The smell of rain

"A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. Still groggy from surgery, her husband David held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.

"That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency cesarean to deliver the couple's new daughter, Danae Lu Blessing. At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound and nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs. 'I don't think she's going to make it'" he said, as kindly as he could. '"There's only a 10%  chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one.'

"Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Danae would likely face if she survived. She would never walk; she would never talk; she would probably be blind; she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation; and on and on.

"'No! No!' was all Diana could say. She and David, with their 5 year old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.

Through the dark hours of morning as Danae held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of drugged sleep, growing more and more determined that their tiny daughter would live - and live to be a healthy, happy young girl. But David, fully awake and listening to additional dire details of their daughter's chances of ever leaving the hospital alive, much less healthy, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable.

"David walked in and said that we needed to talk about making funeral arrangements, Diana remembers ' felt so bad for him because he was doing everything, trying to include me in what was going on, but I just wouldn't listen, I couldn't listen. I said, 'No, that is not going to happen, no way! I don't care what the doctors say Danae is not going to die! One day she will be just fine, and she will be coming home with us!'

"As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Danae clung to life hour after hour, with the help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana.

"Because Danae's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially 'raw,' the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort - so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Danae struggled alone beneath the ultra-violet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.

There was never a moment when Danae suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there.

"At last, when Danae turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later -though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero.

"Danae went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.

Today, five years later, Danae is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She shows no signs, whatsoever, of any mental or physical impairments. Simply, she is everything a little girl can be and more - but that happy ending is far from the end of her story.

"One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Danae was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing. As always, Danae was chattering non-stop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, Danae asked, 'Do you smell that?' Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, 'Yes, it smells like rain.' Danae closed her eyes and again asked, 'Do you smell that?' Once again, her mother replied, 'Yes, I think we're about to get wet, it smells like rain.'

Still caught in the moment, Danae shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, 'No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest.' Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Danae then happily hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.

During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Danae on His chest - and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well."
Author unknown

 The Dark Candle

A man had a little daughter - an only and much loved child. He lived for her - she was his life. So when she became ill and her illness resisted the efforts of the best obtainable physicians, he became like a man possessed - moving heaven and earth to bring about her restoration to health.
His best efforts proved unavailing and the child died. The father was totally irreconcilable. He became a bitter recluse, shutting himself away from his many friends and refusing every activity that might restore his poise and bring him back to his normal self.

But one night he had a dream. He was in Heaven, and was witnessing a grand pageant of all the little Angels. They were marching in an apparently endless line past the Great White Throne. Every white-robed angelic tot carried a candle. He noticed that one child's candle was not lighted. Then he saw that the child with the dark candle was his own little girl. Rushing to her, while the pageant faltered, he seized her in his arms, caressed her tenderly, and then asked: "How is it darling, that your candle alone is unlighted?". "Father, they often relight it, but your tears always put it out."

Just then he awoke from his dream. The lesson was crystal clear, and it's effects were immediate. From that hour on he was not a recluse, but mingled freely and cheerfully with his former friends and associates. No longer would his little darling's candle be extinguished by his useless tears.
Strickland Gillian

The Piano

Wishing to encourage her young son's progress on the piano, a mother took her boy to a Paderewski concert. After they were seated, the mother spotted a friend in the audience and walked down the aisle to greet her.
Seizing the opportunity to explore the wonders of the concert hall, the little boy rose and eventually explored his way through the door marked "NO ADMITTANCE". When the houselights dimmed and the concert was about to begin, the mother returned to her seat and discovered that the child was missing. Suddenly, the curtains parted and spotlights focused on the impressive Steinway on stage. In horror, the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard, innocently picking out "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." At that moment, the great piano master made his entrance, quickly moved to the piano, and whispered in the boy's ear, "Don't quit. Keep playing". Then leaning over, Paderewski reached down with his left hand and began filling in the bass part. Soon his right arm reached around to the other side of the child and he added a running obligato.
Together, the old master and the young novice transformed a frightening situation into a wonderfully creative experience.
And the audience was mesmerized.
Whatever our situation in life and history - however outrageous, however desperate, whatever dry spell of the spirit, whatever dark night of the soul - God is whispering deep within our beings, "Don't quit. Keep playing. You are not alone. Together we will transform the broken patterns into a masterwork of my creative art. Together, we will mesmerize the world with our song of peace."

