go to Lucky's toy
box in the basement and there the treasure would be,
amid all of Lucky's favorite toys. Lucky always stashed
his finds in his toy box and he was very particular that his
toys stay in the box.

It happened that Mary found out she had breast cancer.
Something told her she was going to die of this disease...
she was just sure it was fatal. She scheduled the double
mastectomy, fear riding her shoulders. The night before
she was to go to the hospital she cuddled with Lucky.

A thought struck her...what would happen to Lucky? Although
the three year old dog liked Jim he was Mary's dog through
and through. If I die Lucky will be abandoned, Mary thought.
He won't understand that I didn't want to leave him.The thought
made her sadder than thinking of her own death.

The double mastectomy was harder on Mary than her doctors
had anticipated and Mary was hospitalized for over two weeks.
Jim took Lucky for his evening walk faithfully but the dog just
drooped, whining and miserable.

But finally the day came for Mary to leave the hospital. When she
arrived home Mary was so exhausted she couldn't even make it
up the steps to her bedroom. Jim made his wife comfortable on
the couch and left her to nap.

Lucky stood watching Mary but he didn't come to her when she
called. It made Mary sad but sleep soon overcame her and she
dozed.

When Mary woke for a second she couldn't understand what was
wrong. She couldn't move her head and her body felt heavy and hot.

Panic soon gave way to laughter though when Mary realized the
problem....she was covered, literally blanketed, in every treasure
Lucky owned! While she had slept the sorrowing dog had made
trip after trip to the basement and back bringing his beloved mistress
his favorite things in life.

He had covered her with his love. Mary forgot about dying. Instead
she and Lucky began living again, walking further and further
together every night.

It's been 12 years now and Mary is still cancer-free.

Lucky? He still steals treasures and stashes them in his toy box
but Mary remains his greatest treasure.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE GRAVE NO-ONE TENDED

By Cheryl L. Costello-Forshey

The day was lovely as I strolled along
peering at stones on the way,
And that's when I saw it, that pitiful cross
that looked splintered and faded away.

With flowers in hand to tend Father's grave,
I knew I must hurry along.
But I couldn't help but linger awhile
at that cross that just didn't belong.

The date on the front confirmed my suspicions
of what already I knew.
A child lay beneath that horrible cross
and its faded color of blue.

What selfish parents they must have been
to bury their child all alone,
Without flowers or candles to light the night
and not even a simple headstone.

I looked even closer at that awful cross
that was nearly splintered away.
And there on the back, I read the words
that changed me forever that day.

"This cross isn't grand, but it was carved by my hands
so you'll know, son, how much I care.
It's the color of blue to remind me of you
and how painful it is I'm not there,

That it's you who is gone and it's me living on
while your young life has come to an end.
And I'm left alone, never again with a home
and a grave that's too painful to tend."

Tears stung my eyes as I looked all around
at the monuments that ragged cross put to shame.
And I shared with those parents their horrible loss
that brought them such terrible pain.

And all the tombstones, some even taller than me
suddenly seemed small in a way,
Next to that little handmade cross, carved with such love
and the flowers I planted that day.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

MOTHER'S LITTLE ANGEL

By Salina

There came a frantic knock at the doctor's office door,
A knock, more urgent than he had ever heard before,
"Come in, Come in," the impatient doctor said,
"Come in, Come in, before you wake the dead."

In walked a frightened little girl, a child no more than nine,
It was plain for all to see, she had troubles on her mind,
"Oh doctor, I beg you, please come with me,
My mother is surely dying, she's as sick as she can be."
"I don't make house calls, bring your mother here,"
"But she's too sick, so you must come or she will die, I fear."

The doctor, touched by her devotion, decided he would go,
She said he would be blessed, more than he could know.
She led him to her house where her mother lay in bed,
Her mother was so very sick she couldn't raise her head,
But her eyes cried out for help and help her the doctor did,
She would have died that very night had it not been for her kid.

