A man stopped at a flower shop to order some flowers to be wired to his mother who lived two hundred miles away.

As he got out of his car he noticed a young girl sitting on the curb sobbing.

He asked her what was wrong and she replied, “I wanted to buy a red rose for my mother. But I only have seventy-five cents, and a rose costs two dollars.”

The man smiled and said, “Come on in with me. I’ll buy you a rose.”

He bought the little girl her rose and ordered his own mother’s flowers.

As they were leaving he offered the girl a ride home. She said, “Yes, please! You can take me to my mother.”

She directed him to a cemetery, where she placed the rose on a freshly dug grave.

The man returned to the flower shop, canceled the wire order, picked up a bouquet and drove the two hundred miles to his mother’s house.

(Author Unknown)

A mother sat there with her little child. She was so downcast, so afraid that it should die! It was so pale, the small eyes had closed themselves, and it drew its breath so softly, now and then, with a deep respiration, as if it sighed; and the mother looked still more sorrowfully on the little creature.

Then a knocking was heard at the door, and in came a poor old man wrapped up as in a large horse-cloth, for it warms one, and he needed it, as it was the cold winter season! Everything out-of doors was covered with ice and snow, and the wind blew so that it cut the face.

As the old man trembled with cold, and the little child slept a moment, the mother went and poured some ale into a pot and set it on the stove, that it might be warm for him; the old man sat and rocked the cradle, and the mother sat down on a chair close by him, and looked at her little sick child that drew its breath so deep, and raised its little hand.

“Do you not think that I shall save him?” said she. “Our Lord will not take him from me!”

And the old man–it was Death himself–he nodded so strangely, it could just as well signify yes as no. And the mother looked down in her lap, and the tears ran down over her cheeks; her head became so heavy–she had not closed her eyes for three days and nights; and now she slept, but only for a minute, when she started up and trembled with cold.

“What is that?” said she, and looked on all sides; but the old man was gone, and her little child was gone–he had taken it with him; and the old clock in the corner burred, and burred, the great leaden weight ran down to the floor, bump! and then the clock also stood still.

But the poor mother ran out of the house and cried aloud for her child.

Out there, in the midst of the snow, there sat a woman in long, black clothes; and she said, “Death has been in thy chamber, and I saw him hasten away with thy little child; he goes faster than the wind, and he never brings back what he takes!”

“Oh, only tell me which way he went!” said the mother. “Tell me the way, and I shall find him!”

“I know it!” said the woman in the black clothes. “But before I tell it, thou must first sing for me all the songs thou hast sung for thy child! I am fond of them. I have heard them before; I am Night; I saw thy tears whilst thou sang’st them!”

“I will sing them all, all!” said the mother. “But do not stop me now–I may overtake him–I may find my child!”

But Night stood still and mute. Then the mother wrung her hands, sang and wept, and there were many songs, but yet many more tears; and then Night said, “Go to the right, into the dark pine forest; thither I saw Death take his way with thy little child!”

The roads crossed each other in the depths of the forest, and she no longer knew whither she should go! then there stood a thorn-bush; there was neither leaf nor flower on it, it was also in the cold winter season, and ice-flakes hung on the branches.

“Hast thou not seen Death go past with my little child?” said the mother.

“Yes,” said the thorn-bush; “but I will not tell thee which way he took, unless thou wilt first warm me up at thy heart. I am freezing to death; I shall become a lump of ice!”

And she pressed the thorn-bush to her breast, so firmly, that it might be thoroughly warmed, and the thorns went right into her flesh, and her blood flowed in large drops, but the thornbush shot forth fresh green leaves, and there came flowers on it in the cold winter night, the heart of the afflicted mother was so warm; and the thorn-bush told her the way she should go.

She then came to a large lake, where there was neither ship nor boat. The lake was not frozen sufficiently to bear her; neither was it open, nor low enough that she could wade through it; and across it she must go if she would find her child! Then she lay down to drink up the lake, and that was an impossibility for a human being, but the afflicted mother thought that a miracle might happen nevertheless.

