Dogs Life
Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolf hound named Belker. The dog's owners, Ron, his wife Lisa, and their little boy Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle. I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn't do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home. As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.
The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker's family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away. The little boy seemed to accept Belker's transition without any difficulty or confusion.
We sat together for a while after Belker's Death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives. Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, 'I know why.' Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation.
He said, 'People are born so that they can learn how to live a good Life -- like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?' The Six-year-old continued, 'Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long.' That's one really smart kid.
Remember, if a dog was the teacher you would learn things like:
When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.
Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.
Take naps.
Stretch before rising.
Run, romp, and play daily.
Thrive on attention and let people touch you.
Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.
On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.
On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.
When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body.
Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.
Be loyal.
Never pretend to be something you're not.
If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.
ENJOY EVERY MOMENT OF EVERY DAY!!!
I Can’t Thank You Enough
Father I can't praise you enough
For the blessings you bestow
For your wondrous love and mercy
For cleansing my heart and soul.
Father I can't praise you enough
I'm unworthy to speak your name
Yet you gave your only Son for me
And He willingly took my blame.
Father I can't praise you enough
For your sweet Spirit living in me
And Father I can't thank you enough
For your Son who set me free.
Father I can't thank you enough
That even though I sometimes stray
You reach down with rich blessings
And you still love me anyway. ~ Lora Cox ~
Somebody said it takes about six weeks to get back to normal after you've had a baby..... somebody doesn't know that once you're a mother, 'normal' is history.
* * *
Somebody said you learn how to be a mother by instinct ..
somebody never took a three-year-old shopping.
* * *
Somebody said being a mother is boring ....
somebody never rode in a car driven by a teenager with a driver's permit.
Somebody said if you're a'good' mother, your child will 'turn out good'....
somebody thinks a child comes with directions and a guarantee.
* * *
Somebody said you don't need an education to be a mother....
somebody never helped a fourth grader with his math.
* * *
Somebody said you can't love the second child as much as you love the first ....
somebody doesn't have two children.
* * *
Somebody said the hardest part of being a mother is labor and delivery.....
somebody never watched her 'baby' get on the bus for the first day of kindergarten ..
or on a plane headed for military 'boot camp.'
* * *
Somebody said a mother can stop worrying after her child gets married...
somebody doesn't know that marriage adds a new son or daughter-in-law to a mother's heartstrings.
* * *
Somebody said a mother's job is done when her last child leaves home....
somebody never had grandchildren.
* * *
Somebody said your mother knows you love her, so you don't need to tell her....
somebody isn't a mother.
BEING A MOTHER...
After 17 years of marriage, my wife wanted me to
take another woman out to dinner and a movie. She
said, 'I love you, but I know this other woman loves
you and would love to spend some time with you.'
* * *
The other woman that my wife wanted me to visit
was my MOTHER, who has been alone for 20 years,
but the demands of my work and my two boys had
made it possible to visit her only occasionally.
* * *
That night I called to invite her to go out for
dinner and a movie.
* * *
'What's wrong, aren't you well,' she asked?
* * *
My mother is the type of woman who suspects that a
late night call or a surprise invitation is a sign
of bad news.
* * *
'I thought it would be pleasant to spend some
time with you,' I responded. 'Just the two of us.'
She thought about it for a moment, and then said,
'I would like that very much.'
* * *
That Friday after work, as I drove over to pick
her up I was a bit nervous. When I arrived at her
house, I noticed that she, too, seemed to be nervous
about our date. She waited in the door. She had curled her hair
and was wearing the dress that she had worn to celebrate
her last birthday on November 19th.
* * *
She smiled from a face that was as radiant as an
angel's. 'I told my friends that I was going to go
out with my son, and they were impressed,' she said,
as she got into that new white van.
'They can't wait to hear about our date'.
* * *
We went to a restaurant that, although not
elegant, was very nice and cozy. My mother took my
arm as if she were the First Lady. After we sat
down, I had to read the menu. Her eyes could only
read large print. Half way through the entries, I
lifted my eyes and saw Mom sitting there staring at
me. A nostalgic smile was on her lips. 'It was I
who used to have to read the menu when you were
small,' she said. 'Then it's time that you relax and
let me return the favor,' I responded.
