A Gardeners Forum Forums Members History Forum Life 2005 Words of Faith Part 2

Subject: Marbles


Babs Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas.

I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller and the ragged boy next to me.

Hello Barry, how are you today?"

"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas . sure look good."

They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"

"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."

"Good. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."
"Would you like to take some home?"
"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."
"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"
"All I got's my prize marble here."
"Is that right? Let me see it."
"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."
"I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort
of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"
"Not zackley . but almost."
"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and n ext trip
this way let me look at that red marble."
"Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller."
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, perhaps."

I left the stand smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado but I never forgot the story of this
man, the boys, and their bartering. Several years went by, each more rapid that the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died.
They were having his viewing that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.
Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts
...all very professional looking.
They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket.
Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale
hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.
"Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about.! They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind
about color or size ... they came to pay their debt."
"We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho."
With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.


Moral: We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds.
Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that
take our breath.

i always enjoy that one when i see it, thanks for sharing...

Thank you so much for sharing this story.

-----THE OLD PHONE
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in

our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall.

The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to

reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother

talked to it.


Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an

amazing person. Her name was "Information Please" and there was

nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone's number and

the correct time.


My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my

mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in

the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible,

but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give

sympathy.


I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving

at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in

the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the

receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. "Information, please" I said into

the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear

voice spoke into my ear.


"Information."


"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily

enough now that I had an audience.


"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.

"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.


"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.


"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."


"Can you open the icebox?" she asked.


I said I could.


"Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.


After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked

her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia

was.

She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had

caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.


Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called,

Information Please," and told her the sad story. She listened, and

then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I

asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring

joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"


She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul

always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."


Somehow I felt better.


Another day I was on the telephone, "Information Please."

"Information," said in the now familiar voice. "How do I spell fix?" I asked.


All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I

was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my

friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden

box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that

sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those

childhood conversations never really left me.


Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene

sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding,

and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in

Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15

minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.

Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said,

"Information Please." Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.

"Information."


I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please

tell me how to spell fix?"


There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your

finger must have healed by now."


I laughed, "So it's really you," I said. "I wonder if you have any

idea how much you meant to me during that time?"


I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your call meant to me.

I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."


I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked

if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.


"Please do", she said. "Just ask for Sally."


Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered,

"Information." I asked for Sally.


"Are you a friend?" she said.


"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.


"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been

working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."


Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute, did you say your name

was Paul?" "Yes." I answered.


"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called.


Let me read it to you."

The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in.

He'll know what I mean."


I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.


Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.

Whose life have you touched today?


Why not pass this on? I just did....


Lifting you on eagle's wings. May you find the joy and peace you long for.


Life is a journey ... NOT a guided tour.

I loved this story and just had to pass it on to you. I hope you'll enjoy

it and get a blessing from it just as I did.

Weezie, you alway's do this to me

Oh, Weezie, that one was wonderful.

Beautiful words that hold comfort for me,

"Drop by drop—in our sleep, upon the heart
sorrow falls, memory’s pain,
and to us, though against our very will,
even in our own despite,
comes wisdom
by the awful grace of God."

- Aeschylus (525–456 B.C.)

Courtesy of Nordenx.

People always say how mean kids can be, never how nice they can be.

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning-disabled children, the father of one of the school's students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all that attended.

After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question; "Everything God does is done with perfection. Yet, my son Shay cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is God's plan reflected in my son?"

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued; "I believe," the father answered, "that when God brings a child like Shay into the world, an opportunity to realize the Divine Plan presents itself and it comes in the way people treat that child."

Then, he told the following story:

Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball.

Shay asked, "Do you think they will let me play?"

Shay's father knew that the boys would not want him on their team. But the father understood that if his son were allowed to play it would give him much-needed sense of belonging. Shay's father approached one of the boys on the field and asked if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said, "We are losing by six runs, and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning."

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. At the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the outfield. Although no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be on the field, grinning from ear to ear as his father waved to him from the stands.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base. Shay was scheduled to be the next at-bat. Would the team actually let Shay bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat.

Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball. However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed.

The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman.

Everyone started yelling, "Shay, run to first, run to first!"

Never in his life had Shay ever made it to first base. He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled. Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second!" By the time Shay was rounding first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman for a tag. But the right fielder understood what the pitcher's intentions had been, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman's head. Shay ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home.

