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n Stories - Our collection of inspirational stories filled with words of wisdom continues to grow. Here you will find more stories to inspire and motivate you.

ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL !!!!
This will hit home to many of us. Josh Groban sings... A Parent's Wish.
It's on Full Screen....really NICE!
Be sure to watch it all, and then send to your children and your friends with or without children.
Please Click on below: http://parentswish.com/site01/big.html

Inspiring Image

I trust you enjoy & value watching this inspiring image, please make sure that you have your sound turned on . . . The Ring Finger >>>

I sincerely hope this movie inspires you to get in touch with someone who's made a difference in your life, a call, a card, a letter.....just watch the movie and you will know what to do! Click Here to view the movie - http://www.movieofappreciation.com

Please watch the following video clip -- it is a story of Johnny, the grocery store bagger.

It is very short, but it will remind you of why and how we make an impact in what we do.

It's amazing how one young Down's Syndrome bagger made such a wonderful impact on those customers lucky enough to have Johnny bag their groceries! Click Here To View The Movie

If you don't open and view anything else in your life, open and view this! You won't be sorry, you will be a little wiser for it though! If you have children, I would expect you'll want them to see this too ! Then, if you are fortunate to still have your parents, go and visit them this week and give them a big hug. Click here: PARENT'S WISH

Need a lift? Check out this heartwarming movie from our friend Mary Robinson Reynolds It contains a wonderful life lesson that I’m know...you won't soon forget!

As always feel free to pass today's movie on to your family and friends! We appreciate your support and hope that this movie made your day a little brighter!

There is one thing that we all have in common. That is...at some point in our life, we will face adversity. It's not a matter of if but...when.

In my 64 years on this earth, I have come to realize that the difference in our success or failure is not change, but choice. Because when adversity strikes, it's not what happens that will determine our destiny; it's how we react to what happens. That's what this 3 minute inspirational movie is all about. So just sit back, turn up your speakers and enjoy.

And don't forget to pay it forward by sharing this email with friends, family and co-workers. They'll thank you for it!

A Person of Worth

You come into the world with unique potential. I call that person your true inner self, the person who is always there, looking out at the world through your eyes. If you could spend your life doing your own thing, freely expressing your natural talents and passions, who knows what potential you could achieve?

Most of us crave the company of like-minded others. To do so, it simply isn't possible to just be your true self. To get along with other people you need to create different personae, according to each situation. You are taught that the way to impress people is to mirror them as much as possible. So you develop an outer, public self, an actor, who wears different masks, acting out roles that suit the myriad of situations you face daily.

You still want to allow your real self to enjoy life. But you also have to face the need to meet others' expectations of you, and therein lies a problem. What’s the right mix (or balance, if you will) of meeting:

Some years ago my life's experiences gave me a vital lesson in finding the answer.

Things were going very wrong for me. I was trying to meet expectations placed on me by a number of people who were heavily influencing my life, expectations against which the inner me was fighting a losing battle. In reality of course I was pleasing nobody, least of all myself. The effect was a gradual erosion of my self-esteem and self-confidence to a point where they became virtually non-existent.

I had allowed my natural inner self to be totally suppressed, by my outer self and by various other people who at the time seemed vital to my life's success. They were telling me, in effect, 'don’t do what you want to do . . . come over here and do what I want you to do'.

They say the darkest time of day is just before the dawn. Isn't it amazing how true that is of life? A small voice in my darkest hours was calling to me, in the form of a close friend asking me to join a choir. I loved singing and they wanted me in the tenors. But I was feeling deeply sorry for myself and said no. The requests continued to come and the answer continued to be no. Finally I gave in and said yes. Perhaps, I thought, a couple of hours of rehearsal each week would take my mind off my problems for a while.

When the choir welcomed me with genuine applause, a candle flickered within me. With encouraging comments on my singing and a growing sense of belonging, the flicker became a soft, steady glow. With each rehearsal, its brightness increased. I could feel the world embracing me again. Before long, the light was shining like a beacon, once again guiding my inner thoughts, revitalizing the inner me, increasing my self esteem and rebuilding my self confidence. It didn’t stop at the end of choir rehearsals. My newfound enthusiasm was rippling through the rest of my week into everything I was thinking and doing.

These events didn't free my passion for singing. It was my passion for singing that freed the real me that I had for too long allowed to be imprisoned by other’s expectations. Needless to say, the first decision of my true self was to dismiss these people from my life . . . and it felt great!

The passionate person I am today owes a great deal to these events and especially to that friend who insistently called to me during those dark days.

Of course the realities of modern living force you to accept the fact that others will have expectations of you that might not sit naturally with your inner feelings - and this is not always a bad thing. There has to be a balance though. True life balance isn’t about managing your work and personal life responsibilities. Nor is it even about work and leisure. It’s actually about getting the mix right of meeting the needs of your inner self and the expectations others have of you. The mix has to be such that your true, inner self stays in charge of your big decisions in life.

In essence, it’s about getting the right mix of 'time for you' and 'time for me'.

Peter is a life style mentor who lives in the beautiful city of Adelaide in Australia. He is a Director of Work Leisure and is known as Australia’s People Gardener - Growing Better People at work, home and play. Peter helps you improve the quality of work productivity, manage stress and your plans for retirement and the future. He is the author of a number of e-books including 'Enjoy Being You' and 'How to Create Your Second Adulthood', which can be purchased by visiting his website at . . . Work Leisure >>>

Same Here!

One man was annoyed at his sentimental wife's constant sniffling as she watched a touching movie on the television.

'For goodness' sake,' he scolded, 'why is it you cry about the imaginary woes of people you've never met?'

'For the same reason you yell and scream when a man you don't know scores a goal,' she said.

That reason, of course, is that they identify with the person or the event. The word 'identify' originally comes from the Latin root 'idem,' which means 'same.' When we identify with someone, we feel the same sadness or ecstasy the other feels and we understand another's plight.

There is no substitute for an ability to identify with others. One woman wrote me a letter about how she acquired this valuable trait.

She said this:

'I was a registered nurse for quite a few years. I always thought of myself as an empathetic person, somebody who was able to reach out and understand what someone else was going through. Then I became a patient when I was diagnosed with M.S. and realized I never really knew the true meaning of the word 'empathy.' Unfortunately, it sometimes has to be learned and not taught.

I found out just how much even a smile means to someone who is sick and so scared about what is happening in their life. Because of M.S. - I found out how much it means to have someone take a few minutes and be friendly and just talk . . . I hate the disease, but it has taught me so much!'

This woman had worked compassionately and professionally for years, but now there is a whole new dimension in her dealing with patients. She identifies with them. She knows how they must feel and responds differently. And she has become a better nurse (and person) because of it.

You may never treat hospital patients, but is there anyone in your life who would not benefit from your ability to identify with their pleasures and pains, their wild dreams and dashed hopes?

The ability to identify with others is a trait that, with practice, can be learned. Employers and employees are valued more highly when they possess it. Family and friends create more intimate relationships when those bonds are built around an ability to truly identify with one another.

Lord Chesterfield said . . . 'You must look into people, as well as at them.'

It is a rare friend who has cultivated the ability to clearly see inside others and, thereby, identify with them. But it is a necessary part of an effective and happy life.

The red dawn peeks through the dense morning fog as Irene makes her way slowly down the stairs. She has been a farmer girl from the day she was born and has lived on this farm all 85 years of her life. As she shuffles over to the coffee pot, her thoughts turn to one particular day thirty-seven years ago. Her eyes twinkle at the memory still so fresh in her mind. Could it be that Kim was only three years old the day her and her family moved in to the small house on the farm next door to them? She remembers how polite the shy, blonde beauty was from the moment she met her and in her most respectful tone called out, "Hi Mrs. Sommers." However, all the adults were soon laughing as Kim turned to Eddie, Irene's husband, and called him "Mrs. Sommers" also. Even though she was promptly set straight that a man was a Mr. and a woman a Mrs., her three-year-old mind could not quite grasp that fact and she often mixed up their titles.

That is how Eddie and Irene received their nicknames from the Conway Family who moved in next to them. From that moment on they were always affectionately referred to as "Mr." and "Mrs." by the four neighbor children.

"Mrs." remembers her initial apprehension to having a young family move in next door to their very busy farm. She can't suppress the smile that spreads across her face as she reminisces...it worked out pretty well after all. All but one of her own kids moved far away upon graduation from high school. That is why the Conway kids became more than neighbors... more than friends... they were like grandchildren to "Mr." and "Mrs."

She can still here the giggles that always followed the loud knocking on her door every 1st of May. As she opened the door she could see the shadows of the children hiding behind the bushes waiting in grand anticipation for her to bend down and pick up the May Day baskets that were proudly sitting on her front porch. They were always made out of paper and most years were bursting with dandelions. She would always make a big show of how much she loved the hastily made baskets and would "ooooooh" and "aaahhhhhh" over the loving creations. She didn't even mind that some years the paper baskets were chock full of flowers from her own magnificently tended flower garden!

Irene's thoughts are interrupted as the door slowly opens and Gary, her youngest son steps in to check on her. Gary has taken over the operation of the farm since her beloved Eddie died nine years ago. She hands him his customary morning cup of coffee and they laugh as they reminisce about the Conway kids growing up next door to them. They remembered the many crayon-scrawled, hand-delivered invitations that were placed in their hands inviting them to attend the plays put on in the Conway basement. They never missed a production and would patiently and lovingly, applauded every song, play and dance routine.

As the last drop of coffee is slowly sipped from Gary's mug, their thoughts turn somber. They know that today, of all days, is a hard one for the now grown neighbor kids.

Gary excuses himself to check on the crops on this muggy day in July. As he makes his way down the path leading to his fields, he looks at the neighboring house and can just make out the large moving truck through the light fog that is still lingering in the air. The truck is almost packed and ready for the long drive. The silhouettes formed by the fog make the memories appear in his mind even stronger as they play out like slow moving pictures. He passes Kim's Tree.... the tree where the oldest Conway child was most often found. The tree was Kim's refuge, whether she was just out exploring or getting away from the duties that are always attributed to the oldest child of any family.

In his minds eye he can see April, the creative, sensitive second child, singing or playing an instrument.

He smiles as he remembers little Rickie, who's face was always pressed up against the kitchen window as Gary would pass by in his tractor. Rickie loved everything about the farm and would spend countless hours asking questions and learning from "Mr." and Gary about what it took to be a farmer. He learned that farming was, at times, a hard life, but that nothing could compare to the simple satisfaction of working in the fields and growing something that you yourself have planted. It is in these fields that Rick, as an adult, would learn the value of farming in a small rural community. A place where a farmer is still taken at his word and will drop everything, even during harvest time, to help out a fellow farmer in need. Help, which is never officially "asked for" but is always freely given.

As Gary makes his way down the path he comes to the stretch affectionately called "The Lane" by Kristi, the youngest of the Conway kids. Being the youngest and not having as many responsibilities as the older children, "The Lane" is where Kristi spent most of her time. Gary would often see her walking barefoot down this stretch with a line of cats trailing her. Gary nicknamed her the "Cat Girl", a name which stuck with her all through childhood.

If she was not in the lane, she was with Rickie, sitting on the steps in the barn fascinatingly watching the new birth coming alive before her eyes...

As Gary gets to the end of the lane, the sun is slowly burning the last of the fog away and he can clearly see the Conway house now. It has been four and half years since the Conway kids' father has passed away and their mom has sold the house, leaving and following her new love to Florida. With the selling of the house comes the end of an era, but not the end of the memories. The memories are one of the few things that can not be taken away, nor can the love that was sown into four kids' lives.

As the Conway kids think back on their childhood years they realize how incredibly fortunate they were to grow up in this setting. A place where not only their parents loved them but that next door there lived Mr. and Mrs. and Gary, who, together with their parents, gave them more happy memories than most people get in a lifetime.

Kristi Powers
NoodlesP29@aol.com

Copyright © 2010 by Kristi Powers

Write Kristi and let her know your thoughts on her story!

Writers note: While the memories I have of growing up on the farm with my siblings are true in this story, I do not know the thoughts of Mrs. or Gary on the last day of having our family own the house next door. I remember this day so vividly, as it was very foggy that morning, which just added to my mind's thoughts of the last morning on the beloved place of my childhood. I still walk the lane, at times. Whenever there is something really pressing on my heart, or a burden that I can not seem to bear, I walk up that lane and sit at the feet of Christ, and I watch the sun set in the stillness and quietness of the one place, besides heaven, I still consider home. I hope you enjoyed this story! From my heart to yours! ;c)

About the Author:

Kristi is happily married to Michael and they have three boys. Her writing appears in ten inspirational books, including many in the Chicken Soup series, and their own book entitled: Heart Touchers. Kristi is also homeschool mom and fills her "free time" doing youth ministry and absolutely loves her "job" as a CASA volunteer!

To read more of Kristi's writing visit: http://www.HeartTouchers.com

I can't remember the last time I read a book without pictures. It's not that I don't enjoy reading; I even make the effort on occasion to browse the book store's new release shelf, spending our limited date-night budget on the latest must-have novel.

While I never seem to get past the first few pages without having to stop to fight closet monsters or fetch yet another cup of water, I do have a creative way of finding a unique purpose for each and every book. Take "A New Earth," written by Oprah's spiritual sidekick Eckhart Tolle, for instance. While I never got around to the part where it's supposed to change my life, it has made the perfect bedside coaster. "Eat, Pray, Love" -- the diary that swept the nation -- was exactly what I needed the night I found that spider creeping it's way around my bathtub (sorry, Charlotte).

Then I was assigned to write about "Lift," written by mom, cancer-survivor and my brand new Facebook friend, Kelly Corrigan. "Lift" is written as a heartfelt and honest letter to her children, but what caught my attention first and foremost was the size. At 80+ pages, I devoured the whole thing during my daughter's nap, a time normally reserved for work deadlines, laundry or dishes. "Lift" is packed with a rare combination of humor and gut-wrenching raw emotion, filled with stories and observations of blow ups and blunders the rest of us moms figure only happen in our own homes, behind closed doors.

Almost every day I yell at one of you so loudly that my throat hurts afterward. That's why I keep lozenges in practically every drawer in the house. I hold it together and hold it together and then, when the bickering picks up again, I just detonate. In a parent-teacher conference last year, Ms. Tunney said, with obvious hesitation, "Sometimes -- sometimes, your daughter has a bit of an edge, a way of snapping that makes the other kids pull back." I cried when I left the classroom. I knew.

Sometimes, the magnitude of which parenting shakes me leaves me with so much self-doubt and overwhelming fear that I'm doing irrevocable damage to these three tiny souls. There are daily happenings in own my home that often leave me wondering if my kids will hold onto memories of these sometimes-stressful days, forever shaping how they see the world and react to life's challenges. I find myself wishing with crossed fingers that the time I shrieked at them over Legos on the floor or the bedtime routine that turned into a battle will eventually be pushed out of their tiny brains, replaced with lighthearted family moments when we let them have dessert before dinner or took a family walk in their new Scooby Doo pajamas.

My default answer to everything is no. As soon as I hear the inflection of inquiry in your voice, the word no forms in my mind, sometimes accompanied by a reason, often not. Can I open the mail? No. Can I wear your necklace? No. When is dinner? No.

There is no mother on earth who loves her children more than I do. The hopes and dreams I hold for them are as important to me as each breath I take. But life as a mom is more than skinned knees and baking cookies. It's stressful, complicated and often terrifying. I just hope that someday my children will understand that while they see me as they're first teacher, I'm also a struggling student, just like them.

NEVER TOO LATE

A long time ago, in a far away land, lived a princess of great beauty and charm, but apparently little else. She would spend endless hours admiring herself in the mirror and never ventured far from home to experience the broader aspects of life. She was preparing herself, she believed, for that special suitor that was to come along and sweep her off her feet.

The other princesses knew this about her and had grown weary of her endless chatter on the subject. They too wished for a proper suitor to arrive, but they never feared venturing out into the world while they waited. Since there was no need for them to engage in formal work, they took it upon themselves to help those persons in need with whatever services they could provide. A poor street beggar would receive some scraps of food. A lost or orphaned child would be taken to a special home. Elderly people of all types were aided with their needs.

Caring for others was at times difficult work, but these young women had become accustomed to it and they rarely complained. They used to invite their friend Isabelle, the reclusive one who lived in front of the mirror, but she consistently declined to take part so they stopped inviting her altogether.

One day, a fine young man arrived in the village, in search of his father whom he had not seen in a very long time. As Andrew scoured the town looking for his father, he came upon the contingent of princesses and asked for their help. Evelyn, the eldest of the group, stepped forward and informed him that his father had already passed on. Andrew was depressed. His life had become so busy that he failed to come around when he should have and ultimately missed that final opportunity to mend the relationship with his father.

The young women took him to the burial site and left him. "Oh father," he began, "I am so sorry I missed you. I am so sorry I did not come earlier. I guess I was just afraid to. I always wanted to tell you that I loved you, but the timing never seemed right, and neither of us was all that comfortable with that kind of talk. So I kept putting it off and here I am now, regretting it."

Just then an angel descended upon the scene. She said to Andrew: "My task is to escort Souls back to the Eternal. Your father was one of those Souls I helped guide this past year. As the time came for the two of us to move on, his demeanor changed, for now he realized you would not arrive on time. I promised that I would return here, to his grave site, on the day you did arrive, and bring his final message to you."

"My dear son," she began, "I regret not seeing you in my final hours. I was hoping you would arrive before I passed on but I couldn't hold on any longer. I fixed my gaze on the heavens and asked to be taken up. My body was too weakened to carry on. To that final breath I would have cherished a few more moments with you but I knew you had things to do. So with my angel friend here, I arranged for this message to be delivered.

"I hope you are well and I do wish you to know that I always loved you. I could have told you more often, but that wasn't me, awkward and shy to the end. I know you needed to hear such words, but I was too old to learn another way. However, I can say it now, rather easily it seems. I hope you will accept that these words are from me."

The angel departed and Andrew headed back to the village. There he encountered Evelyn and the other princesses and they described his father's final days, saying they were all pleased to have known him. They had one regret; that they could never get their fellow princess, Isabelle, involved so that she too could have known such a fine man. "Isabelle sounds a lot like me," Andrew suggested, "isolated, alone and wrapped up in herself." The princesses agreed that there were some similarities, but added that Isabelle was still waiting for her fantasies to occur, while Andrew had finally come to his senses.

