Gift from God

Mark Peterson set down chips and sodas on the tables as he prepared for what should have been a routine church get-together. He had no idea his life was about to change. At the moment, he was simply a man putting out snacks on a Thursday night.

Soon he heard voices, a murmur from the small group of men that had embedded itself deeply into his life. On this summer evening in 2008, Peterson was a homebuilder trying to hang on to his business in a crumbling market. Raising two young children with his wife in uncertain and turbulent economic times occasionally kept him up at night, but like most men, the powerfully built 36-year-old never let on he was worried. His men’s Bible study group at East Park Church in Vancouver, Washington, was beginning to teach him that his stoic cowboy image was foolish.

Once a month, the 15 men in the group gathered for two hours to grapple with tough and sensitive issues—family, relationships, jobs—and to share their doubts and concerns. They had helped Peterson see faith as more than a once-a-week obligation. Growing up in a remote section of Oregon, Peterson, his parents, and his five siblings would pile into their wood-paneled, nine-seat station wagon on Sundays for an 80-mile round-trip to church. But Peterson felt no personal connection with God, and eventually grew bored and then disillusioned with religion.

Though the concepts of God and Jesus Christ remained vague to Peterson, he knew that when he and his wife, Becky, had children, a church life might be good for the kids. A friend told the Petersons about East Park Church, not too far from their home, and they asked to meet the pastor, Dave Williams. The meeting took place in a noisy fast-food restaurant. Over hamburgers and French fries they discussed God’s love and the importance of having a personal relationship with Jesus. Peterson wondered if that’s what he’d been missing in his church experience growing up. He wondered if that is what he desired. He and his wife joined the congregation and found their answer, soon committing their lives to Christ.

Having set out the snacks on this particular Thursday evening, Peterson spotted a newcomer—a pale man he’d never seen at the church before. The newcomer, Wayne Yancey, was also 36, and married with a couple of kids. That Yancey was even in church was a Christmas Eve miracle. As a boy, Yancey hadn’t attended church. Later, he joined a Catholic church only because his high school sweetheart wanted to be married there. They eventually dropped out because they just didn’t feel any personal connection to God.

Then on Christmas Eve 2006, Yancey’s wife, Gina, suggested they attend East Park, a church she’d heard about from a friend. Yancey felt more like spending the evening at home but gave in to his wife.
The moment he stepped into East Park, Yancey felt something warm and accepting about the place. Somehow, he felt like he was home, almost as if God had been waiting for him there. Commitment followed. Soon he and Gina were attending every week.

One day, Gina spotted an item in the church bulletin: Pastor Williams was promoting small groups for men. “You should go,” she told Wayne. After the Christmas Eve experience, Yancey had learned to trust his wife’s instincts. “I’ll give it a try,” he said.

The men’s meetings always ended with prayer requests, followed by a time of group prayer. Peterson had recently discovered how profoundly prayer would always connect him to the Holy Spirit. True faith, he was struggling to learn, was trusting in God to provide without knowing exactly how he would do that. During the previous few years, Peterson had felt God’s spirit poking and prodding him not to worry about the future. He considered the nudges little tests, almost as if God were trying to draw him closer and toward something bigger.

Prayer went around the circle and then the new guy, Yancey, screwed up his courage to speak. “I’d like you to pray for me,” he said. “I need a new kidney.”

Five years earlier, Yancey’s doctor had become worried during a routine physical exam. He sent him to a specialist, who found that Yancey’s kidneys were deteriorating rapidly. Without mechanical help from a dialysis machine, his kidneys would soon not be able to filter waste, regulate fluids, and help the bone marrow create blood cells. His body would slowly poison itself to death.

Over time, Yancey’s kidneys had failed to the point where he now needed 15 hours of dialysis a week to stay alive. He told the group that the process left him exhausted, depressed, and bitter.

When the meeting ended, Peterson walked out to the parking lot with Yancey. “Tell me about the situation with your kidneys,” Peterson said. Yancey explained that dialysis wasn’t working well anymore, and if he wanted to live, he needed a new kidney. “I need to find a donor,” he said.

Yancey had been on the organ donation waiting list for two years. He’d learned that he was one of more than 85,000 people in the United States waiting for a kidney, and that each year only about 16,000 of them get one. More than 4,500 would die in 2008 while waiting.

Doctors had told Yancey he was free to find a living donor on his own, but he’d had no luck in that search.

“Can just anyone donate?” Peterson asked. He listened carefully as Yancey explained that the living donor had to be a genetic match. And that no money could change hands, that it is illegal to sell body parts.

“So you’re telling me that you’re just waiting for a kidney?” Peterson said. “You’re just waiting for one that works?”

“That’s right,” Yancey said. The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Finally Yancey pulled out his wallet and fished out a business card. He handed it to Peterson. It read “Legacy Transplant Services, Portland Legacy Good Samaritan Hospital and Medical Center.”

“If you want to know more about transplants,” Yancey said, “these people can tell you everything.”

Peterson realized how little he knew about this guy Wayne, but felt his chest swell with emotion. He was overwhelmed by a question: Was he supposed to give his kidney to Wayne? There was doubt, but he couldn’t discount that little voice he was hearing.

“Lord,” he prayed, “is this something you really want me to do?”

By the time Peterson arrived home, the answer came to him, filling him with fear. Walking into his new, 3,000-square-foot house, he greeted Becky.

“How was your group?” she asked.

“There’s this guy there,” Peterson said. “I don’t know much about him, but he said he needs a kidney.” He paused, not sure where to start. “Becky,” he said, “I feel God’s telling me to give this guy one of my kidneys.”

“What are you talking about?!”

He chose his words carefully. “I want to try to be his donor,” he said. “I feel I’m supposed to do this.”

Becky finally broke the silence that followed. “This is a lot of news to digest,” she said.

“There’s a lot more I need to know,” her husband said as he tried to reassure her. “I would have to get tested to see if I’m a match.”

Becky relaxed. She felt the odds were slim he would be a match. Besides, with his background, no doctor would recommend him as a donor. Five years earlier Peterson had contracted chicken pox and ended up with viral pneumonia and a blood infection. He’d been rushed to the intensive care unit where he slipped into a coma. The doctor put him on a ventilator and told Becky that he might die.

His recovery had been long and rough. The illness, and the drugs to fight it, had caused his organs to shut down. Becky felt certain her husband’s own kidneys had been compromised by all that he had been through.

Later that night, Peterson said one final, silent, prayer: “God, if you don’t want this to happen, please stop it.” A part of him hoped that God would say, “Stop.”

On his way to work the next morning, the reality of what he was contemplating crashed in on Peterson. What about his own health? Was he risking complications in surgery? What would happen if his one remaining kidney was compromised? How would it affect his family? Should he really do this for a man he barely knew?

What Peterson did know was that Yancey was a brother in Christ and a member of his small group. Wasn’t that what a small group was for? To be there for each other? Peterson prayed for God’s guidance. Then he picked up his cell phone and punched in the number Yancey had given him. He reached the transplant coordinator and left a message. Days passed. No reply. He called again. Still nothing.

It was almost a relief. God had put him to the test, and Peterson had answered the call. Maybe that was the confirmation he needed.

