Just Look to a Child
She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live.
I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world
begins to close in on me.
She was building a sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes blue as
the sea. "Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said. "I see that. What is it?" I asked, not caring.
"Oh I don't know, I just like the feel of the sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said. "It's what?" I asked, uncaring.
"It's a joy! My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went glissading down the beach. "Good-bye joy," I muttered to
myself, "Hello, pain..." and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life
seemed completely out of balance. "What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Ruth," I answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson." "Mine's Wendy,... and I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy." I offered.
She giggled. "You're funny," she said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too
and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me. "Come again, Mrs. P,"
she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly
Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother. The sun was shining one
morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater.
"I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The never-
changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I
strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the
child and was startled when she appeared.
"Hello, Mrs. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk." Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her
face. "Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I
thought, in winter. "Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on
other things. "When I left for home," Wendy said, "it had been a happy day."
Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no
mood greet even Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt
like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me,
"I'd rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned on her and shouted, "Because my mother died!"-and thought, my
God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes, and yesterday and the day before that and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?"
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself.
I strode off. A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she
wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her,
I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn-
looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today and
wondered where she was." "Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in."
"Wendy talked of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If
she was a nuisance, please accept my apologies."
"Not at all-she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it.
"Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she
didn't tell you." Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.
"She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no."
She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy
days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly...." Her voice faltered.
"She left something for you...if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment
while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this
lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope, with MRS. P
printed in bold, childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues-
a yellow beach, a blue sea, a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten how to love
opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so
sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words-one
for each year of her life-that speak to me of inner harmony, courage,
undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of
sand-who taught me the gift of love.
Written by: Ruth Peterson
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Cracked Pot
A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of
a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack
in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a
full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream
to the master's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.
For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering
only one and a half pots full of water in his master's house.
Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments,
perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot
was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able
to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.
After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it
spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of
myself, and I want to apologize to you." "Why?" asked the bearer.
"What are you ashamed of?" "I have been able, for these past two
years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side
causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house.
Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't
get full value from your efforts," the pot said.
The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his
compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you
to notice the beautiful flowers along the path." Indeed, as they
went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming
the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered
it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it
had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the
bearer for its failure.
The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers
only on your side of your path, but not on the other pot's side?
That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took
advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path,
and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered
them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers
to decorate my master's table. Without you being just the way you
are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."
Each of us has our own unique flaws. We're all cracked pots. But if
we will allow it, the Lord will use our flaws to grace the Father's
table. In God's great economy, nothing goes to waste. So as we seek
ways to minister together, and as God calls you to the tasks He has
appointed for you, don't be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them,
and allow Him to take advantage of them, and you, too, can be the
cause of beauty in His pathway. Go out boldly, knowing that in our
weakness we find His strength, and that "In Him every one of God's
promises is a Yes".
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Joe Samaritan
He was driving home one evening, on a two-lane country road. Work, in
this small mid-western community, was almost as slow as his beat-up
Pontiac. But he never quit looking. Ever since the Levis factory
closed, he'd been unemployed, and with winter raging on, the chill had
finally hit home.
It was a lonely road. Not very many people had a reason to be on it,
unless they were leaving. Most of his friends had already left. They
had families to feed and dreams to fulfill. But he stayed on. After
all, this was where he buried his mother and father. He was born here
and knew the country.
He could go down this road blind, and tell you what was on either
side, and with his headlights not working, that came in handy. It was
starting to get dark and light snow flurries were coming down. He'd
better get a move on.
You know, he almost didn't see the old lady, stranded on the side of
the road. But even in the dim light of day, he could see she needed
help. So he pulled up in front of her Mercedes and got out. His
Pontiac was still sputtering when he approached her.
Even with the smile on his face, she was worried. No one had stopped
to help for the last hour or so. Was he going to hurt her? He didn't
look safe, he looked poor and hungry. He could see that she was
frightened, standing out there in the cold. He knew how she felt. It
was that chill that only fear can put in you. He said, "I'm here to
help you m'am. Why don't you wait in the car where it's warm. By the
way, my name is Joe."
Well, all she had was a flat tire, but for an old lady, that was bad
enough Joe crawled under the car looking for a place to put the jack,
askining his knuckles a time or two. Soon he was able to change the
tire. But he had to get dirty and his hands hurt. As he was
tightening up the lug nuts, she rolled down her window and began to
talk to him. She told him that she was from St. Louis and was only
just passing through. She couldn't thank him enough for coming to her
aid. Joe just smiled as he closed her trunk.