As Andrew wondered what he might do next, he made the decision to stay for a few days. Would the young princesses mind if he joined them on their rounds? Perhaps by helping some of the other elderly citizens could he get a taste of his father's final days? He knew for certain that he did not want to wind up like Isabelle, who, he could now accept, was more like what he used to be. He would no longer be so wrapped up in the world of affairs or appearances, nor would he wait for some special person to come along to make his life whole. Rather, he would get involved in life by mixing with the people already around him.

Andrew was about to learn a number of lessons that would be valuable to his new life. He would learn that moving closer to others helps one come closer to their true self. It is by risking oneself in such closeness that one truly finds the meaning and value of Love. Such love cannot be found in a mirror or in some vast array of accomplishments. This Love, and its inherent meaning for Life, simply lies in the hearts and souls of those nearest to you and in your willingness to share your heart and soul in return.

The true nature of Love is one of "extension." It is through "extension" that this Love grows. Andrew's heart was about to expand beyond boundaries he had previously held on to. He would know for himself the true nature of this Cosmic Love and for that he felt grateful.

~ Excerpted from "Parables on Grief & Loss" By Maurice Turmel PhD,
a 25 year veteran therapist who currently directs programs at The Ascension Training Centre.
He is a contributing writer to Trans4Mind.com, a Personal Growth website. He has 4 books to his credit:
1) The Voice: A Mythological Guide to Lightworker Service 2) Conscious Evolution - Preparing for
Ascension 2012 3) How to Cope with Grief and Loss 4) Twelve Steps to Ascension. He is also a
singer/songwriter whose music can be heard here: http://ascensiontrainingcentre.com/music
Main Website: http://ascensiontrainingcentre.com

Our 14 year old dog, Abbey, died last month. The day after she died, my 4 year old daughter Meredith was crying and talking about how much she missed Abbey.. She asked if we could write a letter to God so that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her. I told her that I thought we could so she dictated these words:

Dear God,
Will you please take care of my dog? She died yesterday and is with you in heaven. I miss her very much. I am happy that you let me have her as my dog even though she got sick. I hope you will play with her. She likes to play with balls and to swim. I am sending a picture of her so when you see her You will know that she is my dog. I really miss her.
Love, Meredith

We put the letter in an envelope with a picture of Abbey and Meredith and addressed it to God/Heaven. We put our return address on it. Then Meredith pasted several stamps on the front of the envelope because she said it would take lots of stamps to get the letter all the way to heaven. That afternoon she dropped it into the letter box at the post office. A few days later, she asked if God had gotten the letter yet. I told her that I thought He had.
*
*Yesterday, there was a package wrapped in gold paper on our front porch addressed, 'To Meredith' in an unfamiliar hand. Meredith opened it. Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers called, 'When a Pet Dies..' Taped to the inside front cover was the letter we had written to God in its opened envelope. On the opposite page was the picture of Abbey &Meredith and this note:
*
*
Dear Meredith,
Abbey arrived safely in heaven.
Having the picture was a big help. I recognized Abbey right away.
Abbey isn't sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me just like it stays in your heart. Abbey loved being your dog. Since we don't need our bodies in heaven, I don't have any pockets to keep your picture in, so I am sending it back to you in this little book for you to keep and have something to remember Abbey by..
Thank you for the beautiful letter and thank your mother for helping you write it and sending it to me. What a wonderful mother you have. I picked her especially for you.
I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much.
By the way, I'm easy to find, I am wherever there is love.

Love,
God

In 1984, I participated in a golf tournament in a small town 50 miles from my Alberta home. When the time came to drive home, it was evening and dark clouds were forming on the horizon.

Five miles into my journey I was enveloped in a deluge of rain. Visibility fast diminished as the rain increased and night approached. I had unwisely chosen to drive home on backcountry roads rather than the highway, so there were no lights, and with the increasing rain, I was hardly able to see the road.

I missed a hairpin turn and drove straight off the road, literally sailed through the air, over a barbwire fence, and landed in a hay field. As the car hit the ground, my face hit the steering wheel and my lip split open. I struggled out of the car, found the road and began to walk.

I watched for farmhouses where I could find help. I knocked on the door of two different houses, but no one answered.

I was surprised because Alberta is known as a very friendly place, but it was after 11 p.m., so the homeowners probably didn't feel safe opening the door to a stranger so late.

Cold, wet, and bleeding profusely, I walked on another half hour before lights appeared from another farmhouse. It was past midnight, but when I knocked on the door, it was opened immediately by a woman about 70 years old. She enveloped me in a huge hug and said everything would be OK.

She sat me down in her kitchen, gently mopped my face, made me tea and wrapped me in a blanket, trying to stop my shaking and shivering. She called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) to come to help.

While we waited for them, she wrapped her motherly arms around me and rocked me like a baby -- treating me as though I was her own daughter.

When I got home the next day, I sent Gwen flowers and a heartfelt thank you letter. For years after, we exchanged Christmas cards; each of mine included another note of thanks, not just for her help, but also for her courage in opening that door.

At 70, she would not have been able to defend herself had I been a burglar rather than a woman in great distress, yet she didn't hesitate one second to open her door to me -- blood, sweat, tears and all.

Gwen has since passed on to what I'm sure is a great reward. I want to let others know what a warm, kind and lovely woman she was, and take one more opportunity to say thank you to her.

            I trudged up the hill from work. At the time, I worked a block from our home. I
just completed a long twelve hour shift and was tired. The steps to our second floor flat
seemed to go on forever. At the top, I started to take my coat off, when my son, Justin,
burst through the door of his room, "Dad! Dad! I'm going to play ball tonight."

           "What?"

           "I'm playing baseball tonight!"

           Tired and weary, I stared down at him in confusion. "What do you mean you're
playing ball tonight? Where are you playing ball?"

           He stared up at me. "Dad, I joined a baseball league."

           "How and when? Justin, what are you talking about?"

           "Dad, all my friends at school are playing baseball. Tonight is the first night."

           "Where at?"

           "I don't know! It's downtown somewhere."

           "How are we supposed to get there if you don't know where it is?"

           "Dad, it's just down town. We'll find it."

           I pulled my jacket back on. He grabbed the baseball glove he bought at a flea
market a few years back. It fit his left hand; he was left handed - not a good match. "So
where are we going?" I asked.

           "I don't know, Dad." He ran to the door. "It's downtown."

           I couldn't deny him. We got in the car and headed, well, downtown.

           Saint John, New Brunswick was not a big city. Downtown was only a few blocks
in either direction. "I think it's in the south end, Dad." My son stared at me and held his
glove. "We'll find it."

           We crossed the city center and entered the south end. We saw a few kids with
gloves on their hands. "I guess we're heading in the right direction, son. Those kids look
like they are ready for some ball."

           He sat high in the seat and stared out the window. "See? I told you, Dad."

           "I believed you, son."

           We found the field. It was definitely on the south end. It was on the harbor, near
where the mouth of the mighty Saint John River emptied into the Atlantic Ocean. The
wind blew in off the water, as it would all summer long, and chilled the parents through
to the bone, but the kids failed to notice it. Their minds were on baseball.

           It was a rag-tag group of boys and girls, just enough to form three teams. It
surprised me. For a city of seventy thousand, that's all the kids they could gather.

           It's been a long time. My memories of the events are vague, but I remember
sitting on the bleachers all summer long, wearing heavy clothes to fight off the chill of
the wind. My son was in the nine and ten year old league, but because there were only
enough kids for three teams, they played with the eleven and twelve year olds.

           I still remember a few of the kids. There was John. He was the smallest of the
lot, but he lived for baseball. He pitched harder and faster then kids twice his size.
I stood by home plate and heard the hiss of his pitch pass me. I remember a heavy-set
girl. She wasn't fast in the field, but she could hit a ball further than any of the boys.

           It was a poor league. There were no uniforms. They were lucky to have shirts
that matched. They played in T-shirts and jeans.

           The first games were disasters. The young kids had no idea where the ball was
to be thrown. The younger kids shied away from the pitch and swung their bats in lame
attempts to hit the ball. If a ball was hit, the fielders jumped away from the ball, instead
of getting in front of it. I would have laughed, but my son was one of the ones throwing
the ball to the wrong base. I sat, groaned, and shivered in the wind.

           The three teams battled each other - won and lost - all summer long. The coaches
were patient. They never yelled or criticized the kids. It was a game and they treated it
that way. At the same time, they taught and encouraged the young players.

           Near the end of the year, I noticed a change. It was so gradual of a change, I
failed to notice it. With only a few games left in the season, the kids were throwing the
ball to the correct base. When a runner headed to second, the second baseman was on
the bag waiting for the throw. The catcher was always at home plate waiting for the
throw home to tag a runner. The first baseman had his toe on the bag with his glove
out to catch a throw and get an out.

           My son's team finished in third place that year - last.

           The city had a tournament for the various leagues. The best teams from each
league competed for the city championship. Our league was small. No team had enough
nine and ten year olds to compete in the tournament on their own, so they put all the kids
in that age range on one team, to play together.

           We showed up at the tournament in T-shirts donated by a local business. The
other teams were from the out-lying areas, areas with more money, and had full uniforms.
From the start, our team felt unworthy. They didn't stand a chance. They didn't look or
feel like a team and were quickly eliminated.

           My son was devastated. That night, I had to hold and comfort him, and reassure
him that next year would be better.

           Nine months later, I was freezing in the wind again. Most of the kids were back.
The same coaches encouraged them. They had matching shirts that year. They were a
team and played like it. The parents were proud of the improvement from the year
before.

           The second year ended. The kids were familiar with each other. They knew
each other's strengths and weaknesses and worked to help each other. The city
tournament was only a few weeks away.

           We arrived at the field on a late September, freezing, Canadian, morning for the
first game. There was still frost on the field. We were to play the team that clobbered us
the year before. The other team strode onto the field in full uniform, confident they would
beat us again. They looked and felt like a team.

Our team sat on the bench. Their breath fogged the cold air in front of them.
They had matching pants, bought by the parents, and shirts donated by a local sponsor.
They looked and were a team. They wanted revenge. They needed and wanted to prove
themselves.

           It was a close game. Near the end, we were up by a run. The apposing team had
the bases loaded with two outs. The batter hit a line drive to the short stop. Little John
was there. He dove, landed on his stomach, snagged the grounder, jumped up, and
threw the ball home for the final out. The umpire walked over to our coach. "In all
my years of umpiring this level of baseball, I have never seen a kid do that. He's
amazing."

           The team went to the finals. It was another close game, but we won it. The little
team from the inner city, the ones with nothing going for them, did it. They did it
because they were a team. They worked and felt like a team. They believed in each
other.

           I've read a lot about team work. It sounds like a lot of hype, but that little
group of inner city kids believed it then and I believe it now. In whatever you do,
if you work as a team and believe as a team, you will accomplish great things.

           If the kids believed it, then you can too.

Michael T. Smith

LORD PROP US UP...

Every time I am asked to pray, I think of the old fellow who always prayed, 'Lord, prop us up on our leanin' side.' After hearing him pray that prayer many times, someone asked him why he prayed that prayer so fervently.

He answered, 'Well sir, you see, it's like this.... I got an old barn out back. It's been there a long time; it's withstood a lot of weather; it's gone through a lot of storms, and it's stood for many years.

It's still standing. But one day I noticed it was leaning to one side a bit.

So I went and got some pine poles and propped it up on its leaning side so it wouldn't fall.

Then I got to thinking about that and how much I was like that old barn.. I've been around a long time..

I've withstood a lot of life's storms. I've withstood a lot of bad weather in life, I've withstood a lot of hard times, and I'm still standing too. But I find myself leaning to one side from time to time, so I like to ask the Lord to prop us up on our leaning side, 'cause I figure a lot of us get to leaning at times.

Sometimes we get to leaning toward anger, leaning toward bitterness leaning toward hatred, leaning toward cussing, leaning toward a lot of things that we shouldn't . So we need to pray, 'Lord, prop us up on our leaning side, so we will stand straight and tall again, to glorify the Lord.''

If you stare at this barn for a second you will see who will help us stand straight and tall again..Do You See HIM?

"The guy's crazy." I mumbled.

I watched the news on television. The broadcaster talked as they showed a young,
curly-headed man dip his artificial leg into the Atlantic ocean in Saint Johns,
Newfoundland, Canada. "Terry Fox," the man said, "is on a mission to raise money for
cancer research. Terry plans to run across Canada to raise one million dollars." The
camera followed Terry as he began to run west in a half skip, half jog away from the
Atlantic toward the Pacific, more than five thousand miles in the distance

It was April 12, 1980, a cold and nasty time of year to run in Newfoundland.
"He's insane." I mumbled again and turned the news off. He ran twenty-six miles that
first day and every day after.

He ran alone. No one believed in him. A curious few stopped, stared, and then
went about their daily lives. One or two donated spare change. Over the next few weeks,
the news occasionally showed clips of Terry on his journey. He ran through snow, rain
and bitter cold.

Terry rose at 4 AM every day, ran twelve miles in the morning, rested, and then
ran another fourteen miles in the afternoon - a marathon every single day. Along the
way, he collected meager donations from those who waited along his route. Followed by
his brother and his best friend in a support van, Terry reached the end of Newfoundland
on May 6, 1980.

"This kid is serious." I thought to myself. Like millions of other Canadians, I
began to follow his progress with fascination and learned his story.

Terry was eighteen when he was diagnosed with bone cancer in his right knee.
After amputation and chemotherapy, he was left with memories of the kids he left behind
at the hospital. He wanted - needed - to do something.

Terry's mother, when she learned of his plan to run across Canada asked, "Terry,
why not just run across British Colombia?"

He looked at her. "Mom, not only people in British Columbia get cancer."

She couldn't argue with his logic.

Terry trained fourteen months for his quest to save others. He ran with a gait
that would be remembered forever.

Along with millions of others, I followed his progress on the news. On the
20th of May, he passed through my place of birth and continued west. He took the ferry
to Prince Edward Island, ran there, and then returned and began his trek through
New Brunswick.

The nation watched and cheered. He no longer ran alone. In every town, people
ran with him. The donations increased. Terry was going to make it. He was living the
dream we all dream - to do something special for others. Through him, we lived.

One night, the news showed Terry running up a long, lonely hill in New
Brunswick. The rain soaked him. He was in the wilderness, following his dream. I cried
for him - a lonely man, skip-running up that hill - running home. It's that picture I
remember. It's stuck in my mind forever.

More than two months into his journey, after running through Quebec, Terry
entered the province of Ontario, and was invited to kickoff a Canadian Football League
game. A publicist, Bill Vigars, said, "We came up out of the arena and I thought to
myself, 'Wouldn't it be nice if people knew who he was?' As we walked toward the
sidelines, the announcer began, 'Ladies and gentlemen ...' and that's as far as he got. The
place went crazy."

With Vigars' help, Terry became a household name. The crowds grew bigger;
more money was donated; and Terry changed his goal. "I want to raise one dollar for
every Canadian. Wouldn't it be nice to raise one dollar for every living person in
Canada?" His goal was twenty-four million dollars.

On September 1, 1980, Terry approached the city of Thunder Bay, Ontario, after
running 3339 miles in 143 days, the distance from Miami to Seattle. He was in pain. He
coughed. His chest hurt. He asked to be taken to a hospital.

After examination, the doctors returned with grim news. The cancer was back.
Terry had been running with a tumor the size of a lemon and one the size a golf ball in his
lungs.

Terry lay on a stretcher and shared the news with his followers. "The cancer has spread."
Terry said through tears. "Now I have cancer in my lungs. And a ... we gotta go
home and try and do some more treatment. But a ..." He paused to choke back his
sobs. "All I can say is, if there's anyway I can get out there again and finish it, I will."

Terry was taken to a Vancouver hospital for new rounds of treatment. Days later,
a impromptu telethon was organize and raised more than ten million dollars. With the
two Terry already raised, he was well on his way toward his goal of one dollar for every
person in Canada.

Terry Fox died on June 28, 1981 at the age of twenty-two. His life is gone, but
his memory is not. In Thunder Bay, Ontario stands a statue of Terry, in full stride, with
his head up, facing west, running home.

Terry died doing what he wanted to do in life and was awarded Canada's highest
honor, The Order of Canada, the youngest to ever receive the medal. Every year a run
in Terry's honor takes place in more than fifty countries at more than six hundred
locations. To date, almost three hundred million dollars has been raised for cancer
research in Terry's name. He may not be with us in body, but in spirit, Terry is with us,
facing west, running home.

I held Georgia close. We swayed to the music and turned in slow turns. Next
to us, a couple twirled and spun in elegant circles. Their feet and bodies moved in
harmony with the music, as they floated over the dance floor. "Wouldn't it be wonderful
to dance like that?" Georgia asked me.

"It sure would." I replied into her ear.

A few weeks later, my daughter, Vanessa, announced plans to attend her
boyfriend's prom. Georgia decided to give them dance lessons as a Christmas gift.

She found a dance studio and called them. "Are you sure you and your husband
don't want to take lessons with them?" the gentleman asked. "There's a discount for a
second couple."

"Well ..." my wife hesitated. "Why not?"

We stood with ten other couples in the center of the floor at Jimmy's Dance
Studio. I listened to the conversations. "I've always wanted to do this." One woman said.

"I hope I don't step on someone's feet." A man of about fifty said to his graying
wife.

A dapper gentleman of about sixty stepped into the room and faced us. He was
five foot two inch - if that. "I'm Jimmy. You're here to learn to dance and you will. I
promise you, by the time you finish your first six weeks, you'll make your friends
jealous." He said. His toupee, obviously fitted many years ago, was slightly off center
and barely covered his spreading baldness.

We started with the basic box step, a simple waltz for those who know how to
dance. We practiced the steps facing each other but standing several feet apart. The men
stepped forward with their left foot; the women stepped back with their right. Our steps
were mirror images of each other. "One! Two! Three!" Jimmy shouted.

It seemed easy.

"OK!" Jimmy said. "Watch how it's done." He took one of his assistants in his
arms. An Anne Murray song began to play. "Save The Last Dance for Me" she sang.
Jimmy and his partner drifted elegantly around the room.

"We're going to start the music again. Take your partner in your arms. Now let's
give it a try." Jimmy smiled at us. "It's easy. You'll see."

