If I talk a lot about God and the Bible and the Church, but I fail to ask about your needs and then help you, I’m simply making a lot of empty religious noise.

If I graduate from theological seminary and know all the answers to questions you’ll never even think of asking, and if I have all the degrees to prove it and if I say I believe in God with all my heart, and soul and strength, and claim to have incredible answers to my prayers to show it, but I fail to take the time to find out where you’re at and what makes you laugh and why you cry, I’m nothing.

If I sell an extra car and some of my books to raise money for some poor starving kids somewhere, and if I give my life for God’s service and burn out after pouring everything I have into the work, but do it all without ever once thinking about the people, the real hurting people-the moms and dads and sons and daughters and orphans and widows and the lonely and hurting-if I pour my life into the Kingdom but forget to make it relevant to those here on earth, my energy is wasted, and so is my life.

Here is what love is like–genuine love. God’s kind of love. It’s patient. It can wait. It helps others, even if they never find out who did it. Love doesn’t look for greener pastures or dream of how things could be better if I just got rid of all my current commitments. Love doesn’t boast. It doesn’t try to build itself up to be something it isn’t. Love doesn’t act in a loose, immoral way. It doesn’t seek to take, but it willingly gives. Love doesn’t lose its cool. It doesn’t turn on and off. Love doesn’t think about how bad the other person is, and certainly doesn’t think of how it could get back at someone. Love is grieved deeply (as God is) over the evil in this world, but it rejoices over truth.

Love comes and sits with you when you’re feeling down and finds out what is wrong. It empathizes with you and believes in you. Love knows you’ll come through just as God planned, and love sticks right beside you all the way. Love doesn’t give up, or quit, or diminish or go home. Love keeps on keeping on, even when everything goes wrong and the feelings leave and the other person doesn’t seem as special anymore. Love succeeds 100 percent of the time. That, my friend, is what real love is!

(David Sanford)
Copyright 2003 David Sanford; permission granted to forward via e-mail or post online in its entirety (including this notice). All other rights reserved.

Submitted by Richard

I had not really planned on taking a trip this time of year, and yet I found myself packing rather hurriedly. This trip was going to be unpleasant and I knew in advance that no real good would come of it. I’m talking about my annual “Guilt Trip.”

I got tickets to fly there on Wish I Had airlines. It was an extremely short flight. I got my baggage, which I could not check. I chose to carry it myself all the way. It was weighted down with a thousand memories of what might have been. No one greeted me as I entered the terminal to the Regret City International Airport. I say international because people from all over the world come to this dismal town.

As I checked into the Last Resort Hotel, I noticed that they would be hosting the year’s most important event, the Annual Pity Party. I wasn’t going to miss that great social occasion. Many of the towns leading citizens would be there.

First, there would be the Done family, you know, Should Have, Would Have and Could Have. Then came the I Had family. You probably know ol’ Wish and his clan. Of course, the Opportunities would be present, Missed and Lost. The biggest family would be the Yesterday’s. There are far too many of them to count, but each one would have a very sad story to share.

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

Well, to make a long story short, I went to this depressing party knowing that there would be no real benefit in doing so. And, as usual, I became very depressed. But as I thought about all of the stories of failures brought back from the past, it occurred to me that all of this trip and subsequent “pity party” could be canceled by ME! I started to truly realize that I did not have to be there. I didn’t have to be depressed. One thing kept going through my mind, I CAN’T CHANGE YESTERDAY, BUT I DO HAVE THE POWER TO MAKE TODAY A WONDERFUL DAY. I can be happy, joyous, fulfilled, encouraged, as well as encouraging. Knowing this, I left the City of Regret immediately and left no forwarding address. Am I sorry for mistakes I’ve made in the past? YES! But there is no physical way to undo them.

So, if you’re planning a trip back to the City of Regret, please cancel all your reservations now. Instead, take a trip to a place called, Starting Again. I liked it so much that I have now taken up permanent residence there. My neighbors, the I Forgive Myselfs and the New Starts are so very helpful. By the way, you don’t have to carry around heavy baggage, because the load is lifted from your shoulders upon arrival. God bless you in finding this great town. If you can find it — it’s in your own heart — please look me up. I live on I Can Do It street.

(Larry Harp)
Submitted by Richard

Horatio Spafford (1828-1888) was a wealthy Chicago lawyer with a thriving legal practice, a beautiful home, a wife, four daughters and a son. He was also a devout Christian and faithful student of the Scriptures. His circle of friends included Dwight L. Moody, Ira Sankey and various other well-known Christians of the day.