But a week later, his cell phone rang. It was the transplant coordinator. She told him she’d like to start the screening process. She mailed him a packet of information, then set up two visits at Legacy Good Samaritan Hospital and Medical Center, where they took two separate blood tests to determine if he was a potential candidate.

During their ensuing small-group meetings, Peterson revealed nothing about what he was doing. But he did ask around the church to learn more about Yancey. He found they were the same age, born just four days apart.

At home, Becky was growing increasingly worried. One night, when the kids were asleep, she told him they needed to talk. “You have to tell me more about this,” she said, and there was an edge in her voice. “I want to meet these transplant people.” He said okay.

The meeting took place in an examination room. The Petersons were joined by the coordinator and a kidney specialist, a gentle doctor who understood Becky’s fears. He explained what the surgery entailed. There were risks, as in any surgery, but he assured her the operation was safe. And, he said, Peterson’s remaining kidney would actually grow to compensate for the increased work. Her husband would live a long and healthy life with one kidney.

Becky told the doctor of Peterson’s near-death experience in the ICU, and her worries about his damaged system being further strained by the removal of a kidney. The doctor said that her husband had to be in perfect health to be a donor. And he had to be a close match, or Yancey’s body would reject the kidney.

“We’re not yet even sure if your husband is a match,” the doctor said. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Can he back out?” she asked. “Can he say no?”

The coordinator spoke. “Listen to me,” she said. “He can back out anytime. Even when he’s on the operating table.”

That night, Mark Peterson prayed: “Lord, I’m going to take the next step and the next. I’m in your hands.”
Two days later, the coordinator called to say Peterson had made it through round one. Both his kidneys were healthy, with no signs of damage.

Becky Peterson took the news as a sign: If God had healed Mark’s body from his previous medical scare, then he could heal both Mark and Wayne together.

Five months had passed since the small group meeting where Peterson and Yancey had met. “Lord, I am ready.” Peterson prayed.

Not much later, Peterson was in his truck, moving between job sites, when his cell phone rang. The transplant coordinator was stunned. She told Peterson that he was not only a good match but a perfect match. She gave him some dates for the operation. After discussing it with Becky, Peterson chose a date three weeks later, in November.

“How should I tell Wayne?” Peterson asked Becky. He had not mentioned a word of it to Yancey. Becky told him to ask Wayne to lunch.

Peterson called Yancey and invited him to meet at a local restaurant. Aside from the conversation in the parking lot in June, the two men had never spent any time alone. Yancey assumed that Peterson was simply reaching out in friendship to a fellow small-group member.

After a casual talk, Peterson asked about Yancey’s health.

“I had a tube surgically implanted in me,” he said. “That’s great news.”

“Why?” Peterson asked.

“I’m not getting better,” Yancey said, “but this means I can do dialysis at home. I’ve had to go to Portland three times a week. I’ve missed work and time with my family.”

Peterson took a deep breath. “Say,” he asked, “what are you doing November third?”

Yancey shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Working, I guess. Why?”

Peterson was about to answer when the waitress appeared to fill their water glasses. He shifted in his seat, tapped his foot impatiently, and waited until she went to the far side of the restaurant.

“Would you be up to meeting me at the hospital?” Peterson asked. “It’s about your kidney.”

Yancey looked at him for a long time. “You want to be tested?” Yancey asked.

“No,” Peterson said. “I’ve already done all that.”

Yancey was speechless.

“Wayne, we’re a match,” Peterson said. “A perfect match,” he said. “I’m going to give you one of my kidneys.”

Yancey felt himself choking up. He struggled to find the words to express his surprise. And gratitude. This person sitting across from him—almost a stranger—was giving him the gift of life. “Mark,” he asked, “are you sure?”

Peterson nodded. “This isn’t a gift from me,” Peterson said. “This is a gift from God.”
Yancey’s wife, Gina, burst into tears when she heard the news, and called everyone in the church she could think of to tell them what had transpired. Word spread from member to member about the miracle taking place in their midst.
Just before 8 a.m. on the morning of the surgery, nurses began prepping Yancey. They inserted an IV line into his arm, and another that led directly to an artery near his heart. He heard the muted beeping of the machines monitoring his vital signs. During his life, Yancey had struggled with being in control and had difficulty letting God lead the way. But he felt at peace, that God was with him, and had been all along. He could tell that his wife was frightened by what was happening, the machines, the tubes, everything—but he was not. Yancey took her hand in his.

Peterson appeared in the doorway, the two men shook hands, and nurses led them away to finish preparing them for their surgeries. Once ready, the two men were wheeled into separate operating rooms across the hall from each other. A five-person donor team, including two surgeons who would remove Peterson’s kidney, coordinated via speakerphone with a five-person team that would transplant it in Yancey.

Yancey’s surgeons would open him up only when Peterson’s team was sure there would be no complications. The operation had to be timed to the second. Peterson’s kidney had to be cleaned and prepared, and then implanted quickly so surgeons could start blood flowing to the organ and get it working.

Surgeons made three small incisions on Peterson’s side, then slipped in tools and a small camera to guide them to the kidney. Next, they began cutting delicately. Finally, a surgeon made a larger incision that allowed the team to remove the organ. Once out, it was placed in a waiting basin, covered with ice, and hustled across the hallway. There Yancey’s surgeons moved swiftly, giving hope to a man whose life had been slowly ebbing the last several years.

Nerves were tense in the waiting room where the two wives and other members of East Park Church had gathered. When the doctor appeared, he grinned.

“It was beautiful,” he said. “I couldn’t have found a better match for Wayne.” Both wives and several East Park members wept at that news.

Four hours after the first incision, both men were recovering in different wings of the hospital.

“You’ll be amazed at how Wayne looks,” the transplant coordinator told the two wives. “He’s a new man.”

The next day, Peterson felt well enough to ask his wife to get a wheelchair and take him to Yancey. The Petersons were stunned when they entered the room. The Yancey they knew as pale and generally grim now had rosy cheeks and a smile on his face.

Becky pushed the wheelchair close to the bed. The two men gave each other a high five.

A Bible passage came to Yancey. He remembered it was somewhere in James but couldn’t remember it word for word. But the essence, he knew: Faith without deeds is a dead faith. This man sitting beside Yancey’s bed had heard God calling to him, and he had the faith to follow even though it went against all worldly logic. Both men had trusted God for the impossible and God had provided a miracle.

“Thank you,” Yancey said. “You’re my brother.”

“You’re welcome, my friend,” Peterson replied.
In the weeks that followed, the match turned out better than doctors could have expected. There were no complications for either man, nor would there be even a year later. Life returned to normal. But not really. How could it?

Two men—once strangers—had been guided to the same church and then led to a small men’s group. One man gave life to the other. They would be forever bonded. Blood brothers. Blood brothers in Christ.

On the Sunday before Christmas, Yancey sought out Peterson at church services. For weeks Yancey had been searching for an appropriate gift for this friend who had given him a second chance at life.

What do you give a man whose sacrifice has given you a new future? What do you give a man who allows you to come home healthy, ready to play with your kids and spend time with your wife?

He handed Peterson a wrapped package about the size of a hardback book.

“Merry Christmas, Mark.”

Peterson shifted, embarrassed. “Come on, Wayne. You didn’t have to do anything,” he said. “You know that.”