Anne Murray sang again. The song would haunt us for months. I held Georgia in
my arms. My right hand held her waist, the left held her hand. The music began. I moved
my left foot forward and stepped on Georgia's toe. We stood, waited for the beat, and
tried again. Half way through the box, we faltered.

"Hold her firm!" One of the assistants came to our side. She grabbed my arm.
"Here! Put your arm around her waist! Hold her hand with the other! Don't move it.
Keep it firm! You have to guide her!"

Anne Murray wailed again. We got through the full box without stumbling or
stepping on each other. Compared to the instructors, we looked like two kids dancing for
the first time. We were awkward, but we learned.

Several weeks later, something happened. While Anne Murray begged for the last
dance, Georgia and I began to flow across the floor. Our awkwardness was gone. We
were partners. We were one.

"Yes! Yes!" The Jimmy yelled and smiled. "Look at them, class. They got it." He
clapped his hands, which caused his toupee to slide to the left. "I told you it was easy."
He smiled.

It took a lot of practice and time, but we did it. We became a team. We anticipated
each other's moves and interpreted the slightest signal from the other. What seemed hard
before, became natural.

Once we learned how to dance, we looked at our relationship. We stumbled
cooking together. We stepped on each other's toes when disciplining our children. I
wanted to go right, she went left: when to mow the lawn, how much to spend on a car,
where our vacations should be spent, and all things couples struggle with. Once we got
the steps down, we danced through life, until the music stopped.

Michael T. Smith

It didn't start out as a big deal. We were waiting to board our flight out of Portland, Oregon, heading to Ontario, California on a Friday evening. The gate had been changed, and everyone was now just anxious to get on the plane and get home.

A man escorted an elderly Asian couple through the line. I assumed he was their son. At the head of the line, it was clear the couple spoke almost no English. A gate attendant was kind enough to escort them out onto the tarmac and onto the right gangway to our plane.

I boarded the plane a few moments behind them and witnessed some confusion. The couple had taken the first two open seats, not understanding the seat numbers on their boarding passes.

A tall man tried to show them how to identify the correct seat numbers, and when they didn't understand, he motioned to them to follow him, and kindly guided them to their correct seats.

I noted his kind act and smiled, though I figured it was the sort of little kindness any one of us would do.

We waited for an eternity to depart, and finally the captain announced that there was minor trouble with a cargo net and we would be delayed. After more time passed, we were advised we would need to deplane and wait for another plane.

I thought immediately of the Asian couple and how confusing this would be for them. I waited for one of my carry-on luggage pieces to come out of the cargo hold, and when I got into the terminal I looked for them. I needn't have worried. The same tall man was with them.

He guided them to the terminal where we were to wait, gesturing for them to stick with him. Our terminal was now overcrowded with impatient commuters waiting for the replacement flight, and there was nowhere for them to sit with three adjacent seats.

The tall man spotted a woman sitting alone with an empty seat on each side of her and explained that he was looking after the couple. He asked if she would be willing to give up her seat, and she graciously did so.

We waited another 45 minutes before boarding the new plane. The tall man sat with the couple during the wait, made sure they found the restroom, got a cup of coffee, a snack, anything they needed.

Maybe another aggravated, tired commuter would have seen this as a pain in the neck. But this man didn't. I'm not sure if it "put him out" to help them. When the opportunity arose, he took responsibility for seeing it through. Really, it seemed he hardly saw it as an inconvenience at all -- just a chance to do good.

The litter of puppies snuggled close to their protective mother. With her
nourishment, they grew quickly. In a few weeks, they were waddling around, exploring
their new home. They were healthy and happy, but one little guy was different. He was
smaller and developed at a much slower rate. They called him Chris-T-Fur.

Chris-T-Fur tried to keep up with his brothers and sisters, but always fell behind
the pack. He'd run in their direction but would slam into the walls and furniture. Tom and
his wife Carolyn-Jo grew concerned and had him examined. The vet said, "I'm sorry,
Tom. Chris-T-Fur is blind. His left eye is totally defective, and he has a juvenile cataract
in his right. He may have a little vision in that one, but it isn't much. You need to make a decision."

Tom and his wife both worked with the disabled. Carolyn-Jo was a physical
education teacher for severely disabled children. Tom worked with adults with hearing
loss. Their little Chris-T-Fur deserved as much of a chance as anyone. "Doc, we'll take
him home and love him as much as our other dogs." Tom said.

Chris quickly worked his way into their hearts - a special kinship was formed.
Later, Chris-T-Fur developed a seizure disorder. After a seizure, he had to walk it off. He
walked all over the house, bumping into everything.

Chris-T-Fur learned the sound of Tom's car. He'd hear him coming and run down
the driveway and crash headfirst into the metal gate. "It's a wonder you still have a nose,
Chris." Tom laughed. "Now go back to the house." Chris-T-Fur turned and ran back up
the driveway, bouncing off the brick wall - using it as his guide.

On outings, Chris ran with the other dogs, barking at things he couldn't see. He
ran into fences, bushes, trees, and even over banks. Did it slow him down? No! Chris-T-
Fur would get up - a little dazed - shake it off, and continued his pursuit. He wanted to be
part of the pack.

The other dogs became intolerant of him, especially when they were settled down
with a bone or treat. When Chris walked by, they growled or snapped at him. They didn't
understand he couldn't see their bone. Chris was just looking for own.

At night, Tom sat to work at his computer. Within a few minutes, he'd hear
Chris-T-Fur enter the room. Chris sniffed the air and detected Tom's location. Tom
would hear the familiar thud, as Chris bumped into his chair. He'd turn, give Chris a
scratch behind his ears, a couple of pats on his head, and show Chris all the love he felt
for his little dog. Chris would then wandered off to another part of the house.

At dinner, Tom purposely dropped a few "Kibbles©" on the floor. Chris-T-Fur
was quick to hear the sound. With a few sniffs of his over-sensitive nose, he'd locate his
treat.

In spite of all his disabilities, Chris-T-Fur was a happy dog. He was friendly and
always ready to be Tom's companion. He was Tom's little hero. He didn't have a
pedigree, but he was top dog in Tom's book. Tom knew he would one day have a void in
his life where Chris-T-Fur used to be. Until then, Tom had a daily reminder that the
struggles he face are insignificant compared to what others deal with.

Chris-T-Fur knew, if you get knocked down, pick yourself up, and brush yourself
off. He taught Tom how important it was to keep a positive attitude.

I wrote this story in the spring of 2006. In October of that year, I received the following
email from Tom.

I fear I have some tragic news to relay. I lost my beloved wife Carolyn-Jo this week.
Back in Sept. she was involved in a terrible explosion in our RV while at camp.
She and our five dogs were inside when a propane gas leak caused a horrible explosion.
Carolyn Jo was burned over 40% of her body and the dogs were badly singed with only a
couple sustaining minor burns. Chris-T-Fur was frightened and ran away as did our deaf
dog. The two we try to give extra care to because of their disabilities. Fortunately they
were both found later that night. All the dogs were traumatized but have recovered.

Carolyn-Jo fought valiantly for over a month and a half to recover from her
wounds and other complications acquired at the hospital. My four daughters and I made
the daily trip into the hospital (50+ miles one way) everyday to be with her and
encourage her but finally her body could not support her blood pressure any longer and
we had to make sure that she was kept comfortable and pain free as long as was possible
until she made her transition.

I was blessed with 33 years with the most wonderful wife, friend and mother any
man could ever ask for. Not only have I had the wrenching duty to tell my children that
their mother was about to die but after she was gone and we came home I had to tell our
five dogs that mom wasn't coming home again. Some understood and sensed it ahead of
time but my pal Chris-T-Fur still waits by the gate at 4:00 every day for mom to come
home. It just tears me up to see him sit there, unable to see, listening for her car and
hoping to smell her scent come home.

It's not only hard for us to say good bye but it's hard for our beloved pets to say
good bye too. We're having a memorial service this coming Saturday and as part of it we
are having a slide show in celebration of her life. Of course a large segment will include
pictures of her with her doggies. Those who knew my loving wife know how much she
loved her dogs. During the service the minister is going to do a reading of "Rainbow
Bridge."

I know that my wonderful wife is now perfect, whole and complete again and is
being greeted by all her dogs that have gone before her in her higher expression of life.

Thank you, Michael, for sharing so many doggy stories with your readers I've shared
them with Carolyn Jo, almost the only e-mail that she'd read! I'm going to still enjoy your
writing and I know she will too telepathically.

NOTE: I haven't heard from Tom in several years. His phone number and email no
longer work. I can only pray he and Chris-T-Fur are safe and sound.

     I'm a Skunk

            I pulled my car into the garage and stepped outside. It was a beautiful evening.
Stars sparkled in the dark sky, unusual for the area we lived then, which is close to the
bright lights of Manhattan and Jersey City.

            Instead of going inside, I walked around the corner, away from the streetlight. In
the shadows, I looked up. Stars dotted the sky - more than I'd seen since I lived in Nova
Scotia, where, free from city lights, the Milky Way cut a wide swath through the darkness
overhead.

            "Ginny needs to see this." I thought and turned to go in. In my lower vision,
in spite of the darkness, I noticed movement. I paused and looked down. A white line
moved inches from my feet.

            Fear caused me to hold my breath. The word, "Skunk!" screamed in my head.
I stood still. "Don't move a muscle! Maybe it will go away." I thought to myself. The
skunk strolled away from me and entered an area illuminated by the streetlight. I breathed
a sigh of relief. It hadn't seen me.

            It was just a baby, maybe a foot long, but it doesn't take much of a skunk to cause
a huge stink. When I thought it was safe, I inched my way along the edge of the house,
toward the corner and the safety of my garage.

            I was a few feet from the corner when the skunk, who must have sensed me,
turned in my direction. We both froze. "Shoo!!" I said, waving my hands. "Go away!" I
said sternly, waving my hands at it again.

            The young skunk, who apparently didn't understand English, moved toward me. I
backed up. "Sho, little fella. Go away!"

            It turned and began to walk away, but as soon as I moved in the direction of the
garage, it turned, and once again came at me. Before it got too close, I rounded the
corner, and entered the lighted garage.

            I peeked out. The little skunk was still coming. "Sho!" I said a final time and
dashed to the door leading into the house. I hit the button beside door. The garage
creaked and groaned as it closed. "That was close." I thought to myself.

            The next morning, when I came down stairs to get ready for work, Ginny said to
me, "Mike, there's something in the garage. I was down there. Something is scratching
around in the corner by the recycling."

            "Skunk!" I said.

            "It might be."

            "No! You don't understand." I told her the story about the young skunk who tried
to attack me the night before. "I bet it followed me into the garage."

            We tip-toed down the steps and opened the door. The scratching came from the
far corner of the garage. I reached out and hit the button. The garage door rumbled to life
and slowly opened. Sunlight steamed in, lighting the corner where the noise came from.    The scratching continued.

            I inched toward the noise. It seemed to come from one of my blue recycling
containers. I peeked inside. "Uh Oh!"

            "What?" Ginny asked.

            "I was right. It's the skunk. It did follow me in. It must have climbed onto the
boxes and fallen into the container. The sides are too high for it to get out."

            "What are you going to do?"

            "I don't know. I guess I'll drag the container outside, roll it over and run."

            I stooped low, kept out of the skunk's view and aim, and slowly dragged the
container across the floor. Like a bomb squad member, trying to cause as little
disturbance as possible, I pulled it out the door, across the driveway and into the grass.

            "OK! Here we go." I said to Ginny. I tipped the can on its side and ran back to the
garage. Together we watched the skunk waddle out and begin to walk away.

            "Michael, it's just a baby. It's so cute."

            "Cute? It's a skunk. Can you imagine what the garage would smell like if it had
squirted in there?"

            "It's just a baby. Maybe it wasn't going to hurt you. You said it was coming at
you. If it felt threatened, it would have turned and raised its tail. I think it wanted a
friend."

            "You could be right, but I'm not sure I want to take the chance." I replied.

            "If you see it again, just stand there and see what it does." Ginny said.

            "You could be right."

            I never got the chance. A few weeks later, I was walking home from the store.
In the middle of the street was my little skunk. It tried to cross the street and been hit by a
car.

            With a heavy heart, I continued home. I'd never been sprayed by a skunk and
don't know of anyone who has been. My fear of the little skunk came from stories I'd
heard and read. Without any personal experience with skunks, I had a prejudice, which
caused me to be afraid of them. The little skunk was too young to have a fear of humans.
It was on its own that night and wanted a friend.

            It made me wonder, how many times in my life have I turned my back on
someone because of a prejudice created by what others thought?

            "Don't play with him. He's nothing but trouble." my friends said.

            "I'd stay away from her. She stole my pencil." a classmate warned.

            "He's strange. He never talks to anyone." a co-worker said about another.

            Those words caused me to be prejudice. Maybe the trouble maker was really
calling out for attention. Maybe they needed a friend. The girl who stole the pencil may
have been from a poor family and couldn't afford a new one to replace one she lost.

            The co-worker actually turned into a great friend. He was just very shy.

            The little skunk was in this world for only a short time, but he changed me. I no
longer let the things people say about another to cloud my judgment. I put all prejudices
aside and give people the chance to show me who they are. And if anyone ever calls me a
skunk, I'm going to take it as a compliment, because maybe I'm just looking to be their
friend.

Michael T. Smith

Why I call you "Friends who Wave Back". Wave Back

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Rekindle Your Love

            I held Ginny's hand as we walked up the stone steps to the entry of the
Anniversary Inn in Boise, Idaho. Leaves fell around us like big colorful snowflakes. I
looked up at the towering black locust trees and remembered how they filled the air
with their heavenly scent when we stayed here in the spring. It was hard to believe we
were in the center of the city. The surroundings, with the mountains in the background,
seemed more like a country estate.

            I opened the door for my beautiful wife. We were greeted with a pleasant smile
from the young lady behind the front desk. The smell of fleshly-baked chocolate chip
cookies filled the air. "Can it get any better?" I asked myself - a beautiful woman on my
arm, a smile and cookies.

            On this visit, we selected the "French Canopy" room and were not disappointed.
We opened the door to the tastefully decorated room - fireplace, queen sized canopied
bed, 52" TV, and a two person jetted tub. In the refrigerator, two slices of cheese cake
awaited our taste buds.

            We closed the door. There was silence. We were alone in our own little world.
Ginny and I live with her daughter, son-in-law, and their four children. Silence and
privacy are precious things.

            We unpacked and went to dinner at one of the nearby restaurants. When we
returned with our bellies full, I stretched out on the comfortable bed and ...fell asleep.
I woke at midnight. Ginny laughed at me. "Now that you are awake, I'm ready for bed."

            "I'm sorry, Baby." I apologized. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

            "It's OK."

            I sat, read and enjoy the fire. Ginny slept. At 4 AM, I noticed her stirring. I went
to the hot tub and turned on the water. She opened her eyes. "You're bath is drawn, my
love."

            She smiled.

            We slipped into the warmth of the water and into each other's arms.

            Later, I lay awake. Ginny's arm stretched across my chest. Her hand rested on my
shoulder. Her leg draped over my hip, and her foot tucked between my knees. I listened
to her breath softly and smelled the scent of her hair. I thought about how much I love
her. We found each other late in life, but experience a love like nothing either of us had
experienced before. In the glow from the fire, I joined her in sleep.

            We checked out later that morning. As we left, I couldn't help noticing the other
guests as they left. Love was in the air. Everyone smiled. Hands were held. Signs of
affection were openly displayed. They felt like Ginny and I did - full of love.

            It was wonderful to get away - a night just for us. The Anniversary Inn provided
the perfect setting to be us - a couple in love.

            I held Ginny's hand. At the top of the stairs, I put down our bags, kissed her and
said, "I love you, Ginny."

            She smiled and said, "I love you more."

            We walked to the car. I thought about my feelings and of the other guests I saw
leaving, and knew everyone needs to do this. Every couple needs a chance to rekindle
your love.

Michael T. Smith

Why I call you "Friends who Wave Back". Wave Back

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Love without Measure

Freda Bright says, 'Only in opera do people die of love.' It's true. You really can't love somebody to death. I've known people to die from no love, but I've never known anyone to be loved to death. We just can't love one another enough.

A heart-warming story tells of a woman who finally decided to ask her boss for a raise in salary. All day she felt nervous and apprehensive. Late in the afternoon she summoned the courage to approach her employer. To her delight, the boss agreed to a raise.

The woman arrived home that evening to a beautiful table set with their best dishes. Candles were softly glowing. Her husband had come home early and prepared a festive meal. She wondered if someone from the office had tipped him off. Or did he just somehow know that she would not get turned down?

She found him in the kitchen and told him the good news. They embraced and kissed, then sat down to the wonderful meal. Next to her plate the woman found a beautifully lettered note. It read: 'Congratulations, darling! I knew you'd get the raise! These things will tell you how much I love you.'

Following the supper, her husband went into the kitchen to clean up. She noticed that a second card had fallen from his pocket. Picking it off the floor, she read: 'Don't worry about not getting the raise! You deserve it anyway! These things will tell you how much I love you.'

Someone has said that the measure of love is when you love without measure. What this man feels for his spouse is total acceptance and love, whether she succeeds or fails. His love celebrates her victories and soothes her wounds.

He stands with her, no matter what life throws in their direction. He may say that he loves her to death. But he doesn't. He loves her to life. For his love nourishes her life like nothing else can.

Upon receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, Mother Teresa said: 'What can you do to promote world peace? Go home and love your family.' And love your friends. Love them without measure. Love them to life.

Written by Steve Goodier
Steve Goodier publishes This is Your Life Support System, a free e-newsletter sharing life, love and laughter.

Don't Settle For Less Than Your Best

            Many years ago, my first wife and I decided to add an addition to our house.
We had contractors to the bulk of the work, while I did the smaller jobs. I did all the
siding on both the old and new sections of our house. I installed 1000 square feet of
parquet flooring and glued tiles to the floor in front of the fireplace. The older part of the
house was done with paneling. I replaced it with sheetrock and did the crack filling as
well. I sanded wood, painted walls, and installed moldings and baseboards. In the new
bathroom, I cut and glued Formica.

            It took more than a year to complete. I wasn't a carpenter or a builder. I didn't
have a clue how to do any of it, however, there were how-to books to study and friends
who gave advice.