* * *
During the dinner, we had an agreeable
conversation- -nothing extraordinary but catching up
on recent events of each other's life. We talked so
much that we missed the movie.
* * *
As we arrived at her house later, she said,
'I'll go out with you again, but only if you let me
invite you.' I agreed.
* * *
'How was your dinner date ?'
asked my wife when I got home.
'Very nice. Much more so than I could have imagined,'
I answered.
* * *
A few days later, my mother died of a massive
heart attack. It happened so suddenly that I didn't
have a chance to do anything for her.
* * *
Some time later, I received an envelope with a
copy of a restaurant receipt from the same place
mother and I had dined. An attached note said: 'I
paid this bill in advance. I wasn't sure that I
could be there; but nevertheless, I paid for two
plates - one for you and the other for your wife.
You will never know what that night meant for me.
I love you, son.'
* * *
At that moment, I understood the importance of
saying in time: 'I LOVE YOU' and to give our loved
ones the time that they deserve. Nothing in life is
more important than your family. Give them the time
they deserve, because these things cannot be put off
till 'some other time.'
Is there a magic cut off period when offspring become accountable for their own actions? Is there a wonderful moment when parents can become detached spectators in
The lives of their children and shrug, 'It's their life,' and feel nothing?
When I was in my twenties, I stood in a hospital corridor waiting for doctors to put a few stitches in my daughter's head. I asked, 'When do you stop worrying?' The nurse said, 'When they get out of the accident stage.' My Dad just smiled faintly and said nothing.
When I was in my thirties, I sat on a little chair in a classroom and heard how one of my children talked incessantly, disrupted the class, and was headed for a career making license plates. As if to read my mind, a teacher said, 'Don't worry, they all go through this stage and then you can sit back, relax and enjoy them.' My dad just smiled faintly and said nothing.
When I was in my forties, I spent a lifetime waiting for the phone to ring, the cars to come home, the front door to open. A friend said, 'They're trying to find themselves. Don't worry, in a few years, you can stop worrying. They'll be adults.' My dad just smiled faintly and said nothing.
By the time I was 50, I was sick & tired of being vulnerable. I was still worrying over my children, but there was a new wrinkle. There was nothing I could do about it. My Dad just smiled faintly and said nothing.
I continued to anguish over their failures, be tormented by their frustrations and absorbed in their disappointments. My friends said that when my kids got married I could stop worrying and lead my own life. I wanted to believe that, but I was haunted by my dad's warm smile and his occasional, 'You look pale. Are you all right? Call me the minute you get home. Are you depressed about something?' Can it be that parents are sentenced to al lifetime of worry? Is concern for one another handed down like a torch to blaze the trail of human frailties and the fears of the unknown? Is concern a curse or is it a virtue that elevates us to the highest form of life?
One of my children became quite irritable recently, saying to me, 'Where were you? I've been calling for 3 days, and no one answered I was worried.'I smiled a warm smile.
The torch has been passed.
A little girl stood near a small church from which she had been turned away because it was 'too crowded.'
'I can't go to Sunday School,' she sobbed to the pastor as he walked by.
Seeing her shabby, unkempt appearance, the pastor guessed the reason and, taking her by the hand, took her inside and found a place for her in the Sunday school class.
The child was so happy that they found room for her, and she went to bed that night thinking of the children who have no place to worship Jesus.
Some two years later, this child lay dead in one of the poor tenement buildings. Her parents called for the kind hearted pastor who had befriended their daughter to handle the final arrangements.
As her poor little body was being moved, a worn and crumpled red purse was found which seemed to have been rummaged from some trash dump.
Inside was found 57 cents and a note, scribbled in childish handwriting, which read: 'This is to help build the little church bigger so more children can go to Sunday School.'
For two years she had saved for this offering of love..
When the pastor tearfully read that note, he knew instantly what he would do. Carrying this note and the cracked, red pocket book to the pulpit, he told the story of her unselfish love and devotion.
He challenged his deacons to get busy and raise enough money for the larger building.
But the story does not end there...
A newspaper learned of the story and published it. It was read by a wealthy realtor who offered them a parcel of land worth many thousands.
When told that the church could not pay so much, he offered to sell it to the little church for 57 cents.
