*******************************************************************A smile costs nothing, but gives much-
It takes but a moment, but the memory of it usually lasts forever.
None are so rich that can get along without it-
And none are so poor but that can be made rich by it.
It enriches those who receive, without making poor those who give-
It creates sunshine in the home,
Fosters good will in business,
And is the best antidote for trouble-
And yet it cannot be begged, borrowed, or stolen, for it is of no value
Unless it is given away.
Some people are too busy to give you a smile-
Give them one of yours-
For the good Lord knows that no one needs a smile so badly
As he or she who has no more smiles left to give.
Sorry for not posting for a bit. PSU burned up! Yea, it was actually smoking and smelly!
===================
The Thing I Value Most
It had been some time since Jack had seen the old man. College, girls, career and life itself got in the way. In fact, Jack moved clear across the country in pursuit of his dreams. There, in the rush of his busy life, Jack had little time to think about the past and often no time to spend with his wife and son. He was working on his future, and nothing could stop him.
Over the phone, his mother told him, "Mr. Belser died last night. The funeral is Wednesday." Memories flashed through his mind like an old newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days.
"Jack, did you hear me"?
"Oh, sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you. It's been so long since I thought of him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said.
"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing. He'd reminisce about the many days you spent over 'his side of the fence' as he put it," his Mom told him.
"I loved that old house he lived in," Jack said.
"You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr. Belser stepped in to make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.
"He's the one who taught me carpentry," he said. "I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he thought were important. Mom, I'll be there for the funeral," Jack said.
As busy as he was, he kept his word. Jack caught the next flight to his hometown.
Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no children of his own and most of his relatives had passed away.
The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mom stopped by to see the old house next door one more time.
Standing in the doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time.
The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories. Every picture, every piece of furniture. Jack stopped suddenly.
"What's wrong, Jack"? his Mom asked.
"The box is gone," he said.
"What box"? Mom asked.
"There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever tell me was 'the thing I value most,'" Jack said.
It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how Jack remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the Belser family had taken it.
"Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said. "I better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mom."
It had been about two weeks since Mr. Belser died. Returning home from work one day, Jack discovered a note in his mailbox. "Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post office within the next three days," the note read.
Early the next day Jack retrieved the package.
The small box was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention.
"Mr. Harold Belser," it read.
Jack took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an envelope.
Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside.
"Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Jack Bennett. It's the thing I valued most in my life." A small key was taped to the letter.
His heart racing, tears filling his eyes, Jack carefully unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch. Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover.
Inside he found these words engraved: "Jack, thanks for your time! Harold Belser."
"The thing he valued most was my time."
Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days.
I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult. I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an 8 year-old again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think that it's a four star restaurant.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make a sidewalk with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms are better than money because you can eat them.
I want to lie under a big oak tree and run a lemonade stand with my friends on a hot summer's day.
I want to return to a time when life was simple. When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables, and nursery rhymes, but that didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know and you didn't care. All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all the things that should make you worried or upset.
I want to think the world is fair. That everyone is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again.
I want to live simple again. I don't want my day to consist of computer crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news, how to survive more days in the month than there is money in the bank, doctor bills, gossip, illness, and loss of loved ones.
I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination, mankind, and making angels in the snow.
So, here's my checkbook and my car-keys, my credit card bills and my 401K statements. I am officially resigning from adulthood. And if you want to discuss this further, you'll have to catch me first, cause... "Tag! You're it."
The moment he reached his little paw through the cage bars at the humane society, I was a goner. I wasn't looking for another cat - I already had two - but was just stopping by to give the animals some attention. When the shelter volunteer, apparently knowing a sucker when she saw one, asked if I would like to hold him, there was no longer any doubt. He came home with me that day.
He was a gorgeous cat, a five-month-old blue-point Siamese with eyes like blue laser beams: thus, his name. Right from the beginning, it was obvious that Laser was an exceptional cat. He loved everyone - the other cats, visitors to the house, even the dog who later joined the household.