“Oh, what would I not give to come to my child!” said the weeping mother; and she wept still more, and her eyes sunk down in the depths of the waters, and became two precious pearls; but the water bore her up, as if she sat in a swing, and she flew in the rocking waves to the shore on the opposite side, where there stood a mile-broad, strange house, one knew not if it were a mountain with forests and caverns, or if it were built up; but the poor mother could not see it; she had wept her eyes out.

“Where shall I find Death, who took away my little child?” said she.

“He has not come here yet!” said the old grave woman, who was appointed to look after Death’s great greenhouse! “How have you been able to find the way hither? And who has helped you?”

“Our Lord has helped me,” said she. “He is merciful, and you will also be so! Where shall I find my little child?”

“Nay, I know not,” said the woman, “and you cannot see! Many flowers and trees have withered this night; Death will soon come and plant them over again! You certainly know that every person has his or her life’s tree or flower, just as everyone happens to be settled; they look like other plants, but they have pulsations of the heart. Children’s hearts can also beat; go after yours, perhaps you may know your child’s; but what will you give me if I tell you what you shall do more?”

“I have nothing to give,” said the afflicted mother, “but I will go to the world’s end for you!”

“Nay, I have nothing to do there!” said the woman. “But you can give me your long black hair; you know yourself that it is fine, and that I like! You shall have my white hair instead, and that’s always something!”

“Do you demand nothing else?” said she. “That I will gladly give you!” And she gave her her fine black hair, and got the old woman’s snow-white hair instead.

So they went into Death’s great greenhouse, where flowers and trees grew strangely into one another. There stood fine hyacinths under glass bells, and there stood strong-stemmed peonies; there grew water plants, some so fresh, others half sick, the water-snakes lay down on them, and black crabs pinched their stalks. There stood beautiful palm-trees, oaks, and plantains; there stood parsley and flowering thyme: every tree and every flower had its name; each of them was a human life, the human frame still lived–one in China, and another in Greenland–round about in the world. There were large trees in small pots, so that they stood so stunted in growth, and ready to burst the pots; in other places, there was a little dull flower in rich mould, with moss round about it, and it was so petted and nursed. But the distressed mother bent down over all the smallest plants, and heard within them how the human heart beat; and amongst millions she knew her child’s.

“There it is!” cried she, and stretched her hands out over a little blue crocus, that hung quite sickly on one side.

“Don’t touch the flower!” said the old woman. “But place yourself here, and when Death comes–I expect him every moment–do not let him pluck the flower up, but threaten him that you will do the same with the others. Then he will be afraid! He is responsible for them to our Lord, and no one dares to pluck them up before he gives leave.”

All at once an icy cold rushed through the great hall, and the blind mother could feel that it was Death that came. “How hast thou been able to find thy way hither?” he asked. “How couldst thou come quicker than I?” “I am a mother,” said she.

And Death stretched out his long hand towards the fine little flower, but she held her hands fast around his, so tight, and yet afraid that she should touch one of the leaves. Then Death blew on her hands, and she felt that it was colder than the cold wind, and her hands fell down powerless.

“Thou canst not do anything against me!” said Death.

“But our Lord can!” said she.

“I only do His bidding!” said Death. “I am His gardener, I take all His flowers and trees, and plant them out in the great garden of Paradise, in the unknown land; but how they grow there, and how it is there I dare not tell thee.”

“Give me back my child!” said the mother, and she wept and prayed. At once she seized hold of two beautiful flowers close by, with each hand, and cried out to Death, “I will tear all thy flowers off, for I am in despair.”

“Touch them not!” said Death. “Thou say’st that thou art so unhappy, and now thou wilt make another mother equally unhappy.”

“Another mother!” said the poor woman, and directly let go her hold of both the flowers.

“There, thou hast thine eyes,” said Death; “I fished them up from the lake, they shone so bright; I knew not they were thine. Take them again, they are now brighter than before; now look down into the deep well close by; I shall tell thee the names of the two flowers thou wouldst have torn up, and thou wilt see their whole future life–their whole human existence: and see what thou wast about to disturb and destroy.”

And she looked down into the well; and it was a happiness to see how the one became a blessing to the world, to see how much happiness and joy were felt everywhere. And she saw the other’s life, and it was sorrow and distress, horror, and wretchedness.