The two men shook hands. “Merry Christmas, Mark.”

“Merry Christmas, Wayne.”

Outside the church, Peterson carefully pulled the paper apart. Inside was a color photograph in a wooden frame. The frame had the word “friendship” printed on it, and surrounded a photo of the moment when the two men met in the ICU after their surgeries: Two men, clasping their hands, smiling.

Mark Peterson walked to his car, started the engine. He had to get home. Christmas was coming, and he’d been given the perfect gift. He would display the photograph on the living room mantel.

He knew that Christmas would have new meaning for both the Peterson and Yancey families. And indeed it did. Last year, the children of both men discovered what giving is really all about. It isn’t about video games and toys. It’s about reflecting how much God loves us by passing on that love to someone else. Sometimes it’s a gift that requires sacrifice. Sometimes it brings new life. But always it shares the truth of him for whom Christmas is named.

As Mark Peterson turned the car out of the church parking lot and merged with the traffic, words of prayer came to his lips: “Dear Lord, thank you. Thank you.”

Mother and Son

My mom only had one eye. I hated her, she was such an embarrassment. My mom ran a small shop at a flea market.She collected little weeds and such to sell, anything for the money we needed she was such an embarrassment.There was this one day during elementary school. I remember that it was field day, and my mom came. I was so embarrassed. How could she do this to me? I threw her a hateful look and ran out. The next day at school..."Your mom only has one eye?!" and they taunted me.

I wished that my mom would just disappear from this world so I said to my mom, "Mom, why don't you have the other eye?! You're only going to make me a laughingstock. Why don't you just die?" My mom did not respond. I guess I felt a little bad, but at the same time, it felt good to think that I had said what I'd wanted to say all this time.

Maybe it was because my mom hadn't punished me, but I didn't think that I had hurt her feelings very badly.

That night...I woke up, and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. My mom was crying there, so quietly, as if she was afraid that she might wake me. I took a look at her, and then turned away. Because of the thing I had said to her earlier, there was something pinching at me in the corner of my heart. Even so, I hated my mother who was crying out of her one eye. So I told myself that I would grow up and become successful, because I hated my one-eyed mom and our desperate poverty.

Then I studied really hard. I left my mother and came to Seoul and studied, and got accepted in the Seoul University with all the confidence I had. Then, I got married. I bought a house of my own. Then I had kids, too. Now I'm living happily as a successful man. I like it here because it's a place that doesn't remind me of my mom.

This happiness was getting bigger and bigger, when someone unexpected came to see me "What?! Who's this?!"... It was my mother...Still with her one eye. It felt as if the whole sky was falling apart on me. My little girl ran away, scared of my mom's eye.

And I asked her, "Who are you? I don't know you!!!" as if I tried to make that real. I screamed at her "How dare you come to my house and scare my daughter! Get out here now!" And to this, my mother quietly answered, "oh, I'm so sorry. I may have gotten the wrong address," and she disappeared. Thank good ness... she doesn't recognize me. I was quite relieved. I told myself that I wasn't going to care, or think about this for the rest of my life.

Then a wave of relief came upon me... one day, a letter regarding a school reunion came to my house. I lied to my wife saying that I was going on a business trip. After the reunion, I went down to the old shack, that I used to call a house...just out of curiosity there, I found my mother fallen on the cold ground. But I did not shed a single tear. She had a piece of paper in her hand.... it was a letter to me.

My Son,
I think my life has been long enough now. And... I won't visit Seoul anymore... but would it be too much to ask if I wanted you to come visit me once in a while? I miss you so much. And I was so glad when I heard you were coming for the reunion. But I decided not to go to the school.... For you... I'm sorry that I only have one eye, and I was an embarrassment for you.

You see, when you were very little, you got into an accident, and lost your eye. As a mother, I couldn't stand watching you having to grow up with only one eye... so I gave you mine... I was so proud of my son that was seeing a whole new world for me, in my place, with that eye. I was never upset at you for anything you did. The couple times that you were angry with me. I thought to myself, 'it's because he loves me.' I miss the times when you were still young around me.

I miss you so much. I love you. You mean the world to me. My world shattered! Then I cried for the person who lived for me. My Mother.

Another story about mother
* Journey of mother
* Real love
* Should we divorce?

Don’t Just Retire

By C. P. Hia

Read: Numbers 8:23-26
They may minister with their brethren . . . to attend to needs. —Numbers 8:26
Bible in a year:
Psalms 31–32 & Acts 23:16-35

The first people to climb Mt. Everest, the world’s highest mountain, were Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay in 1953. Hillary was just 33 years old. His feat afforded him fame, wealth, and the realization that he had already lived a remarkable life.

So, what did Hillary do for the next 55 years? Did he retire and rest on his laurels? Absolutely not.

Although Hillary had no higher mountains to climb, that didn’t stop him. He achieved other notable goals, including a concerted effort to improve the welfare of the Nepalese people living near Mt. Everest—a task he carried on until his death in 2008.

Did you know that God told the Levites to retire from their regular duties at age 50? (Num. 8:24-25). But He did not want them to stop helping others. He said that they should “minister with their brethren . . . to attend to needs” (v.26). We cannot take this incident as a complete teaching on retirement, but we can see a godly implication that continuing to serve others after our working days are over is a good idea.

Many people find that when they retire they have nothing meaningful to do with their time. But as the Levites and Sir Edmund Hillary did, we can refocus when we retire—giving of our time to help others.

The Lord will give you help and strength
For work He bids you do;
Serve others from a heart of love
Is what He asks of you. —Fasick

Life takes on new meaning when we invest ourselves in others.

An Inspirational Short Story

Tears streamed down my face as I sat at my grandmother's funeral. My grandmother lived a very full life, and was full of energy, love, and wisdom. She always said the right thing for the situation. And, whenever we had a problem, we knew we could talk with Grandma.

As a teenager, I can remember many conversations where Grandmother would give us her worldly wisdom and she would always end up saying you have an angel smiling on you dear I know you will do the right thing. Now, here we were at her funeral, and I could almost hear her saying, the angels are smiling on us. Now, I really knew I had an angel smiling on me as I am sure Grandma was in heaven smiling down and watching out for us.

I offered to help my Mum sort through Grandma's apartment. The next few days were filled with memories, and filled with laughter, and filled with tears. As we sorted through Grandma's stuff, it brought back some wonderful memories. I was packing the last of the dishes when my mum called to me. I went into Grandma's bedroom, and my mum handed me a package with my name written on it. I opened the box and read the poem:

May this little Angel shine upon your home
Filling your days with cheer
Know that She stands on guard for you
To help you smile all year.

And Grandma had handwritten, "hang this stained glass angel in your window to remind you of your angel Kate! Love Grandma"

To this day, I have the stained glass angel hanging in my bedroom window. And, every time I look at it I can hear Grandma saying:
"You have an angel smiling on you dear, I know you will do the right thing."

Your Weakness

By Author Unknown

This is a story of one 10-year-old boy who decided to study judo despite the fact that he had lost his left arm in a devastating car accident. The boy began lessons with an old Japanese judo master. The boy was doing well, so he couldn't understand why, after three months of training, the master had taught him only one move. "Sensei," the boy finally said, "Shouldn't I be learning more moves?"