I first heard about animal-assisted therapy several months after we adopted Laser. While most of what I heard was about dogs, it occurred to me that Laser would be perfect for this type of work. I signed up for the training class, and, after completing the preliminary requirements, Laser and I passed the test to become registered Delta Society Pet Partners.
While he had always been a little lovebug at home, Laser found his true calling when we began to go on visits. Whether it was with sick kids at the children's hospital, seniors with Alzheimer's disease, or teens in a psychiatric unit, Laser always knew just what to do. He curled up on laps or beside bed-bound patients and happily snuggled close. He never tried to get up until I moved him to the next person. People often commented that they'd never seen a cat so calm and friendly. Even people who didn't like cats liked him!
One young man, who had been badly burned in a fire, smiled for the first time since his accident when Laser nestled under his lap blanket. A little boy, tired and lethargic from terminal leukemia, rallied to smile, hug Laser and kiss his head, and then talked endlessly about Laser after the visits. Several geriatric patients with dementia, who were agitated and uncommunicative prior to Laser's appearance, calmed down and became talkative with each other and the staff after a visit from my therapeutic feline partner. It has been our hospice visits, though, that I consider the most challenging and rewarding of all our Pet Partner experiences.
One day, I got a phone call telling me about a hospice patient at a nearby nursing home who had requested a visit by a cat. At the time, only one cat – Laser - actively participated in the local program. Even so, my first inclination was to make some excuse not to do it. I have always had issues with death and dying, and a hard time talking about it to anyone, but I quickly realized how selfish I was being - the poor woman was dying, and all she asked was that I bring my cat to visit. I said yes.
A few days later, we made our first visit. Mrs. P. was ninety-one years old, and although her body was weak, her mind was still very sharp. It was a little awkward at first (what do you say to a perfect stranger who knows she's dying?), but Laser was a great conversation catalyst. He crawled into bed with her and curled up right next to her hip - exactly where her hand could rest on his back. She told me stories about the cat she and her husband had years ago.
"See you next week," she said as we got up to leave.
We visited every Sunday during the three months that followed, and a real friendship developed between us. Mrs. P. would excitedly exclaim, "Laser!" every time we appeared at her door and "See you next week!" every time we left. She had been gradually getting weaker, but, one week when we arrived to see her, I was distressed to see that her condition had deteriorated significantly. Still, she smiled and said, "Laser!" when we walked into the room.
She complained of being cold, even though the room was warm, and when Laser cuddled up close to her, she said, "Oh, he's so warm - it feels so good." We had a nice visit, even though Mrs. P. wasn't feeling very well. Her hand never left Laser's back. As we left, she said her usual, "See you next week," and I hoped that was true.
The next Saturday, a phone call informed me that Mrs. P. was going downhill rapidly, and that she probably wouldn't live more than another few days. I asked if we should still come for our visit, and the nurse told me that she thought that would be wonderful.
When we arrived, it was obvious that Mrs. P. was dying. She was fading in and out of consciousness, but when she noticed that Laser and I were beside her bed, she smiled and whispered, "Laser."
She was having a very hard time breathing, so I told her not to try to talk; we would just sit quietly and keep her company. Laser took his spot on the bed next to her hip, and Mrs. P. rested her hand on his soft back. Neither of them moved from that position for the entire length of our visit. This time, when we got up to leave, Mrs. P. whispered, "Thank you." She knew that there would be no "next week" for us.
A couple of days later, I got the phone call telling me that Mrs. P. had died. I was sad - our weekly visits had been so wonderful - but I was glad that she was no longer in pain. I remembered how I had considered declining to make the hospice visits and was so grateful that I had not.
In our seventh year as a Pet Partner team, Laser and I still make visits to several facilities. Laser, the little cat that nobody wanted, is as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside, and he continues to brighten the lives of everyone he meets.
New York cabdrivers are legendary. Countless jokes have been made at their expense about the way they zip through traffic, narrowly missing other cars and fixed objects, coming within inches of any pedestrian foolish enough to think he can make it on a flashing "don't walk" sign. And anyone who has ever been a passenger knows that wrenching feeling of speeding up to go one short block then stopping short to avoid a car stopped ahead. Somehow, cabbies never seem able to remember the adage that you can only go as fast as the guy in front of you. And no New Yorker is ever surprised when a cabbie leans his head out the window of his taxi and offers some important comment on another's driving ability or indeed on his personal attributes or lineage!
