Poems and letters
To Believe
To believe is to know that every day is a new beginning.It is to trust that miracles happen, and dreams really do come true.
To believe is to see angels dancing among the clouds
to know the wonder of a stardust sky and the wisdom of the man in the moon.
To believe is to know the value of a nurturing heart,the innocence of a child's eyes and the beauty of an aging hand, for it is through their teachings we learn to love.
To believe is to find the strength and courage that lies within us. when it is time to pick up the pieces and begin again.
To believe is to know we are not alone, that life is a gift and this is out time to cherish it.
To believe is to know that wonderful suprises are just waiting to happen, and all our hopes and dreams are within reach.
If only we believe
-Author Unknown
I went to a party,
and remembered what you said.
You told me not to drink, Mom
so I had a Sprite instead.
I felt proud of myself,
the way you said I would,
that I didn't drink and drive,
though some friends said I should.
I made a healthy choice,
and your advice to me was right
as the party finally ended,
and the kids drove out of sight.
I got into my car,
sure to get home in one piece,
I never knew what was coming, Mom
something I expected least.
Now I'm lying on the pavement,
And I hear the policeman say,
The kid that caused this wreck was drunk,
Mom, His voice seems far away.
My own blood's all around me,
as I try hard not to cry.
I can hear the paramedic say,
This girl is going to die.;
I'm sure the guy had no idea,
while he was flying high,
because he chose to drink and drive,
now I would have to die.
So why do people do it, Mom
Knowing that it ruins lives?
And now the pain is cutting me,
like a hundred stabbing knives.
Tell sister not to be afraid, Mom
tell daddy to be brave,
and when I go to heaven,
put "Daddy's GirL"; on my grave.
Someone should have taught him,
that its wrong to drink and drive.
Maybe if his parents had,
I'd still be alive.
My breath is getting shorter, Mom
I'm getting really scared.
These are my final moments,
and I'm so unprepared.
I wish that you could hold me Mom,
as I lie here and die.
I wish that I could say I love you, Mom
So I love you and good-bye.
~I'm Free~
Don't grieve for me, for now I'm
free I'm following the path that God
laid for me.
I took his hand, when I heard him
call I turned my back, and left it
all. I could not stay another day
To laugh, to love, to work or play
I found that place at the close of
day If parting has left a void,
then fill it all with remembered
joy.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a
kiss,
Ah yes, these things I too shall
miss.
Be not burdened now with times of
sorrow,
I wish you the sunshine of tomorrow.
My life's been full, I've savored
much,
Good friends, good times, a loved
one's touch.
Perhaps my time seems all too brief,
Don't lengthen it now with undue
grief.
Lift up your heart and share with
me,
God wanted me now, He set me free. ...Author unknown
This one make you wonder sometimes
I came home from school yesterday afternoon feeling sad and sorry for
myself. My boyfriend of nearly two years had dumped me for an airheaded
cheerleader. That wasn't supposed to happen. Our senior year is supposed to
be special. Actually, he didn't have the guts. Three of his jockey friends
were more than happy to relate the news to me. I hate all of them.
My heart was broken to say the least. There was nothing I hated more than
being lonely. I walked home slowly from school on an old dirt road that
paralleled a shallow canal. It reaked of dying fish and dried up algae. The
sun had been unrelenting for weeks. I stopped in front of the doorstep of my
family's house, wiping my feet carefully on the welcome mat and brushing the
dust off of my clothes.
"Why are you home from school so late young lady?" came the first thing out
of my father's mouth when I opened the door. It wasn't a question. It was
more like an accusation.I walked by him without saying a word.
I wasn't ready to deal with this
"Don't you walk away from me! You are nothing but trouble, you know that?
Go to your room right now."
I gave him a 'wish you were dead' look and stampeded straight to my room.
Good, that's where I wanted to be anyway. My father had been so mean and
discriminating for many months now. I really couldn't stand the sight of him
anymore. I hated him at that moment too. I hated all men.
My bedroom door slammed shut and was locked right away. No way I was letting
anyone in. I turned my computer on and took off my shoes as it connected to
the internet. I needed to talk to someone, anyone who would listen.
Making myself comfortable in a small swivel chair, I searched for a chat
room for people locally. I found one easily and clicked on the romance
section. I needed to feel loved at that moment, even if it was all phony.
