Melanie Hanni

Parable of The Pickle Jar
The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents’ bedroom.  When Dad got ready for bed, he would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.

As a small boy, I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar.  They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty.  Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled.

I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar to admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate’s treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.  When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank.

Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production.   Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.  Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me – hopefully ‘These coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son.  You’re going to do better than me.  This old mill town’s not going to hold you back.’

Each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank – toward the cashier, he would grin proudly.  ‘These are for my son’s college fund.  He’ll never work at the mill all his life like me.’

We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone.  I always got chocolate.  Dad always got vanilla.  When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm.  ‘When we get home, we’ll start filling the jar again.’  He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar.  As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other.  ‘You’ll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,’ he said.  ‘But you’ll get there; I’ll see to that.’

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar.  Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar.  To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me ‘When you finish college, Son,’ he told me, his eyes glistening, ‘You’ll never have to eat beans again – unless you want to.’

The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town.  Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone.  It had served its purpose and had been removed.  A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood.

My dad was a man of few words: he never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith.  The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done. When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy.  In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me.

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents.  After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild.  Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad’s arms.  ‘She probably needs to be changed,’ she said, carrying the baby into my parents’ bedroom to diaper her.

When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.
She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room. ‘Look,’ she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser.  To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins.

I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins.  With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room.  Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt.  Neither one of us could speak.  This truly touched my heart.

Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our blessings.

Never underestimate the power of your actions.  With one small gesture you can change a person’s life, for better or for worse.  God puts us all in each other’s lives to impact one another in some way.  Look for GOOD in others.

The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or touched – they must be felt with the heart ~ Helen Keller

Happy moments, praise God.
Difficult moments, seek God.
Quiet moments, worship God.
Painful moments, trust God.
Every moment, thank God.

When Your Hut’s On Fire – Shipwreck Survival

The only survivor of a shipwreck was washed up on a small, uninhabited island. He prayed feverishly for God to rescue him.  Every day he scanned the horizon for help, but none seemed forthcoming.  Exhausted, he eventually managed to build a little hut out of driftwood to protect him from the elements, and to store his few possessions.  One day, after scavenging for food, he arrived home to find his little hut in flames, with smoke rolling up to the sky.  He felt the worst had happened, and everything was lost.  He was stunned with disbelief, grief, and anger.  He cried out, “God!  How could you do this to me?”

Early the next day, he was awakened by the sound of a ship approaching the island!  It had come to rescue him!  “How did you know I was here?” asked the weary man of his rescuers.  “We saw your smoke signal,” they replied.

The Moral of the Story – It’s easy to get discouraged when things are going bad, but we shouldn’t lose heart, because God is at work in our lives, even in the midst of our pain and suffering.  Remember that the next time your little hut seems to be burning to the ground, it just may be a smoke signal that summons the Grace of God.   Offer a prayer of thanks.

“Life never was intended to be easy. Rather, it is a period of proving and growth.  It is interwoven with difficulties, challenges, and burdens…Yet these very forces, if squarely faced, provide opportunity for tremendous personal growth and development.  The conquering of adversity produces strength of character, forges self-confidence, engenders self-respect, and assures success in righteous endeavor”  Richard G. Scott

BEST work at home business – Moms work at home

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art.

When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son.

About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door.  A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands.   He said, “Sir, you don’t know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life.  He saved many lives that day, as he was carrying me to safety a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly.

He often talked about you, and your love for art.  ” The young man held out a package. “I know this isn’t much.  I’m not really a great artist, but I think your son would want you to have this.”  The father opened the package.  It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man.  He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting.  The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears.  He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture.

“Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me.  It’s a gift.”   The father hung the portrait over his mantle.  Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.

The man died a few months later.  There was to be a great auction of his paintings many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for the collection.  On the platform sat the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel.  “We will start the bidding with this picture of the son.  Who will bid for this picture?”  There was silence.

Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, “We want to see the famous paintings.  Skip this one.   “But the auctioneer persisted. “  Will somebody bid for this painting.   Who will start the bidding?  $100, $200?” Another voice angrily. “We didn’t come to see this painting.  We came to see the Van Goghs, the Rembrandts.  Get on with the real bids!”  But still the auctioneer continued.   “The son! The son! Who’ll take the son?”

Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room.  It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son. “I’ll give $10 for the painting.”   Being a poor man, it was all he could afford. “We have $10, who will bid $20?”  “Give it to him for $10.  Let’s see the masters.”   “$10 is the bid, won’t someone bid $20?”     The crowd was becoming angry.  They didn’t want the picture of the son.  They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections.  The auctioneer pounded the gavel.  “Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!”

A man sitting on the second row shouted,  “Now let’s get on with the collection!”  The auctioneer laid down his gavel.  “I’m sorry, the auction is over.”  “What about the paintings?”   “I am sorry.  When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned.  Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings.  The man who took the son gets everything!”

God gave His son over 2,000 years ago to die on the cross.  Much like the auctioneer, His message today is:  “The son, the son, who’ll take the son?” Because, you see, whoever takes the Son gets everything.