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. Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend."
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. "I never knew that meant anything to anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so much!"
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip - the weather, my experiences in general. There was a 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 I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was: Mark, I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.
The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water.
I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who 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

'The purpose of this letter, is to encourage everyone to compliment the people you love and care about. We often tend to forget the importance of showing our affections and love. Sometimes the smallest of things, could mean the most to another. I am asking you, to please send this letter around and spread the message and encouragement, to express your love and caring by complimenting and being open with communication. The density of people in society, is so thick, that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be. So please, I beg of you, to tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.'

 A Christmas Story

It was only four days before Christmas. The spirit of the season hadn't yet caught up with me, even though cars packed the parking lot of our local discount store. Inside the store, it was worse. Shopping carts and last minute shoppers jammed the aisles. Why did I come today? I wondered. My feet ached almost as much as my head. My list contained names of several people who claimed they wanted nothing but I knew their feelings would be hurt if I didn't buy them anything. Buying for someone who had everything and deploring the high cost of items, I considered gift buying anything but fun.
Hurriedly, I filled my shopping cart with last minute items and proceeded to the long checkout lines. I picked the shortest but it looked as if it would mean at least a 20 minute wait.
In front of me were two small children - a boy of about 5 and a younger girl. The boy wore a ragged coat, enormously large, tattered tennis shoes jutted far out in front of his much too short jeans. He clutched several crumpled dollar bills in his grimy hands. The girl's clothing resembled her brother's. Her head was a matted mass of curly hair. Reminders of an evening meal showed on her small face. She carried a beautiful pair of shiny, gold house slippers. As the Christmas music sounded in the store's stereo system, the girl hummed along, off-key but happily.
When we finally approached the checkout register, the girl carefully placed the shoes on the counter. She treated them as though they were a treasure. The clerk rang up the bill. "That will be $6.09,"she said. The boy laid his crumpled dollars atop the stand while he searched his pockets. He finally came up with $3.12. "I guess we will have to put them back," he bravely said. "We will come back some other time, maybe tomorrow."
With that statement, a soft sob broke from the little girl. "But Jesus would have loved these shoes," she cried. "Well, we'll go home and work some more. Don't cry. We'll come back," he said.
Quickly I handed $3.00 to the cashier. These children had waited in line for a long time. And, after all, it was Christmas. Suddenly a pair of arms came around me and a small voice said, "Thank you lady."
"What did you mean when you said Jesus would like the shoes?" I asked. The boy answered, "Our mommy is sick and going to heaven. Daddy said she might go before Christmas to be with Jesus." The girl spoke, "My Sunday school teacher said the streets in heaven are shiny gold, just like these shoes. Won't mommy be beautiful walking on those streets to match these shoes?" My eyes flooded as I looked into her tear streaked face. "Yes" I answered, "I am sure she will."
Silently I thanked God for using these children to remind me of the true spirit of giving."
John Donnelly

 Life cycles

When your world's set in motion at the instant of birth,
And the ingredients mixed, with the grief and the mirth,
Then an hourglass is up-ended and the sand starts to spill,
Your cycles start grinding like stones of a mill.

Each nine years they'll give you a moment of pause,
To sort out our life and repair any flaws.
Then a new cycle dawns as the hourglass is turned
And you're off to adventure with old lessons learned.

As the years tick away on your journey of life,
You must study success and your reasons for strife.
The goals that you gain are of little import,
If your spirit is damaged and your morals are bought.

When you receive blows that cause you to stumble,
Look for the lesson and learn to be humble.
Some cycles are painful and some are a joy,
You'll feel many times that you're only fate's toy.

Yet your journey has purpose and is part of a plan,
At the end of it's run, you're back where it began.
As the last grain of sand slips from the glass,
Here comes a new cycle and there goes the last.
John Arthur Daley.

 My perfect child

As my children were born, I wanted them to be perfect. When they were babies I wanted them to smile and be content playing with their toys. I wanted them to be happy and to laugh continually instead of crying and being demanding. I wanted them to see the beautiful side of life.
As they grew older, I wanted them to be giving instead of selfish. I wanted them to skip the terrible two's. I wanted them to stay innocent forever.
As they became teen-agers, I wanted them to be obedient and not rebellious, mannerly and not mouthy. I wanted them to be full of love, gentle and kind hearted.
"Oh God, give me a child like this" was often my prayer. One day He did. Some call him handicapped....I call him perfect!!
Author unknown

 Morning thankfulness

Even though I clutch my blanket and growl when the alarm rings every morning, THANK YOU LORD that I can hear. -Many are deaf.

Even though I keep my eyes closed against the morning light as long as possible, THANK YOU LORD that I can see.-Many are blind.