When asked to enter a log-on name I typed in Lonely_Heart, for that's what I
was. There's no way I would ever give out my real name on the internet. Too
many crazy people out there.
"Hello Lonely, what brings you here this afternoon?" came a message on my
screen.
I looked closer for the name of this guy. Loneliness. "Well I see we have
something in common. I just came to find someone to talk to," I typed back
in my slow hunt-and-peck method.
"Same here," came his quick reply. "What do you want to talk about?"
Then on the spur of the moment I just told him everything bad about my day
and my life. The words came out freely and I really didn't expect him to
understand my feelings. Men never understand.
"Just a minute," he answered. "I need to do something really quick but I'll
be right back." He wasn't coming back. I didn't blame him. Should have known
better than to think a man would listen to me.
There was a pounding on my bedroom door at that moment. I jumped up in my
chair half-startled. "Tatiana?" came my father's all too well known accusing
voice. "There's leftovers in the refrigerator for supper when you get hungry.
I'll be in my study room if you need me." And then he was gone.
Good riddance. "I know how you feel," magically appeared on my screen
a few seconds later.
I couldn't believe it. He really did come back. "I feel much the same way as
you do. My family hates me. I have no friends.
They will never understand how much I really love them," he typed quickly.
"Why don't you just tell them?" I asked.
"I can't."
I decided not to push him any further about it. We made small talk about our
feelings and what we wanted from life. This man did understand me. This
conversation was a blessing to me.
"Lonely, I'm dying."
I didn't quite understand. "What do you mean?" I asked eagerly.
"What I said. I'm dying and I'm scared." There were no words exchanged for a
minute or two. I knew what he was saying. I just didn't want to believe it.
"How so?" I responded after an eternity.
"I went to doctor a few months ago. I have cancer. He said I might live for
thirty days or thirty years. There's just no way to tell."
My heart suddenly dropped. Somehow I felt a special bond with this man. He
was like an old friend. He couldn't be dying. It just wasn't fair.
"I don't know what to say," I answered back honestly.
"Don't say anything. I haven't told anyone yet. I am so scared and worried
of what will become of my family. I love them so much." Another silence.
"And they don't even know it."
There was an intolerable silence now. I glanced quickly at my watch. Somehow
time had slipped by for morning had already arrived. Suddenly I knew what I
needed to do. I needed to meet this man in person to let him know that
someone does care.
His family was selfish to leave him feeling such despair.
"Loneliness?" I typed.
"Yes?"
"I have enjoyed this so much but I have to leave soon. I feel silly for
asking this. Is there any way we can meet in person later today or this
week?"
There was no hesitation this time. "I would like that very much. You do live
in Sanderson right? Maybe we can meet at the coffee shop downtown?" he
asked.
"Sure. Four o'clock this afternoon if you can make it." I looked at my watch
again. Nearly eight in the morning.
"Okay, it's a date then," came the seemingly cheerful reply.
"I can't wait!" I typed in and said out loud at the same time. "Gotta run
now though. Meet me at the little table by the front window. See ya then!"
and I shut the computer down quickly.
I stood up from the swivel chair and stretched for the first time in over
twelve hours. I hadn't gotten up for anything all night. By then I was
starving so I unlocked the bedroom door and headed for the kitchen in a
daze. My little brother was there eating some kind of bran cereal. I just
grabbed a couple of bananas from the marble counter top and headed back to
my room to get ready for the day.
I passed by Dad's study room and saw the light creeping from under his door.
I don't think he ever went to sleep last night. Several times I could have
sworn I heard him
laughing and mumbling to himself throughout the night I doubt it though. I
just wanted to get out of the house before he started yelling and bickering
again.
The day at school today seemed to go by pretty fast. I saw Jonathan, my
ex-boyfriend, in the halls between some of my classes. He seemed happier
than usual but he didn't have the nerve to look at me. I didn't see his new
girlfriend with him either. That didn't matter to me though.
I was going to meet the nicest, kindest man I had ever known in just a few
hours. I wrote him a letter during my study break. It was basically just to
let him know that someone
did care and that he was loved. Even if it was only by me, a complete
stranger.