"This is the only move you know, but this is the only move you'll ever need to know," the Sensei replied. Not quite understanding, but believing in his teacher, the boy kept training.

Several months later, the Sensei took the boy to his first tournament. Surprising himself, the boy easily won his first two matches. The third match proved to be more difficult, but after some time, his opponent became impatient and charged; the boy deftly used his one move to win the match. Still amazed by his success, the boy was now in the finals.

This time, his opponent was bigger, stronger, and more experienced. For a while, the boy appeared to be overmatched. Concerned that the boy might get hurt, the referee called a time-out. He was about to stop the match when the Sensei intervened. "No," the Sensei insisted, "Let him continue."

Soon after the match resumed, his opponent made a critical mistake: he dropped his guard. Instantly, the boy used his move to pin him. The boy had won the match and the tournament. He was the champion.

On the way home, the boy and Sensei reviewed every move in each and every match. Then the boy summoned the courage to ask what was really on his mind. "Sensei, how did I win the tournament with only one move?" "You won for two reasons," the Sensei answered. "First, you've almost mastered one of the most difficult throws in all of judo. And second, the only known defence for that move is for your opponent to grab your left arm."

The boy's greatest weakness had become his greatest strength.

God's Hand Was on All of Us

I travel 100,000 miles a year, so I’m in the air a lot. I usually schedule late flights that leave after I finish my work as a sales manager at Oracle. On January 15, I was booked on a 5:00 p.m. flight from New York to Charlotte. But my meeting wrapped up about 11:30 that morning. So I called my travel agent, and she got me on the 3:25 flight—US Airways 1549.

Just a normal flight back home. An hour and a half later I’d be back on the ground; two hours after that I’d be with my wife and kids.

I got on the plane, went to my seat, and did what I usually do—pray before the pilot takes off. I’ve been doing that since 9/11. I pray for the pilot’s strength and to please get us from here to there safely. And to take care of my family.

We were in the air about 90 seconds before the left engine blew. I was on that side, in seat 15A. I heard the explosion and saw the flames out the window. I didn’t realize we’d lost both engines—and all power.

It was stone quiet. People were looking around, not knowing what to do. We crossed over something; someone told me later it was the George Washington Bridge. We were pretty low. I kept seeing the water and the New York City skyline getting closer. I thought, The pilot’s probably going to have to ditch this thing in the Hudson River. About 30 seconds later, maybe even less, he said, “Brace for impact.” I looked around. Some people were locking arms; some people were crunching down. Others were praying. I heard people saying the Lord’s Prayer.

I braced my hands on the seat in front of me—and I started praying. I prayed for the power to have the strength to do the right thing. I prayed for forgiveness of my unconfessed sins. I prayed for the safety of my wife and kids. And I prayed that the last guy I talked to would call my wife and kids. Ten seconds later we hit the water.

I said to myself, I’m alive. I have to get out of here. Everyone else was thinking the same thing. Water was ankle-deep almost immediately. I stood next to the exit, helping people get out and onto the wing. I wanted to be sure no one was left behind. Some people were still in the front of the plane, working their way to the exits. But there was no one left in the back of the plane that I could see.

Then suddenly I saw a lady in the back, trying to get her suitcase and purse. I screamed at her to forget about the luggage. So did another guy. But she didn’t listen. She carried the suitcase and purse down the aisle and onto the wet, slippery wing, but then dropped both into the water. I grabbed her purse and threw it to her on the lifeboat.

At that point, I had one foot in the plane, one foot out on the wing, and I was slipping around. The inflatable lifeboat from the plane was just about full. People were packed on both wings, struggling like me to keep their footing.

One woman couldn’t jump to the lifeboat because she was holding a nine-month-old baby boy. She was afraid to hand her child to anyone. Another man and I told her to toss the baby to the women in the lifeboat just a couple of feet away. But she was too scared. Finally, she did toss her baby to people in the lifeboat, and then she made it safely into the boat herself.

I believe God had his hands on that baby’s life—and on all of us. The woman could have slipped on that wing pretty easily while clutching her baby. If she’d fallen in that frigid river, he could have died. It was 11 degrees in New York that day, and the water temperature was just above freezing. People could only last 10 or 15 minutes in that water.

Photo: AP Photo/Tanyanika Samuels, Pool

The current was extremely strong, and I was afraid it would capsize the lifeboat. So I was holding on to the plane with one arm and hanging on to the lifeboat with the other. After about seven minutes, a tugboat came, and the crew threw a rope to the lifeboat. But when the tug backed up to head toward shore, it hit the plane. The plane shook beneath me, and I felt a splash of freezing water hit my back.

My mind flashed to the Titanic, and how it went straight down into icy water. I thought, I gotta get off that wing. By the grace of God, ferryboats began arriving. I jumped in the water and tried to swim. But I had no strength in my legs; I only made it six or seven strokes, max. Two men—God love them—finally grabbed my arms and pulled me onto a ferry. I slid across the deck, maybe ten feet, on the ice that formed.

Someone yelled at me, “You’ve got to get up and walk! You’ve got to move!” I stood up, but I had real trouble walking. I kept bumping into the side of things; I had no balance. I could barely move my legs. And I was so cold.

When we got to the dock, I was still frozen below my waist, and my blood pressure was skyrocketing. I found out later that the blood had gone out of my legs and into my heart and brain. Paramedics said I was at risk for a heart attack or stroke.

At the hospital, the nurses quickly discovered my core temperature was far too low, about 94.8. They wrapped a hot air blanket around me. At that point, a hospital chaplain came in, and for the first time I broke down. He and I prayed together, and had a real long talk. Then he gave me a copy of the New Testament, just in case I needed it, and went out to the lobby to call my wife to tell her I was okay.

My wife, Terry, is my hero. She took care of the kids when all hell was breaking loose that day. And since the crash, my family has been affected in amazing ways. My oldest daughter, Chelsey, is 17, when parents don’t seem to count for much. But she told a newspaper, “I’m much more grateful for my dad that I ever was.” Every day she talks to me; we connect. My second daughter, Colleen—she’s 15—has probably come up to me more than ever before to tell me that she loves me and texts me constantly. Courtney, my 11-year-old, hugs me every time she sees me and gets pretty emotional when I travel right now. My seven-year-old son, Chance, seems the least affected, but he has started connecting the dots; one night when I was tucking him in, he asked me what a plane crash was.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have been on that flight. I think God put me there because it was my time to grow. He gave me the courage I needed to help others get off the plane and into the rescue boats. God’s hand was on all of us. He enveloped our pilot, Capt. Chesley Sullenberger—gave him strength to guide the plane down and make a picture-perfect water landing. God put all the right people in all the right places at all the right times that day. I believe God was showing us that there is hope. This is a hopeful story. And the real story is God’s grace.

Greyfriars Bobby a story about faithful dog

Greyfriars Bobby a story about faithful dog

One John Gray (also known as "Jock") was an Edinburgh policeman during the 1850s. His companion and police watch-dog was a Skye Terrier named Bobby. The relationship between man and dog, however, was short-lived when Gray died of tuberculosis in 1858 and was buried in Greyfriars Kirk graveyard. Bobby followed the funeral procession, but was taken home afterward. However, the little dog soon escaped and took up residence on his master's grave. Various people took pity on the forlorn little fellow. James Brown, the church gardener, provided Bobby with food and water, even though his duties included keeping dogs and children out of the graveyard. James Anderson, who lived nearby, would try to coax Bobby into his house during inclement weather, but the dog would howl so pitifully to be let out that eventually, a shelter was built for him near the grave.