            I made many mistakes. Above the kitchen cabinets was a portion of sheetrock, I
couldn't reach with my drill. A section of it dipped down from the piece beside it. I
cracked-filled the gap as best as I could, but it was visible to anyone with a keen eye.

            There were places around the doors and windows where the moldings didn't meet
evenly, because I cut a piece a fraction of a inch too short. It was the same with the
baseboards and the parquet flooring.

             "Michael!" Georgia scolded, "You made a mess of that!"

            "Hun, it's in the corner! Who's going to notice? If someone sees that, then they're
too nosey." I sighed and reassured her, "No one will notice!"

            Five years later, I lived in a different city. Georgia was back home, trying to sell
the house. Potential buyers came. They noticed the mistakes and walked away. My
mistakes were small, but they saw every one of them.

            I'm not alone. How many of us don't do the best job we can, because we think no
one will notice? We make mistakes. We can't hide them, but we can fix them. One day
we'll be judged, and we'll be ashamed to admit, we didn't do our best.

            Are you settling for less than your best?

Michael T. Smith

After her husband died, Evelyn was lost. The house was empty. She missed her
John-John, as she used to playfully call him. The wind howled. Snow and ice hit the
windows with such force, it sounded like marbles stored in an old tin cookie box. These
were the nights she and John-John would sit by the fire and play scrabble. Later they
would cuddle under the covers and hold each other to stay warm.

The cancer struck hard and fast. John lasted three pain-filled months. She
remembered his last words, "Ev, I love you and promise to take care of you." His chemo-
ravaged body gave out that night.

Evelyn sighed. There would be no more cuddling. All she had were the dolls she
made for the children at the orphanage in Caldwell. It was a hobby she took up to pass
the time after John-John died. She was surprised to find she was very good at it. Besides
the ones she gave to the children, she also made a nice income selling others at craft fairs.

She picked up an unfinished doll and began to work as the storm pounded the
house. From her lap, his shiny black eyes stared up at her as she admired his permanent
red smile. Fingering his tiny overalls, she pictured the little ones' faces, pressed against
the icy windowpanes, waiting for her to arrive with another basket of her lifelike,
homemade gifts. The last strand of hair was finally in place. As she gently inserted the
needle to tie a knot, he lurched in her hand and a voice, eerily like John-John's, said,
"Blood pressure high! Blood pressure high!"

Startled, Evelyn jumped back against the sofa with enough force, had she been in
a chair, she surely would have tipped it over and cracked her head on the floor. The doll
flew from her hands and landed on the rug by the fire. It was silent now, but from its
resting spot, its black eyes stared at her.

Evelyn approached the doll. She reached for it like a person who holds out a
hand to an unfamiliar dog - unsure if it will bite or lick. A gust of wind shook the house.
Evelyn jumped back. She laughed at herself. To prove her courage, if only to herself, she
quickly grabbed up the doll and stared into its eyes. It remained silent and unmoving in
her hands.

She quickly sewed the last strand of hair in place and put the finished doll on
the mantel. This one she wouldn't give away. She made a cup of tea and wondered if she
was losing her mind. "Blood pressure high!" It had said. Now that she thought about it,
she had been feeling that rushing feeling in her head lately. "Tomorrow, I'm going to the
doctor." she said to herself.

Dr. Bryant stared at her with concern. "Evelyn, your blood pressure is 197/127?
Do you realize, if you hadn't come in, you very likely would have had a stroke. I should
send you to the emergency room, but first I'm going to give you a prescription. I want
you back here in a few days for a follow up."

That night, Evelyn sat with the doll in her lap. "Maybe my blood pressure made
me imagine things, but I think you saved my life."

Two years passed. Evelyn went on with her lonely life. She worked during the
day and made dolls in the evening. The one doll she couldn't give away sat on the
mantel. She often took it down and held it, but it was silent - until this night. As she read
a book, the doll, resting in her lap, jumped to life, "Check the Lump! Check the lump!" it
cried with its all-to-familiar "John-John" voice.

In the silent room, the voice startled her. The doll fell to the floor and was silent.
She knew what she had to do. The next day Dr. Bryant discovered a small lump in her
right breast. It was caught in time.

One time Evelyn's aunt Bess visited. Evelyn came from the kitchen with a tray
of coffee and snacks. Aunt Bess held the doll. "This one is beautiful, Evelyn. How come
you ..." The crash of the tray hitting the floor cut her off.

"Don't touch that!" Evelyn screamed. She grabbed the doll from Bess. "I mean ..
well ... it's not finished yet."

"Goodness sakes, girl! I wasn't going to break it." Bess said. "It's just a doll."

That night, after Bess left for home, Evelyn held the doll. This time she didn't
jump when it came to life and said, "Cancer eats!"

Evelyn lived to be 92 years old. During the last forty years, the doll saved her
from another round of breast cancer, a heart blockage, and kidney infection. It knew
her father would die from a heart attack, and her brother from liver failure.

On August 5, 2009, Evelyn held the doll in her aged hands. It came to life
and said, "I wait for you, Ev."

They found her in the morning, sitting by the fire, with the doll in her lap, and a
smile on her face.

"Bless her heart." Her niece said. "At least she died happy."

Michael T. Smith
Word Count: 900

YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW!!!   (A sort of modern-day parable)

The man slowly looked up. This was a woman clearly accustomed to the finer things of life. Her coat was new. She looked like she had never missed a meal in her life. His first thought was that she wanted to make fun of him, like so many others had done before. "No," he answered sarcastically. "I've just come from dining with the president.. Now go away."

The woman's smile became even broader.

"Leave me alone," he growled... To his amazement, the woman continued standing... She was smiling -- her even white teeth displayed in dazzling rows.. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

Suddenly the man felt a gentle hand under his arm. "What are you doing, lady?" the man asked angrily. "I said to leave me alone.." Just then a policeman came up... "Is there any problem, ma'am?" he asked..

"No problem here, officer," the woman answered. "I'm just trying to get this man to his feet. Will you help me?"

The officer scratched his head. "That's old Jack.   He's been a fixture around here for a couple of years. What do you want with him?"

"See that cafeteria over there?" she asked. "I'm going to get him something to eat and get him out of the cold for awhile."

"Are you crazy, lady?" the homeless man resisted. "I don't want to go in there!" Then he felt strong hands grab his other arm and lift him up. "Let me go, officer. I didn't do anything..."

"This is a good deal for you, Jack," the officer answered.   "Don't blow it."

Finally, and with some difficulty, the woman and the police officer got Jack into the cafeteria and sat him at a table in a remote corner.   It was the middle of the morning, so most of the breakfast crowd had already left and the lunch bunch had not yet arrived.

The manager strode across the cafeteria and stood by his table. "What's going on here, officer?" he asked.. "What is all this, is this man in trouble?" "This lady brought this man in here to be fed," the policeman answered.

"Not in here!" the manager replied angrily. "Having a person like that here is bad for business."

Old Jack smiled a toothless grin. "See, lady. I told you so. Now if you'll let me go.. I didn't want to come here in the first place."

The woman turned to the cafeteria manager and smiled. "Sir, are you familiar with Eddy and Associates, the banking firm down the street?"

"Of course I am," the manager answered impatiently. "They hold their weekly meetings in one of my banquet rooms."

"And do you make a goodly amount of money providing food at these weekly meetings?"

"What business is that of yours?"

"I, sir, am Penelope Eddy, president and CEO of the company." "Oh.."   The woman smiled again.. "I thought that might make a difference."

She glanced at the cop who was busy stifling a laugh. "Would you like to join us in a cup of coffee and a meal, officer?"

"No thanks, ma'am," the officer replied. "I'm on duty."

"Then, perhaps, a cup of coffee to go?"

"Yes, ma'am.. That would be very nice." The cafeteria manager turned on his heel. "I'll get your coffee for you right away, officer."

The officer watched him walk away. "You certainly put him in his place," he said. "That was not my intent... Believe it or not, I have a reason for all this."

She sat down at the table across from her amazed dinner guest. She stared at him intently. "Jack, do you remember me?"

Old Jack searched her face with his old, rheumy eyes. "I think so -- I mean you do look familiar."

"I'm a little older perhaps," she said. "Maybe I've even filled out more than in my younger days when you worked here, and I came through that very door, cold and hungry."

"Ma'am?" the officer said questioningly. He couldn't believe that such a magnificently turned out woman could ever have been hungry. "I was just out of college," the woman began. "I had come to the city looking for a job, but I couldn't find anything. Finally I was down to my last few cents and had been kicked out of my apartment. I walked the streets for days. It was February and I was cold and nearly starving. I saw this place and walked in on the off chance that I could get something to eat."

Jack lit up with a smile. "Now I remember," he said. "I was behind the serving counter. You came up and asked me if you could work for something to eat. I said that it was against company policy.."

"I know," the woman continued. "Then you made me the biggest roast beef sandwich that I had ever seen, gave me a cup of coffee, and told me to go over to a corner table and enjoy it.. I was afraid that you would get into trouble. Then, when I looked over and saw you put the price of my food in the cash register.   I knew then that everything would be all right."

"So you started your own business?" Old Jack said.

"I got a job that very afternoon. I worked my way up. Eventually I started my own business that, with the help of God, prospered..."

She opened her purse and pulled out a business card. "When you are finished here, I want you to pay a visit to a Mr. Lyons. He's the personnel director of my company. I'll go talk to him now and I'm certain he'll find something for you to do around the office." She smiled. "I think he might even find the funds to give you a little advance so that you can buy some clothes and get a place to live until you get on your feet. If you ever need anything, my door is always open to you."

There were tears in the old man's eyes.   "How can I ever thank you?" he asked.

"Don't thank me," the woman answered. "To God goes the glory.... He led me to you."

Outside the cafeteria, the officer and the woman paused at the entrance before going their separate ways..

"Thank you for all your help, officer," she said.

"On the contrary, Ms.. Eddy," he answered. "Thank you. I saw a miracle today, something that I will never forget. And...And thank you for the coffee.."

"Have a Wonderful Day. May God Bless You Always and don't forget that when you 'cast your bread upon the waters,' you never know how it will be returned to you."

God is so big He can cover the whole world with his Love and so small He can curl up inside your heart. When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully and let go.. Only 1 of 2 things will happen: either He'll catch you when you fall, or He'll teach you how to fly!

The power of one sentence:

God is going to shift things around for you today and let things work in your favour. If you believe, send it. If you don't believe, delete it.. God closes doors no man can open & God opens doors no man can close..

If you need God to open some doors for you...send this on. Have a blessed day and remember to be a blessing...

   They're Wiser Than I Thought

            As a parent, I wanted my kids to know the difference between right and wrong. I
firmly believed the best way to do this is by example. It does no good to tell your child not
to do something when they see you doing it. They only think, "Daddy does it; it must be
OK."

            I learned this the hard way.

            My Daughter, Vanessa, was six and my son, Justin, was three. Vanessa had picked
up a few swear words - probably from me.

            I told her it was wrong, but she said, "But, Daddy, we hear you swearing."

            "You're right, Honey." I replied. "Daddy does swear, but that doesn't make it
right. Daddy shouldn't swear either. If you hear me swearing, you have my permission to
point it out to me and tell me it's wrong. You can help daddy learn not to do it anymore."

            This seemed to satisfy her.

            At the time we lived in a mobile home. Space was limited. We were constantly in
each other's way. One bathroom for four people was not enough, so we decided to build an
addition. We built a large connecting room and completely renovated the mobile. Today you
can't tell that it was once a trailer. The new addition was 34' by 35'. We also added a second
bathroom off of our bedroom, a place just for my wife and I. We installed all of the modern
conveniences available at the time: whirlpool tub, shower stall, toilet, sink and even a bidet.

            My wife wanted the tub, vanity and sink surrounded with Formica. She chose a
lovely green marble pattern. The installation price quoted by our contractor was more than
we could afford, so, like most men who like tools and enjoy using their hands, I decided to
do it myself. I studied books and asked those with experience what the proper method of
installation was. Soon I was a self-proclaimed an expert.

            The first step was to cut the Formica into the desired shapes and sizes, then glue
them to the wood, and trim the edges with a router. "Simple enough," I thought to myself.
Before starting, I covered the new flooring with newspaper to catch any glue that might drip.
I chose our new vanity as my work area. The sink hadn't been installed yet, but it was a
large flat area, perfect for what I needed. I covered this area with newspaper as well,
including the hole where the sink would go. I put the first pieces of Formica to be installed
on the vanity face down, and opened the gallon of contact cement. Carefully, I picked up the
can, sat it on the vanity, and watched it disappear through the newspaper and through the
hole for the sink. It crashed to floor below, spraying glue everywhere.

            I stood there trying to comprehend this strange happening. Glue ran down my shins
and over the new slippers I received for Christmas. I began to curse and stomp around.
With every step, my glue-soaked slippers collected more newspaper.

            My wife and kids came running. They stood in the doorway watching a glue-
covered, cursing maniac, stomping around with a weeks worth of newspaper sticking to his
feet. Georgia began to laugh, but the kids were strangely quiet.

            A few days later, while we were out for our evening walk, Vanessa said, "Daddy?"

            "Yes, Hun?"

            "You know how you told us we should point out when you swear?"

            "Yes, Vanessa. Daddy shouldn't swear. You should always tell me to stop."

            "We heard you swear the other day."

            "You did? When?"

            "When you spilled the glue."

            "Why didn't you tell me to stop?"

            She looked up at me with her innocent eyes. "Daddy, we didn't think it was a good
time to say anything."

            I learned a lesson that day. It had nothing to do with swearing. I needed to listen to
my kids more closely. They're wiser than I thought.

Michael T. Smith

Note: Many people have family problems like I did. Please don't hold a grudge.
Don't be the fool I was. Fix it before it's too late.

Why I call you "Friends who Wave Back"- Happiest Day

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Charles Schultz Philosophy

The following is the philosophy of Charles Schultz, the creator of the 'Peanuts' comic strip. You don't have to actually answer the questions. Just read the email straight through, and you'll get the point.

1. Name the five wealthiest people in the world.

2. Name the last five Heisman trophy winners.

3. Name the last five winners of the Miss America.

4. Name ten people who have won the Nobel or Pulitzer Prize.

5. Name the last half dozen Academy Award winners for best actor and actress.

6. Name the last decade's worth of World Series winners.

How did you do?

The point is, none of us remember the headliners of yesterday. These are no second-rate achievers. They are the best in their fields. But the applause dies. Awards tarnish. Achievements are forgotten. Accolades and certificates are buried with their owners .

Here's another quiz. See how you do on this one:

1. List a few teachers who aided your journey through school.

2. Name three friends who have helped you through a difficult time.

3. Name five people who have taught you something worthwhile.

4. Think of a few people who have made you feel appreciated and special.

5. Think of five people you enjoy spending time with .

Easier?

The lesson:

The people who make a difference in your life are not the ones with the most credentials, the most money, or the most awards. They are the ones that care.

He's My Brother

            Like the Christmas before, we didn't send Christmas cards; we called my family
in Canada. Ginny and I talked to my mom. We spoke to my uncles and aunts. I haven't
seen any of them in seven years and Ginny hasn't met them yet at all, but she knows they
are family and hopes to meet them one day.

            The calls were completed, but I couldn't relax. There was one call I needed to
make, I was afraid to. I paced the house. I sat at my computer and wasted time. I needed
to call. I couldn't. I should. I couldn't. I was in turmoil.

            Five years before, I received an email from my brother. At the time, I had been
out of work for several months. Stress ruled my life. The email from my brother was
nothing terrible, but it made me angry.

            I wrote back. As I typed, my anger grew. Months of frustration flowed into my
nasty response. I said things that were not nice, but I hit send anyway. More thoughts
occurred to me. I wrote a second nasty email. My fingers hammered the keys as I typed.
I basically told my brother to go to hell. I could care less if I ever heard from him again.

            The next day I received an email from him. I didn't read it. I just deleted it and
then blocked his email address, so I could not receive anything from him.

            In the last five years, I know he has tried to get through to me, but I ignored him.

            I have lived with this terrible guilt. I thought about contacting him, but was
ashamed of myself for what I'd said.

            Now was the time.

            I picked up the phone and stepped outside. I wanted privacy. Ginny didn't know I
was calling my brother. I took a deep breath, blew out a cloud of steam into the cold
December air, and dialed his number. Even after five years, I still knew it by heart. A
phone rang 3700 miles away in Nova Scotia.

            There was no answer. I left a message. "Bob, it's Mike." I paused to take another
breath. My hand holding the phone shook. "Bob, I guess I'll start by saying I'm sorry.
I said some things I regret. I want to wish you and Delores (Bob's wife) a merry
Christmas and hope all is well with you. I realize you may not want to talk to me, but I
thought I would try. I want to make it right again. If you want to talk ..." I left my
number.

            I walked back into the house and looked at Ginny. "I did it."

            She looked puzzled. "You did what?"

            "I called Bob."

            "Oh, Honey!" She walked to me and put her arms around my neck. "I'm glad.
You needed to do it. It's family, Mike, and it's been too long." She kissed me. "You did
right, Hun."

            The days passed. Christmas came and went. I waited for the call that never came.
I prayed for his forgiveness. The phone didn't ring. Then a week after I called, I received
an email. My brother left me a message on my Facebook page. He said he listened to my
voice message over-and-over and knew I was sincere. In the weeks to follow, we emailed
back-and-forth. The healing has begin.

            Why did I let five years of my brother's life slip through my fingers? Why was I
too proud to call and say I was sorry?

            If I had the answers, it would never have happened in the first place, but I know
I don't want it to happen again.

            I wrecked my relationship with my brother. Like a jigsaw puzzle that has been
dropped, the pieces are scattered everywhere. It's time to gather them up and try to put
it back together. It will take time, but I hope each piece I put back will gain a little more
of my brother's trust.

            I swallowed my pride. I did it. Five years is too long.

            He's my brother.

Michael T. Smith

Note: Many people have family problems like I did. Please don't hold a grudge.
Don't be the fool I was. Fix it before it's too late.

Why I call you "Friends who Wave Back"- Happiest Day

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The principal use of Grandma's apron was to protect the dress underneath, because she only had a few, it was easier to wash aprons than dresses and they used less material, but along with that, it served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the oven.

It was wonderful for drying children's tears, and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears…

From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven.

Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot wood stove.