The doctor got her fever down and she lived through the night,
And morning brought the doctor signs, that she would be all right,
The doctor said he had to leave but would return again by two,
And later he came back to check, just like he said he'd do.

The mother praised the doctor for all the things he'd done,
He told her she would have died, were it not for her little one,
"How proud you must be of your wonderful little girl,
It was her pleading that made me come, she is really quite a pearl!"

"But doctor, my daughter died over three years ago,
Is the picture on the wall of the little girl you know?"
The doctors legs went limp for the picture on the wall,
Was the same little girl for whom he'd made this call.

The doctor stood motionless, for quite a little while,
And then his solemn face, was broken by his smile,
He was thinking of that frantic knock heard at his office door,
And of the beautiful little angel that had walked across his floor.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE HEALING POWER OF LOVE

By Mary Sherman Hilbert


We dreaded Christmas that year. It was 1944, and the war would
never be over for our family.

The telegram had arrived in August. Bob's few personal possessions,
the flag from his coffin, the plan of his burial site in the
Philippine Islands,
and a Distinguished Flying Cross had arrived one by one, adding to
our
agonizing grief.

Born on a Midwest prairie, my brother rode horseback to school but
wanted to fly an airplane from the first day he saw one. By the time
he was twenty-one, we were living in Seattle, Washington. When World
War II broke out, Bob headed for the nearest Air Force recruitment
office.
Slightly built, skinny like his father, he was ten pounds underweight.

Undaunted, he persuaded Mother to cook every fattening food she
could think of. He ate before meals, between meals and after meals.
We laughed and called him "lardo."

At the Navy Cadet Office he stepped on the scale - still three pounds
to go. He was desperate. His friends were leaving one after the
other;
his best buddy was already in the Marine Air Corps. The next
morning,
he ate a pound of greasy bacon, six eggs and five bananas, drank two
gallons of milk, and, bloated like a pig, staggered back on their
scales.
He passed the weigh-in with eight ounces to spare.

Mother prayed. He was born fearless, and she knew it. He trained in
torpedo bombers before being sent overseas.

They said Bob died under enemy fire over New Guinea in the plane
he wanted so desperately to fly.

I never wept for Bob. In my mind's eye, I pictured my debonair big
brother wing-tapping through the clouds, doing what he loved best,
his blue eyes sparkling with love of life. But I wept for the sadness
that never left my parents' eyes.

Mother's faith sustained her, but my father aged before our eyes.
He listened politely whenever the minister came to call, but we
knew Daddy was bitter. He dragged himself to work every day
but lost interest in everything else, including his beloved Masonic
Club. He very much wanted a Masonic ring, and at Mother's
insistence he had started saving for the ring. Of course, after Bob
died, that too ceased.

I dreaded the approach of Christmas. Bob loved Christmas. His
enthusiasm excited us long before reason took over. His surprises
were legendary: a dollhouse made a school, a puppy hidden in
mysterious places for little brother, an expensive dress for Mother
bought with the very first money he ever earned. Everything had to
be a surprise.

What would Christmas be without Bob? Not much, our hearts
weren't in it. Dad sat for longer and longer periods, staring
silently
out the window, and Mother's heart was heavy with worry...

On December 23, another official-looking package arrived. My father
watched stone-faced as Mother unpacked Bob's dress blues. 'After
all this time, why oh why did they - the nameless they - send his
dress
uniform,' I thought bitterly. Silence hung heavy. As she refolded
the
uniform to put it away, a mother's practicality surfaced, and she
went
through the pockets almost by rote, aching with grief.

In a small, inside jacket pocket was a neatly folded fifty-dollar
bill with
a tiny note in Bob's familiar handwriting: "For Dad's Masonic ring."