Church members made large donations. Checks came from far and wide. Within five years the little girl's gift had increased to $250,000.00--a huge sum for that time (near the turn of the century). Her unselfish love had paid large dividends.
When you are in the city of Philadelphia , look up Temple Baptist Church , with a seating capacity of 3,300. And be sure to visit Temple University, where thousands of students are educated.
Have a look, too, at the Good Samaritan Hospital and at a Sunday School building which houses hundreds of beautiful children, built so that no child in the area will ever need to be left outside during Sunday school time.
In one of the rooms of this building may be seen the picture of the sweet face of the little girl whose 57 cents, so sacrificially saved, made such remarkable history. Along side of it is a portrait of her kind pastor, Dr. Russell H. Conwell, author of the book, 'Acres of Diamonds'.
This is a true story, which goes to show WHAT GOD CAN DO WITH 57 CENTS.
The rest of the story...
http://library.temple.edu/collections/special_collections/hattie.jsp
I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprizing a basket of freshly picked green peas. I paid for my potatoes, but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me.
'Hello Barry, how are you today?'
'H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. They sure look good.'
'They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?'
'Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time.'
'Good. Anything I can help you with?'
'No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas.'
'Would you like take some home?' asked Mr. Miller.
'No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay fo em with.'
'Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?'
'All I got's my prize marble here.'
'Is that right? Let me see it' said Miller.
'Here 'tis. She's a dandy.'
'I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?' the store owner asked.
'Not zackley but almost.'
'Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble', Mr. Miller told the boy.
'Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller.'
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me.
With a smile said, 'There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or a orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store.
'I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man.
A short time later I moved to Colorado, but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles.
Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one.
Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died.. They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them.
Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer what words of comfort we could.
Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts...all very professional looking.
They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket.
Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket.
Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband's bartering for marbles.
With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket. 'Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim 'traded' them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size...they came to pay their debt.'
'We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world,' she confided, 'but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho '.
With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.
The Moral : We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds. Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.
Today I wish you a day of ordinary miracles ~ A fresh pot of coffee you didn't make yourself.
An unexpected phone call from an old friend. Green stoplights on your way to work. The fastest line at the grocery store. A good sing-along song on the radio.
A Baby's Hug ~
We were the only family with children in the restaurant. I sat Erik in a high chair and noticed everyone was quietly sitting and talking.
Suddenly, Erik squealed with glee and said, 'Hi.' He pounded his fat baby hands on the high chair tray. His eyes were crinkled in laughter and his mouth was bared in a toothless grin, as he wriggled and giggled with merriment.
I looked around and saw the source of his merriment. It was a man whose pants were baggy with a zipper at half-mast and his toes poked out of would-be shoes. His shirt was dirty and his hair was uncombed and unwashed. His whiskers were too short to be called a beard and his nose was so varicose it looked like a road map. We were too far from him to smell, but I was sure he smelled..
His hands waved and flapped on loose wrists. 'Hi there, baby; hi there, big boy. I see ya, buster,' the man said to Erik.
My husband and I exchanged looks, 'What do we do?' Erik continued to laugh and answer, 'Hi. 'Everyone in the restaurant noticed and looked at us and then at the man.
The old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby. Our meal came and the man began shouting from across the room, 'Do ya patty cake? Do you know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek- a-boo.
'Nobody thought the old man was cute. He was obviously drunk. My husband and I were embarrassed. We ate in silence; all except for Erik, who was running through his repertoire for the admiring skid-row bum, who in turn, reciprocated with his cute comments.
We finally got through the meal and headed for the door. My husband went to pay the check and told me to meet him in the parking lot. The old man sat poised between me and the door.
'Lord, just let me out of here before he speaks to me or Erik,' I prayed. As I drew closer to the man, I turned my back trying to side step him and avoid any air he might be breathing. As I did, Erik leaned over my arm, reaching with both arms in a baby's pick-me-up' position. Before I could stop him, Erik had propelled himself from my arms to the man.
Suddenly a very old smelly man and a very young baby consummated their love and kinship. Erik in an act of total trust, love, and submission laid his tiny head upon the man's ragged shoulder. The man's eyes closed, and I saw tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime, pain, and hard labor, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his back. No two beings have ever loved so deeply for so short a time.
