Inspiration

Renewal transforms all of life.   These inspiring e-mail messages we received can touch and transform lives.

The Son

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art.

When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son.

About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door.
A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about
you, and your love for art." The young man held out this package. "I know
this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this."

The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. "Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift."

The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.

The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection.

On the platform sat the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel "We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?"

There was silence. Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, "We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one"

But the auctioneer persisted. "Will somebody bid for this painting. Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?"

Another voice angrily. "We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Goghs, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids!"

But still the auctioneer continued. "The son! The son! Who'll take the son?"

Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son. "I'll give $10 for the painting." Being a poor man, it was all he could afford.

"We have $10, who will bid $20?"

"Give it to him for $10. Let's see the masters."

"$10 is the bid, won't someone bid $20?"

The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son.
They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections.

The auctioneer pounded the gavel. "Going once, twice, SOLD for $10.!"

A man sitting on the second row shouted, "Now let's get on with the collection!"

The auctioneer laid down his gavel. "I'm sorry, the auction is over."

"What about the paintings?"

"I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings.

The man who took the son gets everything!"


God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is: "The son, the son, who'll take the son?"
Because, you see, whoever takes the Son gets everything.

FOR GOD SO LOVED THE WORLD HE GAVE
HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON, THAT WHOSOEVER BELIEVES IN HIM SHOULD NOT PERISH BUT HAVE EVERLASTING LIFE.
 

You are My 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 labour 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 labour.   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 paediatrician 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. “ Karen begged.  “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.

Special Olympics

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 the relish to run the race to the finish and win.

All, that is, except one boy who stumbled, tumbled over a couple of times, and began to cry.  The other eight heard the boy cry.  They slowed down and paused.  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 10 minutes.

Source:   Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen, A third Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul (Deerfield Beach, FL: Health Communications, Inc. 1996. p.70)

Everything we do is important

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 protégé 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 endeavour.  As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and basic rhythm needed to excel.  But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some elementary 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 mother 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 all right.

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 eggbeater 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 he 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 people 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.  Robby was killed in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P. Murray Federal Building in Oklahoma City in April of 1995.

No, I’ve never had a protégé but that night I became a protégé 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.

Friends

One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class walking home from school.  His name was Kyle. It looked like he was carrying all of his books.  I thought to myself, “Why would anyone bring home all his books on a Friday?  He must really be a nerd.”

I had quite a weekend planned (parties and a football game with my friends Saturday afternoon), so I shrugged my shoulders and went on. 

As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him.  They ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt.  His glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him. He looked up and I saw this terrible sadness in his eyes.

My heart went out to him. So, I jogged over to him as he crawled around looking for his glasses, and I saw a tear in his eye.  As I handed him his glasses, I said, “Those guys are jerks.  They really should get lives.”  He looked at me and said, “Hey thanks!” There was a big smile on his face.  It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude.

I helped him pick up his books, and asked him where he lived.  As it turned out, he lived near me, so I asked him why I had never seen him before.  He said he had gone to private school before now.

I would have never hung out with a private school kid before.  We talked all the way home, and I carried some of his books. He turned out to be a pretty cool kid.  I asked him if he wanted to play a little football with my friends.  He said yes.  We hung out all weekend and the more I got to know Kyle, the more I liked him, and my friends thought the same of him.

Monday morning came, and there was Kyle with the huge stack of books again.  I stopped him and said, “Boy, you are gonna really build some serious muscles with this pile of books everyday!”   He just laughed and handed me half the books.

Over the next four years, Kyle and I became best friends.  When we were seniors, we began to think about college.  Kyle decided on Georgetown, and I was going to Duke.  I knew that we would always be friends, that the miles would never be a problem.  He was going to be a doctor, and I was going for business on a football scholarship.

Kyle was valedictorian of our class.  I teased him all the time about being a nerd.  He had to prepare a speech for graduation.  I was so glad it wasn’t me having to get up there and speak.

Graduation day, I saw Kyle.  He looked great.  He was one of those guys that really found himself during high school.  He filled out and actually looked good in glasses.  He had more dates than I had and all the girls loved him.  Boy, sometimes I was jealous.