At the very height of his financial and professional success, Horatio and his wife Anna suffered the tragic loss of their young son. Shortly thereafter on October 8, 1871, the Great Chicago Fire destroyed almost every real estate investment that Spafford had.

In 1873, Spafford scheduled a boat trip to Europe in order to give his wife and daughters a much needed vacation and time to recover from the tragedy. He also went to join Moody and Sankey on an evangelistic campaign in England. Spafford sent his wife and daughters ahead of him while he remained in Chicago to take care of some unexpected last minute business. Several days later he received notice that his family’s ship had encountered a collision. All four of his daughters drowned; only his wife had survived.

With a heavy heart, Spafford boarded a boat that would take him to his grieving Anna in England. It was on this trip that he penned those now famous words, When sorrow like sea billows roll; it is well, it is well with my soul..

Philip Bliss (1838-1876), composer of many songs including Hold the Fort, Let the Lower Lights be Burning, and Jesus Loves Even Me, was so impressed with Spafford’s life and the words of his hymn that he composed a beautiful piece of music to accompany the lyrics. The song was published by Bliss and Sankey, in 1876.

For more than a century, the tragic story of one man has given hope to countless thousands who have lifted their voices to sing, It Is Well With My Soul.

And here are the lyrics of the wonderful song:

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Refrain:
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life,
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

But Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

Horatio Spafford

(Author Unknown)
Submitted by: Richard

Long ago I learned a profound lesson about love. That lesson was powerful and it has stayed with me. The experience that held the message didn’t appear to be all that special – at least I didn’t think it was until much later, when I realized that it helped to shape who I’d become. The lesson came from a jumble of human emotions that included joy and remorse and tragedy and loyalty and sorrow and honor and duty and many other qualities good people have come to be known for.

I was in the Navy in 1980. After a couple of years as a Navy corpsman I had the opportunity to take the exam advance to the next rank. The only problem was, they were giving the exam at a time when I would be home on leave and unable to take it.
But I managed to get scheduled to take the test at Brunswick Naval Air Station in Brunswick, Maine, about 130 miles from where I planned on spending my time off in Massachusetts. What made this such an adventuresome proposition was that my mother was born and raised in Brunswick and her entire family lived there.

So on the day of the exam mom and I drove to her brother’s house in Brunswick. She was to spend the day there while I took my test only a few miles away. We arrived in Brunswick in the morning, several hours before my exam. I spent the free time visiting with my relatives.

Joline’s Son

It was during this short time that I came in contact with the personification of love. That would have been my second cousin, Kane. Kane was the two-year old son of Joline, my first cousin. I hadn’t seen much of Joline other than the times my family would drive to Maine in the 1960s for summer vacations.

But Joline had always lived vividly in my memories as the kid who, on a sunny day while visiting Harpswell beach in June of 1960, told me in earnest that if a sand crab were to latch onto my toe, I’d have to live with the critter forever because crabs were impossible to remove from your toes once they’d latched on. Jolene was a radiant kid who was full of life.

Kane

At a glance Kane was a sight. He’d been born with useless craggy sticks for legs and a heart that wasn’t up to the task of taking him through life. And on that morning in the spring of 1980 I witnessed firsthand the profound effect that Kane’s physical shortcomings had on his mother. But I also witnessed so much more than that.

I saw an extended family that embraced this special child. A family that wouldn’t allow Kane to know he was different. My uncle Ray, Joline’s father, had constructed a small padded cart just a few inches off the floor for his grandson to get around. Using his hands to move about, the cart allowed Kane to scoot from place to place, room to room just as everyone else was able to do.

And Kane worked that little cart like a master, stopping and turning on a dime. But that wasn’t even close to all of it. Kane was a vital component of the dynamics of the entire family. He was more than just a member of the family, he was the centerpiece.

This child was the driver, the motivator, and the initiator of much of the interaction. The world revolved around him, and rightly so. With an eternal grin, an infectious laugh and the joy of the angels in heaven, it was easy to see that even at the tender age of two, Kane was very much a people-person, and a natural at it.

With wisdom of an individual far beyond his short time with us, it was clear to me that this boy intuitively understood even the most complex of human motivation and emotions. And much later in my life, after recalling my visit many, many times, I came to realize that God had sent this child to help some of us who just weren’t getting what love was all about.