As Shay reached second base, the opposing shortstop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base, and shouted, "run to third!" As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams were screaming, "Shay Run home!" Shay ran home, stepped on home plate and was cheered as the hero for hitting a "grand slam" and winning the game for his team.

"That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, "the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of the Divine Plan into this world."
_________________

Okie-dokie, papito!
Now you can be added to that long list of people here who have made me cry!
Thanks, papito!
That was a nice story!

Cindy

Doreen

I WILL DO THIS ... HOPE YOU WILL TOO.

Please read the following story all the way to the end! Thank You .

Like most elementary schools, it was typical to have a parade of students in and out of the health clinic throughout the day. We dispensed ice for bumps and bruises, Band-Aids for cuts, and liberal doses of sympathy and hugs. As principal, my office was right next door to the clinic, so I often dropped in to lend a hand and help out with the hugs. I knew that for some kids, mine might be the only one they got all day.

One morning I was putting a Band-Aid on a little girl's scraped knee. Her blonde hair was matted, and I noticed that she was shivering in her thin little sleeveless blouse. I found her a warm sweatshirt and helped her pull it on. "Thanks for taking care of me," she whispered as she climbed into my lap and snuggled up against me.

It wasn't long after that when I ran across an unfamiliar lump under my arm. Cancer, an aggressively spreading kind, had already invaded thirteen of my lymph nodes. I pondered whether or not to tell the students about my diagnosis. The word breast seemed so hard to say out loud to them, and the word cancer seemed so frightening.


When it became evident that the children were going to find out one way or another, either the straight scoop from me or possibly a garbled version from someone else, I decided to tell them myself. It wasn't easy to get the words out, but the empathy and concern I saw in their faces as I explained it to them told me I had made the right decision. When I gave them a chance to ask questions, they mostly wanted to know how they could help. I told them that what I would like best would be their letters, pictures and prayers.

I stood by the gym door as the children solemnly filed out. My little blonde friend darted out of line and threw herself into my arms. Then she stepped back to look up into my face. "Don't be afraid, Dr. Perry," she said earnestly, "I know you'll be back because now it's our turn to take care of you."

No one could have ever done a better job. The kids sent me off to my first chemotherapy session with a hilarious book of nausea remedies that they had written. A video of every class in the school singing get-well songs accompanied me to the next chemotherapy appointment. By the third visit, the nurses were waiting at the door to find out what I would bring next. It was a delicate music box that played "I Will Always Love You."

Even when I went into isolation at the hospital for a bone marrow transplant, the letters and pictures kept coming until they covered every wall of my room.

Then the kids traced their hands onto colored paper, cut them out and glued them together to make a freestanding rainbow of helping hands. "I feel like I've stepped into Disneyland every time I walk into this room," my doctor laughed. That was even before the six-foot apple blossom tree arrived adorned with messages written on paper apples from the students and teachers. What healing comfort I found in being surrounded by these tokens of their caring.

At long last I was well enough to return to work. As I headed up the road to the school, I was suddenly overcome by doubts. What if the kids have forgotten all about me? I wondered, What if they don't want a skinny bald principal? What if . I caught sight of the school marquee as I rounded the bend. "Welcome Back, Dr. Perry," it read. As I drew closer, everywhere I looked were pink ribbons - ribbons in the windows, tied on the doorknobs, even up in the trees. The children and staff wore pink ribbons, too.

My blonde buddy was first in line to greet me. "You're back, Dr. Perry, you're back!" she called. "See, I told you we'd take care of you!"

As I hugged her tight, in the back of my mind I faintly heard my music box playing . . . "I will always love you."

Subject: Breast Cancer Stamp Booklet


We need those of you who are great at forwarding on information with your e-mail network. Please read and pass this on. It would be wonderful if 2005 were the year a cure for breast cancer was found!!!!

This is one email you should be glad to pass on. The notion that we could raise $35 million by buying a book of stamps is powerful! As you may be aware, the US Postal Service recently released its new "Fund the Cure" stamp to help fund breast cancer research. The stamp was designed by Ethel Kessler of Bethesda, Maryland. It is important that we take a stand against this disease that affects so many of our Mothers, Sisters and Friends.