Even though I huddle in my bed and put off getting up, THANK YOU LORD that I have strength to rise.-Many are bedfast.

Even though the first hours of my day are hectic-socks are lost-toast is burned-tempers are short, THANK YOU LORD for my family.- Many are lonely.

Even though our breakfast table never looks like those in Women's magazines and the menu is sometimes unbalanced, THANK YOU LORD for the food we have.-Many are hungry.

Even though our house feels small and it's outdated furniture is showing wear, THANK YOU LORD for it's warmth and protection.-Many are homeless.

Even though my job is often monotonous, THANK YOU LORD for the opportunity to work.-Many are unemployed.

Even though I grumble from morning to morning and wish my circumstances were different, THANK YOU LORD for the gift of Life.
(author unknown)

 Test

John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose.
His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes pencilled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II.
During the next year and one month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like.
When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central Station in New York.
"You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel."
So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:
A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips.
"Going my way, sailor?" she murmured.
Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes.
The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own. And there she stood.
Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate.
My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful.
I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment.
"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"
It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell's wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in its response to the unattractive.
Author unknown

 LABELS ARE FOR CANS -NOT KIDS!

This is a story of a young boy
Who was born 8 weeks early.
He had so much hair
His parents named him Curly.

He was very cute
Blue shirt and white socks.
I should also mention
He was "positive tox."

But born premature
He was in a difficult position
The pediatrician warned his parents
Curley's got a "genetic predisposition."

But not to worry, said the doctor,
It's come to my attention
There's a new program around
Called "early intervention."

His behavior was strange
To say the very best
So his parents did the usual.
They took him for some tests.

The doctors were dismayed
That his milestones were delayed,
EEG, blood tests, x-rays,
The first of many diagnosis were made.

The entire staff got together
And said I'll bet you a quarter
This little child has a "seizure disorder."

Relieved with a clear answer
The diagnosticians walked tall.
The parents left the hospital
With a bucket of phenobarbital.

Two pills a day
Both morning and night.
But when Curley went to school
Nothing seemed right.

Eye contact was poor.
Attention span short.
Now it was the teachers who held their own court.

This child is different,
His language has not started.
Perhaps this child is "mentally retarded."

But mental retardation
He didn't seem to the eye.
possibly not global
Just minimally "B.I."

Seizure disorder, retardation, brain injury
Not exactly topics for a luncheon.
Maybe make this label more palatable
And call it a "perceptual dysfunction"

The parents were scared
The child lost too.
Now they really had
Some testing to do.

But who would they see
Pediatrician, teacher, neurologist?
No- they chose the local speech pathologist.

More testing, more games
An attempt to be realistic.
The speech pathologist said
He's not brain injured-he's "autistic!"

But he did well in therapy
Too well for his label
So more diagnosis were put on the table.

Should the child leave home
To keep the family in order?
No-specialists said-it's not autism,
It's a "pervasive developmental disorder."

Many therapists continued
And his affect progressed.
Maybe the wrong label
Had once again been addressed.

The mom was upset.
The therapist tried to support her,
And as Curly improved, they thought
It's a "phonological disorder."

A phonological disorder
Well, that can relax ya.
Years ago, wasn't it called
"Developmental Apraxia?"

But as he did better in school
Despite his previous label.
It became clear to all
He was simply "learning disabled!"

Well, that's pretty vague
A need to be more specific
Dysgraphia, dyslexia, dyscalculia
All seemed less horrific.

While academics improved
His behavior seemed worse
It was more than LD
A new unknown curse.

We moved to the 80's
And LD seemed rather old
We must find a new label
Before the clues get cold!

More testing, more opinions
A neuropsychological to put it in order
This is the 90's
He's got "attention deficit disorder."

But it was more than academics.
His behavior was too bad.
Continued medication
Only made him feel sad.

The specialists got together
At conferences like these.
An attempt to label further.
The audience seemed pleased.

Research and data
The basis of our creativity
The labels had been all wrong
It's "ADD with hyperactivity!"

My question is tongue and cheek
How important is the label?
Shouldn't we just describe the symptoms
And put each one on the table?

Well, Curly's doing well
He's a therapist today.
He avoids using labels
In every possible way.