I stood awe struck. The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms and his eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm commanding voice, 'You take care of this baby.' Somehow I managed, 'I will,' from a throat that contained a stone.
He pried Erik from his chest, lovingly and longingly, as though he were in pain. I received my baby, and the man said, 'God bless you, ma'am, you've given me my Christmas gift.' I said nothing more than a muttered thanks.
With Erik in my arms, I ran for the car. My husband was wondering why I was crying and holding Erik so tightly, and why I was saying, 'My God, my God, forgive me.'
I had just witnessed Christ's love shown through the innocence of a tiny child who saw no sin, who made no judgment; a child who saw a soul, and a mother who saw a suit of clothes. I was a Christian who was blind, holding a child who was not.
I felt it was God asking, 'Are you willing to share your son for a moment?' When He shared His for all eternity. How did God feel when he put his baby in our arms 2000 years ago.
The ragged old man, unwittingly, had reminded me, 'To enter the Kingdom of God, we must become as little children.' Sometimes, it takes a child to remind us of what is really important.
We must always remember who we are, where we came from and, most importantly, how we feel about others. The clothes on your back or the car that you drive or the house that you live in does not define you at all; it is how you treat your fellow man that identifies who you are.
This one is a keeper.' It is better to be liked for the true you, than to be loved for who people think you are......
Author Unknown
I arrived at the address where someone had requested a taxi. I honked but no one came out. I honked again, nothing. So I walked to the door and knocked. Just a minute answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware. 'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, and then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness.
'It's nothing', I told her.... 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated'.
'Oh, you're such a good boy', she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?'
'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.
'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice'.
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued. 'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. 'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now'
We drove in silence to the address she had given me.. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. 'How much do I owe you?' she asked, reaching into her purse.
'Nothing,' I said
'You have to make a living,' she answered.
'There are other passengers,' I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.
'Thank you.'
I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought.
For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son.
About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands.
He said, 'Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your love for art. The young man held out this package. I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this.'
The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. 'Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift.'
The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.
The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his paintings Many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection.
On the platform sat the painting of the son The auctioneer pounded his gavel. 'We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?'
There was silence.
Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, 'We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one.'
But the auctioneer persisted. 'Will somebody bid for this painting. Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?' Another voice angrily. 'We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Gogh's, the Rembrandt's. Get on with the real bids!'
But still the auctioneer continued. 'The son! The son! Who'll take the son?'
Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son. 'I'll give $10 for the painting.' Being a poor man, it was all he could afford.
'We have $10, who will bid $20?'
'Give it to him for $10. Let's see the masters.'
'$10 is the bid, won't someone bid $20?'
The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son. They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections.
The auctioneer pounded the gavel. 'Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!'
A man sitting on the second row shouted, 'Now let's get on with the collection!'
The auctioneer laid down his gavel. 'I'm sorry, the auction is over.'
'What about the paintings?'
'I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings. The man who took the son gets everything!'
God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is: 'The son, the son, who'll take the son?' Because, you see, whoever takes the Son gets everything.
This part is true.
FOR GOD SO LOVED THE WORLD HE GAVE HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON, WHO SO EVER BELIEVETH, SHALL HAVE ETERNAL LIFE...THAT'S LOVE
BEEN THINKING ABOUT: THE LOVE OF GOD
I looked in the mirror and wondered if I was staring at one of heaven’s spoiled brats. After consuming more than my share of mercies, I could see in my eyes a sadness that reflected not what God had given, but what He had withheld.
Questions formed emotional distance between me and the Father I was counting on. Why wouldn’t He answer my calls?
I knew I’d let Him down in so many ways. But I didn’t want to feel like an unloved child any more than I liked thinking of Him as an emotionally distant or negligent parent. With thoughts I wished I didn’t have, I found help by reading again some of the story of another man who knew far better than I what it meant to have a bad day.
Why Was Paul Still Smiling?In the apostle Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, he wrote about a series of hardships he had endured as a servant of Christ. Five times he had taken 39 lashes. Three times he was beaten with rods. Once he was stoned and left for dead. Three times he was shipwrecked (2 Corinthians 11:24-28).