In the fall, the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.

When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds.

When dinner was ready, Grandma walked out onto the porch, waved her apron, and the men-folk knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner.

It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace that 'old-time apron' that served so many purposes.

       I Want to be a Mountain

            The year drew to a close. What would I accomplish in next?

            I looked up at the mountains in the distance. They were white now. Not long ago,
they were brown. In the eighteen months I've lived in Idaho, I've had the opportunity
watch the cycle of seasons make their changes on these mountains that I never tire of
seeing.

            My first sight of them came in September of 2008. The sides of the mountains
were painted green with the leaves of sage brush. The days moved on. The weather
cooled and the rain didn't fall. The leaves browned. The mountain changed.

            Fall gave way to winter. I stood in the rain and watched the top of the
mountains turn a dazzling white. Each week the snow crept further down the slopes
and long before the first snows fell in the valley, the mountains were covered with fresh
powder. When the sun set, the lights on the ski slopes lit the side of the mountains a
dazzling white at night. I'm not a skier, but I imagined the excitement of speeding down
the side of those mountains - free, fast, and thrilled.

            Winter turned to spring. The snow in the valley disappeared and made its
retreat up the slopes until it was gone once again. As the weeks passed, the green in
the valley flowed steadily up the slopes like a reversed waterfall. The mountains
were as I first saw them, green and lush.

            On this New Years Eve, the mountains are white again. On New Years Day
they will be peppered with the dark dots of the distance skiers as they daringly
fall down it's slopes.

            I saw so many changes, but were they changes? The mountains are never
changing. Like people, they only changed coats to fit the weather. They didn't
allow outside influences to alter what lie beneath their coats of changing colors.
They were always the same. You could have faith in them.

            I'm in my third season of life. A little snow is gathering at my peak. Some of the
sage brush is gone all together. My clothing changed to fit my season. Next year and all
my years to follow, I want to be as constant as a mountain. Although my looks change,
I want to be reliable. My body will change coats many times, but when my day is
done, I want people to say, "No matter what the seasons of life brought, he never changed
inside. He never allowed the pressures of the seasons or the weathers of life to change
what he was underneath. He was a mountain you could rely on to watch over those
who looked up to him."

            For this New Year and all the New Years that I have left, whether it is at my job,
at home, or with friends, I want to be a mountain.

Why I call you "Friends who Wave Back"- Happiest Day

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My Twelve Most Memorable Moments with You

MERRY CHRISTMAS, GINNY

This year I bring you the twelve most memorable moments. These are moments with you
that that stand out in my mind whenever I think about our almost six years together.

1 - The time we first talked on the phone

We were in the chat room for widows and widowers. The group met in the chat room
often. Your sense of humor was wonderful. I liked you. I was the clown of the group
and cracked jokes all the time. Little did I know you baited me to see what I could say
next.

I asked if I could call you sometime.
You said yes.
I heard your southern accent and feel in love with it.

The clue to the next moment is:

Your next moment is - It should always come first - Their first

(The note was hidden behind a picture on the wall. It has Ginny's daughter, son-in-law
and pictures of their children in it. The clue was "It should always come first" meaning
family. Below the pictures is a line that says, "Our first Year")

2 - The day we first met at the airport

My stomach was in turmoil. I was excited and scared at the same time.
I'd seen your pictures and recognized you right away. You looked up at me,

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

And then you were in my arms. I held you tight.

Later you told me you had a dream of your first husband Harvey soon after he died. He
came to you in a meadow, hugged you, and said everything was going to be OK. It was
not a hug you remembered. The hug was the one I gave you at the airport that first time.

Your next moment is - Our feathered friends love us.

(The note was hidden behind a picture of birdhouse.)

3 - Our first kiss in the car

We gathered your luggage and walked to my car. Once inside, I turned to you and said,
"I have been waiting to do this for a long time." I reached out, held you to me, and kissed
the sweetest lips I've ever tasted.

Read: First Meet: First meet

Your next moment is - I flash to mark the spot

(The note was hidden beneath the flashing angel at the top of the Christmas Tree)

4 - The first time I met your daughter Heather and your grandsons

We flew to Oklahoma to bring Heather to New Jersey with us. In the terminal I met
Heather and her three boys for the first time. Little did I know the role those little
guys would play in my life.

Related stories: Hoo Hoo Fraks

Just Three Words

The Color of Yogurt

Your next moment is - He shares tea with his wife

(The note was hidden behind an advent calendar. On the calendar is a picture of Mr. and
Mrs. Clause sharing tea)

5 - I took you to Times Square

On your first visit, I took you to Jersey City to see Manhattan across the Hudson River.
We took the train into Manhattan, and I walked you to Times Square. The wonder and
thrill on your face reflected the thousands of lights that surrounded us.

Your next moment is - She wants to be at my feet

(The next note was hidden in our cat's basket)

6 - The moment I realized my love for you was real and deep was when you hurt your
thumb.

My phone rang. It was your son Brandon. I'd never spoken too him before.
"Mike, this is Brandon, Ginny's son. She asked me to call you. She had an accident with
her horse. She almost ripped her thumb off and is in surgery now."

He said he would call me with more news later, but didn't.

That night, I paced the house and called your phone over-and-over, without receiving
an answer. I was sick with worry. As my worry grew, so did a realization - I was
truly in love with you. I knew I loved you before, but my concern and worry drove the
point home to me. It was a wonderful moment.

Your next moment is - Now I lay me down to sleep

(The next note was hidden under her pillow)

7 - The day we married

No day can compare to the day you looked into my eyes and said, "I do!"
It was the day my life changed for the better. Thank you, Baby!

You can see our wedding here: Our Wedding

Your next moment is - BRRRRRRRR

(This note was hidden in the freezer)

8 - The YW gathering

More than twenty widows and widowers from our online support group from
three countries gathered in New York City. I remember looking around the room
at all the people we shared our pains and sorrows with and feeling the tears
streaming down my cheeks. It was the most amazing thing I have ever experienced.
Amid the crowd was the woman I loved and married - you.

Your next moment is - Ice is nice

(This next note was hidden behind a calendar. It had a winter scene of ice on the shores
of the ocean)

9 - When you met my daughter Vanessa

When I told my daughter Vanessa you and I got married, she freaked. "Dad, are
you crazy? It's too soon! You'll just end up divorced!"

A few months later we drove to Ohio and you met her for the first time. I was told
she was scared to death to meet you.

Within a few hours, you and Vanessa were laughing and enjoying each other's company.
It's been five years and she calls you more than she does me. She confides everything in
you. You have become the mother she lost, and I thank you.

Your next moment is - I see me. You see you.

(I hid this one behind a mirror in the living room)

10 - Standing at the base of Katterskill falls

We climbed that hill and stood at the base of the falls. You were sick, but managed to
make the hike. I stood, looked up at the water tumbling from the edge of the cliff and
thought, that has to be the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes on. Then I looked
at you and thought, "No! It's the second most beautiful thing."

The Falls

Your next moment is - I'm getting really slow

(Ginny's coffee maker is getting old. Each morning it takes longer for the coffee to
fill the pot. The note was hidden under it.)

11 - The first time we slept together

We slipped under the covers. Afterward, we clung to each other and slept. We woke in
the morning still wrapped in each others arms. We hadn't moved all night - comfortable
in each others love.

Your next moment is - I turned red and then I shed

(The note was hidden under the Christmas cactus. It bloomed a few weeks ago and
recently shed it's flowers.)

12 - The first time I met your son Brandon

How can I not mention this one? The first night at his house, he pulled a prank on you for
April Fool's Day.
I fell for it instead. I thought I was going to die in a gun battle that night.

Merry Christmas, Ginny. Thank you for being the wonderful woman you are and for
becoming my wife - One of the best things to ever happen to me

Read "The Best Move": The Best Move

Michael T. Smith

It was Just a Simple Cookie

            It was Christmas Eve. She sat alone in her tiny apartment. It wasn't much, but she
was sheltered and warm. It was small but all she needed. Each morning she rose and fed
what she playfully called her "livestock" - a parakeet named Skylar and her small fish.
She thought Skylar was a fitting name for her bird. It meant eternal life, strength, love
and beauty.

            She'd spend Christmas alone again this year. Her two daughters lived miles away
and would not be able to visit until after Christmas. She was fine with that. After three
abusive marriages, being alone was a treat. As with most people, Christmas was a time
for reflection.

            She sat and stared at her Christmas tree. A memory shined like a star. Her cousin
was dying from cancer and stayed with her family that Christmas so long ago. They
wanted her to have the best Christmas ever. Even though she was weak, her cousin
made cookies. They were hand painted with the best care her weakening fingers could
manage. The cookies were not eaten. They were hung on the tree as a tribute to a life
that would soon be lost.

            A year later, her cousin was gone. They made cookies in her memory. Each
child had to share the icing. She was the last. Her cookie was a patchwork of the leftover
icing, but still she was proud.

            The cookies hung on the tree. She and the other children wanted to eat them, but
they were meant to be ornaments and a remembrance.

            This year, she thought of those cookies. A craving came over her. This Christmas
she wanted a cookie. It wasn't much to ask for. All she wanted was a simple frosted
sugar cookie.

            She didn't bake much herself. She never had the knack for it.

            Her thoughts followed her life journey. The first mother-in-law handed out store-
bought cookies. It was a good thing, because that woman couldn't bake.

            The second mother-in-law gave large bags of sugar-coated cookies. She was
excited, until she bit into the first one. They were paper thin and tasted horrible.
She made them with bacon grease instead of lard - something they did when times
were tough.

            The third mother-in-law made great cookies.

            She sat in her chair, stared at the tree, listened to her parakeet, and drooled for
a frosted sugar cookie. "Lord, I don't need much, but right now, I would love a
frosted sugar cookie. I could sit in front of my electric fireplace, sip a cup of tea, and
remember a wonderful moment in my life. It's not too much to ask on this special
occasion.

            "You need to answer so many prayers. Most need more than I do, but a cookie
would be great on the birthday of your son. It's all I ask."

            The year before, she saw a cookie in the store. It was expensive, but she thought
it would be worth it - just a frosted Christmas tree, not too much to ask for. She took it
home and prepared her tea. A cookie and tea were great together, but the cookie was hard
as rock and inedible. She was disappointed.

            On this Christmas Eve, she opened the door of her small apartment and found a
clear plastic bag tied with a shiny ribbon attached to her door. It was a wink from God.
Inside were three cookies. Each door of the complex had the same. Included with the bag
was a business card from a new neighbor. "Merry Christmas!"

            They were Christmas cookies. One was frosted, the answer to her prayers. The
second was a candy cane covered in colored sugar. The third was a sugared-covered
Christmas tree with sprinkles. They were a simple gift from her new neighbor, but her
heart swelled with joy.

            On Christmas Eve, as the light in the sky dimmed, she sat in her chair,
stared at the fire, sipped her tea, ate her cookie, and thought, "Yes! There is a God in
Heaven, and he answers even the smallest prayers."

            It was just a simple cookie.

Michael T. Smith

Why I call you "Friends who Wave Back"- Happiest Day

If you want to send a comment along, send it to: HeartsandHumor@gmail.com
I include a few in each post.

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Santa doesn't know your name, all he can say is "Hi little boy or girl, What's your name?"

JESUS knew our name before we did. Not only does He know our name, He knows our address too. He knows our history and future and He even knows how many hairs are on our heads.

JESUS makes new life, mends wounded hearts, repairs broken homes and builds mansions.

Under Santa's hat, there is a curious little crop
His bottom may be fat, but he's been getting thin on top
The fuzz above his forehead's like a field that's underfed
It won't be long until there's not one hair on Santa's head

He knows how cold each winter gets, how every sneeze can freeze
So he searches on the internet for "bald head remedies"
Each remedy's a food or drink, some wacky, wild and weird
Soon he begins to rub them where his hair has disappeared

Santa's never one to worry, so he sets a faster pace
In a hurry he makes curry and he plasters it in place
Now his goal is getting clearer, he's much nearer with each try
But one look into the mirror shows a turban two feet high!

Next, he rustles up some barbeque and spreads it with a smile
He thinks, "This'll do the trick, I'm gonna grow hair Texas-style!"
He's sure he's found a cure from all those remedies he's read
Till he sees a giant Stetson ridin' high up on his head

As he smashes up and pours on a puree' of squash and peas
Santa hangs out and prepares to shout "hooray!" at what he sees
When he gives his head a tough-guy stare and dares his hair to grow
The cutest baby bonnet's there, all tied up with a bow

Well, this gent they call Saint Nicholas is quite a sight to see
His results have been ree-dickle-us with each new recipe
In time, his tale will tickle us-- he doesn't have a doubt
But today he's got to find a way to get some hair to sprout

He can't resist those remedies, but the list goes on and on
So, he certifies this date "The Great Hair-Growing Marathon"
He gives it all he's got while mixin' fixins one by one
Whether he grows hair or not, it seems like Santa's having fun

He cooks up his cuisine, he's got a hungry head to feed
He looks like a machine with every move at lightning speed
For show, he throws on flour and dough, he's like an acrobat
But instead of hair, what sits up there's a great, big baker's hat

Then he squishes up and dishes up a hot dog on a bun
But an oldtime baseball cap appears the minute that he's done
He thinks that rum might grow some hair, so he rubs on more and more
Then a pirate hat is sitting there, like Long John Silver wore

When Santa serves up Irish stew and sprinkles shamrocks on
There's a green hat with a buckle, he's a lucky leprechaun
Then he tosses on some mystery sauce, across his head it roams
When a cool detective's hat appears, he looks like Sherlock Holmes

After mashing up a cup of maize to help his hairless cause
He wears an Indian headdress and becomes Chief Santa Claus
Then all those crazy cures start tickling Santa's funny bone
He thinks about a hundred other hats that he might own!

There's Merlin the Magician's from those great King Arthur books
Those floppy hats for fishin', crammed with tackle, bait and hooks
Those Viking hats from days of yore with horns designed to shock
Those funny hats the Pilgrims wore when they hit Plymouth Rock

Next, a quirky fez from Turkey with its tassle dangling down
From an ancient English castle he could have a kingly crown
Now, his bald head doesn't bother him at all, imagine that
Up there, instead of hair, he'd rather wear another hat!

So many hats--a helmet, a fedora or a tam
He's balder than an eagle, but he's happy as a clam
In just awhile, he'll have a pile of styles he's never seen
He's turned his hairless head into a hat-making machine

So, Santa's head keeps working till the sun begins to rise
He knew it had some skill, but still he can't believe his eyes
His hat-making machine went wild, there's not one space to spare
A thousand different hats are piled in places everywhere

Santa finally finds a way that his bald head has passed the test
It worked so hard and fast, now it deserves a little rest
He wanted something up there, but much more than hair has grown
The biggest hat collection that this world has even known!

Christmas is for Love

Christmas is for love. It is for joy, for giving and sharing, for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for tinsel and brightly decorated packages. But mostly, Christmas is for love. I had not believed this until a small elf-like student with wide-eyed innocent eyes and soft rosy cheeks gave me a wondrous gift one Christmas.

Mark was an 11 year old orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter middle aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to remind young Mark, if it hadn't been for her generosity, he would be a vagrant, homeless waif. Still, with all the scolding and chilliness at home, he was a sweet and gentle child.

I had not noticed Mark particularly until he began staying after class each day (at the risk of arousing his aunt's anger, I later found) to help me straighten up the room. We did this quietly and comfortably, not speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour of the day. When we did talk, Mark spoke mostly of his mother. Though he was quite small when she died, he remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman, who always spent much time with him.

As Christmas drew near however, Mark failed to stay after school each day. I looked forward to his coming, and when the days passed and he continued to scamper hurriedly from the room after class, I stopped him one afternoon and asked why he no longer helped me in the room. I told him how I had missed him, and his large grey eyes lit up eagerly as he replied, 'Did you really miss me?'

I explained how he had been my best helper. 'I was making you a surprise,' he whispered confidentially.

'It's for Christmas.' With that, he became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He didn't stay after school any more after that.

Finally came the last school day before Christmas. Mark crept slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands concealing something behind his back. 'I have your present,' he said timidly when I looked up. 'I hope you like it.' He held out his hands, and there lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.

'Its beautiful, Mark. Is there something in it?' I asked opening the top to look inside.

'Oh you can't see what's in it,' he replied, 'and you can't touch it, or taste it or feel it, but mother always said it makes you feel good all the time, warm on cold nights, and safe when you're all alone.'

I gazed into the empty box. 'What is it Mark,' I asked gently, 'that will make me feel so good?

'Its love,' he whispered softly, 'and mother always said its best when you give it away.' And he turned and quietly left the room.

So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of wood on the piano in my living room and only smile as enquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I explain to them that there is love in it.

Yes, Christmas is for gaiety, mirth and song, for good and wondrous gifts. But mostly, Christmas is for love.

            One of the duties of her job was to go to the post office every day and pick up the
company mail. As November rolled into December, she noticed a Salvation Army Santa
standing on the corner. Each day she saved her coins and dropped them in his bucket.
He'd smile, wish her a Merry Christmas, and continue to ring his bell.

            The second week of December came with a cold front. At night the temperature
dropped below zero Fahrenheit and the daytime temperatures barely made it to fourteen.
Santa stood in the frigid winds and continued to ring his bell.

            "You must be freezing." She said to him, as she dropped her coins in his bucket.

            "I'm so cold!" He shivered. "I can't feel the bell in my hands. And my feet? I
don't know if they're there anymore."

            The next day, she dropped her coins in the bucket and handed him several
chemical hand and foot warmers. "Try these." She smiled at Santa. "We had them in
our car in case of and emergency. I think a Santa freezing is an emergency. Don't you?"

            Santa took her offering. "God bless you, Ma'am. I cannot thank you enough."

            A week later, a new Santa stood ringing the bell. "What happened to the other
Santa?" She asked.

            "He paused his ringing to inform her, "I'm sorry to say, he's very sick today."

            She dropped her coins in the bucket and walked away with a heavy heart. Her
hand and foot warmers were not enough to prevent Santa from getting sick. She prayed
for his health.

            Later that day, a co-worker came into her office in tears. "I don't know what
I'm going to do."

            "What's wrong?" she asked.