The final bell at school finally rang. I saw Jonathan race down the halls
like he was in a hurry to get somewhere. It was three forty-five now. I had
fifteen minutes to walk to
the coffee shop downtown. It was less than a mile away. I was so scared all
of the sudden. What if this man didn't like me? What if he was just some
sick person who wanted to hurt me? What if he was twelve years old or eighty
years old? It didn't really matter I supposed. We were meeting in a public
place and I said I'd be there. Besides, I just knew deep down inside he was
telling the truth. He was dying. He needed me.
I walked slowly down the gravel sidewalk to the coffee shop with my heart
pounding furiously every step of the way. It was a mile long but it seemed
much shorter now. I was getting there too fast.
I pulled my arm close to my face and looked at my watch.
Three fifty-five.
The coffee shop was almost empty when I finally stepped inside its swinging
doors. No one was in the seat by the front window. I told the man behind the
counter that I was just waiting for a friend. He smiled and nodded slightly.
I slid into one of the seats by the front window with my back to the door.
Two minutes after four. My new friend wasn't coming. I was disappointed but
a little relieved too.
Then I heard the little bell above the front door ring wildly. Someone had
stepped in. I didn't dare turn around to see who it was. Maybe this was the
moment of truth.
There was a strong hand on my shoulder then. It was him. I couldn't breathe.
He spoke the name he knew me by softly, almost like he was crying.
"Lonely_Heart."
I finally had the courage to look up at him directly in the eyes. He was
crying. His right hand was covering his forehead like he was lost from the
world.
Then I cried with him. We hugged and sat there for hours just enjoying each
other's company. There wasn't a single moment when tears weren't shed. This
man was perfect.
This man was my father
One day, a father and his rich family
took their son for a trip in the country
with the firm purpose of showing him
how poor people live.
They spent a day and night
at the farm of a very poor family.
When they got back from their trip,
the father asked the son,
"How was the trip?"
"Very good, dad!"
"Did you see how poor people can live?"
the father asked.
"Yeah!" "And what did you learn?"
The son answered,
"I saw that we have a dog at home,
and they have four.
We have a pool
that reaches to the middle of the garden,
they have a creek that has no end.
We have imported lamps in the garden,
they have the stars.
Our patio reaches to the front yard,
they have a whole horizon."
As the little boy was finishing,
the father was speechless.
His son added,
"Thanks, dad, for showing me how poor we are!"
Isn't it true that it all depends on the way you look at
things?
If you have love, friends, family, health, good humor,
and a positive outlook towards life
You've got
everything!
You can't buy any of these things,
but still you can
have all the material possessions you can imagine,
provisions for the future,
but if you are poor in spirit,
you have nothing.
I wish you Could See
" I Wish You Could See"
I wish that you could see the sadness of a business man as his
livelihood goes up in flames, or that family retuning home, only to find
their house and belongings damaged or lost for good.
I wish you could know what it is like to search a burning bedroom for
trapped children, flames rolling above your head, your palms and knees
burning as you crawl, the floor sagging under your weight as the kitchen
below you burns.
I wish you could comprehend a wife's horror at 4 a.m. as I check her
husband of 40 years for a pulse and find none. I start CPR anyway,
hoping to bring him back, knowing intuitively it is too late. But
wanting his wife and family to know everything possible was done to save
his life.
I wish you knew the unique smell of burning insulation, the taste of
soot-filled mucus, the feeling of intense heat through your turnout
gear, the sound of flames crackling, the eeriness of being able to see
absolutely nothing in dense smoke - sensations that I have become too
familiar with.
I wish you could understand how it feels to go to work in the morning
avter having having spent most of the night, hot and soaking wet at a
multiple alarm fire.
I wish that you could read my mind as I respond to a building fire. "Is
this a false alarm or a working fire? How is the building constructed?
What hazards await me? Is anyone trapped? Or to an EMS call, "What is
wrong with the patient? Is it minor or life-threatening? Is the caller
really in distress or is he waiting for us with a 2x4 or a gun?"
I wish you could be in the emergency room as the doctor pronounces dead
the beautiful five-year old girl that I have been trying to save during
the past 25 minutes. Who will never go on her first date or say the
words, "I love you, mommy" again.
I wish you could know the frustration I feel in the cab of my engine or
ambulance, the driver with his foot pressing down hard on the pedal, my
arm tugging again and again at the air horn chain, as you fail to yield
the right-of-way at an intersection or in traffic. When you need us
however, your first comment on arrival will be, "It took you forever to
get here!"