If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the look on my
father's face.
Some kind of beautiful transformation took place - a touch of wonder,
a hint of joy, a quiet serenity that was glorious to behold. Oh, the
healing power of love! He stood transfixed, staring at the note and
the trimly folded fifty-dollar bill in his hand for what seemed an
eternity;
then he walked to Bob's picture hanging prominently on the wall and
solemnly saluted.

"Merry Christmas, Son," he murmured, and turned to welcome Christmas.

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

A Test

John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army
uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through
Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew,
but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose. His interest in her
had
begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off
the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book,
but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting
reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind.

In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name,
Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located her address.
She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself
and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas
for service in World War II.

During the next year and one-month the two grew to know each other
through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A
romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she
refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she
looked like. When the day finally came for him to return from Europe,
they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central
Station in New York. "You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red
rose I'll be wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station
looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never
seen.

...A young woman was coming toward him, her figure long and slim.
Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were
blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her
pale
green suit she was like springtime come alive. Mr. Blanchard started
toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a
rose.
As he moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips. "Going my
way,
sailor?" she murmured. Almost uncontrollably he made one step closer to
her, and then he saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly
behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked
under
a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into
low-heeled shoes.

The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. Lt. Blanchard
felt
as though he was split in two, so keen was his desire to follow her,
and
yet so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly
companioned him and upheld his own. And there she stood. Her pale,
plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and
kindly twinkle. John Blanchard did not hesitate. His fingers gripped
the
small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify him to
her.
This would not be love, he thought, but it would be something precious,
something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which he had
been and must ever be grateful.

He squared his shoulders, saluted and held out the book to the woman,
even though while he spoke he felt choked by the bitterness of his
disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss
Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me. May I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what
this is about, sonny," she answered, "but that young lady in the green
suit had begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you
were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is
waiting
for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some
kind
of test..."


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE TATTOOED STRANGER

Author Unknown

He was kind of scary. He sat there on the grass with his
cardboard sign, his dog (actually his dog was adorable)
and tattoos running up and down both arms and even on
his neck. His sign proclaimed him to be "stuck and hungry"
and to please help.

I'm a sucker for anyone needing help. My husband both
hates and loves this quality in me. I pulled the van over and
in my rear-view mirror, contemplated this man, tattoos and
all. He was youngish, maybe forty. He wore one of those
bandannas tied over his head, biker/pirate style. Anyone
could see he was dirty and had a scraggly beard. But if
you looked closer, you could see that he had neatly tucked
in the black T-shirt, and his things were in a small, tidy bundle.
Nobody was stopping for him. I could see the other drivers
take one look and immediately focus on something else -
anything else.

It was so hot out. I could see in the man's very blue eyes how
dejected and tired and worn-out he felt. The sweat was trickling
down his face. As I sat with the air-conditioning blowing, the
scripture suddenly popped into my head. "Inasmuch as ye
have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, so ye have
done it unto me."

I reached down into my purse and extracted a ten dollar bill.
My twelve-year old son, Nick knew right away what I was
doing. "Can I take it to him, Mom?"

"Be careful, honey." I warned and handed him the money.
I watched in the mirror as he rushed over to the man, and
with a shy smile, handed it to him. I saw the man, startled,
stand and take the money, putting it into his back pocket.
"Good," I thought to myself, "now he will at least have a hot
meal tonight." I felt satisfied, proud of myself. I had made
a sacrifice and now I could go on with my errands.

When Nick got back into the car, he looked at me with sad,
pleading eyes. "Mom, his dog looks so hot and the man is
really nice." I knew I had to do more.

"Go back and tell him to stay there, that we will be back in
fifteen minutes," I told Nick. He bounded out of the car and
ran to tell the tattooed stranger. We then ran to the nearest
store and bought our gifts carefully. "It can't be too heavy,"
I explained to the children. "He has to be able to carry it
around with him." We finally settled on our purchases.
A bag of "Ol' Roy" (I hoped it was good - it looked good
enough for me to eat! How do they make dog food look
that way?); a flavored chew-toy shaped like a bone; a
water dish, bacon flavored snacks (for the dog); two
bottles of water (one for the dog, one for Mr. Tattoos);
and some people snacks for the man.