            "It's my ex-husband." Her co-worker wiped a tear from her eye and continued. "I
don't have any money to buy my boys anything for Christmas. I called my ex-husband
last night and asked if he was sending money for them. He told me that these were tough
times. The boys will have suck it up. I'm not sending money. They'll get over it." She
began to cry harder. "I don't know what to do. They're teenagers and will understand, but
it breaks my heart that they won't have anything this year."

            The lady hugged her co-worker. "I'm sure everything will work out. It's
Christmas. Believe in miracles."

            That evening, she sat with her husband and told him about her co-worker's
situation. "Hun, I know we don't have much to help, but I'd like to get her a gift card
from Walmart or something. Maybe fifty or a hundred dollars. We'll just get ourselves
less this year. Last year we couldn't afford to buy anything for ourselves and still had a
wonderful Christmas. It's the giving that counts."

            She paused and looked at her husband. "I feel bad for those boys," she continued.
"I want to send it to her anonymously. She'll never know where it came from. It will
make her so happy."

            Her husband saw the look in her eyes, and knew she wanted his blessing, but
also that she was going to do it anyway. "Hun?"

            "Yes?"

            He smiled. "Give her the hundred. She needs it more than we do."

            She reached up and held him. Warmth spread through his body. A glow like
none other. He held her and realized there really is a Santa Clause; he'd married her.

Michael T. Smith

Note: That woman is Ginny, my wonderful, loving and caring bride.

It Doesn't Interest Me

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain!

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty everyday, and if you can source your life on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon.

I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

A Special Place

There is a special place in life,that needs my humble skill.
A certain job I'm meant to do,which no one else can fulfil.

The time will be demanding and the pay is not too good.
And yet I wouldn't change it for a moment - even if I could.

There is a special place in life, a goal I must attain.
A dream that I must follow, because I won't be back again.

There is a mark that I must leave, however small it seems to be.
A legacy of love for those who follow after me.

There is a special place in life, that only I may share.
A little path that bears my name, awaiting me somewhere.

There is a hand that I must hold, a word that I must say.
A smile that I must give for there are tears to blow away.

There is a special place in life that I was meant to fill.
A sunny spot where flowers grow, upon a windy hill.

There's always a tomorrow and the best is yet to be.
And somewhere in this world, I know there is a place for me.

            Georgia slipped the band of gold around my finger, looked into my eyes and
completed her vows. We were husband and wife.

            A week later, I sat in my chair, mindlessly watching television. I twirled the
unfamiliar band of gold circling my ring finger. It was the first piece of jewelry I'd ever
worn. It made me feel different.

            My life changed. I no longer thought of "me". I thought of "us". I had a wife. The
band of gold proved it. From that day forward, people saw it and knew I was committed
to another.

            It band became a part of me. Whenever I sat idle, my right hand would reach to
play with it. Other times, my left thumb would polish it - savoring the symbol of love.

                                                ******************

            "Michael?" Georgia asked?

I looked across our dining room table at her. Her brown eyes sparkled. "What, Hun?"

"I'm pregnant." She smiled.

"You are? Are you sure?" I rose from my chair. "Do you feel OK? Do you need
anything?" I had an expectant mother to take care of.

The doctor confirmed it today. And yes, I am OK. Now sit and finish your dinner."

"But?" I stammered. "This calls for a toast. I'll get that bottle of champagne."
I rushed from the table.

            "Michael!" She reached for my hand and rested her other hand on her stomach.
"I can't. The baby! Remember?"

            I stared at her and frowned. "Why ..." I paused. "Oh right! The baby! I forgot. No
drinking."

            "Relax. I'm OK. Sit and finish your dinner."

            We sat and ate. Afterward, I reached across the table and held her left hand in
mine. I looked into those sparkling brown eyes. "Thank you, Hun. Thank you for wanting
to be the mother of our children." I looked down at the table where I still held her hand.
The flickering candle reflected off our bands of gold. "I love you, future Mama." I lifted
her hand and kissed her ring.

                                                ******************

            "It hurts so bad!" Georgia screamed.

            "Pant!" I screamed back. "Pant! Puff, puff, puff, pufffff!"

            "Stop blowing in my face!" She yelled at me.

            Another contraction ripped through her body. "Mrs. Smith!" the doctor said. "I
need one more big push."

            "You can do it, Hun!" I held her hand, or rather; she gripped mine in a vice.
I saw our hands. My fingers were white from the lack of circulation. The lights above the
table reflected off our rings.

                                                ******************

            "Look at her eyes, Michael! She's so alert." Georgia was in the recovery room.
She cradled our little Vanessa in her left arm.

            I stroked Georgia's hair. My ring twinkled as her hair polished it. "She's
beautiful, Hun. Thank you."

            She looked up at me. "That wasn't so bad. I could do it again?"

            Tears streamed down my cheeks. "Honey, you mean you would go through this
again? You had so much pain!"

            "I want our dream of a girl and a boy." Her hand rested on the blankets warming
our new daughter - the gold of her band accented by the white cloth.

                                                ******************

            "Mr. Smith, meet your new son." The nurse smiled and placed him in my arms.

            "Hi, Justin!" He cried and waved his tiny arms in response. I placed our new son
in Georgia's arms. "Thank you! Thank you so much!" I bent and kissed her. My left
hand stroked her cheek. The gold band sparkled with her perspiration. "I love you."

                                                ******************

            We sat across the table from each other. A candle burned between us. Hushed
voices from other tables filtered through my thoughts.

            I looked into those brown eyes, as I so often did. "Happy anniversary, Georgia."

            "Happy anniversary, Michael."

            "Ten years! Can you believe it?"

            "I hope the kids are OK."

            "Hun, they're fine. This is our night." I reached for her hand and held it in mine.
Like the bands in a tree trunk, our skin had begun to show the wrinkles of life. The fire of
the candle reflected off our rings, reminding me of a night long ago, when she smiled and
said, "I'm pregnant."

                                                ******************

            I sat on our sofa playing with my ring. I remembered forgetting to put it on
after Georgia cleaned it one day. At work, I kept reaching for it with my thumb. I felt
empty without it.

            I looked at Georgia's picture on the TV stand. I was alone. Our children were in
their rooms, grieving in their own way. Georgia's urn rested on the credenza in the dining
room. We'd brought her home from the service that afternoon. Her ring rested in my left
palm. I had a decision to make. "When do I take mine off?" I asked no one.

            I was afraid. If I took it off, would it mean the love we shared was gone? The
band of gold stayed on my finger. When my thumb touched it, my thoughts drifted to
past times and not to the future and the life we planned. "When do I take it off?" I asked
myself again. It was with me from the day we'd married more than nineteen years
earlier. It'd been on my finger when I changed my children's diapers. When we took
drives, my hand held the steering wheel. The ring reflected the sunshine. It circled my
finger when we made love. The day she took her last breath, I held her hand and the ring
reflected the machines that had kept her alive.

            I reached behind my neck and undid the clasp of the gold chain. She'd given it
to me on our first Christmas together. I threaded her ring onto it and started to put it
back around my neck. I paused and put it down. The fingers of my right hand reached for
my ring a final time. I twirled it around like old times and then slipped it off. I held it to
the light. It was scratched and dented from the rigors of living. It joined Georgia's ring on
the chain.

            My hand felt empty without its comforting weight, but the combined rings
hanging around my neck soothed me - a reminder of our years together.

                                                ******************

            Almost a year later, I stood with Ginny in a New York City court house. She took
my hand and placed a new band of gold around my finger. The Justice of the Peace
smiled. "I pronounce you man and wife. Michael, you may now kiss the bride." Ginny
slipped into my arms. Our lips met. I hugged her to me. On her shoulder, I saw my hand
and the ring on my finger - a band of love.

                                                ******************

            Ginny and I sat on our deck reading. I held my book in my right hand.
My left hand rested on my lap. A sparkle caused me to blink. I looked down.
The new band reflected the sun. Ginny looked up at me, "I love you."

            "Love you more."

            "Love you too."

            We played our game.

            She turned back to her book. I stared at my ring again. It meant more than
marriage. Like life, it had a beginning and an end. I started one journey with Georgia.
"Until death do we part." We repeated - a beginning and an end. We followed the band
of gold to her end.

            "Gin?"

            She looked up from her book. "Yes?"

            "I need to do something."

            She looked puzzled. "What?" I reached up, unclipped my chain, and removed the
two rings. "Michael, what are you doing?"

            "It's time to let go, Gin."

            "But they mean so much to you."

            "Yes they do, but it is time to move forward. It's like starting a new year. I need
to let go of the old and enjoy the new."

She stood, walked over, sat in my lap, and wrapped her arms around me. "I
understand."

            I held up my left hand. "Look!"

            She stared at my hand. "What?"

            "See how the sun reflects off it? I've been blessed to have you in my life. I have a
new band of love, a new life, a new beginning, a new year and you. It's time to move
forward with you."

Michael T. Smith

            In the USA it is known as Veteran's Day. In Canada it is known as Remembrance
Day and is a government holiday. The number 11 took on a new meaning after 9/11, but
it signified freedom long before that.

            I had no idea what it meant. To me it was just another holiday. A day when stores
were closed and more importantly, there was no school. I knew about the war, but I was
free to play. I knew people died for our freedom, but I could sleep in. I knew my parents
had little when they were growing up because of the war, but I had food on my plate and
a day to watch TV. The real meaning of the day was distant to me.

            Years later, my daughter joined the Brownies. The first year she was a member, I
set the alarm to wake us on the morning of 11/11. She had to participate in a parade.
Every Brownie, Girl Guide, Cub Scout, and Scout had to participate in the parade. It
was a day to remember those who died for our freedom.

            My wife and I left our daughter with the Guide leader and proceeded to the
Canadian Legion, where we waited for her. The kids paraded a mile along the coastal
roads of Nova Scotia, carrying their flags high and proud. We waited for their arrival.
Veterans joined them - old men, long past the prime. They'd fought in the trenches and
watched their comrades die. Many came in wheelchairs. Some limped. A few still stood
strong and walked proudly to the legion. A band played, speeches were made, and on the
11th month, the 11th day, the 11th hour, the 11th minute, and the 11th second there
began two minutes of silence.

            I looked at the veterans. Their sacrifices allowed us to stand there that day. They
gave us our freedom. The cold seeped through my jacket. I reached out and held my wife.
A tear trickled down my cheek. For years, I slept as those brave men marched in the cold
November air in remembrance for those who died in battle beside them. It took my
daughter to make me realize the importance of the day.

            I never missed another Remembrance Day.

            Years later, because of work, I was separated from my family. I was in another
city. On Remembrance Day, I heard there was going to be a service in the city square.
I was in Saint John, New Brunswick. I put on my jacket and tie, pinned a poppy to my lapel, walked the mile to the service, stood in the damp cold and watched those brave
men once again march for our freedom.

            I don't know if it was because I was away from my family or the sight of those old
men still walking proudly, but the memory of that service never fades.

            The Veterans marched, wheeled, and limped to the city square. The mayor gave a
speech. The two minutes of silence began. At the end, a bagpipe began to play "Amazing
Grace."

            After the first chorus, a second bagpipe joined in, along with a small band. On the
third chorus, more bagpipes joined and a brass band began to play. The building of
sound, the magic of the moment is something I will never forget. The tears filled my eyes
that day, as the blood must have filled the trenches in battle.

            That moment burned in my mind forever.

            On November 11th, please take a moment to remember those who fought for our
freedom and those that continue to fight for it.

            May God bless all of them.

Michael T. Smith

He fought for freedom - Part 1: He Fought Part 1

He fought for Freedom - Part Two: He Fought Part 2

            It was November 1999 and almost seven in the evening. The end of a long day
at work was near. The stress of my new job and the move to a new country wore me out.
I rearranged the papers on my desk, yawned, and prepared to go home to the new
townhouse my friend and I found for my family. I couldn't wait to see the surprise on my
wife, Georgia's, face, when she arrived from Canada the following week with our son
and daughter.

            My phone rang. I looked at the number, saw it was Georgia, and smiled. She was
going to be so happy. "Hi, Hun!"

            "Michael?" The tone of her voice gave me a hint that something wasn't right.
"You're still at work?"

            "Yeah! That's the way it is here."

            "Michael, I have to tell you something."

            Again, I caught the tone of her voice. Something was wrong. "What is it?"

            "It's Terry."

            Terry was her sister. I felt a knot form in my stomach. "What about her?"

            "She's dead."

            The knot in my stomach dropped lower. "She's what?"

            "She's dead." I couldn't see Georgia's tears, but I heard them in her voice.

            "What do you mean she's dead?" The knot grew.

            "She was murdered," she said.

            The knot was now a lump of lead. It weighted me in my chair. "Murdered?" I
couldn't grasp what Georgia told me. "You mean someone killed her?" It was a dumb
question, but I was numb with shock. "How?"

            "Michael, they found her ..." She paused to gain control. "They found her in her
apartment. She didn't show up for work for a couple days. They called the landlord. He
was the one to find her."

            "When did you find out?"

            "Just a few minutes ago. We were in the middle of packing for the move and the
Laval police called."

            "Oh, Lord! I'm so sorry, Hun. Do you want me to fly home?"

            "No! I just want to get through this move and be there with you. They told me
her body wouldn't be released for some time. They need to do a lot to look for evidence.
We're her only family in Canada. They said a funeral could wait."

            "Georgia, are you sure that is what you want to do?"

            "That's all I can do right now."

            "What do the police say?"

            "They don't know anything yet. They think someone got into her apartment? I
have to go. The kids are calling for me."

            "Are they OK?"

            "Their both very upset. They loved Terry. They can't grasp what happened. For
that matter, neither can I."

            We hung up. I slumped back in my chair and tried to grasp what I just heard.
The office was empty. Hundreds of empty cubicles surrounded me. The beat of my heart
seemed to echo off them.

            That night, I lay on my air mattress in our new bedroom and flinched at the
smallest noise. Every creak and groan made me think someone was in the house with me.
Several times I woke and searched every room and closet of the barren house. I couldn't
wait for Georgia, our kids, and our furniture to arrive. I never felt so alone in my life.

            Police learned a man, posing as a maintenance worker, knocked on doors of
Terry's complex that day. One lady answered her door. The man said he was checking
on a water leak and needed to check her apartment. She told him to wait while she called
the office. When she returned, he was gone. A second woman said she would get her
husband. Like the first, he was gone when they returned.

            The man knocked on Terry's door. She once worked for an apartment
management company. She knew the damage water could cause. The man found a
weak spot. Terry let him in.

            The police said there was a long struggle. Terry fought with her life, which ended
that night. When found, she wasn't recognizable.

            In December 1999, police arrested William Patrick Fyfe in Ontario, as he
returned to his truck after eating at a restaurant. They had DNA evidence, photos
from an ATM machine, where he used Terry's bank card, and found jewelry he
stole from her.

            He was charged with the murder of five women. The first in 1981 and the last
four in the fall of 1999. Because of the years separating the first from the last, police
suspected there were more.

            While incarcerated, Fyfe admitted to four more murders. Police suspect he has
only admitted to a portion of the crimes he committed

            Fyfe serves a life sentence in a psychiatric hospital in Saskatchewan, Canada and
serves as a reminder to all women to please be careful to whom you open your doors.

            Georgia took a long time to recover. The last time she and Terry were together,
they had an argument. In the year before her death, they rarely spoke to each other.
Georgia missed her sister and knew the time for words of apology would never happen.

            It was too late.

Michael T. Smith

Traffic backed up a mile on the I-84 heading east into Boise, Idaho. It was a
normal Wednesday morning, as traffic merged from an adjoining highway. I travel the
same highway every day and know to stay in the right hand lane up to the merge and
then move to the left lane. A few years of New Jersey traffic taught me to read the lanes
for the fastest commute.

I approached the merge, saw a break in the left lane, and moved in front of a
dump truck. We passed the merge and gained speed. Orange cones on my left, marked
the area where a third lane was being built. The work has been going on for a year. It was
now paved but not open for commuters. Our speed got up to 45 miles-per-hour. I glanced
at the clock. I would be to work on time.

Brake lights flashed. The car ahead grew larger. I jammed on my brakes and
came to a stop a few feet from his rear bumper. Movement in my mirror drew caught my
attention. In my mirror saw the dump truck barreling in on me. I moved to the right as far
as I could without hitting the cars in that lane and braced for the crash.

In seconds, it was over. The truck served to the left, destroyed several orange
cones, and came to a stop beside me. A cloud of blue tire smoke drifted over my car.
I gagged from the smell and the fear of knowing the truck could have been on top of me.
If not for the truck driver's quick reaction to serve into the construction area, I would
have been seriously hurt or killed.

The next night, I left work and headed home. I reached the highway, merged into
traffic and immediately moved to the far left of three lanes . It moves faster, once traffic
slows for a merge to two lanes a few miles ahead.

I heard a siren, looked in my mirror, and saw a police car coming up on my left in
the breakdown lane. He flew by me and disappeared into the distance. Soon, a second
police car blew by so fast, the wind caused my car to rock.

A half mile ahead, traffic came to stop. I sat under an overpass and waited. In my
mirror, I saw a third police car racing up the breakdown lane on the left. Two my right, a
fourth police cruiser came down an on ramp and cut diagonally across the three lanes of
stopped traffic. His siren screamed a warning to let him through. Two cars ahead of me,
he reached the left lane. An opening appeared in front of him. He shot out into the
breakdown lane just as the policeman coming up the left passed. The police car cutting
through traffic smashed into the rear passenger side of the other cruiser. Parts of the two
cars flew through the air. The car that came up the left fishtailed several times, gained
control and took off in pursuit of the first two cruisers. The policeman who hit him sped
off in the same direction.

My hands shook as traffic inched forward. A quarter mile up the highway, the
police cruisers were stopped in the breakdown lanes, lights flashing. The one that was hit,
had the rear passenger door and fender crushed in and a flat tire. Across the cement
divide police had all four lanes in the other direction stopped and five policemen held a
man down in the middle of the highway. Another policeman held the leash of an attack
dog. I heard the man screaming obscenities as I passed.

The radio said it was the end of a high-speed chase. The police finally got him
over to the side with the help of a spike belt, but he wouldn't get out of his car, and when
he did, he had to be tasered to be brought under control.

We passed the action, traffic sped up, and my hands slowly stopped shaking.
The two days of close calls on the highway reminded me why Ginny and I make sure
we always say hug, kiss, and say "I love you!" whenever we part. We never know when
it will be the last time.