“Both of them are God’s will!” said Death.

“Which of them is Misfortune’s flower and which is that of Happiness?” asked she.

“That I will not tell thee,” said Death; “but this thou shalt know from me, that the one flower was thy own child! it was thy child’s fate thou saw’st–thy own child’s future life!”

Then the mother screamed with terror, “Which of them was my child? Tell it me! Save the innocent! Save my child from all that misery! Rather take it away! Take it into God’s kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my prayers, and all that I have done!”

“I do not understand thee!” said Death. “Wilt thou have thy child again, or shall I go with it there, where thou dost not know!”

Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to our Lord: “Oh, hear me not when I pray against Thy will, which is the best! hear me not! hear me not!”

And she bowed her head down in her lap, and Death took her child and went with it into the unknown land.

(Author Unknown)

A CHILD went up to a lark and said: “Good lark, have you any young ones?”

“Yes, child, I have,” said the mother lark, “and they are very pretty ones, indeed.” Then she pointed to the little birds and said: “This is Fair Wing, that is Tiny Bill, and that other is Bright Eyes.”

“At home, we are three,” said the child, “myself and two sisters. Mother says that we are pretty children, and she loves us.”

To this the little larks replied: “Oh, yes, our mother is fond of us, too.”

“Good mother lark,” said the child, “will you let Tiny Bill go home with me and play?”

Before the mother lark could reply, Bright Eyes said: “Yes, if you will send your little sister to play with us in our nest.”

“Oh, she will be so sorry to leave home,” said the child; “she could not come away from our mother.”

“Tiny Bill will be so sorry to leave our nest,” answered Bright Eyes, “and he will not go away from our mother.”

Then the child ran away to her mother, saying: “Ah, every one is fond of home!”

(Adapted from: P. V. Ramaswami Raju, Good Stories from Good Holidays)

A certain man made an appointment to see a psychologist. He arrived at the psychologist’s office and said to him, “Doctor, I always feel depressed. No matter what I do I still feel depressed. I just don’t know what to do.”

The psychologist looked at him and said, “Come with me to the window.”

The man followed and then the psychologist pointed outside and said, “Do you see that tent over there in the distance? Well, there is a circus in town and it is really good. There are lots of acts to watch, specially the clown acts. And there is one clown in particular who is extremely funny. He will make you rock with laughter over and over again. Go and see that clown and I guarantee that you will not have reason to be depressed again!”

The man turned to the psychologist with sad eyes and said, “Doctor, I am that clown!”

(Author Unknown, Source Unknown)

So it was that when the Hasidic pilgrims vied for those among them who had endured the most suffering, who was most entitled to complain, the Zaddck told them the story of the Sorrow Tree. On the Day of Judgment, each person will be allowed to hang one’s unhappiness and sufferings on a brach of the great Tree of Sorrows. After all have found a limb from which their miseries may dangle, they may all walk slowly around the tree. Each person is to search for a set of sufferings that he or she would prefer to those he or she has hung on the tree.

In the end, each one freely chooses to reclaim his or her own assortment of sorrows rather than those of another. Each person leaves the Tree of Sorrows wiser that when he or she arrived.

(Brian Cavanaugh, T.O.R., The Sower’s Seeds)

The old man shuffled slowly into the restaurant. With head tilted, and shoulders bent forward, he leaned on his trusty cane with each unhurried step.

His tattered cloth jacket, patched trousers, worn out shoes, and warm personality made him stand out from the usual Saturday morning breakfast crowd. Unforgettable were his pale blue eyes that sparkled like diamonds, large rosy cheeks, and thin lips held in a tight, steady smile.

He stopped, turned with his whole body, and winked at a little girl seated by the door. She flashed a big grin right back at him. A young waitress named Mary watched him shuffle toward a table by the window.

Mary ran over to him, and said, “Here, Sir. Let me give you a hand with that chair.”

Without saying a word, he smiled and nodded a thank you. She pulled the chair away from the table. Steadying him with one arm, she helped him move in front of the chair, and get comfortably seated. Then she scooted the table up close to him, and leaned his cane against the table where he could reach it.