But three months after September 11, when I spent a week in New York City, the cab rides I took were slow, the cabbies quiet, subdued. I asked a few of them where they were and what they did on September 11. One driver didn't want to talk about it; then he did. In fact, he had so much to say that when we reached my destination, he put up the meter and I just sat there listening.
"Traffic came to a complete stop that day. No busses or cabs or cars could go anywhere. Which is just as well because it was a hell and no one knew where to go to be safe. I was at midtown, stopped in traffic, and I had a fare when the first plane hit. We heard it first, then saw it. Both of us thought it was an accident. Who knew . . . ?
"But then the second plane hit. I dropped my fare and got out of my cab. By then there were so many sirens and emergency vehicles headed south, you couldn't move. So, like everybody else, I watched from the sidewalk. Then . . . then they started to come down! It had been a beautiful sunny day but the air changed in a minute. Suddenly it was black and gray and you couldn't breathe. I turned my cab around to head north. People banged on my window. I told them to get in and we just drove away from it. I don't remember where I left them off.
"Someone flagged me down - stood right in front of my cab. He flashed an ID. He was a doctor and he wanted me to take him to NYU Med center. I did. There was a line of cabs at the hospital. The police wouldn't let us leave. So we all went in and gave blood. Later, the only vehicles allowed out were ambulances. I said, 'I'm a good driver. Let me help.' They put me on an ambulance with another driver. We started taking supplies down to NYU Medical Center downtown.
"Later that day, I got my cab and drove around. There were people all over, just walking dazed and crying. I couldn't do anything for them except give them a ride so I did. Many of them were going from hospital to hospital trying to find a family member who had worked in the WTC. I took one group - a father, mother and two sisters - to five different hospitals. At the last place, I left them because there was someone who fit the description of their loved one. I never found out if it was him. . . ."
I tried to take notes the whole time the man was talking but I couldn't write fast enough. So I just listened. I know I got the whole story. It wasn't one I could forget.
Another cabbie told me how he spent his time trying to take people home. "They were walking, walking anywhere - across bridges, in the middle of the streets. People were leaning on each other. I stopped and took an elderly man and the person he was leaning on to the Upper East Side. They looked like walking dead. . . . We picked up some others along the way. One lady said she had to stop to tell her son that she was okay. Her phone wouldn't work so we stopped at his office around Fiftieth Street. He was outside, just staring south. When he saw his mother, he started crying. The lady decided to stay with him. So I looked for some more people to take."
I had heard that in the hours and days that followed, New York came to a standstill. There was no public transportation available for days. But every one of the cab drivers I spoke with was busy in those hours - taking people home, carrying medical supplies, and transporting emergency personnel. Whatever any of these able-bodied people could do with or without their cabs, they did. They found ways to help. Of course I didn't have to ask if they ever let the meter run during any of those trips. They would have been insulted if I had.
The cabdrivers of New York City are a microcosm of society. They are black, white, Indian, Muslim, Hispanic - every race, creed and color imaginable. They go about their day like most people, earning a living, getting the job done. For the most part, they are ordinary people. And ordinary people find ways to do extraordinary things when called upon. A lot of people did a lot to help others that day. They used what skills they possessed to save lives, give hope, help others. Those skills included being able to perform emergency surgery and being able to drive a cab. Each was needed and important in the aftermath of the horror of September 11.
It's absolutely true what they say about New York cabdrivers - they are legendary.
Through misted eyes I gazed at my little son as if for the first time - and perhaps for the last time. He lay sedated, fighting for his life, with two holes in his heart and pneumonia. Doctors questioned whether my two-month-old baby with Down's syndrome would live.
I wanted to remember what it felt like to be his mother. I wanted to savor my inability to distinguish where my flesh ended and his began. As I softly pressed my cheek against his, our connection calmed my fears. I wanted to remember the wisp of curls that twirled behind his ears, and the feeling of life fulfilled when his almond-shaped eyes drifted to look into mine. Mostly, I wanted to remember the inexplicable warmth that filled my heart when I held him.