Today was one of those days.  I could see that he was nervous about his speech.  So, I smacked him on the back and said, “Hey, big guy, you’ll be great!”  He looked at me with one of those looks (the really grateful one) and smiled.  “Thanks,” he said.

As he started his speech, he cleared his throat, and began.  “Graduation is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years.  Your parents, your teachers, your siblings, maybe a coach ... but mostly your friends.  I am here to tell all of you that being a friend to someone is the best gift you can give them.  I am going to tell you a story.”

I just looked at my friend with disbelief as he told the story of the first day we met.  He had planned to kill himself over the weekend.  He talked of how he had cleaned out his locker so his Mom wouldn’t have to do it later and was carrying his stuff home.  He looked hard at me and gave me a little smile. 

“Thankfully, I was saved. My friend saved me from doing the unspeakable.”

I heard the gasp go through the crowd as this handsome, popular boy told us all about his weakest moment.  I saw his Mom and dad looking at me and smiling that same grateful smile.  Not until that moment did I realize its depth.

Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture you can change a person’s life.  For better or for worse.  God puts us all in each other’s lives to impact one another in some way.  Look for God in others.

“Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.”

Yesterday is history.  Tomorrow is mystery.  Today is a gift.

Farmer Fleming  

His name was Fleming, and he was a poor Scottish farmer.  One day, while trying to make a living for his family, he heard a cry for help coming from a nearby bog.  He dropped his tools and ran to the bog.  There, mired to his waist in black muck, was a terrified boy, screaming and struggling to free himself. 

Farmer Fleming saved the lad from what could have been a slow and  terrifying death.  The next day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman’s sparse surroundings.  An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.

“I want to repay you,” said the nobleman. “You saved my son’s life.” 

“No, I can’t accept payment for what I did,” the Scottish farmer replied, waving  off the offer.  At that moment, the farmer’s own son came to the door of the family  hovel.  “Is that your son?” the nobleman asked.  “Yes,” the farmer replied proudly. 

“I’ll make you a deal. Let me provide him with the level of education my son will enjoy.  If the lad is anything like his father, he’ll no doubt grow to be a man we both will be proud of.”

 And that he did.  Farmer Fleming’s son attended the very best schools and in time, he graduated from St. Mary’s Hospital Medical School in London, and went on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of Penicillin.

 Years afterward, the same nobleman’s son who was saved from the bog was stricken with pneumonia.  What saved his life this time?   Penicillin.

The name of the nobleman?  Lord Randolph Churchill.  His son’s name?  Sir Winston Churchill.

 Someone once said: What goes around comes around. 

Work like you don’t need the money.  Love like you’ve never been hurt.  Dance like nobody’s watching.  Sing like nobody’s listening.  Live like it’s Heaven on Earth.

Red Marbles

During the waning years of the depression in a small southeastern Idaho community, I used to stop by Mr. 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 Mr. Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising 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 pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes.

Pondering the peas, I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation between Mr. 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 marble 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 marble.”

“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 Colorado 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 Mr. 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 nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts ... very professional looking. 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. “Those three young men, who 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 colour 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, exquisitely shined, red marbles.
 
We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds. Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.
 

Surprise Hidden in Plain Sight

For more than twenty-five years, Dr. Thomas Shipp was pastor of a great and caring congregation that began in his living room and grew to more than eight thousand members.  Although in constant demand as a speaker, Dr. Shipp often went to small churches on preaching missions.

One Sunday evening he drove from Dallas to a small town to preach at 8:30.  Some people standing around in front of the church said, “Preacher, see that house over there (next-door to the parsonage, which was next-door to the church)?  A woman lives there with her seventeen-year-old daughter.  A man drives up at ten o’clock every night.  He leaves the next morning at two-thirty.”  They told Shipp that the girl was going to Kansas City and that everyone knew why she was going -- she was “in trouble.”  Furthermore, they implied that the man who came each night was responsible.  Shipp watched.  Sure enough, at exactly ten o’clock, a man drove up and went inside.  But he was gone in the morning.

Next day, almost everywhere Dr. Shipp went, people talked about this girl.  Shipp asked the local pastor: “Have you ever been over to see the family that lives next-door?”

The pastor protested, “Man, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that house!”