I wish you could know my thoughts as I help extricate a girl of teenage
years from the remains of her automobile. "What if this was my sister,
my girlfriend or a friend? What were her parents reaction going to be
when they opened the door to find a police officer with hat in hand?"
I wish you could know how it feels to walk in the back door and greet my
parents and family, not having the heart to tell them that I nearly did
not come back from the last call.
I wish you could feel the hurt as people verbally, and sometimes
physically, abuse me or belittle what I do, or as they express their
attitudes of "It will never happen to me." I wish you could realize the
physical, emotional and mental drain or missed meals, lost sleep and
forgone social activities, in addition to all the tragedy my eyes have
seen.
I wish you could know the brotherhood and self-satisfaction of helping
save a life or preserving someone's property, or being able to be there
in time of crisis, or creating order from total chaos.
I wish you could understand what it feels like to have a little boy
tugging at your arm and asking "Is mommy okay?" Not even being able to
look in his eyes without tears from your own and not knowing what to
say. Or to have to hold back a long-time friend who watches his buddy
having rescue breathing done on him as they take him away in the
ambulance. You know all along that he did not have his seat belt on. A
sensation that I have become too familiar with. Unless you have lived
with this kind of life, you will never truly undersatnd or appreciate
who I am, we are, or what our job really means to us..I wish you could
though.
-Author Unknown
ALL GOOD THINGS
He was in the third grade
class I taught at Saint Mary's School in Morris,
Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me,
but Mark Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in
appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive
attitude that made even his occasional
mischievousness delightful.
Mark talked incessantly. I had
to remind him again and again that talking
without permission was not acceptable. What
impressed me so much, though, was his sincere
response every time I had to correct him for
misbehaving -
"Thank you for correcting me, Sister!"
I didn't know what to make of it at first, but
before long I became accustomed to hearing it
many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when
Mark talked once too often, and then I made a
novice-teacher's mistake. I looked at Mark and
said, "If you say one more
word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"
It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted
out, "Mark is talking again." I
hadn't asked any of the students to help me
watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in
front of the class, I had to act on it.
I remember the scene as if it had occurred this
morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately
opened by drawer and took out a roll of masking
tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to
Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and
made a big X with them over his mouth. I then
returned to the front of the room.
As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he
winked at me. That did it!! I started
laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to
Mark's desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my
shoulders. His first words were, "Thank you for
correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the year, I was asked to teach
junior-high math. The years flew by, and before
I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He
was more handsome than ever and just as polite.
Since he had to listen carefully to my
instruction in the "new math," he did not talk
as much in ninth grade as he had in third. One
Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had
worked hard on a new concept all week, and I
sensed that the students were frowning,
frustrated with themselves - and edgy with one
another. I had to stop this crankiness before
it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the
names of the other students in the room on two
sheets of paper, leaving a space between each
name. Then I told them to think of the nicest
thing they could say about each of their
classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period
to finish their assignment, and as the students
left the room, each one handed me the papers.
Charlie smiled.
Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister.
Have a good weekend." That Saturday, I wrote
down the name of each student on a separate
sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else
had said about that individual. On Monday I
gave each student his or her list. Before long,
the entire class was smiling. "Really?" I
heard whispered. "I never knew that meant
anything to anyone!" "I didn't know
others liked me so much." No one ever mentioned
those papers in class again. I never knew if
they discussed them after class or with their
parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise
had accomplished its purpose. The students were
happy with themselves and one another
again.
That group of students moved on. Several years
later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met
me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother
asked me the usual questions about the trip - the
weather, my experiences in general. There
was a lull in the conversation.
Mother gave Dad a side-ways glance and simply
says, "Dad?" My father cleared his throat as he
usually did before something
important. "The Eklunds called last night," he
began. "Really?" I said. "I haven't
heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark
is."
Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in
Vietnam," he said. "The funeral is tomorrow,
and his parents would like it if you could
attend."
To this day I can still point to the exact spot
on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military
coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so
mature. All I could think at
that moment was, "Mark I would give all the
masking tape in the world if only you would talk to
me."
The church was packed with Mark's friends.
Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of the
Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day
of the funeral? It was difficult enough at the
graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers,
and the bugler played taps. One by one those
who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin
and sprinkled it with holy
water. I was the last one to bless the coffin.
