Art Auction
Years ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young
son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together they traveled around
the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection.
Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the
walls of the family estate.
The widowed elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child
became an experienced art collector. The son's trained eye and sharp
business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art
collectors around the world.
As winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man
left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father
received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action. The art
collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his
son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had
died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic.
Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas
holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season-a season that
he and his son had so looked forward to-would visit his house no longer.
On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old
man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only
reminded him that his son was not coming home. As he opened the door,
he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hand. He
introduced himself to the man by saying, "I was a friend of your son.
I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few
moments? I have something to show you."
As the two began to talk, the solider told of how the man's son had told
everyone of his father's love of fine art.
"I'm an artist," said the soldier, "and I want to give you this."
As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a
portrait of the man's son. Though the world would never consider it the
work of a genius, the painting featured the young man's face in striking
detail. Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising
to hang the picture above the fireplace.
A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set
about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace,
pushing aside thousands of dollars of paintings. And then the man sat
in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.
During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that even
though his son was no longer with him, the boy's life would live on
because of those he had touched. He would soon learn that his son had
rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stilled his caring
heart. As the stories of his son's gallantry continued to reach him,
fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease the grief. The painting
of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any
interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamored.
He told his neighbors it was the greatest gift he had ever received.
The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The
art world was in anticipation. With the collector's passing, and his
only son dead, those paintings would be sold at an auction. According
to the will of the old man, all of the art works would be auctioned on
Christmas day, the day he had received his greatest gift.
The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world
gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings.
Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many
would claim "I have the greatest collection." The auction began with a
painting that was not on any museum's list. It was the painting of the
man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. The room was
silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Minutes
passed. No one spoke. From the back of the room came,
"Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son. Let's
forget it and go on to the good stuff." More voices echoed in agreement.
"No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "Now, who
will take the son?" Finally, a friend of the old man spoke. "Will you
take ten dollars for the painting? That's all I have. I knew the boy,
so I'd like to have it." "I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?"
called the auctioneer. After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going
once, going twice. Gone." The gavel fell. Cheers filled the room and
someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and we can bid on these
treasures!"
The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced the auction was
over. Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked,
"What do you mean it's over? We didn't come here for a picture of
some old guy's son. What about all of these paintings? There are
millions of dollars of art here! I demand that you explain what's going
on here!."
The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of
the father, whoever takes the son . . . gets it all." (Author Unknown)
Puts things into perspective, doesn't it? Just as those art
collectors discovered on that Christmas day, the message is still the
same - the love of a Father - a Father whose greatest joy came from his
son who went away and gave his life rescuing others. And because of that
Father's love...whoever takes the Son gets it all.
-----------------------------------------------------------
It Takes Guts to Say "Jesus"
This is a true story of something that happened just a few years
ago at USC. There was a professor of philosophy there who was a
deeply committed atheist. His primary goal for one required class
was to spend the entire semester attempting to prove that God couldn't
exist. His students were always afraid to argue with him because of his
impeccable logic. For twenty years, he had taught this class and no one
had ever had the courage to go against him. Sure, some had argued
in class at times, but no one had ever 'really gone against him'
(you'll see what I mean later). Nobody would go against him because he
had a reputation.
At the end of every semester, on the last day, he would say to his
class of 300 students, "If there anyone here who still believes in
Jesus, stand up!" In twenty years, no one had ever stood up. They
knew what he was going to do next. He would say, "because anyone who
does believe in God is a fool. If God existed, he could stop this piece
of chalk from hitting the ground and breaking. Such a simple task to
prove that he is God, and yet he can't do it." and every year, he would
drop the chalk onto the tile floor of the classroom and it would shatter
into a hundred pieces. All of the students could do nothing but stop and
stare.
Most of the students were convinced that God couldn't exist.
Certainly, a number of Christians had slipped through, but for 20 years,
they had been too afraid to stand up. Well, a few years ago, there was a
freshman who happened to get enrolled in the class. He was a Christian,
and had heard the stories about this professor. He had to take the class
because it was one of the required classes for his major. and he was
afraid. But for 3 months that semester, he prayed every morning that he
would have the courage to stand up no matter what the professor said or
what the class thought.
Nothing they said or did could ever shatter his faith, he hoped.
Finally the day came. The professor said, "If there is anyone here who
still believes in God, stand up!" The professor and the class of 300
people looked at him, shocked, as he stood up at the back of the
classroom. The professor shouted, "You FOOL!! If God existed, he could
keep this piece of chalk from breaking when it hit the ground!"