Then, as if these hard times weren’t enough, when Paul was troubled by a physical problem he believed was caused by Satan, he says his prayers for healing were not granted (12:7-10). Yet, Paul is still quoted today as a follower of Christ who sometimes wrote about the love of God as if nothing else mattered.
In addition to his own problems, Paul carried the weight of his concerns for others. So, he wrote to followers of Christ: “I bow my knees to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, . . . that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with might through His Spirit in the inner man, that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the width and length and depth and height—to know the love of Christ which passes knowledge; that you may be filled with all the fullness of God” (Ephesians 3:14-19).
What did Paul know that we are missing? How could a man with so many problems be more sure of the love of God than we are?
What Are We Missing?According to Paul, knowing we are loved is as important to our well-being as it is for an oak or cedar to have a healthy root system. If we aren’t well-grounded in the love of God, we are apt to be like a shallow-rooted tree that dries up in the heat or blows over in the wind. Being rooted deeply in God’s love, Paul could groan with a whole world of trouble (Romans 8:22-23) and still write, “I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (8:38-39).
So how did he do it? How did Paul live with such tension? How could he see the love of God as if it were a huge ocean, while admitting to emotions that carried him up and down like a ship in rough water?
Why Was Paul on His Knees?If Paul had concluded that seeing the love of God was nothing more than a moral obligation, he could have encouraged others to “just do it.” Instead, Paul wrote out a prayer to make it clear that seeing how much God loves us is not just a matter of opening our eyes to the obvious. His letter to the Ephesians shows why no one can claim credit for discovering on their own an ocean of divine love that is infinitely and eternally greater than any human love we have ever known. By saying that, he was asking the Father in heaven to help them see the depth and breadth of God’s love for all of His people. Paul was telling the Ephesians, and us in the process, that sensing the wonder of how much God cares about us requires the work of the Spirit in our hearts (3:16-19). Learning to catch a glimpse of the measureless love of God is something to pray for.
It’s something to ask for ourselves, and it’s a way of interceding for those we care about. When Paul prayed that, together with “all the saints,” the Ephesians would discover the unmeasured depths of God’s love, he was including us in his prayer. Our circumstances don’t rule us out. Paul would know. He wasn’t writing his letter from a mountain retreat. He was writing in circumstances he would never have chosen for himself. He was writing from prison.
What Was Paul Seeing?In the confinement of a Roman prison, Paul made no secret of where he found comfort and strength. Read his letter to the Ephesians and count the number of times he referred to the name of the One who died for us. His letters, like his life, showed that he was consumed, energized, and emboldened by seeing in Christ the proof of God’s love, not just for himself but for all of us.
Look again at the apostle’s wonderful obsession. In his inspired prayer for the Ephesians, he asks “the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, . . . that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; . . . to know the love of Christ which passes knowledge” (Ephesians 3:14-19). Circumstances may shout that the Father in heaven is emotionally aloof or even negligent. But, as Paul discovered, the One who opened blind eyes, sent demons running, and bore our sins in His own body deserves far more trust than our circumstances.
Father in heaven, forgive us for trying to see Your love on our own. Please do for us what we can’t do for ourselves. Open the eyes of our hearts. Help us to look into the eyes of Your Son, to touch the scars in His hands, and to feel the warmth of Your embrace and tears for us, in Him.
–Mart De Haan
One day someone's mother died. And on that clear, cold morning, In the warmth of her bedroom. The daughter was struck with, The pain of learning that sometimes, There isn't any more. No more hugs, No more lucky moments to celebrate together, No more phone calls just to chat, No more "just one minute."
Sometimes, what we care about the most goes away, never to return before we can say good-bye, Say "I Love You." So while we have it . . its best we love it . And care for it and fix it when it's broken, And take good care of it when it's sick. This is true for marriage ... and friendships... And children with bad report cards; And dogs with bad hips; And aging parents and grandparents.
We keep them because they are worth it, Because we cherish them! Some things we keep -- Like a best friend who moved away, or a classmate we grew up with. There are just some things that make us happy, No matter what. Life is important, and so are the people we know . And so, we keep them close!
I believe, do you? For Santa Claus isn't a fat guy in a red suit, he the spirit of giving from your heart to another. Teach your children and grand children that God is the reason for the season and Santa the spirit of giving from the heart and that's how you can keep the spirit of Christmas all year long.