So Shipp decided he would go himself.  He introduced himself at the door, “You don’t know me; I’m Tom Shipp from Dallas, Texas.  I’m over here preaching in the church.  I understand that your daughter left town this morning.  I just wanted to come by and let you know that I was thinking of you -- this must be a difficult day for you.  I don’t even know your name, but I’m saying a prayer for you today.”

The woman broke down in tears.  When able to regain her composure, she explained, “I don’t know what I am going to do without my daughter.”   Once inside the house, Tom discovered a third person, the eighty-five-year-old grandmother.  The girl’s father had died some years back.  So the mother and daughter had come to this house to live with Grandma because Grandfather was also dead.  Then Grandmother suffered an illness that demanded round-the-clock care lest she strangle to death.  So the mother was completely confined to the house.  No one in the community saw her.  The daughter did all the shopping.

That evening, Tom arranged for a sitter for the grandmother so the mother could attend the revival meeting.  Tom introduced the woman to the congregation.  “I want you to meet your neighbour and my new friend.  This is a great night in her life.  She lives next-door to the parsonage.  Her daughter had to leave home this morning because they no longer had food to eat, and no one in this town would give the girl a job.  Therefore, the daughter had to go to another town to work and send back money for her mother’s and grandmother’s living.  Grandmother, who lives in the same house, is eighty-five years old and requires constant care.  Your
neighbour says she doesn’t know what she would do, if it weren’t for her brother who drives 120 miles every night and stays with Grandma between the hours of 10:00 P.M. and 2:30 A.M. while my friend gets four and a half hours of sleep.  The reason this night is special to her is because it’s the first time she has been back in this church since she was six years old, when her father was the founding pastor of this church.

Choices

Michael is the kind of guy who is always in a good mood and always has something positive to say.  When someone would ask him how he was doing, he would reply, “If I were any better, I would be twins!”  He was a natural motivator.  If an employee was having a bad day, Michael was there telling the employee how to look on the positive side of the situation.

Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up to Michael and asked him, “I don’t get it! You can’t be a positive person all of the time.   How do you do it?”

Michael replied, “Each morning I wake up and say to myself, you have two choices today.  You can choose to be in a good mood or ... you can choose to be in a bad mood.  I choose to be in a good mood.  Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or...I can choose to learn from it.  I choose to learn from it.  Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or... I can point out the positive side of life.  I choose the positive side of life.”

“Yeah, right, it’s not that easy,” I protested.  “Yes, it is,” Michael said.  “Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice.  You choose how you react to situations.  You choose how people affect your mood.  You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood.  The bottom line: It’s your choice how you live your life.”

I reflected on what Michael said.  Soon thereafter, I left the Tower Industry to start my own business.  We lost touch, but I often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it.

Several years later, I heard that Michael was involved in a serious accident, falling some 60 feet from a communications tower.  After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, Michael was released from the hospital with rods placed in his back.

I saw Michael about six months after the accident.  When I asked him how he was, he replied. “If I were any better, I’d be twins.  Wanna see my scars?”

I declined to see his wounds, but I did ask him what had gone through his mind as the accident took place.

“The first thing that went through my mind was the well-being of my soon to be born daughter,” Michael replied. “Then, as I lay on the ground, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live or... I could choose to die.  I chose to live.”

“Weren’t you scared?  Did you lose consciousness?” I asked.

Michael continued, “... the paramedics were great.  They kept telling me I was going to be fine.  But when they wheeled me into the ER and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared.  In their eyes, I read ‘he’s a dead man’.  I knew I needed to take action.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Well, there was a big burly nurse shouting questions at me,” said Michael. “She asked if I was allergic to anything.”

“Yes, I replied.” The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply.  I took a deep breath and yelled, “Gravity.”

Over their laughter, I told them, “I am choosing to live.  Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead.”

Michael lived, thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude.  I learned from him that every day we have the choice to live fully.  Attitude, after all, is everything.

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.  Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

After all today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday.  