We rushed back to the spot where we had left him, and there
he was, still waiting. And still nobody else was stopping for
him. With hands shaking, I grabbed our bags and climbed
out of the car, all four of my children following me, each
carrying gifts. As we walked up to him, I had a fleeting
moment of fear, hoping he wasn't a serial killer. I looked
into his eyes and saw something that startled me and made
me ashamed of my judgment. I saw tears. He was fighting
like a little boy to hold back his tears. How long had it been
since someone showed this man kindness?

I told him I hoped it wasn't too heavy for him to carry and
showed him what we had brought. He stood there, like a
child at Christmas, and I felt like my small contributions
were so inadequate. When I took out the water dish, he
snatched it out of my hands as if it were solid gold and
told me he had had no way to give his dog water. He
gingerly set it down, filled it with the bottled water we
brought, and stood up to look directly into my eyes.
His were so blue, so intense and my own filled with
tears as he said "Ma'am, I don't know what to say."
He then put both hands on his bandanna- clad head
and just started to cry. This man, this "scary" man,
was so gentle, so sweet, so humble.

I smiled through my tears and said "Don't say anything."
Then I noticed the tattoo on his neck. It said "Mama tried."

As we all piled into the van and drove away, he was on his
knees, arms around his dog, kissing his nose and smiling.
I waved cheerfully and then fully broke down in tears.

I have so much. My worries seem so trivial and petty now.
I have a home, a loving husband, four beautiful children.
I have a bed. I wondered where he would sleep tonight.
My step-daughter, Brandie turned to me and said in the
sweetest little- girl voice, "I feel so good."

Although it seemed as if we had helped him, the man with
the tattoos gave us a gift that I will never forget. He taught
that no matter what the outside looks like, inside each of
us is a human being deserving of kindness, of compassion,
of acceptance. He opened my heart.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

You are My Sunshine, My only Sunshine

Like any good mother, when Karen found out that another baby was on
the way, she did what she could to help her 3-year-old son, Michael,
prepare for a new sibling. They found out that the new baby was going be a
girl, and day after day, night after night, Michael sang to his sister in
mommy's tummy. He was building a bond of love with his little sister before
he even met her. The pregnancy progressed normally for Karen, an active
member of the Panther Creek United Methodist Church in Morristown,
Tennessee. In time, the labor pains came. Soon it was every five minutes,
every three, every minute. But serious complications arose during
delivery and Karen found herself in hours of labor.

Would a C-section be required? Finally, after a long struggle,
Michael's little sister was born. But she was in very serious condition.
With a siren howling in the night, the ambulance rushed the infant to the
neonatal intensive care unit at St. Mary's Hospital, Knoxville, Tennessee.
The days inched by. The little girl got worse. The pediatrician had to tell
the parents there is very little hope. Be prepared for the worst. Karen
and her husband contacted a local cemetery about a burial plot. They had
fixed up a special room in their house for their new baby but now they
found themselves having to plan for a funeral. Michael, however, kept
begging his parents to let him see his sister. "I want to sing to her", he
kept saying. Week two in intensive care looked as if a funeral would come
before the week was over. Michael kept nagging about singing to his sister,
but kids are never allowed in Intensive Care. Karen decided to take Michael
whether they liked it or not. If he didn't see his sister right then, he
may never see her alive. She dressed him in an oversized scrub suit and
marched him into ICU. He looked like a walking laundry basket. The head
nurse recognized him as a child and bellowed, "Get that kid out of here
now. No children are allowed." The mother rose up strong in Karen, and the
usually mild-mannered lady glared steel-eyed right into the head nurse's
face, her lips a firm line.