She asked him how much she owed him. Any amount would have been
alright with her. She had already imagined all the awful things that
could have happened had he not stopped. Joe never thought twice about
the money.This was not a job to him. This was helping someone in
need, and God knows there were plenty who had given him a hand in the
past. He had lived his whole life that way, and it never occurred to
him to act any other way. He told her that if she really wanted to
pay him back, the next time she saw someone who needed help, she could
give that person the assistance that they needed, and Joe added
"...and think of me".
He waited until she started her car and drove off. It had been a cold
and depressing day, but he felt good as he headed for home,
disappearing into the twilight. A few miles down the road the lady
saw a small cafe. She went in to grab a bite to eat, and take the
chill off before she made the last leg of her trip home. It was a
dingy looking restaurant. Outside were two old gas pumps. The whole
scene was unfamiliar to her. The cash register was like the telephone
of an out of work actor, it didn't ring much.
Her waitress came over and brought a clean towel to wipe her wet hair.
She had a sweet smile, one that even being on her feet for the whole
day couldn't erase. The lady noticed that the waitress was nearly
eight months pregnant, but she never let the strain and aches change
her attitude. The old lady wondered how someone who had so little
could be so giving to a stranger. Then she remembered Joe.
After the lady finished her meal, and the waitress went to get her
change from a hundred dollar bill, the lady slipped right out the
door. She was gone by the time the waitress came back. She wondered
where the lady could be, then she noticed something written on a
napkin. There were tears in her eyes, when she read what the lady
wrote. It said, "You don't owe me a thing, I've been there too.
Someone once helped me out, the way I'm helping you. If you really
want to pay me back, here's what you do. Don't let the chain of love
end with you."
Well, there were tables to clear, sugar bowls to fill, and people to
serve, but the waitress made it through another day. That night when
she got home from work and climbed into bed, she was thinking about
the money and what the lady had written. How could she have known how
much she and her husband needed it? With the baby due next month, it
was going to be hard. She knew how worried her husband was, and as he
lay sleeping next to her, she gave him a soft kiss and whispered soft
and low, "Everything's gonna be alright, I love you Joe."
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Teddy and the Teacher
Jean Thompson stood in front of her fifth-grade class on the very first
day of school in the Fall and told the children a lie. Like most
teachers, she looked at her pupils and said that she loved each of them
the same, that she would treat them all alike.
And that was impossible because there in front of her, slumped in his
seat on the third row, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs.
Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed he didn't play
well with the other children, that his clothes were unkempt and that he
constantly needed a bath. And Teddy was unpleasant. It got to the
point during the first few months that she would actually take delight in
marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then
highlighting the "F" at the top of the paper biggest of all.
Because Teddy was a sullen little boy, no one else seemed to enjoy him,
either. At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to
review each child's records and delay Teddy's until last. When she
opened his file, she found a surprise.
His first-grade teacher had written, "Teddy is a bright, inquisitive
child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners.
He is a joy to be around."
His second-grade teacher had penned, "Teddy is an excellent student,
well-liked by all his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother
has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."
His third-grade teacher had noted, "Teddy continues to work hard but his
mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his
father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him
if some steps aren't taken."
Teddy's fourth-grade teacher had commented, "Teddy is withdrawn and
doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and
often falls asleep in class. He is tardy and could become a more
serious problem."
By now Mrs. Thompson realized the extent of the problem, but Christmas
was coming fast. It was all she could do, with the school play and all,
until the day before the holidays began and she was suddenly forced to
focus again on Teddy Stoddard.
Her children brought her presents, all in beautiful ribbon and bright
paper, except Teddy's, which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown
paper of a scissored grocery bag.
Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents.
Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone
bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was
one-quarter full of cologne. She stifled the children's laughter while
she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and
dabbing some of the perfume behind the other wrist.
Teddy Stoddard stayed behind after class just long enough to say, "Mrs.
Thompson, today you smelled just like my mom used to."
After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and speaking.
Instead, she began to teach children.
Jean Thompson paid particular attention to one they all called "Teddy."
As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she
encouraged him, the faster he responded. On those days when there would
be an important test, Mrs. Thompson would remember that cologne. By the
end of the year he had become one of the highest achieveing children in
the class and, well, he had also somewhat become the "pet" of that teacher
who had once vowed to love all of her children exactly the same.
A year later she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her
that of all the teachers he'd had in elementary school, she was his favorite.
Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote
that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still
his favorite teacher of all time.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things
had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and
would graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs.
Thompson she was still his favorite teacher.
Four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he
explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a
little further. The letter explained that she was still his favorite
teacher but that now his name was a little longer. The letter was
signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.