Instead of the normal 37 cents for a stamp, this one costs 40 cents The additional 3 cents will go to breast cancer research. A "normal" book costs $7.40. This one is only $8.00. It takes a few minutes in line at the Post Office and means so much. If all stamps are sold, it will raise an additional $35,000,000 for this vital research. Just as important as the money is our support. What a statement it would make if the stamp outsold the lottery this week. What a statement it would make that we care.

I urge you to do two things TODAY:

1. Go out and purchase some of these stamps.

2. E-mail your friends to do the same. .

Many of us know women and their families whose lives are turned upside-down by breast cancer.


It takes so little to do so much in this drive.

I care and I know you all do too.

LOVE YA'S!!

Sue Z

Thanks Sue Z for adding that!

Weezie

No problem, dahling.

LOVE this great scripture site you have led us to.

Enjoy...... The Pine Tree Crosses

Courtesy of dvo-gurl.

True or not, this story touched my heart big time. read on
--

Losing the romance

My husband is an Engineer by profession, I love him for his steady nature, and I love the warm feeling when I lean against his broad shoulders.

Three years of courtship and now, four years into marriage, I would have to admit, that I am getting tired of it. The reasons of me loving him before, has now transformed into the cause of all my restlessness.

I am a sentimental woman and extremely sensitive when it comes to a relationship and my feelings, I yearn for the romantic moments, like a little girl yearning for candy. My husband is my complete opposite, his lack of sensitivity, and the inability of bringing romantic moments into our marriage has disheartened me about love. One day, I finally decided to tell him my decision, that I wanted a divorce.

"Why?" he asked, shocked. "I am tired, there are no reasons for everything in the world!" I answered.

He kept silent the whole night, seems to be in deep thought with a lighted cigarette at all times.

My feeling of disappointment only increased; here was a man who can't even express his predicament, what else can I hope from him?

And finally he asked me:" What can I do to change your mind?" Somebody said it right, it's hard to change a person's personality, and I guess, I have started losing faith in him.

Looking deep into his eyes I slowly answered: "Here is the question, if you can answer and convince my heart, I will change my mind, Let's say, I want a flower located on the face of a mountain cliff, and we both are sure that picking the flower will cause your death, will you do it for me?"

He said:" I will give you your answer tomorrow...." My hopes just sank by listening to his response.

I woke up the next morning to find him gone, and saw a piece of paper with his scratchy handwriting, underneath a milk glass, on the dining table near the front door, that goes....

My dear,

"I would not pick that flower for you, but please allow me to explain the reasons further..."

This first line was already breaking my heart. I continued reading.

"When you use the computer you always mess up the Software programs, and you cry in front of the screen, I have to save my fingers so that I can help to restore the programs.

You always leave the house keys behind, thus I have to save my legs to rush home to open the door for you.

You love traveling but always lose your way in a new city; I have to save my eyes to show you the way.

You always have the cramps whenever your "good friend" approaches every month, I have to save my palms so that I can calm the cramps in your tummy.

You like to stay indoors, and I worry that you will be infected by infantile autism. I have to save my mouth to tell you jokes and stories to cure your boredom.

You always stare at the computer, and that will do nothing good for your eyes, I have to save my eyes so that when we grow old, I can help to clip your nails, and help to remove those annoying white hairs. So I can also hold your hand while strolling down the beach, as you enjoy the sunshine and the beautiful sand... and tell you the color of flowers, just like the color of the glow on your young face...

Thus, my dear, unless I am sure that there is someone who loves you more than I do... I could not pick that flower yet, and die... "

My tears fell on the letter, and blurred the ink of his handwriting... and as I continue on reading...

"Now, that you have finished reading my answer, if you are satisfied, please open the front door for I am standing outside bringing your favorite bread and fresh milk...

I rush to pull open the door, and saw his anxious face, clutching tightly with his hands, the milk bottle and loaf of bread....

Now I am very sure that no one will ever love me as much as he does, and I have decided to leave the flower alone...

That's life, and love. When one is surrounded by love, the feeling of excitement fades away, and one tends to ignore the true love that lies in between the peace and dullness.

Love shows up in all forms, even very small and cheeky forms, it has never been a model, it could be the dullest and boring form... flowers, and romantic moments are only used and appear on the surface of the relationship. Under all this, the pillar of true love stands... and that's our life... Love, not words win arguments...