"He is not leaving until he sings to his sister" she stated. Then Karen
towed Michael to his sister's bedside. He gazed at the tiny infant losing
the battle to live. After a moment, he began to sing. In the pure-hearted
voice of a 3-year-old, Michael sang: "You are my sunshine, my only
sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray." Instantly the baby girl
seemed to respond. The pulse rate began to calm down and become steady.
"Keep on singing, Michael," encouraged Karen with tears in her eyes. "You
never know, dear, how much I love you, please don't take my sunshine away."
As Michael sang to his sister, the baby's ragged, strained breathing became
as smooth as a kitten's purr. "Keep on singing, sweetheart." "The other
night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms". Michael's
little sister began to relax as rest, healing rest, seemed to sweep over
her. "Keep on singing, Michael." Tears had now conquered the face of the
bossy head nurse. Karen glowed. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Please don't take my sunshine away..." The next, day...the very next
day...the little girl was well enough to go home.

Woman's Day Magazine called it The Miracle of a Brother's Song. The medical
staff just called it a miracle. Karen called it a miracle of God's love.
NEVER GIVE UP ON THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE. LOVE IS SO INCREDIBLY POWERFUL. Life
is good. Have a Wonderful Day!


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

The Stock Boy And Check Out Girl

In a supermarket, Kurtis the stock boy, was
busily working when a new voice came over
the asking for a carry out at check register 4.
Kurtis was almost finished, and wanted to get
some fresh air, and decided to answer the call.
As he approached the check-out stand a distant
smile caught his eye, the new check out girl was
beautiful. She was an older woman (maybe 26,
and he was only 22) and he fell in love.

Later that day, after his shift was over, he waited
by the punch clock to find out her name. She came
into the break room, smiled softly at him, took her
card and punched out, then left. He looked at her
card, BRENDA. He walked out only to see her start
walking up the road.

Next day, he waited outside as she left the
supermarket, and offered her a ride home. He looked
harmless enough, and she accepted. When he
dropped her off, he asked if maybe he could see her
again, outside of work. She simply said it wasn't
possible. He pressed and she explained she had
two children and she couldn't afford a baby-sitter,
so he offered to pay for the baby-sitter. Reluctantly
she accepted his offer for a date for the following
Saturday.

That Saturday night he arrived at her door only to have
her tell him that she was unable to go with him. The
baby-sitter had called and canceled. To which Kurtis
simply said, "Well, lets take the kids with us." She tried
to explain that taking the children was not an option, but
again not taking no for an answer, he pressed.

Finally Brenda, brought him inside to meet her children.
She had a older daughter who was just as cute as a
bug, Kurtis thought, then Brenda brought out her son,
in a wheelchair. He was born a paraplegic with Down
syndrome. Kurtis asked Brenda, "I still don't understand
why the kids can't come with us?"

Brenda was amazed. Most men would run away from
a woman with two kids, especially if one had disabilities.
Just like her first husband and father of her children did.

That evening Kurtis and Brenda loaded up the kids, went
to dinner and the movies. When her son needed anything
Kurtis would take care of him. When he needed to us the
rest room, he picked him up out of his chair, took him,
brought him back. The kids loved Kurtis. At the end of the
evening, Brenda knew this was the man she was going
to marry and spend the rest of her life with. A year later,
they were married and Kurtis adopted both of her children.
Since then they have added two more kids.

So what happened to the stock boy and check out girl?
Well, Mr. & Mrs. Kurt Warner, now live in St. Louis, where
he is employed by the St.Louis Rams and plays quarterback.
And he was in the Super Bowl.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

MY DADDY'S HANDS
By Diane Adams

"Hold my hand, son."
I stubbornly refused, knowing full well I could do it all by myself.
But Daddy knew the dangers of a little boy crossing the road
alone and firmly took my hand and we, together, crossed safely
over.

Daddy's hands were always ready to help. Help fix my broken toys,
help to teach me how to throw a ball, help show God's Love to his
fellow man, help to keep me always on the straight and narrow.