Bobby's expression of devotion quickly made the small dog a local celebrity in Edinburgh. It is possible that some decided to make money from Bobby's loyalty. John Traills, the owner of Traills Coffee House located near the graveyard, would tell of how Bobby and Gray had been regular lunchtime visitors to his establishment. Traills also maintained that he was the first to notice Bobby's obsession with lying on his master's grave, stating that the dog arrived one lunchtime shortly after Gray's death, demanded his meal and then took off purposefully. According to Traills, his curiousity led him to follow Bobby and, to his amazement, he found the dog by the grave in the kirkyard. It is not known how this story might have affected the patronage of Traills' establishment, although one can assume it was not adverse.

The little Skye Terrir remained at Gray's grave for the rest of his life...a total of 14 years. However, because Bobby was a stray, there was some question as to whether he should be allowed to wander the streets of Edinburgh without a license. If nobody had been willing to pay, then the penalty for Bobby would have been death. The Lord Provost of Edinburgh, Sir William Chambers, came to the rescue. He was so impressed by Bobby's devotion that he agreed to purchase the license...and did so for every year thereafter.

Upon Bobby's death on January 14, 1872, the people of Edinburgh determined that the small dog should be interred in the kirkyard by his master. It was an unparalleled decision. A year later, a bronze statue was erected to Bobby at the crest of Candlemakers Row, just outside the entrance to the graveyard and opposite the Traills Coffee House (which is now a public house renamed "Greyfriar's Bobby Inn"). The memorial was commissioned by the famous philanthropist, Baroness Burdett Coutts, who was intrigued and touched by Bobby's fidelity. The monument was unveiled on November 15, 1873 without ceremony. Bobby's statue is the most photographed in Scotland and tourists can invariably be seen having their pictures taken next to it at all hours of the day.

Bobby's acclaim is such that his collar, inscribed with the words: "Greyfriars Bobby from the Lord Provost, 1867, licensed," and dinner bowl are on display in the Huntly House Museum on the Royal Mile. Today Bobby's grave always displays fresh flowers...a mark of the high esteem in which this little dog is still held and a tribute to the very human values which he embodied.

The Blessing of Thorns

Sandra felt as low as the heels of her shoes as she pushed against a November gust and the florist shop door. Her life had been easy, like a spring breeze. Then in the fourth month of her second pregnancy, a minor automobile accident stole her ease.

During this Thanksgiving week she would have delivered a son. She grieved over her loss. As if that weren't enough, her husband's company threatened a transfer. Then her sister, whose annual holiday visit she coveted, called saying she could not come.

What's worse, Sandra's friend infuriated her by suggesting her grief was a God-given path to maturity that would allow her to empathize with others who suffer. "She has no idea what I'm feeling," thought Sandra with a shudder.

"Thanksgiving? Thankful for what?" she wondered aloud. For a careless driver whose truck was hardly scratched when he rear- ended her? For an airbag that saved her life but took that of her child?

"Good afternoon, can I help you?"

The shop clerk's approach startled her.

"I....I need an arrangement, "stammered Sandra. "For Thanksgiving?

Do you want beautiful but ordinary, or would you like to challenge the day with a customer favorite I call the Thanksgiving Special?" asked the shop clerk.

"I'm convinced that flowers tell stories," she continued.

"Are you looking for something that conveys 'gratitude' this Thanksgiving?

"Not exactly!" Sandra blurted out. "In the last five months, everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. " Sandra regretted her outburst, and was surprised when the shop clerk said, "I have the perfect arrangement for you."

Then the door's small bell rang, and the shop clerk said, "Hi Barbara...let me get your order." She politely excused herself and walked toward a small workroom, then quickly reappeared, carrying an arrangement of greenery, bows, and long-stemmed thorny roses.

Except the ends of the rose stems were neatly snipped...there were no flowers.

"Want this in a box?" asked the clerk.

Sandra watched for the customer's response. Was this a joke? Who would want rose stems with no flowers!?! She waited for laughter, but neither woman laughed. "Yes, please," Barbara replied with an appreciative smile.

"You'd think after three years of getting the special, I wouldn't be so moved by its significance, but I can feel it right here, all over again," she said as she gently tapped her chest.

"Uhh," stammered Sandra, "that lady just left with, uhh... she just left with no flowers!"

"Right...I cut off the flowers. That's the Special... I call it the Thanksgiving Thorns Bouquet.

"Oh, come on, you can't tell me someone is willing to pay for that?" exclaimed Sandra.

"Barbara came into the shop three years ago feeling very much like you feel today," explained the clerk. "She thought she had very little to be thankful for. She had lost her father to cancer, the family business was failing, her son was into drugs, and she was facing major surgery."

"That same year I had lost my husband, "continued the clerk," and for the first time in my life, I had to spend the holidays alone. I had no children, no husband, no family nearby, and too great a debt to allow any travel.

"So what did you do?" asked Sandra. "I learned to be thankful for thorns," answered the clerk quietly. "I've always thanked God for good things in life and never thought to ask Him why those good things happened to me, but when bad stuff hit, did I ever ask! It took time for me to learn that dark times are important.

I always enjoyed the 'flowers' of life, but it took thorns to show me the beauty of God's comfort. You know, the Bible says that God comforts us when we're afflicted, and from His consolation we learn to comfort others.

"Sandra sucked in her breath as she thought about the very thing her friend had tried to tell her. "I guess the truth is I don't want comfort.

I've lost a baby and I'm angry with God."

Just then someone else walked in the shop.

"Hey, Phil!" shouted the clerk to the balding, rotund man.

"My wife sent me in to get our usual Thanksgiving arrangement ....twelve thorny, long-stemmed stems!" laughed Phil as the clerk handed him a tissue-wrapped arrangement from the refrigerator.

"Those are for your wife?" asked Sandra incredulously. "Do you mind me asking why she wants something that looks like that?

"No...I'm glad you asked," Phil replied. "Four years ago my wife and I nearly divorced. After forty years, we were in a real mess, but with the Lord's grace and guidance, we slogged through problem after problem.

He rescued our marriage. Jenny here (the clerk) told me she kept a vase of rose stems to remind her of what she learned from "thorny" times, and that was good enough for me. I took home some of those stems. My wife and I decided to label each one for a specific "problem" and give thanks to Him for what that problem taught us."

As Phil paid the clerk, he said to Sandra, "I highly recommend the Special!"

"I don't know if I can be thankful for the thorns in my life." Sandra said to the clerk. "It's all too... fresh."

"Well," the clerk replied carefully, "my experience has shown me that thorns make roses more precious. We treasure God's providential care more during trouble than at any other time.

Remember, it was a crown of thorns that Jesus wore so we might know His love. Don't resent the thorns."

Tears rolled down Sandra's cheeks. For the first time since the accident, she loosened her grip on resentment. "I'll take those twelve long-stemmed thorns, please," she managed to choke out.

"I hoped you would," said the clerk gently. "I'll have them ready in a minute."