The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter that
Spring. Teddy said he'd met this girl and was to be married. He
explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was
wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the pew usually
reserved for the mother of the groom.
And on that day, she wore that bracelet, the one with several Rhinestones
missing. And on that special day, Jean Thompson smelled just like the way
Teddy remembered his mother smelling on their last Christmas together.
THE MORAL: You never can tell what type of impact you may make on
another's life by your actions or lack of action. Consider this fact in
your venture through life. --Redick Gregory
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You are my Sunshine
Like any good mother, when Karen found out that another baby was on
the way, she did what she could to help her 3-year-old son, Michael, prepare
for a new sibling. They find out that the new baby is going to be a girl, and
day after day, night after night, Michael sings to his sister in Mommy's tummy.
The pregnancy progresses normally for Karen, an active member of the
Panther Creek United Methodist Church in Morristown, Tennessee. Then
the labor pains come. Every five minutes ... every minute. But complications
arise during delivery.
Hours of labor. Would a C-section be required? Finally, Michael's little
sister is born. But she is in serious condition. With siren howling in the
night, the ambulance rushes the infant to the neonatal intensive care unit at St.
Mary's Hospital, Knoxville, Tennessee. The days inch by. The little girl gets
worse. The pediatric specialist tells the parents, "There is very little hope.
Be prepared for the worst." Karen and her husband contact a local cemetery
about a burial plot. They have fixed up a special room in their home for the
new baby, now they plan a funeral.
Michael, keeps begging his parents to let him see his sister, "I want to
sing to her," he says. Week two in intensive care. It looks as if a funeral will
come before the week is over. Michael keeps nagging about singing to his
sister, but kids are never allowed in Intensive Care.
But Karen makes up her mind. She will take Michael whether they like it or
not. If he doesn't see his sister now, he may never see her alive. She dresses
him in an oversized scrub suit and marches him into ICU. He looks like a
walking laundry basket, but the head nurse recognizes him as a child and
bellows, "Get that kid out of here now! No children are allowed."
The mother rises up strong in Karen, and the usually mild-mannered
lady glares steel-eyed into the head nurse's face, her lips a firm line. "He is
not leaving until he sings to his sister!"
Karen tows Michael to his sister's bedside. He gazes at the tiny infant
losing the battle to live. And he begins to sing. In the pure hearted voice of a
3-year-old, Michael sings: "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make
me happy when skies are gray --- ." Instantly the baby girl responds. The
pulse rate becomes calm and steady. Keep on singing, Michael. "You never
know, dear, how much I love you, Please don't take my sunshine away---."
The ragged, strained breathing becomes as smooth as a kitten's purr.
Keep on singing, Michael. "The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed
I held you in my arms..." Michael's little sister relaxes as rest, healing rest,
seems to sweep over her. Keep on singing, Michael. Tears conquer the face
of the bossy head nurse. Karen glows. "You are my sunshine, my only
sunshine. Please don't, take my sunshine away." Funeral plans are
scrapped. The next, day- the very next day-the little girl is well enough to go
home! Woman's Day magazine called it "the miracle of a brother's song."
The medical staff just called it a miracle. Karen called it a miracle of God's love!
_________________________________________________________________
Footprints
One night a man had a dream. He dreamed he was walking along the beach
with the Lord. Across the sky flashed scenes from his life. For each scene he
noticed two sets of footprints in the sand; one belonged to him, and the other to
the Lord.
When the last scene of his life flashed before him, he looked back at the footprints
in the sand. he noticed that many times along the path of his life there was only
one set of footprints. He also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and
saddest times in his life.
This really bothered him and he questioned the Lord about it. "Lord, you said
that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way. But I have
noticed that at the worst times in my life, there is only one set of footprints.
How could you leave me when I needed you the most?"
The Lord replied " My precious, precious child, I love you and would never
leave you. During your times of suffering and when you see only one set of
footprints, it was then that I carried you."
-- Margaret Fishback Powers
_________________________________________________________
Vietnam Soldier
A story is told about a soldier who was finally coming home after having
fought in Vietnam. He called his parents from San Francisco. "Mom and Dad,
I'm coming home, but I've got a favor to ask. I have a friend I'd like to bring
with me." "Sure," they replied, "we'd love to meet him." "There's something
you should know the son continued, "he was hurt pretty badly in the fighting.
He stepped on a land mined and lost an arm and a leg. He has nowhere else
to go, and I want him to come live with us." "I'm sorry to hear that, son.