There was a time (I shudder to think of it now) I did not want
Dad's hands or Dad's help. I was a "man" of seventeen and I
mistakenly thought I could do it all -- by myself.
But Dad, in his God-given wisdom, knew all I needed was my
Daddy's hand on my shoulder and his godly example to lead
the way.

Tomorrow my son and I are going to see Dad.
He's not been too good lately, since Mom passed on.
I want to show my son my Daddy's hands and tell him stories
of where they've been and what they've done and what great
power is in Daddy's hands. I want to touch Dad with a grateful soul.
I want to say, "Daddy, hold our hands."


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

A BOY AND HIS DAD

To get his good-night kiss he stood
Beside my chair one night
And raised an eager face to me,
A face with love alight.

And as I gathered in my arms
The son God gave to me,
I thanked the lad for being good,
and hoped he'd always be.

His little arms crept `round my neck
And then I heard him say
Four simple words I can't forget...
Four words that made me pray.

They turned a mirror on my soul,
On secrets no one knew,
They startled me, I hear them yet;
He said... "I wanna be like you".

Author Unknown

------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

STEP-FATHER

Can a man’s love be completely true
When he knows he’s not the one
Who gave life to his wife’s child?
This wasn’t his “real” son.

He'd planned to marry a virgin bride.
His plans had been undone.
She was pregnant, and not with his child.
This wasn't his “real” son.

The man would teach him to read and write
To work and play and run.
But he wasn’t the boy’s "real" dad.
This wasn’t his “real” son.

A “stepfather” is what he’d always be
Once the boy’s life had begun,
But he chose to love him as his own.
Remember....Jesus wasn’t Joseph’s son.

Author Unknown



------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

And to round off this triple Father's Day (belated) salute... for that very special man.....the one who has lost his
child but will always be a Father...

That fateful morning we said goodbye,
I never dreamed that you would die.
You are my child, my son, my friend,
I never thought our time would end.

I would have held you close to me,
Had I but known what was to be.
The anguish of my broken heart,
The knowledge that we must part.

Seeing you lying there, so quiet and still,
I thought to exercise my will and call you back,
to keep you near,
It was not to be, that much was clear.

Your soul had flown to God above,
Who holds you close in His true love.
Those of us left here below,
Must turn you loose and let you go.

By James G. Dean


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

THE LAST GOODBYE

Author Unknown

We had just finished our dinner and I had gone into the den
and turned on the TV. She walked in and kissed me on the
cheek like a million times before and she said "Honey I know
it is late but if you don't mind, my shopping's gotten a little
behind, so I think I'll drive downtown to the grocery store."

Well, I didn't look up, just nodded okay and asked her to hand
me a clean ashtray, and when she did I reached over and
squeezed her hand and then she left me sitting in my comfy old
chair. I shuttered a minute at the thought of my world without her
in it. I reassuringly sought the touch of my wedding band.

Well, I must have been dozing because I didn't hear the door.
Now I thought, "That's strange. I'd never done that before."
I looked up and she was standing by my chair. "Kinda snuck
in on me," I said. She smiled and nodded her head and I told
her she looked just like an angel standing there.

For a long moment she didn't say a thing then she caressed
her gold wedding ring. I thought I saw a teardrop in her eye.
"Honey, you'll never know how much I love you," she said softly
but didn't cry. And I thought of the many years we'd been wed
as I told her no one could be as happy as I.

Then, the strangest feeling filled the room, not one of happiness
but of gloom and for the first time in my life I saw sadness in her
face. I reached out to touch her and she drew away and she told
me again that ours was a love that time could never erase.

Suddenly I thought I heard a thousand voices singing, but then
I realized that it was the telephone ringing. That's when I saw
the halo surrounding her pretty golden hair.

I turned, trembling, to the receiver and heard a cold voice say
that there had been a wreck out on the old highway and I knew
that when I looked back she wouldn't be there.