I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her. And, on the way, my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been; but I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth; furthermore, I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.
Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" ;She snorted . . . "Ridiculous! Don't believe it! That rumour has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second "world-famous" cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full o f people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments, I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbours, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's second grade class. Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have any cough; he didn't have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat! I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real w arm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby."
The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa's helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.
Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."
I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.
Fifty years have not dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumours about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: "ridiculous"! Santa was alive and well and we were on his team.
I still have the Bible, with the coat's price tag tucked inside: ********$19.95. ********
May you always have LOVE to share, HEALTH to spare and FRIENDS that care . . . And may you always believe in the magic of Santa Claus!
(5) LESSONS ABOUT THE WAY WE TREAT PEOPLE.
1 - First Important Lesson - Cleaning Lady.
During my second month of college, our professor gave us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had breezed through the questions until I read the last one:
'What is the first name of the woman who cleans the school?' Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the cleaning woman several times. She was tall, dark-haired and in her 50's, but how would I know her name?
I handed in my paper, leaving the last question blank. Just before class ended, one student asked if the last question would count toward our quiz grade.
'Absolutely, ' said the professor. 'In your careers, you will meet many people. All are significant. They deserve your attention and care, even if all you do is smile and say 'hello.'
I've never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her name was Dorothy.
2. - Second Important Lesson - Pickup in the Rain
One night, at 11:30 p.m., an older African American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride. Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the n ext car. A young white man stopped to help her, generally unheard of in those conflict-filled 1960's. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxicab.
She seemed to be in a big hurry, but wrote down his address and thanked him. Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door. To his surprise, a giant console color TV was delivered to his home. A special note was attached.
It read: 'Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes, but also my spirits. Then you came along. Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband's bedside just before he passed away... God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving others.'
Sincerely, Mrs Nat King Cole.
3 - Third Important Lesson - Always remember those who serve.
In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a 10-year-old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of him.
'How much is an ice cream sundae?' he asked. 'Fifty cents,' replied the waitress.
The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied the coins in it.
'Well, how much is a plain dish of ice cream?' he inquired.
By now more people were waiting for a table and the waitress was growing impatient.
'Thirty-five cents,' she brusquely replied.
The little boy again counted & his coins.
'I'll have the plain ice cream,' he said.
The waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the table and walked away The boy finished the ice cream, paid the cashier and left. When the waitress came back, she began to cry as she wiped down the table. There, placed neatly beside the empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies..
You see, he couldn't have the sundae, because he had to have enough left to leave her a tip.
4 - Fourth Important Lesson. - The obstacle in Our Path.
In ancient times, a King had a boulder placed on a roadway. Then he hid himself and watched to see if anyone would remove the huge rock. Some of the king's wealthiest merchants and courtiers came by and simply walked around it. Many loudly blamed the King for not keeping the roads clear, but none did anything about getting the stone out of the way.
Then a peasant came along carrying a load of vegetables. Upon approaching the boulder, the peasant laid down his burden and tried to move the stone to the side of the road. After much pushing and straining, he finally succeeded. After the peasant picked up his load of vegetables, he noticed a purse lying in the road where the boulder ha d been. The purse contained many gold coins and a note from the King indicating that the g old was for the person who removed the boulder from the roadway. The peasant learned what many of us never understand!
Every obstacle presents an opportunity to improve our condition.
5 - Fifth Important Lesson - Giving When it Counts...
Many years ago, when I worked as a volunteer at a hospital, I got to know a little girl named Liz who was suffering from a rare & serious disease. Her only chance of recovery appeared to be a blood transfusion from her 5-year old brother, who had miraculously survived the same disease and had developed the antibodies needed to combat the illness. The doctor explained the situation to her little brother, and asked the little boy if he would be willing to give his b lood to his sister.
I saw him hesitate for only a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, 'Yes I'll do it if it will save her.' As the transfusion progressed, he lay in bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did, seeing the color returning to her cheek. Then his face grew pale and his smile faded.
He looke d up at the doctor and asked with a trembling voice, 'Will I start to die right away'.
Being young, the little boy had misunderstood the doctor; he thought he was going to have to give his sister all of his blood in order to save her.