He proceeded to drop the chalk, but as he did, it slipped out of his
fingers, off his shirt cuff, onto the pleats of his pants, down his leg,
and off his shoe. As it hit the ground, it simply rolled away, unbroken.
The professor's jaw dropped as he stared at the chalk.
He looked up at the young man and then ran out of the lecture hall. The
young man who had stood up proceeded to walk to the front of the room and
share his faith in Jesus for the next half hour. 300 students stayed and
listened as he told of God's love for them and of his power through Jesus.
----------------------------------------------------------------
All The Good Things
He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School
in Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund
was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-
alive attitude that made even his occasional mischieviousness delightful.
Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that
talking without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so
much, though, was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for
misbehaving - "Thank you for correcting me, Sister!" I didn't know what
to make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to hearing it
many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too
often, and then I made a novice-teacher's mistake. I looked at him and
said, "If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"
It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is
talking again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark,
but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act
on it.
I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to
my desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking
tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two
pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned
to the front of the room. As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing he
winked at me.
That did it! I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back
to Mark's desk, removed the tape and shrugged my shoulders. His first
words were, "Thank you for correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the year I was asked to teach junior-high math. The
years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again.
He was more handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen
carefully to my instructions in the "new math," he did not talk as much in
ninth grade as he had in the third.
One Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on
a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning,
frustrated with themselves - and edgy with one another. I had to stop
this crankiness before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the
names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a
space between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing
they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish the assignment,
and as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie
smiled. Marked said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good
weekend."
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate
sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that
individual. On Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long,
the entire class was smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. "I never
knew that meant anything to anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so
much!"
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if
they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't
matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were
happy with themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I
returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were
driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip - the
weather, my experiences in general. There was a light lull in the
conversation. Mother gave Dad a side-ways glance and simply says, "Dad?"
My father cleared his throat as he usually did before something important.
"The Eklunds called last night," he began. "Really?" I said. "I
haven't heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark is."
Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The
funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend."
To this day II can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told
me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark
looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was,
Mark, I would give ll the masking tape in the world if only you would
talk to me.
The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang
"The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of
the funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said
the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved
Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water.
I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the
soldiers who had acted as pallbearer came up to me. "Were you Mark's
math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin.
"Mark talked about you a lot," he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chucks
farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously
waiting for me. "We want to show you something," his father said, taking
a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed.
We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook
paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I
knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed
all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him. "Thank
you so much for doing that" Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark
treasured it."
Mark's classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather
sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my
desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put this in our
wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out
her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry
this with me at all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash. "I
think we all saved our lists."
That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for
all his friends who would never see him again. THE END
written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosia
-----------------------------------------------------------
COCOON
A man found a cocoon of an emperor moth. He took it home so that
he could watch the moth come out of the cocoon. On the day a small
opening appeared, he sat and watched the moth for several hours as the
moth struggled to force the body through that little hole.
Then it seemed to stop making any progress. It appeared as if it
had gotten as far as it could and it could go no farther. It just
seemed to be stuck. Then the man, in his kindness, decided to help
the moth, so he took a pair of scissors and snipped off the remaining
bit of the cocoon. The moth then emerged easily. But it had a swollen
body and small, shriveled wings. The man continued to watch the moth
because he expected that, at any moment, the wings would enlarge and
expand to be able to support the body, which would contract in time.
Neither happened!
In fact, the little moth spent the rest of its life crawling around
with a swollen body and shriveled body and shriveled wings. It never
was able to fly.
What the man in his kindness and haste did not understand was that
the restricting cocoon and the struggle required for the moth to get
through the tiny opening was the way of forcing fluid from the body of
the moth into its wings so that it would be ready for flight once it
achieved its freedom from the cocoon. Freedom and flight would only
come after the struggle.
By depriving the moth of a struggle, he deprived the moth of health.
Sometimes struggles are exactly what we need in our life. If we
were to go through our life without any obstacles, we would be
crippled. We would not be as strong as what we could have been. Give
every opportunity a chance, leave no room for regrets.
----------------------------------------------------
TABLE FOR TWO by Kirsten Burgess
He sits by himself at a table for two.
The uniformed waiter returns to his side and ask, "Would you like to
go ahead and order, sir?" The man has, after all, been waiting since
seven o'clock--almost half an hour.
"No, thank you," the man smiles. "I'll wait for her a while longer.
How about some more coffee?" "Certainly, sir."