He provides for his patients
A daily dose of reality.
The only problem is- he's a analyst
With a "borderline personality."
Author Unknown

Hero

In the wake of Chicago's worst ever winter, when all of the rooftops were loaded, many overloaded with snow....
Robert McGrath saw his wife run out to the backyard garage to fetch some boxes.
Seconds later he heard the crash!
Looking out he saw the roof of the garage had caved in. McGrath did not stop for hat or coat... He ran from the house, grabbed a snow shovel, and called out for neighbors to help.
Yelling and digging, with sweat freezing on his face - throwing snow and pulling away boards - he heard her voice and then saw her hand. He kept digging, throwing and pulling....
And within minutes he had his wife in his arms and was sobbing, "Are you all right? Are you all right? I thought you were hurt. Oh baby, I love you so much!"
She was fine.
What Robert McGrath did NOT know was this:
Mrs. McGrath had gone into the garage through one door and out through another. She was safe in the house when she looked out and saw her husband digging and shouting orders and throwing planks of wood, feverishly trying to rescue her. She could not let her gallant rescuer down.
So she put her coat on again and went outside and quietly entered the garage through the back door - and allowed her husband to be her hero.
Author Unknown

 The Old Fisherman

Our house was directly across the street from the clinic entrance of John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. We lived downstairs and rented the upstairs rooms to outpatients at the clinic.
One summer evening as I was fixing supper, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see a truly awful looking man. "Why, he's hardly taller than my eight-year-old," I thought as I stared at the stooped, shrivelled body.
But the appalling thing was his face-lopsided from swelling, red and raw. Yet his voice was pleasant as he said, "Good evening. I've come to see if you've a room for just one night. I came for a treatment this morning from the eastern shore, and there's no bus till morning."
He told me he'd been hunting for a room since noon but with no success - no-one seemed to have a room. "I guess it's my face... I know it looks terrible, but my doctor says with a few more treatments..."
For a moment I hesitated, but his next words convinced me: "I could sleep in this rocking chair on the porch. My bus leaves early in the morning." I told him we would find him a bed, but to rest on the porch meanwhile I went inside and finished getting supper.
When we were ready, I asked the old man if he would join us. "No thank you. I have plenty." And he held up a brown paper bag. When I finished the dishes, I went out on the porch to talk with him a few minutes. It didn't take long to see that this old man had an oversized heart crowded into that tiny body. He told me he fished for a living to support his daughter, her five children, and her husband, who was hopelessly crippled from a back injury. He didn't tell it by way of complaint; in fact, every other sentence was preface with a thanks to God for a blessing. He was grateful that no pain accompanied his disease, which was apparently a form of skin cancer. He thanked God for giving him the strength to keep going.
At bedtime, we put a camp cot in the children's room for him. When I got up in the morning, the bed linens were neatly folded and the little man was out on the porch. He refused breakfast, but just before he left for his bus, haltingly, as if asking a great favor, he said, "Could I please come back and stay the next time I have a treatment? I won't put you out a bit. I can sleep fine in a chair."
He paused a moment then added, "Your children made me feel at home. Grownups are bothered by my face, but children don't seem to mind." I told him he was welcome to come again. And on his next trip he arrived a little after seven in the morning. As a gift, he brought a big fish and a quart of the largest oysters I had ever seen. He said he had shucked them that morning before he left so that they'd be nice and fresh. I knew his bus left at 4:00 a.m. and I wondered what time he had to get up in order to do this for us.
In the years he came to stay overnight with us there was never a time that he did not bring us fish or oysters or vegetables from his garden. Other times we received packages in the mail, always by special delivery; fish and oysters packed in a box of fresh young spinach or kale, every leaf carefully washed. Knowing that he must walk three miles to mail these and knowing how little money he had made the fish doubly precious.
When I received these little remembrances, I often thought of a comment our next-door neighbor made after he left that first morning. "Did you keep that awful looking man last night?? I turned him away! You can lose roomers by putting up such people!" Maybe we did lose roomers once or twice. But oh! - if only they could have known him, perhaps their illnesses would have been easier to bear. I know our family always will be grateful to have known him; from him we learned what it was to accept the bad without complaint and the good with gratitude to God.
Recently I was visiting a friend who has a greenhouse. As she showed me her flowers, we came to the most beautiful one of all -a golden chrysanthemum, bursting with blooms. But to my great surprise, it was growing in an old dented, rusty bucket. I thought to myself, "If this were my plant, I'd put it in the loveliest container I had!" My friend changed my mind. "I ran short of pots," she explained, "and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn't mind starting out in this old pail. It's just for a little while, till I can put it out in the garden." She must have wondered why I laughed so delightedly, but I was imagining just such a scene in heaven. "Here's an especially beautiful one", God might have said when he came to the soul of the sweet old fisherman. "He won't mind starting in this small body."
All this happened long ago - and now, in God's garden, how tall this lovely soul must stand.
~Author Unknown~

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