"Thank you. What do I owe you?" asked Sandra.

"Nothing." said the clerk.

"Nothing but a promise to allow God to heal your heart. The first year's arrangement is always on me. "The clerk smiled and handed a card to Sandra.

"I'll attach this card to your arrangement, but maybe you'd like to read it first."

It read:

"Dear God, I have never thanked you for my thorns. I have thanked you a thousand times for my roses, but never once for my thorns. Teach me the glory of the cross I bear; teach me the value of my thorns. Show me that I have climbed closer to you along the path of pain.

Show me that, through my tears, the colors of your rainbow look much more brilliant."

Author Unknown

Good Story : What Happened?

The other day I saw a father, mother and two sons on the line in front of me at Dunkin Donuts. It was obvious that they had just come from a soccer game. The two young boys were dressed in thin shorts and tee shirts, while their parents were dressed warmly in jeans and thick jackets. The two boys never stopped shivering the entire five minutes we were in line together.

What is going on in society when we are making our kids play sports, in every kind of foul weather, including rain, snow and icy winds just for the pleasure of watching them participate in some kind of sport? It seems that we are living vicariously through our kids no matter what the cost is to them or us. Whatever happened to calling off a game because it is too cold or too wet?

When did we start playing sports on Mother's Day? I always remember being home with my mother and our family on mom's special day. We would all be huddled around my mother, making sure that she enjoyed her "well deserved" day of rest.

When did we start having our children play sports on Thanksgiving? This warm, wonderful day of giving and thanks used to be a special day to share with family and friends. We would spend the entire day eating, relaxing and enjoying the ones we loved. We would never have wasted a precious minute worrying about dragging our kids away from their warm houses to play a game (in the cold) three towns away.

It seems that we are now so preoccupied with driving our kids from one place to another, that we have lost sight of what is really important.

When did the family start playing second fiddle to sports? I can still remember spending the entire summer playing with my friends, and maybe if I was lucky, going to the shore with my parents for a day.

These days, kids are already playing school sports in July. Summer (when I was a kid) was always a time for kids to be kids and for parents to enjoy them as such. School was from September to May and summer was for kids and families to relax and get to know each other again.

Parents and kids today are spending every free hour away from school and work running from one sports practice to another. What every happened to families spending dinner-time together? I have seen frozen,tired, kids playing sports, sometimes in the dark, with sprained wrists, cuts and bruises, while parents cheer them on from the warmth of a bleacher blanket and a cup of hot chocolate.

Whatever happened to hugging your kids and telling them that it's alright just to be a kid and that they don't have to prove their worth on a sports field? Sports are great, but they can't rule our lives and influence our decisions.

Families need to spend more quality time together at home and less time competing with the neighbors. If our neighbor's kids play three sports, our kids need to play four? If our neighbor takes an expensive vacation why do we have to do them one better? Competition and stress are slowly draining the magic out of our families.

We need to hold our kids more. We need to turn off the TV and take out the board games. We need to interact with our kids on a more personal level. We need to talk to them more and even occasionally read to them. Let's start spending more time with our families and less time driving to malls and endless game practices.

When did iPods replace a good book? Let's start to de-electrify and simplify ours lives. Lets put down the cell phones and start talking to our families and friends face-to-face.

Less can be better and a lot more fun.

The Power of Prayer

A man's daughter had asked the local minister to come and pray with her father. When the minister arrived, he found the man lying in bed with his head propped up on two pillows. An empty chair sat beside his bed. The minister assumed that the old fellow had been informed of his visit.

"I guess you were expecting me," he said.

"No, who are you?" said the father.

"I'm the new minister at your church," he replied. "When I saw the empty chair, I figured you knew I was going to show up."

"Oh yeah, the chair," said the bedridden man. "Would you mind closing the door?"

Puzzled, the minister shut the door. "I have never told anyone this, not even my daughter," said the man. "But all of my life, I have never known how to pray. At church I used to hear the pastor talk about prayer, but it went right over my head."

"I abandoned any attempt at prayer," the old man continued, "until one day about four years ago, my best friend said to me, 'Johnny, prayer is just a simple matter of having a conversation with Jesus. Here is what I suggest. Sit down in a chair; place an empty chair in front of you, and in faith see Jesus on the chair. It's not spooky because he promised, "I'll be with you always." Then just speak to him in the same way you're doing with me right now."

So, I tried it and I'veliked it so much that I do it a couple of hours every day. I'm careful though. If my daughter saw me talking to an empty chair, she'd either have a nervous breakdown or send me off to the funny farm."

The minister was deeply moved by the story and encouraged the old man to continue on the journey. Then he prayed with him, anointed him with oil, and returned to the church. Two nights later the daughter called to tell the minister that her Dad had died that afternoon.

"Did he die in peace?" he asked.

"Yes, when I left the house about two o' clock, he called me over to his bedside, told me he loved me and kissed me on the cheek. When I got back from the store an hour later, I found him dead. But there was something strange about his death. Apparently, just before Daddy died, he leaned over and rested his head on the chair beside the bed. What do you make of that?"

The minister wiped a tear from his eye and said, "I wish we could all go like that."

From 2 Corinthians 5:6-8 -- "So we are always confident, even though we know that as long as we live in these bodies we are not at home with the Lord. That is why we live by believing and not by seeing. We live by faith, not by sight."

The day when you want to quit from everything

The day when you want to quit from everything...

One day I decided to quit...I quit my job, my relationship, my spirituality... I wanted to quit my life. I went to the woods to have one last talk with God. "God", I said. "Can you give me one good reason not to quit?" His answer surprised me...

"Look around", He said. "Do you see the fern and the bamboo?"
"Yes", I replied.
"When I planted the fern and the bamboo seeds, I took very good care of them. I gave them light. I gave them water. The fern quickly grew from the earth. Its brilliant green covered the floor. Yet nothing came from the bamboo seed. But I did not quit on the bamboo. In the second year the Fern grew more vibrant and plentiful. And again, nothing came from the bamboo seed. But I did not quit on the bamboo."

He said."In year three there was still nothing from the bamboo seed. But I would not quit. In year four, again, there was nothing from the bamboo seed. I would not quit." He said.
"Then in the fifth year a tiny sprout emerged from the earth.
Compared to the fern it was seemingly small and insignificant...But just 6 months later the bamboo rose to over 100 feet tall. It had spent the five years growing roots. Those roots made it strong and gave it what it needed to survive. I would not give any of my creations a challenge it could not handle." He said to me.
"Did you know, my child, that all this time you have been struggling, you have actually been growing roots?"
"I would not quit on the bamboo. I will never quit on you."
"Don't compare yourself to others." He said. "The bamboo had a different purpose than the fern. Yet they both make the forest beautiful."
"Your time will come", God said to me. "You will rise high"
"How high should I rise?" I asked.
"How high will the bamboo rise?" He asked in return.
"As high as it can?" I questioned

Memo from God

I am God. Today I will be handling all of your problems. Please remember that I do not need your help. If life happens to deliver a situation to you that you cannot handle, do not attempt to resolve it. Kindly put it in the SFGTD (something for God to do) box. It will be addressed in My time, not yours.