The man sits, his clear blue eyes gazing straight through the
flowered centerpiece. He fingers his napkin, allowing the sounds of
light chatter, tinkling silverware, and mellow music to fill his
mind. He is dressed in sport coat and tie. His dark brown hair is
neatly combed, but one stray lock insists on dropping to his
forehead. The scent of his cologne adds to his clean cut image. He is
dressed up enough to make a companion feel important, respected,
loved. Yet he is not so formal as to make one uncomfortable. It
seems that he has taken every precaution to make others feel at ease
with him. Still, he sits alone.
The waiter returns to fill the man's coffee cup. "Is there anything
else I can get for you, sir?" "No, thank you."
The waiter remains standing at the table. Something tugs at his
curiosity.
"I don't mean to pry, but..." His voice trails off. This line of
conversation could jeopardize his tip.
"Go ahead," the man encourages. His is strong, yet sensitive,
inviting conversation.
"Why do you bother waiting for her?" the waiter finally blurts out.
This man has been at the restaurant other evenings, always patiently
alone.
Says the man quietly, "Because she needs me."
"Are you sure?" "Yes."
"Well, sir, no offense, but assuming that she needs you, she sure
isn't acting much like it. She's stood you up three times just this
week."
The man winces, and looks down at the table. "Yes, I know."
"Then why do you still come here and wait?"
"Cassie said that she would be here."
"She's said that before," the waiter protests. "I wouldn't put up
with it. Why do you?"
Now the man looks up, smiles at the waiter, and says simply, "Because
I love her."
The waiter walks away, wondering how one could love a girl who stands
him up three times a week. The man must be crazy, he decides. Across
the room, he turns to look at the man again. The man slowly pours
cream into his coffee. He twirls his spoon between his fingers a few
times before stirring sweetener into his cup. After staring for a
moment into the liquid, the man brings the cup to his mouth and sips,
silently watching those around him. He doesn't look crazy, the
waiter admits. Maybe the girl has qualities that I don't know about.
Or maybe the man's love is stronger than most. The waiter
shakes himself out of his musings to take an order from a party of five.
The man watches the waiter, wonders if he's ever been stood up. The
man has, many times. But he still can't get used to it. Each time, it
hurts.
He's looked forward to this evening all day. He has many things,
exciting things, to tell Cassie. But, more importantly, he wants to
hear Cassie's voice. He wants her to tell him all about her day, her
triumphs, her defeats....anything, really. He has tried so many times to
show Cassie how much he loves her. He'd just like to know that she
cares for him, too. He sips sporadically at the coffee, and loses
himself in thought, knowing that Cassie is late, but still hoping
that she will arrive.
The clock says nine-thirty when the waiter returns to the man's
table. "Is there anything I can get for you?"
The still empty chair stabs at the man. "No, I think that will be all
for tonight. May I have the check please?" "Yes, sir."
When the waiter leaves, the man picks up the check. He pulls out his
wallet and signs. He has enough money to have given Cassie a feast.
But he takes out only enough to pay for his five cups of coffee and
the tip. Why do you do this, Cassie, his mind cries as he gets up
from the table.
"Good-bye," the waiter says, as the man walks towards the door.
"Good night. Thank you for your service."
"You're welcome, sir," says the waiter softly, for he sees the hurt
in the man's eyes that his smile doesn't hide.
The man passes a laughing young couple on his way out, and his eyes
glisten as he thinks of the good time he and Cassie could have had.
He stops at the front and makes reservations for tomorrow. Maybe
Cassie will be able to make it, he thinks.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow for party of two?" the hostess confirms.
"That"s right," the man replies.
"Do you think she'll come"" asks the hostess. She doesn't mean to be
rude, but she has watched the man many times alone at his table for two.
"Someday, yes. And I will be waiting for her." The man buttons his
overcoat and walks out of the restaurant, alone. His shoulders are
hunched, but through the windows the hostess can only guess whether
they are hunched against the wind or against the man's hurt.
As the man turns toward home, Cassie turns into bed. She is tired
after an evening out with friends. As she reaches toward her night
stand to set the alarm, she sees the note that she scribbled to
herself last night. '7:00,' it says. 'Spend some time in prayer.'
Darn, she thinks. She forgot again. She feels a twinge of guilt, but
quickly pushes it aside. She needed that time with her friends. And now
she needs her sleep. She can pray tomorrow night.
Jesus will forgive her. And she's sure he doesn't mind.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Friend,
I just had to write to tell you how much I love you and care
foryou. Yesterday, I saw you walking and laughing with your friends; I
hoped that soon you'd want Me to walk along with you, too. So, I
painted you a sunset to close your day and whispered a cool breeze
to refresh you. I waited; you never called. I just kept on loving you.