Never miss a moment to tell your loved ones how much they mean to you. Life is
fragile. It can end at any moment. Make those last words count.

Michael T. Smith

P.S. Want a Free Think and Grow Rich Book?
It's Already Created a Million Millionaires
I've Got a Copy Reserved For You At: Free Get Rich Book

MY VERSION OF "WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD"
What a Wonderful World

Why I call you "Friends who Wave Back"- Happiest Day

If you want to send a comment along, send it to: HeartsandHumor@gmail.com
I include a few in each post.

To sign up for my stories go to: Join Hearts and Humor for FREE

               My hand slipped and gave the black cat a lumpy nose. Fur rose on its back. It's
fluffed tail stood straight in the air, as it hissed at a ghost rising from the ground. Igrabbed an
orange crayon and began to trace the outline of a Jack-O-Lantern, careful to stay inside the
lines and not make the same mistake I did with the cat. I wanted my Jack-O-Lantern to be
perfect.

On my right, Rosemary was almost finished. She was fast and really good. She colored better
than anyone in our four-room school.

My crayon twirled in small circles, carefully filling the pumpkin with orange. I reached the teeth
- the hardest part. I got to the last tooth. My crayon caught in a crease in the desk under the
paper and caused me to go outside the lines. To correct my mistake, I made that tooth bigger
than the rest, and ruined my pumpkin's toothy grin. Then again, maybe it made it
scarier.

The bell rang. "Be careful tonight, children. Have fun trick-or-treating!"

I rushed home and burst through the door, "Mum? Mum, when can I go out?"

"Michael, I've told you a hundred times this week, you can't go out until it's dark. Do your
homework first. When you're done, you can have your supper and then get dressed."

The smell of fried bologna and boiled potatoes drifted to my room. My stomach growled, as I
completed my additions.

"Michael, supper's ready." Mum called. I closed my scribbler and rushed to the table, ready to
eat and get my costume on.

My thoughts were on the night ahead, as I spread butter on the steaming potatoes and then
smothered the bologna and potatoes with Ketchup©. Normally, this was a meal I savored, but
it was Halloween. I gobbled my dinner down. "Mum? Time to get ready?" I stared at her
anxiously.

The sun slipped behind the tress across the street. "Ok, I guess it's time."

Mum helped me dress. Like most years, I was a hobo. I had a plastic mask of a scary, old
man handed down from my older brothers. I slipped on a black pair of pants several sizes too
large for me, and threaded my arms through the sleeves of a plaid checkered shirt.

Mum helped me feed a piece of rope through the belt holes and tied it tight around my waist.
My winter boots completed the outfit. She adjusted the mask on my face and said I was
ready.

"Be careful!" Mum called after me.

I tilted my head, held the railing, and tried to see the steps through the holes in my mask. My
pillow sack was slung over my shoulder. In a few hours it would hang like an anchor, filled
with goodies.

I knocked on the door. "Is Justin ready?" I asked his Mum when she answered the
door.

"He sure is!" she said. "He's been waiting for you."

Justin Gilkie was my best friend back then. We planned to walk through the whole village of
Sambro. He was dressed as a pirate and had a real sword from the nose of a swordfish. The
scars on his mask, with red paint for blood, look real in the growing twilight.

"How much do you think we'll get?" Justin asked.

"If we walk all the way to 'The Basin,' we'll have more than we can carry." The Basin was on
the other side of Sambro.

"I hope we get lots of candy and chips. I hate it when we get too many apples." he
said.

"I heard Martha's mom is giving candy apples." I said.

"OK! I like those, but regular apples seem cheap to me."

We reached the end of the point, and began to walk from house-to-house. Friends joined us.
Sweat beaded on our faces under the masks. Between stops, we'd lift the masks to cool off. In
a few hours, we'd walked dirt roads, climbed steep hills, stumbled back down them, and
knocked on doors until our knuckles were sore.

I stood behind my friends, as Justin knocked on my door.

My mum looked out and began handing out candy. "Michael! You can't fool me!" My face
turned red under my mask.

             ****************************

"I'm tired." I said.

"Me too." Justin replied, his mask resting on the top on his head. The elastic band holding it
was tangled in the hair at the back of his neck. "I got enough! Most houses are out of stuff
anyway. Let's go home.

"OK! Let's go home. Tomorrow, let's get up early and look for firecrackers the big kids
dropped. I wonder whose outhouse they'll turn over this year?"

I spilled the contents of my pillow case onto my bed: chocolate, sweet candies, potato chips,
peanuts, and a bunch of other stuff. I stuffed everything back in the bag and hid it under my
bed, so my brothers wouldn't find it.

             ********************************

I stood by a light pole and watched little kids run from their parent's cars to the front door of
our house. They knocked, gathered the candy my mum handed out, and rushed back to their
cars. Heavy rain beat down on me.

I was thirteen - a year of change. I wanted to be little and gather candy. I wanted to be older
and join the big kids in their mischief - lighting firecrackers, throwing rolls of toilet paper over
tree limbs, or even rolling over an outhouse.

The rain beat down. I walked home. "You miss going out, don't you?" Mum asked, as I
walked in the door, dripping water on the floor.

"No, I'm OK." I lied.

She looked at me and handed me a bag. "I saved some for you."

I went to bed and cherished my treat.

             *************************************

It was the first big change of my life. I was too old to trick-or-treat. Toys were left in a box
under my bed. Cars, dating, and freedom were in my future.

I was at the in-between stage.

Years later, I realized that night was the beginning of many changes. I'd grow comfortable,
think everything was right in my life, and once again stand in the rain.

I went to work and learned layoffs were coming. I wanted to stay where I was, comfortable in
my surroundings. The future was unknown.

I stood in the rain.

A job offer came. It was in another province. I didn't want to move from what I
knew.

I stood in the rain.

I met new people, experienced new things, settled down, and in a few years, another job came
to an end.

I stood in the rain.

Dressing up and knocking on doors on Halloween ended a long time ago, but when times get
tough, I stand in the rain, knock on new doors, hold out my pillow case, and wait to see what
treat life will fill it with.

I'm never disappointed.
Michael T. Smith

P.S. Want a Free Think and Grow Rich Book?
It's Already Created a Million Millionaires
I've Got a Copy Reserved For You At: Free Get Rich Book

MY VERSION OF "WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD"
What a Wonderful World

A child's love is like a whisper,
given in little ways we do not hear.
But if you listen closely
it will be very clear.

They often do not say it loud,
but in how they come to you...
Daddy, will you play with me?
Mommy, tie my shoe?

The many ways they tell you,
changes as they grow.
Dad, I made the team today!
Mom, I've got to go!

Pop, I need some money,
You see there's...this girl at school.
Mama, I met a boy today and
Wow, he's so cool!

Dad, I've got something to tell you...
I think she is the one!
Mom, he asked me to marry him.
Would you love him as your son?

Dad, I've got some news for you...
It's going to be a boy!
Mom, I'm kind of scared of this,
yet I'm filled with joy!

A child's love is like a whisper,
given in little ways we do not hear.
But if you listen closely,
it will be very clear.

They often do not say it loud,
but in how they come to you...
Grandpa, will you play with me?
Grandma, tie my shoe?

It is never ending.
A blessing from above.
Listen to the whispers
of a child's love.

~by S. Chan~

            The hands reached to choose a rock from those piled on the plywood floor. They
shook with strain, as they lifted a large chunk of blue stone and positioned it on the floor
in front of their master. The hands were callused and scarred, the knuckles swollen and
arthritic from a lifetime of working with rock and brick.

            I looked up at the man holding the rock. He was a black African-Canadian, with a
face leathery and wrinkled from years of working in the sun. He looked back at me and
smiled. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened - lines created by years of smiling.
I guessed him to be in his mid-seventies.

            I'd met Fred on my way home from errands. I passed a crew of men building a
rock wall around a yard. I stopped and asked to speak to the boss. A frail, old gentleman
introduced himself, "I'm Fred. What can I do for you?" He spat a string of tobacco juice
onto the lawn.

            "Nice to meet you, Fred," I said. "I'm Mike." We shook hands. "Fred, my
wife and I are building onto our house. We're adding a fireplace and want to have a
rock facade built from floor-to-ceiling. Do you do this type of work?"

            "Well, I don't like working interior jobs much. I prefer outdoor jobs, like my
boys and I are doing here."

            "I understand," I replied. "But most bricklayers won't work with rock. They like
brick."

            He paused for a moment. "What's your number? I'll give it some thought and call
you." With a stubby pencil, sharpened with a knife, Fred wrote my number on a piece of
cardboard.. "I'll give it some thought." he said again.

            Fred called a few days later and arrived at our home soon after. I showed him
our plans and the room where the fireplace would be built. "Well, like I said, I don't
normally do this type of work, but I think I have some spare time."

            Fred and his sons came back a few weeks later. They brought in several
wheelbarrow loads of blue stone and dumped them on the unfinished floor. His sons
brought in bags of cement, buckets of water, a box to mix them in, and left the old man
alone.

            Fred lowered himself to his knees, both of them cracking loudly. His back
creaked, when he bent to reach for a rock. I lowered myself to the floor to watch. He
studied the pile. "I need a few choice pieces for the base." he explained, more to himself
than to me. "I need something flat. This one looks good." The rock in front of him was
sort of flat on one side, but the other side was round. I was a little confused.

            I looked into his eyes - bright, clear, and filled with youth and strength, a contrast
to his aging body. These were the eyes of a man with a goal and a job to do. They
sparkled when he smiled. "Let's see what I can do here."

            He studied the rock in front of him, turning it in his hands. After several minutes,
he picked up his hammer and chisel. He positioned the rock, placed the chisel on a spot,
only he could choose, and struck it with the hammer. The rock spit into two pieces. The
largest piece now had two flat sides. When he had the rocks he needed for the base, he
mixed the water and cement, and carefully placed the rocks where he wanted them.

            For two days I watched him work, mesmerized by his skill. "Fred, how do you
do that?" I asked.

            "I like working with blue stone. It splits nicely."

            "Yeah, but how do you look at a spot, then at the rocks, and chose the one you
want?"

            He was patient. "Well, like I said, I like working with blue stone. I can see the
grain of the rock. See that spot, up there?" He pointed at a spot half-way up the wall - a
small hole between a large stone and the wall. "I need a piece of rock to fit there." He
motioned to the rocks in front of him. "Not one of these rocks will fit. I have to find one
with the right grain - one that will allow me to mold it.

            "See this rock?" Fred picked up a rock that looked wrong to me. "See the grain?"

            I stared hard. I could see lines, but not what I considered a grain, like the grain in
wood. "Not really, Fred."

            "Just watch." he smiled. With his chisel and hammer, the misshapen rock was
soon fitted into place. I was in awe of his skill. In a few days, our rock facade was
complete.

            We asked Fred if he could make the cement lines darker. The contrast of
cement and blue stone was not appealing. Fred mixed more cement, black powder, and
water. As he stirred, he spat his black tobacco juice into the mixture, making himself
a part of his work and our home forever.

            He and one of his sons, carefully, filled in the spaces between the rocks, covering
the cement with his very appealing black mixture. Fred was a master in his trade. He
never thought of a job as work; he looked at it as a challenge. His work was, literally, as
hard as rock, but he knew how to make it easy. He studied it and broke it into smaller, more manageable pieces.

            Fred knew what many of us have yet to learn - take the hard things in life and break
them down into something we can manage - one piece at a time.

Michael T. Smith

Why I call you "Friends who Wave Back"- Happiest Day

In the Smallest Way

By Kristi Powers

Their faces all blur together…

I see her when I look in the mirror tonight…the girl who has lost all hope...her dark eyes haunt my thoughts, what can I say Lord? How can I bring her hope?

I see him when I wake up in the middle of the night. I wonder if he is awake and still praying and hoping those unwanted feelings will go away. The tears fall softly down my cheeks as I pray for him. Lord, why was he given these feelings? Why must he struggle day after day with those thoughts?

I “see” another young man when I watch a school play… I remember watching him year after year and hearing about what a special young man he was...all of his life ahead of him. Why Lord? Why did he end his life? What can those he left behind do with the all the pain and agony of not understanding. If only… if only he had reached out to just one person before giving into the despair and hopelessness…

I see her in my minds eye…one of the most outwardly beautiful girls I have ever known....but she doesn't see her beauty when she looks in the mirror. She only sees her failures and her flaws. Her insecurity shouts so much louder then the still small voice inside her. Why Lord? Why can’t she see herself the way you do? Why can't she latch onto your Words when You call her your precious, precious daughter? Perfect in her flaws for You have made her.

I ask these questions of You tonight, and I search my heart for what You would say to me…

This is how you answer me…

"My child, there is no pit so deep, that My love is not deeper still. I see each of these also. They are so much better left in My hands then yours. For you see, I am at work....you may not see Me, you may not hear Me, but in My Word I say that I am close to the broken hearted. My ways are not your ways child. How quickly you forget that I have each hair on their head numbered. My love for them is endless and never changing. They only need to stretch out their hand from the pit they are in, and I will pull them up and hold on to them and never let them go.

There is nothing that goes unnoticed by Me. Remember my child, I say that for anyone who harms one of my children, it would be better for them to tie a millstone around their neck and be thrown into the sea. I take it very seriously when someone messes with my children. For I love them so very much. Trust me Kristi. Trust that I see and hear and know and My plan for them is one of hope and a future."

Within the quiet of my soul I then ask, “How can I help you Lord? What would you require of me?” And then I remember that it is in the little things of life that the big things are made. It is in the kindness of a small deed or thought that You are seen.

“Do you remember Kristi?”

“Yes”, I reply, “I remember.” Twenty-five years ago, and I still remember. I remember standing up for her.

“It was such a small thing, Lord, to stand up for her in gym class.”

“But what happened Kristi?”

“It gave her the confidence and hope she needed, Lord. It was the small act of kindness that she needed to know how much You loved her Lord. Afterwards she was able to stand up for herself. To know she was worthy. That she was confident. That she was loved....just the way she was.”

“And that, My child, is what I require of you. The hand for them to hold on to when the waves of life crash in. The lap to lay their head in and just cry when all of the world seems too dark to go on. Sometimes, but only sometimes, you will be the one to stand up for them, to say where the wrong has been done to them. To be My voice and to be their defender.”

I take it all in as God’s still small voice speaks to my heart.

“Kristi, there is one thing above all others that I would have you do.”

“Anything, Lord, anything!”

“PRAY. For I hear your prayers and I answer. Maybe not in the way you would like, but I answer prayer. Sometimes I answer it in the smallest way.

As I finish pouring my heart out to God this evening, I put my laptop away and I gently lift the sleeping five-year-old that has been curled up next to me and carry him to his room. As I tuck him in his bed he opens up those large sleepy eyes and says, "Mommy, I love you. You are the nicest Mommy in the world."

I sit on his bed and smile. In twelve words, my youngest has made my night a special one. Twelve words was all it took to end my day on a joyful note…

in the smallest way....

Kristi Powers
NoodlesP29@aol.com

Copyright © 2009 by Kristi Powers

Write Kristi and let her know your thoughts on her story!

Kristi is happily married to Michael and they have three boys. Her writing appears in seven inspirational books, including many in the Chicken Soup series, and their own book entitled: Heart Touchers. Kristi is also homeschool mom and fills her "free time" doing youth ministry and loves her job as a CASA volunteer!

To read more of Kristi's writing visit: http://www.HeartTouchers.com

There wasn't much of a spring that year. It was cold and rainy. In June, summer
dropped on us with 90 degree temperatures and humidity so high, the small patch of hair
left on the top of my head became unmanageable.

I sat on my deck one night, mopped sweat from my face, and pondered the
coming summer. My son was excited. His final exams were complete. He had two
months to do what he wanted to do. I remembered what it was like when I was young, in
school, and waiting for those final days of school to end.

On that last day, I would be so excited, I wouldn't hear a word my teacher said.
The bell rang, summer began, and we ran out the door, yelling and tossing old books into
the air. I rushed home, showed my mum my report card, told her I graded, and ran
outside to ... to what? I was free for two months. I could do whatever I wanted, but my
mind was blank. The routine of school was gone. I didn't know what to do with myself.

My best friends were bussed five or ten miles from neighboring communities.
They were gone until the fall.

I sat by a rock. Blackie, my old dog, came along, licked my face and settled
beside me.

My Grandmum lived down the street from us and always had a plate of muffins
ready. Sometimes they had white icing and other times pink, but they were always good.
It was my morning routine to visit her for a muffin and a talk. Together we waited for my
Grandfather's boat to enter the harbor. When it did, I'd rush to the wharf and wait to see
how many fish he'd caught that day.

After a few weeks, a routine set in. I'd wake, go to Grandmum's, eat a muffin or
two, play on the shores around the harbor, examine the various items that had drifted onto
the shores, and go home for lunch.

In the afternoons, I'd go to the brook - the place to be on hot days. My friends
and I spent every afternoon there. It was a mile from our house and the gathering place
for kids of all ages. With our towels draped over our shoulders, we'd bike, walk, or hitch-
hike to it every day - sometimes twice a day.

The "Brook" was wide enough to be a river, but it was only a mile or so long. It
flowed from a lake and cut a rocky swath through the forest. In several spots, the rocks
opened to form natural pools. The two swimming spots were called the "Little Hole" and
the "Big Hole." The "Little Hole" was shallow and had a light current. It was perfect for
kids learning to swim. The "Big Hole" was further up the brook. It was deep and had a
swift current. It was the place the big kids went and the little kids envied. Every small kid
couldn't wait to graduate to the "Big Hole."

On one side, the "Big Hole" was a pile of rocks, mostly or partly covered with
water. On the other side was a six foot rock cliff - perfect for diving. The entrance to the
pool was narrow. Water squeezed quickly through the rocks, dispersed throughout the
pool, and rushed out the lower end. After a heavy rain, the current was strong. A good
swimmer could swim in one spot until they tired and the waters won the contest.

My friends and I played "tag". All afternoon, we chased each other, ran over the
rocks, and dived from our pursuers. We were as nimble as mountain goats. In spite of the
rocks, no one was seriously hurt. There were a few scrapes, but never serious injuries.
Years of play made us sure-footed.