As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted
as pallbearer came up to me. "Were you Mark's
math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued
to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you
a lot," he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark's former
classmates headed to Chuck's farmhouse for lunch.
Mark's mother and father were
there, obviously waiting for me. "We want to
show you something," his father said, taking a
wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on
Mark when he was killed. We thought you might
recognize it." Opening the billfold, he
carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper
that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded
many times. I knew without looking that the
papers were the ones on which I had listed all
the good things each of Mark's classmates had
said about him. "Thank you so much for doing
that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see,
Mark treasured it."
Mark's classmates started to
gather around us. Charlie smiled rather
sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in
the top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife
said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our
wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn
said. "It's in my diary." Then Vicki, another
classmate, reached into her
pocketbook, took out her wallet
and showed her worn and frazzled list to the
group. "I carry this with me at all times,"
Vicki said without batting an eyelash. "I think
we all saved our lists."
That's when I finally sat down and cried. I
cried for Mark and for all his
friends who would never see him again.
INSEPARABLE
"Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!" My father
yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward
the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge
him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't
prepared for another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving."
My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I
really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled
back.
At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside
to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with
a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo
my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had
enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength
against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack
competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house
were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't
lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I
saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable
whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he
couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart
attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic
administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the
hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was
lucky -- he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone.
He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions
and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults.
The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether.
Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our
small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would
help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted
the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized
everything I did.
I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up
anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed,
Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The
clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At
the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled
mind. But the months wore on and God was silent.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky.
Somewhere up there was "God." Although I believed a Supreme
Being had created the universe, I had difficulty believing
that God cared about the tiny human being on this earth.
I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't answer. Something
had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically
called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow
Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices
that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one
of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that
might help you! Let me go get the article."
I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable
study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under
treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had
improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for
a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled
out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels.
The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the
row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired
dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs -- all jumped
up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one
after the other for various reasons -- too big, too small, too
much hair.
As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner
struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat
down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats.
But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his
face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out
in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held
my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?"
The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's
a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the
gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down
to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing.
His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean
you're going to kill him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have
room for every unclaimed dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my
decision. "I'll take him," I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I
reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my
prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.
"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had
wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have
picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep
it! I don't want it!" Dad waved his arm scornfully and
turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles
and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him,
Dad. He's staying!"
Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, old man?" I screamed.
At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at
his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly
the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my
dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he
raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw.
Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently.
Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad
named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored
the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes.
They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling
for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services
together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at
his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three
years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many
friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's
cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before
come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe
and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face
serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the
night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered
Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still
form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried
him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog
for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This
day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the
aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see
the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church.
The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and
the dog who had changed his life.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that
I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read
the right article, Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the
animal shelter, his calm acceptance and complete devotion to
my father, and the proximity of their deaths.
And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my
prayers after all.
"You Never Know"
One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class was walking home from school.
His name was Kyle. It looked like he was carrying all of his books. I thought to myself, "Why would
anyone bring home all his books on a Friday? He must really be a nerd."
I had quite a weekend planned (parties and a football game with my friends tomorrow afternoon), so I
shrugged my shoulders and went on. As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him. They
ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt. His
glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him. He looked up and I saw
this terrible sadness in his eyes. My heart went out to him. So, I jogged over to him and as he crawled
around looking for his glasses, I saw a tear in his eye. As I handed him his glasses, I said, "Those guys
are jerks. They really should get lives." He looked at me and said, "Hey thanks!" There was a big smile
on his face. It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude. I helped him pick up his books, and
asked him why I had never seen him before. He said he had gone to private school before now. I would have
never hung out with a private school kid before. We talked all the way home, and I carried his books. He
turned out to be a pretty cool kid. I asked him if he wanted to play football on Saturday with me and my
friends. He said yes. We hung all weekend and the more I got to know Kyle, the more I liked him. And my
friends thought the same of him. Monday morning came, and there was Kyle with the huge stack of books again.
I stopped him and said, "You are gonna really build some serious muscles with this pile of books everyday!"
He just laughed and handed me half the books. Over the next four years, Kyle and I became best friends.
When we were seniors, began to think about college. Kyle decided to go to Georgetown, and I was going to Duke.