I had dreamed of days when we might build sand castles at the beach together; when Eric would swing so high in the park that he'd feel like he was flying; when he would play catch with his daddy and cuddle with me. I begged the doctors to keep him alive. I pleaded with the nurses to feed him more. And I prayed to a God that I didn't know well to let me keep my baby.
After one special conversation with my husband, Bob, I came to realize that Eric's soul would choose whether to stay with us or let his body go. We stood on either side of his cold metal hospital crib and told him we would stay with him, love him and nurture him if he chose to stay with us. My mind trusted whatever his soul chose, but my heart ached with the hope that he would choose to stay.
Meanwhile, desperate to remember what it was like to hold my baby when it might last only these two precious months - to remember every moment - I decided to write it all down so I could never forget anything. From that moment of resolve, words flooded my thoughts. I formulated chapters in my mind between conversations; phrases appeared as I slipped off to sleep; and whole pages might appear to me upon waking, while driving or at Eric's bedside.
During his second week on life support, I strode into the hospital, past the reception desk to the bank of elevators, all the while transmuting emotions into words, mixing hopes and prayers. I stood before the elevator doors and stared up at numbers blinking all too slowly - 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . - until the soft bell rang and the doors parted to reveal smiling grandparents, nurses and orderlies from the pediatric ward. They passed within a few feet of me, but we were worlds apart. I entered and leaned against the cold wall, returning to my sanctuary of words as the elevator rose, and then I walked slowly down the long hallway to the children's ward.
Before Bob arrived, I whispered to my baby about plans for our book; it would be our secret. Then I remembered that I don't keep secrets, especially when opening up is essential, so I told my husband and some close friends as we gathered near Eric. I began writing that very evening at my kitchen table, occasionally turning to gaze upon the empty cradle in the living room, a reminder of my baby still in the hospital. It felt like a part of me had been pulled away.
Eric triumphed through those six weeks of life support, but over the next two years, he had numerous bouts of pneumonia, respiratory viruses and digestive problems. He was dependent on a breathing tank for his oxygen. We always knew where our little guy crawled to by following the fifty-foot oxygen tube that trailed from the breathing tank at the end of the hall, wound around the kitchen table and into the living room, and ended attached to Eric's face, allowing the prongs to let purified air flow into his nasal passages.
When he was seventeen months old, the doctors told us it was time for Eric to have his heart repaired. They said, "He's as healthy as he can be under such conditions. If you wait much longer, it will be too late." But they couldn't guarantee that his fragile heart and weak lungs would make it through the grueling surgery.
Forty-eight hours later, I stood by his crib and gazed past the tubes and wires to his angelic face, looked down and watched as he opened his eyes and focused on me. His smile illuminated the room. I let out a cry of relief. I knew Eric was here to stay.
Through it all, the writing has carried us through the recurring life-support crises as Eric's legs dangled again and again over death's pier. I recorded every experience, every emergency and breakthrough, every painful moment and every miracle as love carried us deeper into ourselves, peeling away our resistance, teaching us to rely on faith.
Our son needed cardiologists, pediatric nurses, therapists and specialists to repair his heart; we needed Eric to repair ours. Our lives were opened up to a degree I never knew existed. In the midst of these past years, I found myself sitting at the large table in the corner room of the Unity Center, where we held our Up with Down's meetings. I sat across from a brand-new mom and dad. She held her one-month-old, blond-haired, baby with Down's syndrome protectively against her chest, while her husband wrung his hands in his lap. "We haven't told our parents yet," she said. My eyes fixed on the young father's face as she spoke. His tears never stopped.
Then it came to me that my book should not be a secret from anyone, because we have known great pain and found miraculous healing. It comes from Eric's heart and mine. After more than four years, his valiant little heart beats stronger with each passing day we are given.
Today, we can't keep our son out of the playground. It's either monkey bars or basketball, soccer or T-ball. We've since built many a sand castle together, discovered new parks and playgrounds, have taken turns reading and rereading his books - yes, he is reading now! We have pretended to be manatees in our swimming pool and have eaten too much popcorn at the circus. We have a special boy who lives a joyful life.