Anonymous

I never ignore it....
But it so hard for others to feel this...
They feel sparks have got to fly or there's nothing.

I liked that one alot, Papito!!!
Thanks!!!

Courtesy of Celsa.


Why Women Cry

A little boy asked his mother, "Why are you
crying?" "Because I'm a woman," she told him.

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

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

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

The little boy grew up and became a man, still
wondering why women cry.

Finally he put in a call to God. When God got on
the phone, he asked, "God, why do women cry so
easily?"

God said:

"When I made the woman she had to be special.

I made her shoulders strong enough to carry the
weight of the world,

yet gentle enough to give comfort.

I gave her an inner strength to endure childbirth and
the rejection that many times comes from her
children.

I gave her a hardness that allows her to keep going
when everyone else gives up, and take care of her
family through sickness and fatigue without
complaining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

WOW

From a forwarded email:

Subject: Running in the Rain

A little girl had been shopping with her Mom in Wal-Mart. She must have been 6 years old, this beautiful red haired, freckle faced image of
innocence. It was pouring outside. The kind of rain that gushes over the top of rain gutters, so much in a hurry to hit the earth it has no time to flow down the spout. We all stood there under the awning and just inside the door of the Wal-Mart.

We waited, some patiently, others irritated because nature messed up their hurried day. I am always mesmerized by rainfall. I got lost in the sound and sight of the heavens washing away the dirt and dust of the world. Memories of running, splashing so carefree as a child came pouring in as a welcome reprieve from the worries of my day.
The little voice was so sweet as it broke the hypnotic trance we were all caught in "Mom, let's run through the rain," she said.

"What?" Mom asked.

"Let's run through the rain!" She repeated.

"No, honey. We'll wait until it slows down a bit," Mom replied.

This young child waited about another minute and repeated: "Mom, let's run through the rain,"

"We'll get soaked if we do," Mom said.

"No, we won't, Mom. That's not what you said this morning," the young girl said as she tugged at her Mom's arm.

"This morning? When did I say we could run through the rain and not get wet?"

"Don't you remember? When you were talking to Daddy about his cancer, you said, 'If God can get us through this, he can get us through
anything!"

The entire crowd stopped dead silent... I swear you couldn't hear anything but the rain. We all stood silently. No one came or left in the
next few minutes.

Mom paused and thought for a moment about what she would say. Now some would laugh it off and scold her for being silly. Some might even
ignore what was said. But this was a moment of affirmation in a young child's life. A time when innocent trust can be nurtured so that it will
bloom into faith.

"Honey, you are absolutely right. Let's run through the rain. If GOD let's us get wet, well maybe we just needed washing," Mom said.
Then off they ran. We all stood watching, smiling and laughing as they darted past the cars and yes, through the puddles. They held their shopping bags over their heads just in case. They got soaked. But they were followed by a few who screamed and laughed like children all the way to their cars.

And yes, I did. I ran. I got wet. I needed washing.

Circumstances or people can take away your material possessions, they can take away your money, and they can take away your health. But no one can ever take away your precious memories...So, don't forget to make time
and take the opportunities to make memories everyday. To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.

So verrrrrrrrrrry truuuuuueeeeeee!!!

Weezie

Hi to all!

This morning when the Lord opened a window to Heaven, he saw me, and he asked: My child, what is your greatest wish for today? I responded:
"Lord please, take care of the person who is reading this message, their family and their special friends. They deserve it and I love them very much". The love of God is like the ocean, you can see its beginnings but not its end. This message works on the day you receive it. To some it may sound dumb, but the person who sent this to me was impressed with the time. Let us see if it is true. ANGELS EXIT, but some times, Since they don't all have wings we call them FRIENDS, SUCH AS YOU. Pass this on to your true friends. SOMETHING GOOD WILL HAPPEN TO YOU TODAY AT 11:11 IN THE EVENING. SOMETHING THAT YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING TO HEAR.

THIS IS NOT A JOKE, SOMEONE WILL CALL YOU BY PHONE OR WILL SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT SOMETHING THAT YOU WERE WAITING TO HEAR. DO NOT BREAK THIS CHAIN; SEND IT TO A MINIMUM OF 7 PEOPLE

God Bless,