In a soft, clear voice he said, “Thank you, Miss. And bless you for your kind gestures.”

“You’re welcome, Sir.”She replied. “And my name is Mary. I’ll be back in a moment, and if you need anything at all in the mean time, just wave at me!”

After he had finished a hearty meal of pancakes, bacon, and hot lemon tea, Mary brought him the change from his ticket. He left it lay. She helped him up from his chair, and out from behind the table. She handed him his cane, and walked with him to the front door.

Holding the door open for him, she said, “Come back and see us, Sir!”

He turned with his whole body, winked a smile, and nodded a thank you. “You are very kind.”he said softly.

When Mary went to clean his table, she almost fainted. Under his plate she found a business card and a note scribbled on a napkin. Under the napkin was a one hundred dollar bill.

The note on the napkin read…

“Dear Mary, I respect you very much, and you respect yourself too. It shows by the way you treat others. You have found the secret of happiness. Your kind gestures will shine through those who meet you.”

The man she had waited on was the owner of the restaurant where she worked. This was the first time that she, or any of his employees had ever seen him in person.

(Steve Brunkhorst, Source Unknown)

A certain shopkeeper sent his son to learn about the secret of happiness from the wisest man in the world. The lad wandered through the desert for 40 days, and finally came upon a beautiful castle, high atop a mountain. It was there that the wise man lived.

Rather than finding a saintly man, though, our hero, on entering the main room of the castle, saw a hive of activity: tradesmen came and went, people were conversing in the corners, a small orchestra was playing soft music, and there was a table covered with platters of the most delicious food in that part of the world. The wise man conversed with everyone, and the boy had to wait for two hours before it was his turn to be given the man’s attention.

The wise man listened attentively to the boy’s explanation of why he had come, but told him that he didn’t have time just then to explain the secret of happiness. He suggested that the boy look around the palace and return in two hours.

“Meanwhile, I want to ask you to do something”, said the wise man, handing the boy a teaspoon that held two drops of oil. “As you wander around, carry this spoon with you without allowing the oil to spill”.

The boy began climbing and descending the many stairways of the palace, keeping his eyes fixed on the spoon. After two hours, he returned to the room where the wise man was.

“Well”, asked the wise man, “Did you see the Persian tapestries that are hanging in my dining hall? Did you see the garden that it took the master gardener ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library?”

The boy was embarrassed, and confessed that he had observed nothing. His only concern had been not to spill the oil that the wise man had entrusted to him.

“Then go back and observe the marvels of my world”, said the wise man. “You cannot trust a man if you don’t know his house”.

Relieved, the boy picked up the spoon and returned to his exploration of the palace, this time observing all of the works of art on the ceilings and the walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around him, the beauty of the flowers, and the taste with which everything had been selected. Upon returning to the wise man, he related in detail everything he had seen.

“But where are the drops of oil I entrusted to you?”asked the wise man. Looking down at the spoon he held, the boy saw that the oil was gone.

“Well, there is only one piece of advice I can give you”, said the wisest of wise men. “The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels of the world and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon”.

(Paul Coelho, Source Unknown)

A person can potentially use comparisons to mess up his life. For example, a person can go to the most elegant restaurant which employs the greatest chef. He can order the most expensive food. Then for the rest of his life he can say about any other meal, “This isn’t as good as the meal I once had in that five-star restaurant.”

I recently related this example to a group of tourists. They laughed. And then one spoke up and said, “I just realized that I do this all the time. Just last night at the fancy hotel we were staying at, my first comment after the meal was, ‘This wasn’t as good as the food I ate at another restaurant five years ago.’ I didn’t realize how foolish this response is.”

Our patterns of comparisons will either be a way we prevent ourselves from enjoying what we have, or a way by which we gain a greater sense of appreciation. A sage once said, “In spiritual matters look up and raise your sights. But when it comes to material and physical matters look down.”That is, in spiritual matters keep looking for role models to motivate yourself to reach higher and higher levels. But when it comes to appreciating your possessions and your financial situation, look at those who have less than you and gain a greater sense of appreciation for what you have.