Maybe we can help him find somewhere to live." "No, Mom and Dad, I want
him to live with us." "Son," said the father, "you don't know what you're asking.
Someone with such a handicap would be a terrible burden on us. We have our
own lives to live, and we can't let something like this interfere with our lives.
I think you should just come home and forget about this guy. He'll find a way
to live on his own." At that point, the son hung up the phone. The parents
heard nothing more from him. A few days later, however, they received a call
from the San Francisco police. Their son had died after falling from a building,
they were told. The police believed it was suicide. The grief-stricken parents
flew to San Francisco and were taken to the city morgue to identify the body
of their son. They recognized him, but to their horror they also discovered
something they didn't know, their son had only one arm and one leg.
The parents in this story are like many of us. We find it easy to love those
who are good-looking or fun to have around, but we don't like people who
inconvenience us or make us feel uncomfortable. We would rather stay away
from people who aren't as healthy, beautiful, or smart as we are.
Thankfully, there's someone who won't treat us that way. Someone who loves
us with an unconditional love that welcomes us into the forever family,
regardless of how messed up we are. Tonight, before you tuck yourself in for
the night, say a little prayer that God will give you the strength you need to
accept people as they are, and to help us all be more understanding of those
who are different from us!!!
_____________________________________________________
Life
Life isn't about keeping score. It's not about how many friends you have.
Or how accepted you are. Not about if you have plans this weekend or if
you're alone. It isn't about whom you're dating, whom you used to date, and
how many people You've dated, or if you haven't been with anyone at all.
It isn't about who your family is or how much money they have
Or what kind of car you drive. Or where you are sent to school.
It's not about how beautiful or ugly you are. Or what clothes you wear, what
shoes you have on, or what kind of Music you listen to. It's not about if your
hair is blonde, red, black, or brown Or if your skin is too light or too dark.
Not about what grades you get, how smart you are, how smart everybody
else thinks you are, or how smart standardized tests say you are.
It's not about what clubs you're in or how good you are at "your" sport.
It's not about representing your whole being on a piece of paper and
Seeing who will "accept the written you." LIFE JUST ISN'T.
But, life is about whom you love and whom you hurt. It's about whom you
make happy or unhappy purposefully. It's about keeping or betraying trust.
Its about friendship, used as sanctity or a weapon. It's about what you say
and mean, maybe hurtful, maybe heartening. About starting rumors and
contributing to petty gossip. It's about what judgments you pass and why.
And who your judgments are spread to. It's about whom you've ignored
with full control and intention. It's about jealousy, fear, ignorance, and revenge.
It's about carrying inner hate and love, letting it grow, and spreading it.
But most of all, it's about using your life to touch or poison other people's
hearts in such a way that could have never occurred alone. Only you choose
the way those hearts are affected, and those choices are what life's all about.
_________________________________________________________
I ASKED FOR
I asked for strength and God gave me difficulties to make me strong
I asked for wisdom and God gave me problems to solve
I asked for prosperity and God gave me brawn and brain to work
I asked for courage and God gave me dangers to overcome
I asked for patience God placed me in situations where I was forced to wait
I asked for love and God gave me troubled people to help
I asked for favors and God gave me opportunities
I received nothing I wanted I received everything I needed
MY PRAYER HAS BEEN ANSWERED.
_______________________________________
Subtle Reminder...
"Have You Read My #1 Best Seller? There Will Be A Test." - God
"Loved The Wedding, Invite Me To The Marriage" - God
"Big Bang Theory, You've Got To Be Kidding." - God
"Let's Meet At My House Sunday Before the Game" - God
"What Part of "Thou Shalt Not..." Didn't You Understand?" - God
"Will The Road You're On Get You To My Place?" - God
"My Way IS The 'High'way." - God
"You Think It's Hot Here?" - God Get the Message?
_______________________________________________
Unforgiveness
Nothing is as painful,
As unforgiveness to the soul;
A heart that's torn asunder,
With forgiveness becomes whole.
A single kind word spoken
Means more than countless words;
The three words, "I forgive you,"
Are all that need be heard.
To a soul that has been wounded,
Like a healing, cooling balm;
Forgiveness soothes and comforts,
Till at last the soul is calm.
For the soul that seeks forgiveness,
When forgiveness can't be found;
It struggles vainly everyday,
To hear that simple sound.
The power in those three kind words,
Can heal a heart that's broken;
But that heart cannot begin to heal,
As long as words remain unspoken.
Compassion in it's purest sense,
Reside in those three words;
The three words, "I forgive you,"
Are all that need be heard. by Allison Chambers Coxsey