Because it had been an angel's way of saying with the softness
of a prayer, a last goodbye.


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)

[SleepyHead]

SHE KNEW

By Bobbi Hahn

Soon after my husband and I moved with our three young
sons to a small Ohio town, one of God's most precious
creatures found her way to us.

She was a shiny black Labrador Retriever, perfect in every
way, except for the absence of a tail. She was beautifully
trained and, since her coat and footpads showed no signs
of wear or hard living, I assumed she'd just recently gotten
away from her owner.

I advertised in every local paper, and checked with all the vets
in the area, for surely someone was grieving her loss! I leashed
her and took her for long walks, hoping she'd find her way home.
The only thing she found was the scent of a few rabbits that had
earlier crossed our path!

When it became clear that we weren't going to find her owner,
my boys began the delicate process of choosing her name.
After much deliberation, it was selected -- Pooch. I thought
such a sleek, elegant canine deserved a more suitable name,
but I was resoundingly outvoted.

Since she was a stray, our vet had no way of determining if
she'd been born without a tail, lost it in an accident, or had it
surgically removed,nor would she say.

When Pooch found us, she was young, although not quite a
puppy. As my boys grew, she matured along with them. She
played ball, absorbed their tears, kept them warm, and tolerated
the gradual addition of three cats to the household.

She saved also our lives. One day, while my husband was at
work, my sons and I went upstairs to take naps. Pooch usually
joined us, being careful to share herself equally between my bed
and the boys'. But on this day, she wouldn't settle down, and
persisted in jumping on my bed, head-butting me, and pushing
her cold nose forcefully into my hand. When I didn't get up, she
began barking. Not wanting her to awaken the boys, I followed
her downstairs, as she seemed to want me to do. In the kitchen,
I found the pilot light on our ancient stove had gone out, slowly
filling the house with deadly gas!

She never understood that she was a seventy-five pound dog.
When a cat sat on the deep windowsills of our big old Victorian
house, Pooch tried to do the same. When a cat dozed on the
arm of the sofa, Pooch attempted to do likewise, with predictable
(and hilarious) results. I tried not to let her see me laugh, for she
had great dignity and would have been humiliated.

Years passed, and our sons graduated from high school, went
on to college out of state, and moved on with their lives. Pooch
remained with me, my faithful companion and steadfast provider
of vast quantities of unconditional love.

Gradually, she began having difficulty walking, and her eyesight
began to fade. Over time, the vet and I had frequent talks, constantly
re-evaluating her condition because we wanted her to live as long
as possible, yet not to suffer or be in pain.

Eventually, when she was fifteen, the time came for the vet and
me to have the talk that no pet owner ever wants to experience,
about a decision no pet lover ever wants to make.

I went home and brought each of the cats to her to say their
goodbyes. I curled up next to her and had a long talk with her.
I thanked her for all the joy she had brought to us, for being a
hero and saving our lives, and I told her how very much we
loved her. Between sobs, I said, "I really don't want to have
to do this."

I wrapped her in her favorite blanket and we got into the back
seat of a friend's car for our last ride together. I talked to her
all the way, petting her beautiful, regal head and hugging her
tight against me.

I know the exact moment that her spirit left her body with a sigh.

I carried her into the vet's office and said, "She's already gone."

The vet put a stethoscope to her chest and confirmed what I
already knew.

The vet told me, "She knew you didn't want to have to do this,
so she made it easy for you... she always was a good dog."


------------------
http://www.beatlelinks.net/ubb/smilies/sleep2.gif
In Memory Of Robby (http://inmemoryofrobby.50megs.com)
Our Lady's Psalter (http://ourladyspsalter.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Beatlemaniac Page (http://bearkat77.www9.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to John Lennon (http://bearkatjl.50megs.com)
Bearkat77's Tribute to Ringo Starr (http://bearkatrs.50megs.com)