Unlikely Messenger

In other words, it became obvious to me, that even with my limited capacity for understanding at the time that Kane was a highly evolved spirit with great wisdom. He was the glue, the heart and soul of the Bouchards at the time. And even if folks weren’t aware of it on an earthly level, there was undeniable evidence of it in the hearts of everyone who came in contact with this child. It’s true. I’m a witness.

Kane demanded attention. But not because of his mobility challenges or other apparent shortcomings. In his mind, he had no challenges or shortcomings. The truth is, he received attention because he was alive and real and had so much to offer. At two he was a legitimate personality to be reckoned with.

Kane was and still is (through his continued influence) a bundle of warm and powerful energy sent to us all so we might learn that love transcends all things. Kane wasn’t aware of what the rest of the world perceived as handicaps. Not at all. Kane was here to engage us all on even ground… a fragile yet feisty baby sent to teach us all an important lesson. And at the age of two he did just that.

Unlike the whiney and inept society we’ve become where accountability is perceived as a shortcoming rather than a virtue, my mom’s family made it clear to Kane that he was okay and was never taught that he was a victim.

Go Speed Racer…

Kane mastered everything presented to him on his own level. For example, he was mobile because of the cart my uncle built for him. But Kane took that mobility to another level and became proficient at hairpin turns, leaving rubber on hardwood floors and wowing spectators with plenty of unexpected and spectacular maneuvers.

Kane wasn’t special because he was physically compromised and attracted pity. No way. Kane was just special. His personality demanded attention. He was the life of the party. It’s hard to think of a two-year old this way, but if you met this kid, you’d want him for a friend because he was alive, with so much to give.

Because of his weakened heart Kane left us not long after my visit. Although expected, his passing was certainly a somber occasion and one of reflection. Sometimes we look at God’s work and wonder why certain things are as they are. I know everyone who had ever met this beautiful boy had to wonder.

I spent only a couple of hours with this child, yet remember and still vividly feel his energy now. And that energy is as powerful today, 30 years after meeting this boy, as it was then. That’s special. Experiencing his influence over his surroundings was amazing. And his memory still touches me often.

I can only imagine that as the parent of a child like Kane one might be filled with anxiety and grief wondering what he or she might have done differently… any small detail that might have produced a different, more positive outcome. But I also believe that God carefully chooses us all for his work and that having a child like Kane is actually a privilege. I think the parents of such special babies are angels too, just as the babies are.

Infinite Wisdom

So I guess God knows what He’s doing. Kane touched everyone in a profound way. His ability to engage anyone along with his refusal to be different has been an inspiration to me. And though I’ve never spoken with his parents or anyone else close to him about this, I’m sure they all realize that he was sent here to show us that it’s all about love. I know my own life would not have been as rich without having met him.

(Charles Steed)

Charles Steed has been a student of human development for more than 20 years and has written extensively on the topic. He’s been a master practitioner of NLP since 2002. To learn more about the law of attraction and other powerful self improvement techniques visit Prosperity Tribe.

Two of the greatest teachers in my life are my children. There is no doubt in my mind that parenting has taught me more than any other life experience. My lovely daughter offered a lesson today on the way home from school.

Every conscious man who has ever raised a daughter can testify to a special bond between himself and “daddy’s girl”. This idol status can be amusing, but one has to be careful when they know they are on a pedestal. It takes a lot to foul up, but when you do it is more critical than if you were just an ordinary guy. Today my status suffered a slight stumble.

We have two dogs. We took in both, mixed breed dogs, after they were abandoned in the country.

We live at the intersection of country and city. Horses and cows in two directions; new subdivisions in the other two. Thousands of acres of woods and farmland are within walking distance replete with ponds and streams. This area is rich with Deer, Wild Turkey, Raccoon, Possum, Skunks, and many other creatures. It would be a doggy paradise except for little things like leash laws.

Both of our dogs constantly yearn to run and will do so at any given opportunity. I have to keep them chained, even though my yard is fenced, so that I do not have to pay any fines for recovering them from the city pound. Overcoming the minor obstacle of the fence has never been a real challenge for either of our dogs.

This morning I made the silly mistake of waiting until the last possible minute to put the dogs out. As I was walking the first one out, the second busted past me in a surprisingly slick move and she was gone.