Eric has his heart checked once a year, but his laughter washes away my fears. When I look into his bright eyes and feel the warmth of his bear hugs, I know his loving heart is going to be just fine. And so is mine.
The American flag, fireworks, friends, picnics, chicken, hot dogs, baked beans, parades, bands and celebrations are all part of the Fourth of July. That early summer holiday, we pause to honor a time in our history with cheers, bangs, pops and whistles. This day was given to us by the blood and foresight of generations past, and it is full of promises that we must keep for the future. A happy day, at least for most of us.
"Hi," was my greeting to one of our midafternoon customers at the fireworks booth. "Are you looking for any particular display of fireworks"?
"Yes," came the reply of the fortyish-year-old man who stood on the other side of the wooden booth. "I need a firecracker."
This was my third year selling fireworks for the Chaparral High School Band Booster Club, and I took pride in my knowledge of these "treats" for the eyes and ears. Thanks to my son, I know what every one of these does or at least what it was designed to do.
"Would you like to see one of our packaged displays; or the ones here on the counter that can be bought separately"?
"Just one," returned the gentleman as he avoided eye contact.
"Well, let me see. We have some small fountains and some large ones. Perhaps you'd like a smoke ball or a whistler."
"Just one firecracker," persisted the man. "I want it to pop is all."
"How old is the child"? I responded as if he'd told me it was for a child, but I didn't know that. Not for sure.
"It doesn't matter," returned a voice that now became more determined with a man's resolve to find just the right firecracker.
It was clear to me that this child was special. That the Fourth of July was special. But I found it hard to believe that just one firecracker could remedy whatever it was that came between this father and child.
I smiled. "Well, here's just the thing," I said as I held up a party popper. "This makes one pop and sprinkles a little confetti."
"That won't do. It can't make a mess."
"Is this for the evening? Maybe a little fountain that sprinkles would be the best choice."
"No. Just a pop or a whistle."
The man allowed his voice to shake for the first time as he brushed the back of his hand up the side of his whiskered face and across his left eye. "I . . . I want this for my son's grave and I don't want it to make a mess in the mausoleum."
If one heart could touch another, this gentle, sad man had truly touched mine. He was right, the age didn't matter; neither did all the parades, fireworks, hot dogs or celebrations. All of the Fourths of July that had ever been or ever would be didn't matter to him or to his son. All that mattered was this man's need to give someone he'd loved and lost a shared moment of declaration.
'"This is what you want." I gulped as I held up a Whistling Pete. "It whistles quite loudly, but it's what I'd get."
"Thanks," said the unnamed man as he edged a smile at me through watery eyes. "I'll take it."
I could have just given the Whistling Pete to this lonely man, but knew that it was a gift from a father to his son. His need prevailed over my selfish desire.
"They're fifty cents."
Two quarters dropped into the palm of my hand.
The man in a chambray shirt turned his back as he approached his sun-bleached burgundy Oldsmobile. He turned his head toward me and smiled gently as he clutched one Whistling Pete up by his face. He opened the car door and was gone.
If God was anywhere on July 4, 1995, he surely had one hand on the shoulder of this father as he knelt at the crypt of his son. Before the tears and silence that so gently fell in that mausoleum, one Whistling Pete sounded loudly and boldly on that day in July, and I know that it was heard in heaven.
From the time each of my children started school, I packed their lunches. And in each lunch I packed, I included a note. Often written on a napkin, the note might be a thank you for a special moment, a reminder of something we were happily anticipating, or a bit of encouragement for an upcoming test or sporting event.
In early grade school, they loved their notes. They commented on them after school, and when I went back to teaching, they even put notes in my lunches. But as kids grow older, they become self-conscious, and by the time he reached high school, my older son, Marc, informed me he no longer needed my daily missives. Informing him that they had been written as much for me as for him, and that he no longer needed to read them, but I still needed to write them, I continued the tradition until the day he graduated.