(Rabbi Pliskin’s, Happiness)

Once upon a time there was a young man who used to meditate all day about the meaning of life. Most of the time he was pondering about the most important thing in life, because he thought the gravity of important issues could more easily lead people beyond the exterior of existence, and disclose to them the reason of things.

No matter how long he meditated and observed, he could get no result. To clear his doubts, he decided to go and see an old sage, who lived alone in a far away forest.

When he finally met the old man, the sage asked him what brought him there. The young man replied he was searching for the most precious deed one person could do to get close to God.

“What did you do on your way here?”asked the sage.

The young man thought he did not get the question, and repeated his demand.

Then the sage asked again: “What did you do on your way here?”

“I toiled,”said the young man, “because the road up the hill was very steep. I gasped and felt very thirsty. But I made an effort to patiently endure that troubled walking.”

“What did you do next?”

“I meditated, as I do every day. Today I pondered about imperturbability, that can be both a virtue and a fault.”

“What did you do next?”

“I helped an old man by taking his bundle of wood to his place. This meant a long detour on my route, but he was too weak for that burden.”

“What did you do next?”

The young man hesitated, then admitted: “I sat on a stone for a moment, and played with a marble that my father gave me when I left school. I apologize for wasting my time like that.”

“What action made you feel lighter?”asked the old man.

The young man, puzzled, looked at the sage. “Please answer my question”, the young man said, “I came to you with a demand.”

The sage repeated, as if he had not heard this last objection: “What action made you feel lighter?”

“Playing with the marble,”said the confused young man, “I was really free and happy; I had no thoughts – no worries.”

“That was the best time today,”said the sage, “when you yielded to play.”"Play is a light yet serious activity, because then God is near you. You go beyond the surface of existence in the very same moment as you rise above it.”

(Rosemarie Harbert-Bottlaender, Source Unknown)

Even as summer peaks in New Hampshire, a stay colored leaf might remind me of fall. I grew up in a town near the Canadian border, where my father’s description of the seasons was, “Spring, Summer, Fairtime and Wintar!”

My parents and I lived upstairs over my aged and infirm paternal grandparents. All of us helped make the grandparents’ day-to-day lives as comfortable as was possible. But Granny was gradually going blind and Gramps suffered from the effects of two strokes.

Granny’s mind was sharp. It was my job to help her with the daily newspaper’s crossword puzzle. It made no difference if I had studying or a date… time at the oilcloth covered kitchen table was a must.

I so often think of the fall when Granny got the chance to “be useful again,”to say nothing of earning a few sorely-needed dollars.

Her niece had leased one of those lunch stands on the fairgrounds and she and her daughter would be staying in town during the week-long fair, catering to the hungry crowds there to see the midway, gamble a bit, tour the agricultural halls, and of course, watch the horse races and admire the award-winning farm stock out back.

The good news was that though Gran’s relatives would have little time to rest, they would need a place to stay. There was no spare room; what to do?

Granny stumbled around, marshalling all the help she could get, and before long the attached woodshed had been made into comfortable sleeping quarters for the two women. Red calico was tacked to make a curtain at the one small window. Comfortable cots, topped with old quilts, were arranged carefully… throw rugs borrowed from the house would warm feet on the early morning- chilled pine floor.

Granny would take in a few dollars for “putting up”her relatives, but the best was yet to come! Within a day or two, the two women got behind at the lunch stand… finding that simple sandwiches sold like hotcakes. Since they opened early, the fair employees themselves bought their breakfasts there, keeping the two women overly occupied.

Near sightless she may have been, but Granny could do her part.

I can see her now, standing for hours with sandwich fixings and several varieties of bread neatly arranged on the clean table before her, carefully making stacks sandwiches and then painstakingly wrapping them in waxed paper and stacking them in dishtowel-lined cartons.

After this week of hustle and bustle was over, Granny stated emphatically, “That was the best week I’ve had in years!”

The lesson that memory brings back to me is that we all long for a chance to be “useful,”appreciated, and helpful as well. No matter what our circumstances, there’s usually a way to contribute and, as a reward, strengthen our self-images!

(“Janet “”Nett”" Hounsell, Heartwarmers4u”)