I called for her to return, but she had travelling on her mind and although she paused to acknowledge hearing me, she chose to ignore my commands and headed off for a day of frolic. (One day I would love to attach a mini cam just to see what she gets into, on a full day run.)

Despite my best efforts at calm and peacefulness, having a dog disobey me, (the supposed master), did not contribute to my positive mental attitude.

I went about my business but I said goodbye to the dog; telling it through mental telepathy that I would not bail her out if the puppy patrol put her away. If she received my signal, she revealed no confirmation.

Anyway, when I picked my daughter up from school I just happened to mention that Cady might be missing once we got home. Now a sensible man would have stopped there, but it was my day to chisel away at my imaginary pedestal so I added this goofy statement. “I’ll tell you this! If she has been impounded by the K9 cops, I will not be paying her fines this time.”

“Why not?” my daughter demanded. “Is it just the money?”

“Well, partially it’s the money. It will be $ 65.00 plus a fine for not having registered the dog. Probably over a hundred before all is said and done. But mostly it is because I am angry with her.” I insisted. “I will not keep a disobedient dog, period!”

Well I noticed that my adoring daughter had her head turned away from me and had not said a single word for over 5 minutes. So, I asked, “Are you mad at me?”

“Yes, I am.” She replied now looking at me with tears streaming down her face.

“Why does this upset you so much?” I wondered out loud. “Cady obviously does not care for her living arrangements here or she would not run off every time she has a chance, would she?” I cleverly remarked.

I have never noticed my daughter spending much time with this dog, so I could not imagine that the thought of losing her would be so painful. In my mind I have given Cady a nice home, complete with an abundance of food, good water, and even her own doggy bed for over two years now. If she is silly enough to leave all that behind for a few minutes of chasing some neighbors cows or barking at penned-up doggies, then “see you later gal” is my attitude.

“You still haven’t answered me love?” I repeated with the question implied.

In a warm and tender moment that brings tears to my eyes as I write this, my daughter said, “Dad, you just don’t understand. If Cady is at the pound, no one will adopt her. Who would pick her? She is three years old and not even housebroken. She is not even pretty like Casey. No one would pick her and that means they will kill her.”

Then I remembered that the only reason I kept the dog in the first place was because we could not find a home for her and did not want her to be destroyed by Animal Control. My heart softened. I felt sad for having been so calloused.

As we pulled into the driveway, there stood Cady in the back yard, tail wagging and ready for some supper.

I have resolved to repair my fence in an effort to prevent any future escapes.

Mostly, however, I am determined to consider my daughter’s feelings with a little more compassion before spouting some anger-based dribble.

Children are such incredible teachers. Thank You Father, for mine!

By: Elliott Teters
Submitted by Richard

Leo smiled whenever he called himself a “diamond cutter”.

The statement, however, was literally correct. Leo pushed the lawn-mower that tidied the baseball diamonds. He also cut and chalked football gridirons and raked running tracks. However, cutting, chalking and raking was only part of his responsibilities with our town’s Parks Department. He also planted and pruned trees and grew and transplanted flowers.

But the job he cherished above all was printing panels with the names of local youngsters who entered military service.

Leo worked neatly and with a great eye for space. After all “Joe Jones” and “Carmine Santodominguez” had to fit the same size panels on our civic honor roll. Leo made every name readable.

Leo received the names of new inductees the same day the draft board approved them. And these names were lettered and tacked into position quickly and with the utmost care.

And, sadly, the same day the War Department released its Killed In Action lists, Leo went to the honor roll and painted a gold star on the dead service-person’s panel — between the hero’s first and last names. Each hand-painted star seemed identical in its size and brightness. Our downtown honor roll was quietly beautiful and carefully maintained.

Leo moved down to Connecticut from Maine in the late 1930′s and he seemed to keep his job forever — World War II, the Korean Conflict, Vietnam, and, just before he retired, the Gulf War.

It was more than a job. It was Leo’s obsession. Leo’s world.

While Leo cut the grass and tended the flora dispassionately, the Honor Roll stirred him. He’d call the parents of each new recruit and tell them, “Not to worry. God is on our side. And I will pray for your kid’s safe return.” To Leo, these young men and women were “kids” — his kids. He watched them grow and saw many of them compete in team sports on his grass and cinders. And he watched them work in our hometown.

And on those days he painted gold stars, he’d visit his kids’ homes and shared their family’s grief. He brought the ceremonial gold star flags to their widows and parents who displayed them on their front door or in their front window. Each badge of honor was softly spotted with Leo’s own tears.