Six years after high school graduation, Marc called and asked if he could move home for a couple of months. He had spent those years well, graduating Phi Beta Kappa magna cum laude from college, completing two congressional internships in Washington, D.C., winning the Jesse Marvin Unruh Fellowship to the California State Legislature, and finally, becoming a legislative assistant in Sacramento. Other than short vacation visits, however, he had lived away from home. With his younger sister leaving for college, I was especially thrilled to have Marc coming home.
A couple weeks after Marc arrived home to rest, regroup and write for a while, he was back at work. He had been recruited to do campaign work. Since I was still making lunch every day for his younger brother, I packed one for Marc, too. Imagine my surprise when I got a call from my 24-year-old son, complaining about his lunch.
"Did I do something wrong? Aren't I still your kid? Don't you love me any more, Mom"? were just a few of the queries he threw at me as I laughingly asked him what was wrong.
"My note, Mom," he answered. "Where's my note"?
This year, my youngest son will be a senior in high school. He, too, has now announced that he is too old for notes. But like his older brother and sister before him, he will receive those notes till the day he graduates, and in whatever lunches I pack for him afterwards.
I do a lot of management training each year for the Circle K Corporation, a national chain of convenience stores. Among the topics we address in our seminars is the retention of quality employees, a real challenge to managers when you consider the pay scale in the service industry. During these discussions, I ask the participants, "What has caused you to stay long enough to become a manager"? Some time back, a new manager took the question and slowly, with her voice almost breaking, said, "It was a $19 baseball glove."
Cynthia told the group that she originally took a Circle K clerk job as an interim position while she looked for something better. On her second or third day behind the counter, she received a phone call from her nine-year-old son, Jessie. He needed a baseball glove for Little League. She explained that as a single mother, money was very tight, and her first check would have to go for paying bills. Perhaps she could buy his baseball glove with her second or third check.
When Cynthia arrived for work the next morning, Patricia, the store manager, asked her to come to the small room in back of the store that served as an office. Cynthia wondered if she had done something wrong or left some part of her job incomplete from the day before. She was concerned and confused.
Patricia handed her a box. "I overheard you talking to your son yesterday," she said, "and I know that it is hard to explain things to kids. This is a baseball glove for Jessie, because he may not understand how important he is, even though you have to pay bills before you can buy gloves. You know we can't pay good people like you as much as we would like to, but we do care, and I want you to know you are important to us."
The thoughtfulness, empathy and love of this convenience store manager demonstrates vividly that people remember more how much an employer cares than how much the employer pays. An important lesson for the price of a Little League baseball glove.
Slow down for three minutes to read this.
A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4 to 8
year-olds, "What does love mean?"
The answers they got were broader and deeper than anyone could have
imagined. See what you think:
_____
_____
"When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her
toenails anymore.
So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got
arthritis too. That's love."
Rebecca- age 8
_____
_____
"When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different.
You just know that your name is safe in their mouth."
Billy - age 4
_____
_____
"Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and
they go out and smell each other."
Karl - age 5
_____
_____
"Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries
without making them give you any of theirs."
Chrissy - age 6
_____
_____
"Love is what makes you smile when you're tired."
Terri - age 4
_____
_____
"Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before
giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK."
Danny - age 7
_____
_____
"Love is when you kiss all the time. Then when you get tired of kissing,
you still want to be together and you talk more.
My Mommy and Daddy are like that. They look gross when they kiss"
Emily - age 8
_____
_____
"Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening
presents and listen."
Bobby - age 7 (Wow!)
_____
_____
"If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who
you hate,"
Nikka - age 6
(we need a few million more Nikka's on this planet)
_____
_____
"Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it
everyday."
Noelle - age 7
_____
_____
"Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends
even after they know each other so well."
Tommy - age 6
_____
_____
"During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at
all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling.
He was the only one doing that. I wasn't scared anymore."
Cindy - age 8
_____
_____
"My mommy loves me more than anybody .
You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night."
Clare - age 6
_____
_____
"Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken."
Elaine-age 5
_____
_____
"Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is
handsomer than Brad Pitt."
Chris - age 7
_____
_____
"Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all
day."
Mary Ann - age 4
_____
_____
"I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes
and has to go out and buy new ones."