Once the matter is placed into the box, do not hold on to it or remove it. Holding on or removal will delay the resolution of your problem. If it is a situation that you think you are capable of handling, please consult me in prayer to be sure that it is the proper resolution. Because I do not sleep nor do I slumber, there is no need for you to lose any sleep. Rest my child. If you need to contact me, I am only a prayer away.

Be happy with what you have:

Should you find it hard to get to sleep tonight, just remember the homeless family who has no bed to lie in.

Should you find yourself stuck in traffic, don't despair: There are people in this world for whom driving is an unheard of privilege.

Should you have a bad day at work, think of the man who has been out of work for years.

Should you despair over a relationship gone badly, think of the person who has never known what it's like to love and be loved in return.

Should you grieve the passing of another weekend, think of the woman in dire straits, working twelve hours a day, seven days a week to feed her children.

Should your car break down, leaving you miles away from assistance, think of the paraplegic who would love the opportunity to take that walk.

Should you notice a new gray hair in the mirror, think of the cancer patient in chemo who wishes she had hair to examine.

Should you find yourself at a loss and pondering what is life all about, asking, "What is my purpose?", be thankful. There are those who didn't live long enough to get the opportunity.

Should you find yourself the victim of other people's bitterness, ignorance, smallness or insecurities, remember: things could be worse. You could be them!
"Yes." He said, "Give me glory by rising as high as you can."
I left the forest and bring back this story. I hope these words can help you see that God will never give up on you. He will never give up on you.

Never regret a day in your life.
Good days give you happiness;
bad days give you experiences;
both are essential to life

A Glass of Milk

One day, a poor boy was selling clothing door to door, to pay for his education realized that he only had ten cents left in his pockets. He was hungry and so decided to ask for some food at the next house that he came to.

In the meantime he lost his hunger when a beautiful young woman opened the door. Instead of a meal, he asked her for a glass of water.

She saw that he was very hungry so instead brought him a huge glass of milk. He drank it very slowly and then asked- « How much do I owe you? »
« You do not owe me anything at all », she replied:- « My mother taught us never to accept anything for doing someone a kindness».
He replied : « Then I thank you from the bottom of my heart ».

When Howard Kelly left the house, as well as feeling stronger physically, he sensed a return of his faith in the lord which he had nearly abandoned.

Years later, this same young woman fell gravely ill. The local doctors were mystified, so they sent her to the big city where they knew that the specialists would be able to diagnose this rare sickness.

Doctor Howard Kelly was called as a consultant. When he heard the name of the city where she lived, a memory burned brightly in his eyes.

He got up and went to her room. As he entered her room, he immediately recognized her. He returned to the consultation room, determined to do his best to save her life.

From that day on,he paid special attention to this case. After a long battle, the war was finally won

Doctor Kelly left instructions that the bill should be sent to him for authorization. He looked it over, wrote something in the margin, and sent it to her room.

Something caught her attention in the margin of the invoice.

She read these words: Paid in full with a glass of milk : Doctor Howard Kelly.

Tears of joy filled her eyes and her heart. She prayed :« Thank you lord, for your love has crossed the hands and hearts of man ».

There is a saying that goes like this:
Bread thrown over the water returns to you.

An act of goodness that you do today can come back to you or someone that you love, when you are not expecting it. If you do not see this act of goodness returned, at least you will have made a difference in this world. And in the end, isn’t that what life is all about?

Fireman Billy

Fireman Billy...

In Phoenix, AZ. a 26-year-old mother stared down at her son who was dying of terminal leukemia. Although her heart was filled with sadness, she also had a strong feeling of determination. Like any parent she wanted her son to grow up and fulfill all his dreams. Now that was no longer possible. The leukemia would see to that. But she still wanted her son's dreams to come true. She took her son's hand and asked, "Billy, did you ever think about what you wanted to be once you grew up? Did you ever dream and wish what you would do with your life?"

"Mommy, I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up." Mom smiled back and said, "Let's see if we can make your wish come true." Later that day she went to her local fire department in Phoenix, Arizona, where she met Fireman Bob, who had a heart as big as Phoenix. She explained her son's final wish and asked if it might be possible to give her six-year-old son a ride around the block on a fire engine.

Fireman Bob said, "Look, we can do better than that. If you'll have your son ready at seven o'clock Wednesday morning, we'll make him an honorary fireman for the whole day. He can come down to the fire station, eat with us, go out all the fire calls, the whole nine yards! And if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real fire uniform for him, with a real fire hat - not a toy one - with the emblem of the Phoenix Fire Department on it, a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber boots. They're all manufactured right here in Phoenix, so we can get them fast."

Three days later Fireman Bob picked up Billy, dressed him in his fire fighter's uniform and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck. Billy got to sit on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the fire station. He was in heaven. There were three fire calls in Phoenix that day and Billy got to go out on all three calls. He rode in the different fire engines, the paramedic's van, and even the fire chief's car. He was also videotaped for the local news program.

Having his dream come true, with all the love and attention that was lavished upon him, so deeply touched Billy that he lived three months longer than any doctor thought possible.

One night all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head nurse, who believed in the hospice concept that no one should die alone, began to call the family members to the hospital. Then she remembered the day Billy had spent as a fireman, so she called the Fire Chief and asked if it would be possible to send a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Billy as he made his transition.

The chief replied, "We can do better than that. We'll be there in five minutes. Will you please do me a favor? When you hear the sirens screaming and see the lights flashing, will you announce over the P.A. system that there is not a fire? It's just the fire department coming to see one of its finest members one more time. And will you open the window to his room?"

About five minutes later a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital and extended its ladder up to Billy's third floor open window, sixteen firefighters climbed up the ladder into Billy's room. With his mother's permission, they hugged him and held him and told him how much they loved him. With his dying breath, Billy looked up at the fire chief and said, Chief, am I really a fireman now?

"Billy, you are, and the Head Chief, Jesus, is holding your hand," the chief said. With those words, Billy smiled and said, "I know, He's been holding my hand all day, and the angels have been singing." He closed his eyes one last time.

- Author Unknown

The Journey Of A Mother

For those who are fortunate enough to still be blessed by having your Mom with you, this is beautiful... For those who aren't... it is even more beautiful. It takes my breath!

The young mother set her foot on the path of life. "Is this the long way?" she asked. And the guide said "Yes, and the way is hard. And you will be old before you reach the end of it. But the end will be better than the beginning"

Since the young mother was happy, she would not believe that anything could be better than these years. So she played with her children, she fed them and bathed them, and taught them how to tie their shoes and ride a bike and reminded them to feed the dog, and do their homework and brush their teeth. The sun shone on them, and the young Mother cried, "Nothing will ever be lovelier than this."

Then the nights came, and the storms, and the path was sometimes dark, and the children shook with fear and cold, and the mother drew them close and covered them with her arms, and the children said, "Mother, we are not afraid, for you are near, and no harm can come."

And the morning came, and there was a hill ahead, and the children climbed and grew weary, and the mother was weary. But at all times she said to the children, "A little patience and we are there." So the children climbed, and as they climbed they learned to weather the storms. And with this, she gave them strength to face the world. Year after year, she showed them compassion, understanding, hope, but most of all... unconditional love.

The days went on, and the weeks and the months and the years, and the mother grew old and she became little and bent. But her children were tall and strong, and walked with courage. And the mother, when she lay down at night, looked up at the stars and said, "This is a better day than the last, for my children have learned so much and are now passing these traits on to their children."