There was a fish plant close to my home. In the afternoon, the returned to the
harbor. We'd check to see who brought in the largest catch. I once saw a halibut that
weighed one hundred and eighty pounds and a few swordfish that weighted over 1000
pounds.

If it was hot, I made extra money going to the store for the workers. On a good
day, I'd make more than a dollar - a lot of money for a young boy in the 1960's. "Mike,
go to the store and get me a lunch cake and a can of Coke." A man said.

One-after-the other, the men placed their orders. When I delivered, they gave me
a dime or nickel, and sometimes a quarter. I saved the money and bought a bicycle my
first new bike.

In the evenings, if my friends and I didn't go to the brook, we'd fish from the
wharves, and catch Pollock, cod, perch, and mackerel. Mackerel were our favorite. They
fought like demons on the end of the line and tasted wonderful

The days sped along, and soon August arrived. I hated August. After August came
September - the end of summer - and the end of freedom. I'd become depressed and not
go to the brook. I'd still fish a little and still go to the fish plant, but not as often. The
thought of school depressed me. I'd stay home and read or walk in the woods. September
loomed in the near future - back to the routine I missed in June. I wasted the last half my
summer dreading its end.

As a kid, I knew August would end. It was on the calendar. However, there is no
set calendar to life. It could end tomorrow. After losing my first wife, I know only too
well how the calendar works. I'm middle aged and like many people, I dread the end.
One day, I'll turn a page on my calendar and discover it's the last page. I wake in the
morning and ask myself, "Is this the last page? How many pages are left?"

Today, I've decided to stop worrying about it. I am going to live my life to the
fullest. I'm going to love Ginny with every ounce of my heart. I'll work, write, play and
forget about the last page. I'm going to enjoy the story as it unfolds.

            When my summer ends, it will be time to rake up the leaves I've dropped, tidy up
my life, and wait for the reward of a good life. The bulbs I planted grew into fine adults.
They'll continue to blossom and spread without me. I'm not going to waste the last
month of "the summer of life" worrying about it's end.


            Michael T. Smith

A Letter For Mom

Sally jumped up as soon as she saw the Surgeon come out of the operating room. She said: "How is my little boy? Is he going to be O.K.? When can I see him?"

The Surgeon said, "I'm sorry, we did all we could." Sally said, "Why do little children get cancer, doesn't GOD care any more? GOD, where were you when my son needed you?"

The Surgeon said, "One of the nurses will be out in a few minutes to let you spend time with your son's remains before it's transported to the university". Sally asked that the nurse stay with her while she said Good-bye to her son.

Sally ran her fingers through his thick red curly hair. The nurse said, "Would you like a lock of his hair?" Sally nodded yes. The nurse cut a lock of his hair and put it in a plastic bag and handed it to Sally. Sally said, "It was Jimmy's idea to give his body to the university for study. He said it might help somebody else," and that is what he wanted.

I said, No at first, but Jimmy said, "Mom I won't be using it after I die, maybe it will help some other little boy to be able to spend one more day with his mother". Sally said, "My Jimmy had a heart of Gold, always thinking of someone else and always wanting to help others if he could".

Sally walked out of the Children's Hospital for the last time now after spending most of the last 6 months there. She sat the bag with Jimmy's things in it on the seat beside of her in the car. The drive home was hard and it was even harder to go into an empty house.

She took the bag to Jimmy's room and started placing the model cars and things back in his room exactly where he always kept them. She laid down across his bed and cried herself to sleep holding his pillow.

Sally woke up about midnight and laying beside of her on the bed, was a letter folded up. She opened the letter, it said:

Dear Mom,

I know your going to miss me, but don't think that I will ever forget you or stop loving you because I'm not around to say I LOVE YOU. I'll think of you every day mom and I'll love you even more each day. Some day we will see each other again. If you want to adopt a little boy so you won't be so lonely, he can have my room and my old stuff to play with.

If you decide to get a girl instead, she probably wouldn't like the same things as us boys do, so you will have to buy her dolls and stuff girls like. Don't be sad when you think about me, this is really a great place.

Grandma and Grandpa met me as soon as I got here and showed me around some, but it will take a long time to see everything here. The angels are so friendly, I love to watch them fly. Jesus doesn't look like any of the pictures I saw of Him, but I knew it was Him as soon as I saw Him. Jesus took me to see GOD!

And guess what mom? I got to sit on GOD'S knee and talk to Him like I was somebody important. I told GOD that I wanted to write you a letter and tell you Good-bye and everything, but I knew that wasn't allowed.

God handed me some paper and His own personal pen to write you this letter with. I think Gabriel is the name of the angel that is going to drop this letter off to you.

God said for me to give you the answer to one of the questions you asked Him about. Where was He when I needed him? God said, "The same place He was when Jesus was on the cross. He was right there, as He always is with all His children.

Oh, by the way Mom, nobody else can see what is written on this paper but you. To everyone else, it looks like a blank piece of paper. I have to give God His pen back now, he has some more names to write in the Book Of Life. Tonight I get to sit at the table with Jesus for Supper.

I'm sure the food will be great. I almost forgot to let you know - Now I don't hurt anymore, the cancer is all gone. I'm glad because I couldn't stand that pain anymore and God couldn't stand to see me suffer the pain either, so He sent The Angel of Mercy to get me. The Angel said I was Special Delivery!

Signed with love from:

God & Jesus & Me.

~Author Unknown~~

Can you pass the triple filter test?

An old fable has it that a scholar in ancient Baghdad was said to be unusually wise. One day an acquaintance met the great scholar and said, 'Do you know what I just heard about your friend?'

Then the scholar said, 'If it may not be true, if it is not good and it is not useful, then why do you want to tell me at all?'

Does your news pass the triple filter test? Ask yourself these questions before you speak: Is what I am about to say the truth? Is it good? And is it useful? If you can answer yes to only two of these questions, be careful about what you pass along. But if what you are about to tell passes all three filters, then it should be told!

My friend Bob Burg has a different approach. 'Play the 'Reverse Gossip' Game,' he says. 'See how many nice things you can say behind someone's back.'

Steve Goodier publishes This is Your Life Support System, a free e-newsletter sharing life, love and laughter.

My name was first Samantha
In the days long, long ago.
My Ma Ma was a little girl
And Oh, I loved her so!
She clapped her hands and hugged me tight
When she found me underneath the tree
That frosty Christmas morning
In eighteen ninety three.
No dolly ever had such love.
Or knew a greater pride.
Ma Ma kept my clothes just so
And I was always at her side.
The happy days were soon to pass,
Ma Ma looked at me one day
And said "I've grown too old for dolls
I must put you away."

So for many years I never knew
The darkness from the night.
But one day I was awakened from my sleep
and brought out into the light.
The one who held me in her hands
Wore clothes so strange to see,
Her eyes were hard, he lips were stern.
I did not like her holding me.
""This must have been Grandma's doll,"
she cried,
"A real antique. How nice,
And in very good condition too,
She should bring a fancy price."

Now I have a new Ma Ma
She says I cost her dear,
But she never holds me in her arms,
Or says things I like to hear.
She puts me in a room of glass
With dolls all in a row,
And she has given me another name.
She calls me Bebe Bru.

My curls are brushed, my clothes are fine
and lots of people come to stare.
But there is no love light in their eyes,
No one to really care.
How I long for hugs and kisses
And a little girl with whom to play.
My new Ma Ma just comes and looks
And then she goes away.
If she knew I was just plain Samantha
and not Bebe Bru,
Do you suppose I would know the love again
I once knew long ago?!

A Moment of Clarity

            Weeks of obsessive tending and gentle turning ensured a blue ribbon for his
biggest pumpkin next weekend. Simeon's chest puffed with impending pride as he
fantasized about the envious stares of the other town folk, especially that pretty, stuck-up
woman next door, who always looked through him, not at him.

            Secretly he admired Elizabeth, but was upset with her complete lack of interest in
him. He often saw her head above the high fence in her back yard, probably working in
her garden, but he couldn't be sure. The fence was solid. He was curious, but refrained
from looking over the top for fear she'd see him, which would give her more reason to be
snooty and spread rumors about the strange farmer boy next door.

            A week later, Simeon stood proudly by his pumpkin, which weighed in at four
hundred and seventy-eight pounds. No other pumpkin on display was even close to the
size of his. He was a sure winner.

            He turned toward a commotion at the entrance to the barn. Several men struggled
with a cart which carried something huge covered with a tarp. Simeon watched with
apprehension as they turned down the aisle where the pumpkins were displayed. They
pushed their cargo passed Simeon and stopped near the end of the row. His fear was
realized when the tarp was removed and the biggest pumpkin he had ever seen was hefted
by a dozen men from the cart and placed on the scales. Those gathered around gasped
and then applauded.

            After the pumpkin was placed on display, Simeon strolled over and stared in
shock at the tag: Weight: 567 Lbs. - Owner: E. H.

            "E. H.? Who's E. H.?" he wondered.

            "Hello, Simeon." He turned and stared at his neighbor, Elizabeth Hannah.

            "Elizabeth?" he stuttered. "You grew this? Is this what you were working on
in your backyard all summer?"

            Elizabeth smiled. "Yes, I did." Her green eyes sparkled with pride. "And yes
this is what I worked on."

            "I didn't know you were interested ... He paused. "I didn't know you liked to
grow pumpkins."

            "It's something I got interested in after watching you year-after-year."

            "You noticed?"

            "Of course, you silly boy."

            He blushed. His dream of winning this year was forgotten. Something more
important was at hand. "I'm surprised. This is some pumpkin, Elizabeth." He lifted
his hat and scratched his head.

            "Yours is big too, Sim."

            Sim? Did she just call him "Sim"? Only his departed mother had ever called him
that. "Yup! It is, but it looks like you beat me by close to a hundred pounds."


                                    ***********************

            The cold wind started again and he shivered, watching the sky darken too quickly.
As bright, painted leaves rained on his crop, he instinctively turned his head toward an
infant's cry. At the top of the hill, under the old Maple, his former stuck-up neighbor was
shielding a bundle from the wind, fumbling with her blouse. Simeon watched her nurse
their son.

            After learning Elizabeth did notice him and that she also enjoyed the challenge of
growing large pumpkins, his attitude toward her changed. He learned she wasn't snooty;
she was just shy. They became friends. Love bloomed. Now they were a family.

                                    ***********************
            "Dad!" his son called. "Dad!"

            Simeon was pulled from his memories. He turned and stared at the strangely
familiar man who called out. "Dad, it's time to go."

            Simeon struggled to remember who this man was. His gaze fell upon a white-
haired lady who stood at the man's side. She smiled at him. Simeon's mind cleared.
Confusion, his constant companion, was momentarily gone. On elderly legs, he hobbled
closer. His gnarled hands shook as he cupped the woman's face. "Ellie? Is that you?"

            Her still clear green eyes stared back at him. They filled with tears. A bright
smile lit up her face. "Sim!" She choked on her words. "Sim, I love you." She reached
out and held him in her frail arms.

            Simeon rested his gray head against hers. "Where have you been?" He sobbed.
"I've missed you so much."

            "I've been here, Sim. I've been here all along."

                                    ***********************
            Simeon sat in his wheel chair and stared into the past. Alzheimer's had done
its damage. The ceremony around him was a blur of confusion. A cold wind ruffled his
white hair. His son tucked a blanket around him. "Are you warm enough, Dad?' Simeon
continued to stare into his own world.

            His son left Simeon's side, approached the opening of the grave, and placed a
single red rose on his mother's casket. "Mom," he whispered. "You got your wish. You
wanted dad to recognize you one more time before the cancer took you away." He paused
to gain control of his grief. "You were right to take dad to the old farm. It gave him one
rare moment of clarity. Now you can rest in peace."

Michael T. Smith
Word Count: 818

Why I call you "Friends who Wave Back". Happiest Day

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The Piano Student

At the prodding of my friends, I am writing this story. My name is Mildred Hondorf. I am a former elementary school music teacher from Des Moines, Iowa. I've always supplemented my income by teaching piano lessons--something I've done for over 30 years.

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Over the years I found that children have many levels of musical ability. I've never had the pleasure of having a protégé though I have taught some talented students. However I've also had my share of what I call "musically challenged" pupils.

One such student was Robby. Robby was 11 years old when his mother (a single mom) dropped him off for his first piano lesson. I prefer that students (especially boys!) begin at an earlier age, which I explained to Robby. But Robby said that it had always been his mother's dream to hear him play the piano. So I took him as a student. Well, Robby began with his piano lessons and from the beginning I thought it was a hopeless endeavor. As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and basic rhythm needed to excel. But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some elementary pieces that I require all my students to learn.

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Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed and tried to encourage him. At the end of each weekly lesson he'd always say, "My mom's going to hear me play some day." But it seemed hopeless.

He just did not have any inborn ability. I only knew his mother from a distance as she dropped Robby off or waited in her aged car to pick him up. She always waved and smiled but never stopped in. Then one day Robby stopped coming to our lessons. I thought about calling him but assumed, because of his lack of ability, that he had decided to pursue somethingelse. I also was glad that he stopped coming. He was a bad advertisement for my teaching!

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Several weeks later I mailed to the student's homes a flyer on theupcoming recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked me if he could be in the recital. I told him that the recital was for current pupils and because he had dropped out he really did not qualify. He said that his mom had been sick and unable to take him to piano lessons but he was still practicing. "Miss Hondorf...I've just got to play!" he insisted. I don't know what led me to allow him to play in the recital. Maybe it was his persistence or maybe it was something inside of me saying that it would be all right.

The night for the recital came. The high school gymnasium was packed with parents, friends and relatives. I put Robby up last in the program before I was to come up and thank all the students and play a finishing piece. I thought that any damage he would do would come at the end of the program and I could always salvage his poor performance through my "curtain closer."

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Well the recital went off without a hitch. The students had been practicing and it showed. Then Robby came up on stage. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair looked like he' run an egg-beater through it. "Why didn't he dress up like the other students?" I thought. "Why didn't his mother at least make him comb his hair for this special night?"

Robby pulled out the piano bench and he began. I was surprised when he announced that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #21 in C Major. I was not prepared for what I heard next. His fingers were light on the keys, they even danced nimbly on the ivories. He went from pianissimo to fortissimo...from allegro to virtuoso. His suspended chords that Mozart demands were magnificent! Never had I heard Mozart played so well by people his age. After six and a half minutes he ended in a grand crescendo and everyone was on their feet in wild applause. Overcome and in tears I ran up on stage and put my arms around Robby in joy. "I've never heard you play like that Robby! How'd you do it?" Through the microphone Robby explained: "Well Miss Hondorf...remember I told you my mom was sick? Well actually she had cancer and passed away this morning. And well....she was born deaf so tonight was the first time she ever heard me play. I wanted to make it special."

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There wasn't a dry eye in the house that evening. As the people from Social Services led Robby from the stage to be placed into foster care,

I noticed that even their eyes were red and puffy and I thought to myself how much richer my life had been for taking Robby as my pupil. No, I've never had a protégé but that night I became a protégé...of Robby's. He was the teacher and I was the pupil. For it is he that taught me the meaning of perseverance and love and believing in yourself and maybe even taking a chance in someone and you don't know why.

Robby was killed in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City in April of 1995, where he was reportedly....playing the piano.

~By Mildred Hondorf~

Please note that this story is reported to be fiction and not true.
It is still a lovely story, however.

Sheryl, this story is for you.

            The nights grew long - the air cooler. Leaves changed color. Migrating birds
made their way south - fleeing winter. Fall was almost upon us - my favorite time of
year. A walk through the forest was a trip to an art gallery. The trees compete, each a
work of nature's glorious art.

            A canopy of color shaded me. I stood under them, looked up, and saw sunlight
streaming through the branches. It struck each leaf. They reflected it with an un-
imaginable brilliance.

            In the quiet of the forest, I heard a small snap. A single leaf floated delicately
to the ground. A light breeze stirred the branches - a multicolored snow storm. The
colored flakes landed on my head and shoulders. They cover the seeds and nuts dropped
earlier in the year. Some already had small sprouts reaching for the sky.

            The seeds of new life were soon buried under a cover of delicate and dying
leaves, a cover provided by the tall trees standing over them. The leaves protected the
future from the cold winter to follow. In spring, the leaves decomposed and provided rich
nutrients to nourish the young - a new generation.

            A week later I was back. I wanted to enjoy the season before it was gone. The
leaves rustled under my feet. The air was scented with the odor of dampness and decomposition, as the leaves began to decay - a pleasant smell. I shuffle along, pushing
the leaves in front of me. They parted and swirled around my feet like the waters on a
beach. My heart was heavy. Another year was gone.

            At home, I looked in the mirror - a hint of grey at my temples. I noticed a few
more in the whiskers on my chin and a few chest hairs followed suit. The hair on the
top of my head, like the leaves, were mostly gone. I'm in the fall of life. Could my winter
be close?

            I sat in my chair, tried to watch a game on television, but I couldn't focus. Where
did my spring and summer go?

            My son walked by. He was a tall, healthy, and good looking young man. "See ya,
Dad. I'm going to work." The door closed behind him.

            I thought of the trees, the seeds, the nuts, the leaves, my children and
grandchildren. Like the trees, I spread my seeds and protected them. They grew from
seeds and sprouts, to tall, strong saplings.

            The trees and I have weathered many storms. We swayed and bent under their
force, but we stood over our young, sheltered them, and covered them when they were
cold.

            My heart felt lighter. Fall was not the beginning of the end. It is the past
protecting the future. One day, a storm will blow in and I'll topple over - winter. The
young I sheltered, free of my shadow, will take my place to protect the next generation -
my job complete.

Michael T. Smith

Thank you for your friendship, Sheryl. Your job here is done. Your saplings will carry
on.

Michael T. Smith

I was sitting on a bench
while in a nearby mall,
When I noticed a young mother
with two children who were small.

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The youngest one was whining,
"Pick me up," I heard him beg
but the mother's face grew angry
as the child clung to her leg.

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"Don't hang on to me," she shouted
as she pushed his hands away,
I wish I'd had the courage
to go up to her and say...

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"The time will come too quickly
when those little arms that tug,
Won't ask for you to hold them
or won't freely give a hug.

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"The day will sneak up subtly
just as it did with me,
When you can't recall the last time
that your child sat on your knee.

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"Like those sacred, pre-dawn feedings
when we cherished time alone
Our babies grow and leave behind
those special times we've known.

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"So when your child comes