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”  John 3:16

Christmas Thoughts – poem by Helen Steiner Rice

Every Rose Has Its Thorn – A Story of Thanksgiving – Sandra felt as low as the heels of her shoes when she pulled open the florist shop door, against a November gust of wind.  Her life had been as sweet as a spring breeze and then, in the fourth month of her second pregnancy, a “minor” automobile accident stole her joy .  This was Thanksgiving week the time she should have delivered their infant son.  She grieved over their loss.

Troubles had multiplied. Her husband’s company “threatened” to transfer his job to a new location.   Her sister had called to say that she could not come for her long awaited holiday visit.  What’s worse, Sandra ‘s friend suggested that Sandra ‘s 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… “For a careless driver whose truck was hardly scratched when he rear-ended me? For an airbag that saved my life, but took my child’s?”

“Good afternoon, can I help you?”  Sandra was startled by the approach of the shop clerk. “I, I need an arrangement,” stammered Sandra.  “For Thanksgiving?   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 clerk said, “I have the perfect arrangement for you.”

Then the bell on the door rang, and the clerk greeted the new customer….”Hi, Barbara, let me get your order.” She excused herself and walked back to a small workroom, then quickly reappeared, carrying an arrangement of greenery, bows, and what appeared to be long-stemmed thorny roses.  Except the ends of the rose stems were neatly snipped: there were no flowers.  “Do you want these in a box?” asked the clerk.

Sandra watched – 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.

Sandra stammered, “Ah, that lady just left with . . . uh . . . she left with no flowers!”  “That’s right,” said the clerk. “I cut off the flowers.  That’s the ‘Special’ …I call it the Thanksgiving Thorns Bouquet.  Barbara came into the shop three years ago, feeling much as you do today,” explained the clerk.  “She thought she had very little to be thankful for.  She had just lost her father; the family business was failing; her son had gotten into drugs; and she was facing major surgery.  That same year I had lost my husband,” continued the clerk. “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 much 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 the good things in my life and I never questioned Him why those good things happened to me, but when the bad stuff hit, I cried out, ‘Why?  Why me?!’  It took time for me to learn that the dark times are important to our faith!  I have always en joyed the ‘flowers’ of my life, but it took the 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 what 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!” the clerk greeted 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 telling me why she wants a bouquet that looks like that?”   “Four years ago, my wife and I nearly divorced,”  Phil replied. “  After forty years, we were in a real mess, but with the Lord’s grace and guidance, we trudged through problem after problem, the Lord rescued our marriage. Jenny here (the clerk) told me she kept a vase of rose stems to remind her of what she had learned from “thorny” times.   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 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 the thorns make the roses more precious.  We treasure God’s providential care more during trouble than at any other time.

Remember that 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 her 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?”  “Nothing…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 would 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.”

Remember – Every Rose Has Its Thorn – Praise Him for the roses; thank Him for the thorns.  With an attitude of gratitude may the Lord bless you this Thanksgiving Season.

You Reap What You Sow

“Good morning”, said a woman as she walked up to the man sitting on the ground…The man slowly looked up.  This was a woman clearly accustomed to the finer things of life.  Her coat was new.  She looked like she had never missed a meal in her life.   His first thought was that she wanted to make fun of him, like so many others had done before.  “Leave me alone,” he growled…

To his amazement, the woman continued standing.   She was smiling – her even white teeth displayed in dazzling rows.   “Are you hungry?” she asked.  “No,” he answered sarcastically. “I’ve just come from dining with the president.  Now go away.”  The woman’s smile became even broader…Suddenly the man felt a gentle hand under his arm.

“What are you doing, lady?” the man asked angrily. “I said to leave me alone.”   Just then a policeman came up… “Is there a problem, ma’am?”  he asked…”No problem here, officer,” the woman answered.  “I’m just trying to get this man to his feet… Will you help me?”

The officer scratched his head. “That’s old Jack.  He’s been a fixture around here for a couple of years.   What do you want with him?”   “See that cafeteria over there?” she asked “I’m going to get him something to eat and get him out of the cold for awhile.”

“Are you crazy, lady?” the homeless man resisted.   “I don’t want to go in there!” Then he felt strong hands grab his other arm and lift him up.   “Let me go, officer. I didn’t do anything..” “This is a good deal for you, Jack,” the officer answered.   “Don’t blow it.”

Finally, and with some difficulty, the woman and the police officer got Jack into the cafeteria and sat him at a table in a remote corner.   It was the middle of the morning, so most of the breakfast crowd had already left and the lunch bunch had not yet arrived…The manager strode across the cafeteria and stood by his table.

“What’s going on here, officer?” he asked.   “What is all this about, is this man in trouble?”  “This lady brought this man in here to be fed,” the policeman answered.  “Not in here!” the manager replied angrily.   “Having a person like that here is bad for business.”

Old Jack smiled a toothless grin. “See, lady. I told you so.   Now if you’ll let me go. I didn’t want to come here in the first place.”