Prayer PUSH

A man was sleeping at night in his cabin when suddenly his room filled with light, and God appeared.  The Lord told the man he had work for him to do, and showed him a large rock in front of his cabin.  The Lord explained that the man was to push against the rock with all his might.  So, this the man did, day after day.  For many years he toiled from sun up to sun down, his shoulders set squarely against the cold, massive surface of the unmoving rock, pushing with all of his might.  Each night the man returned to his cabin sore and worn out, feeling that his whole day had been spent in vain.

Since the man was showing discouragement, the Adversary decided to enter the picture by placing thoughts into the weary mind: “You have been pushing against that rock for a long time, and it hasn’t moved.”  Thus, he gave the man the impression that the task was impossible and that he was a failure.  These thoughts discouraged and disheartened the man.  Satan said, “Why kill yourself over this?  Just put in your time, giving just the minimum effort, and that will be good enough.”  That’s what the weary man planned to do, but decided to make it a matter of prayer and to take his troubled thoughts to the Lord.

“Lord,” he said, “I have laboured long and hard in your service, putting all my strength to do that which you have asked.  Yet, after all this time, I have not even budged that rock by half a millimetre.  What is wrong?  Why am I failing?  The Lord responded compassionately, “My friend, when I asked you to serve Me and you accepted, I told you that your task was to push against the rock with all of your strength, which you have done.  Never once did I mention to you that I expected you to move it.

Your task was to push.  And now you come to Me with your strength spent, thinking that you have failed.  But, is that really so?  Look at yourself.  Your arms are strong and muscled, your back sinewy and brown; your hands are calloused from constant pressure, your legs have become massive and hard.  Through opposition you have grown much, and your abilities now surpass that which you used to have.  True, you haven’t moved the rock.  But your calling was to be obedient and to push and to exercise your faith and trust in My wisdom.  That you have done. Now I, my friend, will move the rock.“

At times, when we hear a word from God, we tend to use our own intellect to decipher what He wants, when actually what God wants is just a simple obedience and faith in Him.  By all means, exercise the faith that moves mountains, but know that it is still God who moves the mountains.

When everything seems to go wrong ... just P.U.S.H.

When the job gets you down ... just P.U.S.H.

When people don’t react the way you think they should... just P.U.S.H.

When your money is “gone” and the bills are due... just P.U.S.H.

When people just don’t understand you ... just P.U.S.H.

P = Pray

U = Until

S = Something

H = Happens

[see Luke 11:1-13; 18:1-8]

Cracked-pots: a story from Africa

A water bearer in Africa had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole that he carried across his neck.  One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.  At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full. For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots of water to his house.

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, for which it was made.  But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.  After 2 years of what perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. “I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house”.

The bearer said to the pot, “Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?  That's because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them.  For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table.  Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house.”

Each of us has our own unique flaw. But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding. You've just got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them.  To all of my crack-pot friends, have a great day and remember to smell the flowers.

  26  One-liners

1. Give God what’s right -- not what’s left.

2. Our way leads to a hopeless end -- God’s way leads to an endless hope.

3. A lot of kneeling will keep you in good standing.

4. Those who kneel before God can stand before anyone.

5. In the sentence of life, the devil may be a comma -- but never let him be the period.

6. Don’t put a question mark where God puts a period.

7. Are you wrinkled with burdens? Come to the church for a face-lift.

8. When praying, don’t give God instructions -- just report for duty.

9. Don’t wait for six strong men to take you to church.

10. We don’t change God’s message -- His message changes us.

11. The church is prayer-conditioned.

12. When God ordains, He sustains.

13. WARNING: Exposure to the Son may prevent burning.

14. Plan ahead -- It wasn’t raining when Noah built the ark.

15. Most people want to serve God, but only in an advisory position.

16. Suffering from truth decay?  Brush up on your Bible.

17 . Read the Bible -- It will scare the hell out of you.

18. Never give the devil a ride -- he will always want to drive.

19. Nothing else ruins the truth like stretching it.

20. Compassion is difficult to give away because it keeps coming back.

21. Whoever angers you controls you.

22. Worry is the darkroom in which negatives can develop.

23. Give Satan an inch and he’ll be a ruler.

24. Be fishers of people -- you catch them and He’ll clean them.

25. God doesn’t call the qualified -- He qualifies the called.

26. Exercise daily -- walk with the Lord.

What we do in life echoes in eternity....

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