Lauren - age 4
_____
_____
"When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars
come out of you." (what an image)
Karen - age 7
_____
_____
"You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean
it, you should say it a lot. People forget."
Jessica - age 8
_____
_____
And the final one -- Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a
contest he was asked to judge.
The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child.
The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an
elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife.
Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard,
climbed onto his lap, and just sat there.
When his Mother asked what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy
said,
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.”
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never - ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out - did the sparkling waves in glee.
A poet could not be but gay.
In such a jocund company;
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought;
For often when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Man, this is awesome... I try to remeber the days, as posted by dolphin2, of children, i want to ressign from adulthood, even though i am only 17... i want to go back to the time... im almost crying... i miss my childhood... man... i... wow... i just realized... i spend all my time waitng to be free from childhood and parents, but now know, it is the best years of our lives... it was simple... anything was possible... life was fair... im sorry... i cant write anymore
What an excellent thread! So many inspiring stories. My excerpts are just a few quotes from an old email that has probably done the rounds a few times. So if you haven't seen them before...
The positive side of life...
Living on earth is expensive, but it does include a free trip around the sun every year.
Birthdays are good for you: the more you have, the longer you live.
Some mistakes are too much fun to make only once.
Dont cry because its over, smile because it happened.
A truly happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery on a detour.
You may be only one person in the world, but you may also be the world to one person.
Have an awesome day, and know that someone who thinks you're great has thought about you today.
"Stars are made for wishing on"
My very best friend told me
So I gazed upon an October night's sky
And I picked the brightest star I could see
I named my star Karen
A very special name
Now that this star had a title
She was all mine to claim
I thought about what I wanted
Something that I could wish for
But as I thought about my wish I realized
Into this process should go much more
Karen should know my thoughts
Behind each and every wish
So before I made my wish that night
I told to Karen this
I could wish for money
Because my family is very poor
However to be rich, money is not a necessity
A person needs so very much more
I could wish for that special boy to like me
And say those three little words
But love is a much more sacred link
That comes on a path with thousands of curves
I could wish to be famous
To be someone other than myself
But self worth is measured by much more than
Having the most trophies on your shelf
Instead I want to be rich in spirit
Sound in soul and mind
I wish that when I see the pot at the end of the rainbow
Character is what I will find
Instead I wish for understanding
And courage in matters of love
I pray I'll meet the special someone
And through tough times we will rise above
Most of all I wish for the ability to know and like
Who I am and what I have become to be
And I ask that you help me realize
That I am special even if that's not what I always see
I thanked Karen for listening to
My wishes and my dreams
And there she is shinning bright
No matter how dark it seems
Karen listens to all I say
Even though she live in a world so far
But no matter where either of us end up living
She will always be my wishing star
Six FREE things you can do with this po
"Stars are made for wishing on"
My very best friend told me
So I gazed upon an October night's sky
And I picked the brightest star I could see
I named my star Karen
A very special name
Now that this star had a title
She was all mine to claim
I thought about what I wanted
Something that I could wish for
But as I thought about my wish I realized
Into this process should go much more
Karen should know my thoughts
Behind each and every wish
So before I made my wish that night
I told to Karen this
I could wish for money
Because my family is very poor
However to be rich, money is not a necessity
A person needs so very much more
I could wish for that special boy to like me
And say those three little words
But love is a much more sacred link
That comes on a path with thousands of curves
I could wish to be famous
To be someone other than myself
But self worth is measured by much more than
Having the most trophies on your shelf
Instead I want to be rich in spirit
Sound in soul and mind
I wish that when I see the pot at the end of the rainbow
Character is what I will find
Instead I wish for understanding
And courage in matters of love
I pray I'll meet the special someone
And through tough times we will rise above
Most of all I wish for the ability to know and like
Who I am and what I have become to be
And I ask that you help me realize
That I am special even if that's not what I always see
I thanked Karen for listening to
My wishes and my dreams
And there she is shinning bright
No matter how dark it seems
Karen listens to all I say
Even though she live in a world so far
But no matter where either of us end up living
She will always be my wishing star