As I watched you fall asleep last night, I wanted so much to touch you.
I spilled moonlight onto your face- trickling down your cheeks as so
many tears have. You didn't even think of me; I wanted so much to
comfort you. The next day I exploded a brilliant sunrise into a
glorious morning for you. But you woke up late and rushed off to work-
you didn't even notice. My sky became cloudy and My tears were the rain.
I love you. Oh, if you'd only listen. I really love you. I try to say it
in the quiet of the green meadow and in the blue sky. The wind whispers
My love throughout the treetops and spills it into the vibrant colors of
the flowers. I shout it to you in the thunder of the great waterfalls
and composed love songs for birds to sing for you. I warm you with the
clothing of My sunshine and perfume the air with nature's sweet scent.
My love for you is deeper than the ocean and greater than any need in
your heart. If you'd only realize how I care. I died just for you. My
Dad sends His love. I want you to meet Him. He cares, too. Fathers are
just that way. So please call Me soon. No matter how long it takes,
I'll wait because I love you.
Your Friend, Jesus
---------------------------------------------------------------
Graduation Day
A young man was getting ready to graduate from college. For many
months he had admired a beautiful sports car in a dealer's showroom,
and knowing his father could well afford it, he told him that was all he
wanted.
As Graduation Day approached, the young man awaited signs that his
father had purchased the car. Finally, on the morning of his graduation,
his father called him into his private study. His father told him how
proud he was to have such a fine son, and told him how much he loved
him.
He handed his son a beautifully wrapped gift box. Curious, and somewhat
disappointed, the young man opened the box, and found a lovely, leather-
bound Bible with the young man's name embossed on it. Angry, he rose
his voice to his father and said "with all your money, you give me a
Bible?" and stormed out of the house.
Many years passed and the young man was very successful in business. He
had a beautiful home and wonderful family, but realised his father was
very old, and thought perhaps he should go to him. He had not seen him
since his graduation day. Before he could make arrangements, he
received a telegram telling him his father had passed away, and willed
all of his possessions to his son. He needed to come home immediately
and take care of things. When he arrived at his father's house, sudden
sadness and regret filled his heart.
He began to search through his father's important papers and saw the
still gift-wrapped Bible, just as he had left it years ago. With tears,
he opened the Bible and began to turn the pages. His father had
carefully underlined a verse, Matt.7:11, "And if ye, being evil, know
how to give good gifts to your children,how much more shall your
Heavenly Father which is in Heaven, give to those who ask Him?" As he
read those words, a car key dropped from the back of the Bible. It had
a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the sports car he
had desired. On the tag was the date of his graduation, and the words
PAID IN FULL. How many times do we miss God's blessings because we
can't see past our own desires???????
---------------------------------------------------------------
GUILTY
They dragged me into the courtroom, I was not a pretty sight.
The bailiff tried to quiet me, but I only wanted to fight.
I knew that I was guilty of all that they had said.
I know I hadn't been perfect, but I don't want to be dead.
The devil walked over to me and looked me up and down,
he said I had done plenty to put me in the ground!
I screamed to the judge for mercy, please be lenient with me.
But satan's laugh grew louder and he said "what a feeble plea"
I cried "Is there no one to help me, is there no one in this place,
that would stop this execution and administer to me grace?
But the courtroom soon went silent as the judge ran through my life
and I cried "Father forgive me for my sin and all my strife".
Suddenly the doors through open and I could hear footsteps in the rear
Satan shouted "NO, he's mine and I will torment him with fear.
But the stranger wouldn't listen he said "I have the release right in hand"
as he gently removed me from my cross and the nail was placed on his
hand.
I could now see that it was Jesus as the whip tore flesh from his back
and the thorns were slammed on his head as again the whip would crack.
I sobbed Lord how can you do this, I was the one that committed the sin.
It was I that satan accused, it was I that denied you again.
But through his blood soaked hair he looked up at me with a smile
and said "my precious child, I knew you were guilty at this trial".
In tears I asked please Lord, come down off of that tree!
But his torment just grew stronger and I fell down to my knees.
I looked down to see the blood flowing on the ground into the sand
as the earth began to moan from the pain of the Son of man.
The skies began to darken for they could not stand the sight
of the Lord in pain and torment so they drew their curtain into night.
The winds they grew angry, how could man have done this thing?
they blew wildly across the hillside as the bells began to ring.
I asked Lord why must you do this, I'm not worthy of you I cried.
He said "My son it's because I love you", and he hung his head and died.