I knew that we would always be friends, that miles would never be a problem. He was going to be a doctor, and
I was going for business on football scholarship. Kyle was valedictorian of our class. I teased him all the time
about being a nerd. He had to prepare a speech for graduation. I was so glad it wasn't me having to get up there
and speak. Graduation day, I saw Kyle. He looked great. He was one of those guys that really found himself during
high school. He filled out and actually looked good in glasses. He had more dates than me and all the girls loved
him! Boy, sometimes I was jealous. Today was one of those days. I could see that he was nervous about his speech.
So, I smacked him on the back and said, "Hey, you'll be great!" He looked at me with one of those looks (the really
grateful one) and smiled. "Thanks," he said. As he started his speech, he cleared his throat, and began. "Graduation
is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings,
maybe a coach... but mostly your friends. I am here to tell all of you that being a friend to someone is the best gift
you can give them. I am going to tell you a story." I just looked at my friend with disbelief as he told the story of
the first day we met. He had planned to kill himself over the weekend. He talked of how he had cleaned out his locker
so his mom wouldn't have to do it later and was carrying his stuff home. He looked hard at me and gave me a little smile.
"Thankfully, I was saved. My friend saved me from doing the unspeakable." I heard the gasp go through the crowd as this
handsome, popular boy told us all about his weakest moment. I saw his mom and dad looking at me and smiling that same
grateful smile. Not until that moment did I realize it's depth.
Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture you can change a person's life. For better or worse.
God puts us all in each other's lives to impact one another in some way. Look for God in others.
Brother
Brother when you weep for me,
Remember it was meant to be,
Lay me down and when you leave,
Remember I'll be at your sleeve.
In every dark and choking hall,
I'll be there as you slowly crawl,
On every roof in driving snow,
I'll hold your coat and you will know.
In cellars hot with searing heat,
At windows where a gate you meet,
In a closet where young children will hide,
You know I'll be there at your side.
The house from which I now respond,
Is over staffed with heroes gone,
Men who answered one last bell,
Did the job and did it well.
As fireman we understand,
That death's a card dealt in our hand,
A card we hope we never play,
But one we hold there anyway
That card is something we ignore,
As we crawl across a weakened floor,
For we know that we're the only prayer,
For anyone that might be there.
So remember as you wipe your tears,
The joy I knew throughout the years,
As I did the job I loved to do,
I pray that thought will see you through.
FAITH AMONG BROTHERS
They both grew up as buddies, so close throughout the years,
even fought a war together; to return among the cheers.
Each settled down and married, two girls from high school days,
and families soon developed, with loving kids to raise.
Though neither was related, one would never know,
the kids would always holler: "hi, uncle Billy;" "hi, uncle Joe."
Fire fighting beckoned, and they joined God's chosen few,
as their fathers did before them, it was like a dream come true.
They each were pulling duty, when the box come in at ten,
a call for all equipment, and just as many men.
Arriving at the scene, the blaze was out of hand,
flames shot from every window, and bill took full command.
He reached the roof by ladder, with a hose line in tow,
when the structure fell from under, dropping him below.
Joe ran throughout the rubble; carried out his fallen mate,
the chief said sadly later, I'm sorry Joe it was to late.
"I wasn't too late, sir, though Bill's life had but seconds to run, for in
those final moments, he managed to say...
"I'd knew you'd come."
May you always be rememberd for the things you have done. For the sacrifice
you and your families made for the safety of others. May your death not be in
vain but a reminder of what you lived for. Although people took your life by
starting the fire and leaving you to fight it alone and to search for them in
the brave way you have time after time. I am sorry for your death and I am
sorry for the lost your families are feeling at this time.
A fellow fire Fighter
THE ANT AND THE CONTACT LENS
Brenda was a young woman who was invited to go rock climbing. Although she
was scared to death, she went with her group to a tremendous granite cliff.