And when the way became rough for her, they lifted her, and gave her their strength, just as she had given them hers. One day they came to a hill, and beyond the hill, they could see a shining road and golden gates flung wide. And mother said: "I have reached the end of my journey.

And now I know the end is better than the beginning, for my children can walk with dignity and pride, with their heads held high, and so can their children after them. And the children said, "You will always walk with us, Mother, even when you have gone through the gates." And they stood and watched her as she went on alone, and the gates closed after her. And they said: "We cannot see her, but she is with us still. A Mother like ours is more than a memory. She is a living presence."

Your Mother is always with you. She's the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street, she's the smell of certain foods you remember, flowers you pick and perfume that she wore, she's the cool hand on your brow when you're not feeling well, she's your breath in the air on a cold winter's day. She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep, the colors of a rainbow, she is Christmas morning. Your Mother lives inside your laughter. And she's crystallized in every tear drop. A mother shows every emotion... happiness, sadness, fear, jealousy, love, hate, anger, helplessness, excitement, joy, sorrow... and all the while, hoping and praying you will only know the good feelings in life.

She's the place you came from, your first home, and she's the map you follow with every step you take. She's your first love, your first friend, even your first enemy, but nothing on earth can separate you. Not time, not space... not even death!

Run With Intent

Buckminster Fuller once said, "The minute you choose to do what you really want to do it's a different kind of life." And it's not about what you're getting PAID to do! If you want to live abundantly, decide what you really want and figure out a way to do it. Be clear and live with intent.

You may have heard of Fred Lebow. Fred complained to his doctor that he lacked energy. His doctor advised him to take up running in order to increase his stamina. He fell in love with it! He was 39 years old when he entered his first race -- and did horribly. He beat only one other contestant…a 72-year-old man. But he loved it!

Fred decided what he really wanted to do -- and he did it in his spare time. He joined the New York Road Runners Club and organized New York City's first marathon race. But what Fred truly wanted to do, even more than run, was to bring people together. And that is what he did. He believe that anybody should be able to run -- people of all ages, any background, professional or amateur, and of any country. Today, more than 28,000 people of all backgrounds and nationalities compete in the NYC Marathon.

Not everyone in New York was excited about people running through their neighborhoods. Fred was approached by a youth gang that warned him that nobody had better run through their turf. "That's great," Fred enthused. "I need someone to protect the runners in your area, and you look like just the fellows to do it." He gave them each a hat, shirt and jacket and that year, when the marathon went through their neighborhood, these young men proudly guarded the runners along their way.

Fred decided what was truly important to him and he found a way to do it. He lived with intent. That single decision made his life remarkably different.

In 1990, Fred Lebow found he had a brain tumor. In 1992 he ran his final race. He crossed the finish line holding the hand of his friend and Norwegian Olympic medalist, Grete Waitz. A bronze statue was created of Fred in his running clothes, checking his watch. It is now placed at the finish line of every race. Fred died in 1994. But as one sports writer said, "Fate handed him a short race. With his gall, with his love of life, Fred Lebow turned it into a marathon."

Fred would say that it's not about how long you live, but how you run the race of life. Do you run it with intent?

~ Steve Goodier ~

Forgiveness

Once upon a time two brothers who lived on adjoining farms fell into conflict. It was the first serious rift in 40 years of farming side by side, sharing machinery, and trading labor and goods as needed without a hitch. Then the long collaboration fell apart. It began with a small misunderstanding and it grew into a major difference, and finally it exploded into an exchange of bitter words followed by weeks of silence.

One morning there was a knock on John's door. He opened it to find a man with a carpenter's toolbox. "I'm looking for a few days work" he said. "Perhaps you would have a few small jobs here and there. Could I help you?"

"Yes," said the older brother. "I do have a job for you. Look across the creek at that farm. That's my neighbor, in fact, it's my younger brother. Last week there was a meadow between us and he took his bulldozer to the river levee and now there is a creek between us. Well, he may have done this to spite me, but I'll go him one better. See that pile of lumber curing by the barn? I want you to build me a fence -- an 8-foot fence -- so I won't need to see his place anymore. Cool him down, anyhow."

The carpenter said, "I think I understand the situation. Show me the nails and the post-hole digger and I'll be able to do a job that pleases you."

The older brother had to go to town for supplies, so he helped the carpenter get the materials ready and then he was off for the day.

The carpenter worked hard all that day measuring, sawing, nailing.

About sunset when the farmer returned, the carpenter had just finished his job.

The farmer's eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped.

There was no fence there at all. It was a bridge -- a bridge stretching from one side of the creek to the other! A fine piece of work handrails and all -- and the neighbor, his younger brother, was coming across, his hand outstretched.

"You are quite a fellow to build this bridge after all I've said and done."

The two brothers stood at each end of the bridge, and then they met in the middle, taking each other's hand. They turned to see the carpenter hoist his toolbox on his shoulder. "No, wait! Stay a few days. I've a lot of other projects for you," said the older brother.

"I'd love to stay on," the carpenter said, "but, I have many more bridges to build."

A Little Girls Prayer

Helen Roseveare, a missionary doctor from England to Zaire Africa, told this as it happened to her in Africa.

"One night I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in spite of all we could do she died leaving us with a tiny premature baby and a crying two-year-old daughter. We would have difficulty keeping the baby alive, as we had no incubator. (We had no electricity to run an incubator.) We also had no special feeding facilities.

Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts. One student midwife went for the box we had for such babies and the cotton wool the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She came back shortly in distress to tell me that in filling the bottle, it had burst. Rubber perishes easily in tropical climates. "And it is our last hot water bottle!" she exclaimed.

As in the West it is no good crying over spilled milk, so in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over burst water bottles. They do not grow on trees, and there are no drugstores down forest pathways.

"All right," I said, "Put the baby as near the fire as you safely can, and sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts. "Your job is to keep the baby warm."

The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with any of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle. The baby could so easily die if it got chills. I also told them of the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died. During the prayer time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt conciseness of our African children. "Please, God," she prayed, "send us a water bottle. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, as the baby will be dead, so please send it this afternoon."

While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added by way of a corollary, "And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little girl so she'll know You really love her?"

As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say, "Amen?" I just did not believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I know that He can do everything. The Bible says so. But there are limits, aren't there? The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending me a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had never, ever received a parcel from home. Anyway, if anyone did send me a parcel, who would put in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator!

Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time I reached home, the car had gone, but there, on the verandah, was a large twenty-two pound parcel. I felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone, so I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly. Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children looked a little bored. Then came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas -- that would make a nice batch of buns for the weekend. Then, as I put my hand in again, I felt the.... could it really be? I grasped it and pulled it out -- yes, a brand-new, rubber hot water bottle!

I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He could. Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward, crying out, "If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly, too!"

Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully dressed dolly. Her eyes shone! She had never doubted. Looking up at me, she asked: "Can I go over with you, Mummy, and give this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?"

That parcel had been on the way for five whole months. Packed up by my former Sunday school class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. And one of the girls had put in a dolly for an African child -- five months before -- in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it "that afternoon."

"Before they call, I will answer!" Isa 65:24