He also brought a white rose, which would eventually threaten his job security.

When Judson McComb, the Parks Commissioner, heard that some roses were missing from the city’s greenhouses, he discovered Leo was the culprit.

They confronted each other in a closed-door meeting in McComb’s office.

The pot-bellied Commissioner and the wiry suntanned diamond cutter rarely made eye-contact. Leo stared up at his boss’s forehead and McComb stared down at his desk pens.

“Who do you think you are, Robin Hood?” McComb asked.

“Who are you, Sir?”, Leo said politely, “the evil sheriff of Nottingham?”

McComb’s bloated face reddened. “These roses are city property — part of our departmental budget. You can’t steal them. We can’t give a rose to every family who loses a son or a husband in this war,” McComb said.

Leo responded, “We’re civil servants, aren’t we?”

McComb nodded yes.

“Well, what’s more civil than giving one white rose to someone who’s given a son to protect us? If you and the mayor would visit these homes with me, you might change your minds. After all, I present the rose from ‘Your Parks Department,’ not from Leo Small.”

“OK, I see, Leo,” the commissioner whispered.

“You can call me Mister Small,” Leo said with a grin, extending his hand.

The commissioner shook Leo’s hand and smiled. And the subject was never again discussed.

Leo continued his daily routine — cutting grass, planting flowers, pruning trees, chalking and raking athletic fields and updating the honor roll.

The “boys” at Moon’s Tavern had the same daily question. “What’s new, Leo?

Leo would say, “Danny Gardella just joined the Navy. Remember what a great fullback he was? All state last year.”

After work one day, Leo was despondent. He told his drinking buddies that Carl Paine was killed in the Battle of the Bulge.

“Where’s that?” Red Franklin asked.

“In Belgium, you nit-wit” Moon said. And the “boys” toasted Red’s memory somberly, reverently and often.

“I’ll be visiting the Franklin home tonight. Anybody care to join me?” Throats cleared. Then silence.

Though Leo Small never married, he had thousands of kids, most of whom returned home.

When he finally retired, Leo was asked to run for Mayor. And, with his personal following, he probably would have won. But he declined. He had enough of politics just dealing with the Parks Commissioner.

While savoring his retirement, Leo still spent a lot of time at the department’s greenhouses. And he volunteered to update the reverence roll like only he could — neatly and with great love, talent and affection.

When our hometown paper interviewed him, Leo was asked why he still tended the civic honor roll.

“It keeps me in touch my kids. I know them by name — all of them.”

By: Ron Gold
Submitted by Richard

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me.

She was building a sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes blue as the sea.

“Hello,” she said.

I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.

“I’m building,” she said.

“I see that. What is it?” I asked, not caring.

“Oh I don’t know, I just like the feel of the sand.”

That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.

“That’s a joy,” the child said.

“It’s what?” I asked, uncaring.

“It’s a joy! My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.”

The bird went glissading down the beach. “Good-bye joy,” I muttered to myself,  “Hello, pain…” and turned to walk on.  I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.

“What’s your name?” She wouldn’t give up.

“Ruth,” I answered. “I’m Ruth Peterson.”

“Mine’s Wendy,… and I’m six.”

“Hi, Wendy.” I offered.

She giggled. “You’re funny,” she said.  In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on.  Her musical giggle followed me. “Come again, Mrs. P,” she called. “We’ll have another happy day.”

The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother.  The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater.

“I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself, gathering up my coat.

The never-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.

“Hello, Mrs. P,” she said. “Do you want to play?”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.

“I don’t know. You say.”

“How about charades?” I asked sarcastically.

The tinkling laughter burst forth again. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Then let’s just walk.” Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.  “Where do you live?” I asked.

“Over there.” She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.

“Where do you go to school?”

“I don’t go to school. Mommy says we’re on vacation.”

She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. “When I left for home,” Wendy said, “it had been a happy day.”

Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.

Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic.  I was in no mood greet even Wendy.  I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.

“Look, if you don’t mind,” I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, “I’d rather be alone today.” She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.

“Why?” she asked.

I turned on her and shouted, “Because my mother died!”-and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?

“Oh,” she said quietly, “then this is a bad day.”

“Yes, and yesterday and the day before that and-oh, go away!”

“Did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt?” I was exasperated with her, with myself.