In spite of her fear, she put on the gear, took a hold on the rope, and
started up the face of that rock. Well, she got to a ledge where she could
take a breather. As she was hanging on there, the safety rope snapped
against Brenda's eye and knocked out her contact lens. Well, here she is on
a rock ledge, with hundreds of feet below her and hundreds of feet above
her. Of course, she looked and looked and looked, hoping it had landed on
the ledge, but it just wasn't there. Here she was, far from home, her sight
now blurry. She was desperate and began to get upset, so she prayed to the
Lord to help her to find it. When she got to the top, a friend examined her
eye and her clothing for the lens, but there was no contact lens to be
found. She sat down, despondent, with the rest of the party, waiting for
the rest of them to make it up the face of the cliff. She looked out across
range after range of mountains, thinking of that Bible verse that says, "The
eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth." She thought,
"Lord, You can see all these mountains. You know every stone and leaf, and
You know exactly where my contact lens is. Please help me." Finally, they
walked down the trail to the bottom. At the bottom there was a new party of
climbers just starting up the face of the cliff. One of them shouted out,
"Hey, you guys! Anybody lose a contact lens?" Well, that would be
startling enough, but you know why the climber saw it? An ant was moving
slowly across the face of the rock, carrying it. Brenda told me that her
father is a cartoonist. When she told him the incredible story of the ant,
the prayer, and the contact lens, he drew a picture of an ant lugging that
contact lens with the words, "Lord, I don't know why You want me to carry
this thing. I can't eat it, and it's awfully heavy. But if this is what
You want me to do, I'll carry it for You."
I think it would probably do some of us good to occasionally say, "God, I
don't know why you want me to carry this load. I can see no good in it and
it's awfully heavy. But, if you want me to carry it, I will."
Let's go back.......
Close your eyes.....And go back........ Before the Internet or the MAC,
Before semi automatics and crack Before chronic and indo Before SEGA or
Super Nintendo
Way back........
I'm talkin' bout hide and go seek at dusk. Sittin' on the porch, Hot bread
and butter. The ice cream man, Eatin' a 'super dooper sandwich', Red light,
Green light. Chocolate milk, Lunch tickets, Penny candy in a brown paper
bag. Playin' Pac-man in the corner store. Hopscotch, butterscotch, double
dutch Jacks, kickball, dodge ball, y'all! Mother May I? Hula Hoops and
Sunflower Seeds, Jolly Ranchers, blowpops, Mary Janes, Grape and Watermelon
Now-Laters (what about "Alexander the grape","lemonheads") Running through
the sprinkler (I can't get wet! All right, well don't wet my hair....) The
smell of the sun and lickin' salty lips.... Watchin' Saturday Morning
cartoons, (Fat Albert, Road Runner, He-Man, The Three Stooges, and Bugs),
Catchin' lightening bugs in a jar, Playin sling shot. When around the
corner seemed far away, And going downtown seemed like going somewhere.
Bedtime, Climbing trees, A million mosquito bites and sticky fingers, Cops
and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians, Sittin on the curb, Jumpin down the steps,
Jumpin on the bed. Pillow fights Being tickled to death Eating Kool-aid
powder with sugar Runnin till you were out of breath Laughing so hard that
your stomach hurt Being tired from playin'.... Remember that? Crowding
around in a circle around the 'after school fight', then running when the
teacher came. What about the girl that had the big bubbly hand writing??
I ain't finished just yet... Remember when...
When there were two types of sneakers for girls and boys (Keds & PF Flyers),
and the only time you wore them at school, was for "gym." When it took five
minutes for the TV to warm up. When nearly everyone's mom was at home when
the kids got there. When nobody owned a purebred dog. When a quarter was a
decent allowance, and another quarter a huge bonus. When you'd reach into a
muddy gutter for a penny. When girls neither dated nor kissed until late
high school, if then. When your mom wore nylons that came in two pieces.
When all of your male teachers wore neckties and female teachers had their
hair done, everyday. When you got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and
gas pumped, without asking, for free, every time. And, you didn't pay for
air. And, you got trading stamps to boot! When laundry detergent had free
glasses, dishes or towels hidden inside the box. When any parent could
discipline any kid, or feed him or use him to carry groceries, and nobody,
not even the kid, thought a thing of it. When it was considered a great
privilege to be taken out to dinner at a real restaurant with your parents.
When they threatened to keep kids back a grade if they failed ... and did!
When being sent to the principal's office was nothing compared to the fate
that awaited a misbehaving student at home. Basically, we were in fear for
our lives but it wasn't because of drive by shootings, drugs, gangs, etc.
Our parents and grandparents were a much bigger threat!
Didn't that feel good.. just to go back and say, Yeah, I remember that!
There's nothing like the good old days! They were good then, and they're
good now when we think about them.