“When she died?”

“Of course it hurt!” I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself.  I strode off.

A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn’t there.

Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door.  A drawn-looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was.”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in.”

“Wendy talked of you so much. I’m afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please accept my apologies.”

“Not at all-she’s a delightful child,” I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it. “Where is she?”

“Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn’t tell you.”

Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.

“She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn’t say no.”

She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly….” Her voice faltered.

“She left something for you… if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?”

I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman.

She handed me a smeared envelope, with MRS. P printed in bold, childish letters.  Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues-a yellow beach, a blue sea, a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY

Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten how to love opened wide.  I took Wendy’s mother in my arms.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I muttered over and over, and we wept together.

The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words-one for each year of her life-that speak to me of inner harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand-who taught me the gift of love.

(Author Unknown)
Submitted by Richard

[A man facing death leaves this for his wife]

Your love is priceless, that is the best part of you that nothing could buy, or replace.

I recall that look in your eye, when I stood there saying, dance now or never, and I knew then you had a love that would last forever… all I had to do was find it, and tell you it would be ok.

It was, and is… and while I can never put into words what that meant to me, know that it was returned, with a little interest thrown in.

Maybe we could have done better, in areas of worldly things; but never consider for a moment that I have any regrets, or would do anything different where it comes to you.

Know too that I will miss you, as you miss me… and be waiting for you to join me; until then, eternal love will never let us part, and when I see you again, try to have the same look in your eyes… but wipe that smirk off, please… I never did believe it, oh silly me.

(Author Unknown)
Submitted by Richard

READ: 2 Corinthians 3:7-18

2 Corinthians 3:18 (NIV) “And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.”

Sometimes we throw a veil over God in our lives. We lift it only when we need Him, and throw the wet blanket over His consuming spiritual fire when we don’t need Him urgently. In one sense or another, He becomes our Spiritual Jack in the Box. We turn the handle only to have Him jump out and then turn around only to stuff Him back in the box until our next urgent moment or need. We do this because we do not want His glory reflected in our lives at inopportune times.

The apostle Paul urged the church at Philippi to “continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling” so that we “shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life” (Phil. 2:12, 15-16). He understood that as blood-bought believers in Christ, we can’t help but let our light shine for Jesus Christ. This is the work of the Holy Spirit in the life of a believer. That’s why Paul also wrote, “And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit” (2 Cor. 3:18). Though we may try to stop it at all costs, the Holy Spirit will continue to provide opportunities for us to shine like stars and serve Him on His terms and not on our God-in-the-box ways.

Whatever your circumstances are today, trust the Lord for the courage to light up the spiritual darkness around you.

Faith Lesson: Instead of putting God on your terms, allow His Spirit to move through you and impact those around you.

In Christ,
Darin Smith

Submitted by Richard

I was walking down a dimly lit street one evening when I heard muffled screams coming from behind a clump of bushes. Alarmed, I slowed down to listen, and panicked when I realized that what I was hearing were the unmistakable sounds of a struggle: heavy grunting, frantic scuffling, and tearing of fabric.

Only yards from where I stood, a woman was being attacked.

Should I get involved?

I was frightened for my own safety, and berated myself for having suddenly decided to take a new route home that night. What if I became another statistic? Shouldn’t I just run to the nearest phone and call the police?

Although it seemed an eternity, the deliberations in my head had only taken seconds, but already the girl’s cries were growing weaker.

I knew I had to act fast. How could I walk away from this?

No, I finally resolved, I could not turn my back on the fate of this unknown woman, even if it meant risking my own life.

I am not a brave man, nor am I athletic. I don’t know where I found the moral, courage and physical strength, but once I had finally resolved to help the girl, I became strangely transformed.

I ran behind the bushes and pulled the assailant off the woman. Grappling, we fell to the ground, where we wrestled for a few minutes until the attacker jumped up and escaped.

Panting hard, I scrambled upright and approached the girl, who was crouched behind a tree, sobbing. In the darkness, I could barely see her outline, but I could certainly sense her trembling shock. Not wanting to frighten her any further, I at first spoke to her from a distance.

“It’s OK,” I said soothingly. “The man ran away. You’re safe now.”

There was a long pause and then I heard the words, uttered in wonder, in amazement.

“Dad, is that you?”

And then, from behind the tree, stepped my youngest daughter, Katherine.

(Author Unknown)
Submitted by Richard