The woman turned to the cafeteria manager and smiled.   “Sir, are you familiar with Eddy and Associates, the banking firm down the street?”   “Of course I am,” the manager answered impatiently.  “They hold their weekly meetings in one of my 20 banquet rooms.”    “And do you make a goodly amount of money providing food at these weekly meetings?”  “What business is that of yours?”   “I, sir, am Penelope Eddy, president and CEO of the company.”   “Oh.”

The woman smiled again. “I thought that might make a difference.”  She glanced at the cop who was busy stifling giggle.   “Would you like to join us in a cup of coffee and a meal, officer?” “No thanks, ma’am,” the officer replied, “I’m on duty.”  Then, perhaps, a cup of coffee to go?” “Yes, ma’am. That would be very nice.”

The cafeteria manager turned on his heel, “I’ll get your coffee right away, officer.” The officer watched him walk away.   “You certainly put him in his place,” he said.   “That was not my intent.  Believe it or not, I have a reason for all this.”   She sat down at the table across from her amazed dinner guest.

She stared at him intently. “Jack, do you remember me?”   Old Jack searched her face with his old, rheumy eyes.. “I think so — I mean you do look familiar.”  “I’m a little older perhaps,” she said…”Maybe I’ve even filled out more than in my younger days when you worked here, and I came through that very door, cold and hungry.”

“Ma’am?” the officer said questioningly. He couldn’t believe that such a magnificently turned out woman could ever have been hungry.  “I was just out of college,” the woman began. “I had come to the city looking for a job, but I couldn’t find anything.   Finally I was down to my last few cents and had been kicked out of my apartment.  I walked the streets for days.  It was February and I was cold and nearly starving… I saw this place and walked in on the chance that I could get something to eat.”

Jack lit up with a smile. “Now I remember,” he said.  “I was behind the serving counter. You came up and asked me if you could work for something to eat.   I said that it was against company policy.”   “I know,” the woman continued. “Then you made me the biggest roast beef sandwich that I had ever seen, gave me a cup of coffee, and told me to go over to a corner table and enjoy it.   I was afraid that you would get into trouble… Then, when I looked over and saw you put the price of my food in the cash register, I knew then that everything would be all right.”

“So you started your own business?” Old Jack said.   “I got a job that very afternoon. I worked my way up. Eventually I started my own business that, with the help of God,  prospered.”   She opened her purse and pulled out a business card.

“When you are finished here, I want you to pay a visit to a Mr. Lyons…He’s the personnel director of my company. I’ll go talk to him now and I’m certain he’ll find something for you to do around the office.”

She smiled. “I think he might even find the funds to give you a little advance so that you can buy some clothes and get a place to live until you get on your feet… If you ever need anything, my door is always opened to you.”

There were tears in the old man’s eyes.  “How can I ever thank you?” he said…”Don’t thank me, ” the woman answered. “To God be the glory – He led me to you.”

Outside the cafeteria, the officer and the woman paused at the entrance before going their separate ways… “Thank you for all your help, officer,” she said. “On the contrary, Ms. Eddy,” he answered. “Thank you.  I saw a miracle today, something that I will never forget.   And thank you for the coffee.”

Have a wonderful day, and may God bless you always and don’t forget that when you “cast your bread upon the waters,” you never know how it will be returned to you.

God’s love can cover the whole world, and yet small enough to stay in your heart.   When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully and let go.

Only 1 of 2 things will happen, either He’ll catch you when you fall, or He’ll teach you how to fly!  God closes doors no man can open & God opens doors no man can close.

Have a blessed day and remember you to can be a blessing in someones life.

Something  really cute happened in downtown  San Antonio this week.

Michael R. is an accounting clerk at Frost Bank and works there in a second story office.  Several weeks ago, he watched a mother duck choose the concrete awning outside his window as the unlikely place to build a nest above the sidewalk.

The mallard laid ten eggs in a nest – in the corner of the planter that is perched over 10 feet in the air.  She dutifully kept the eggs warm for weeks, and Monday afternoon all of her ten ducklings hatched.

Michael worried all night how the momma duck was going to get those babies safely off their perch in a busy, downtown, urban environment to take to water, which typically happens in the first 48  hours of a duck hatching.  Tuesday morning, Michael watched the mother duck encourage her babies to the edge of the perch with the intent to show them how to jump off.

Office work came to a standstill as everyone gathered to watch.   The mother flew down below and started quacking to her babies above.  In disbelief Michael watched as the first fuzzy newborn trustingly toddled to the edge and astonishingly leapt into thin air, crashing onto the cement below.  Michael couldn’t stand to watch this risky effort nine more times!  He dashed out of his office and ran down the stairs to the sidewalk where the first obedient duckling, near its mother, was resting in a stupor after the near-fatal fall.

Michael stood out of sight under the awning-planter, ready to help.  As the second one took the plunge, Michael jumped forward and caught it with his bare hands before it hit the concrete.  Safe and sound, he set it down it by its momma and the other stunned sibling, still recovering from that painful leap.

(The momma  must have sensed that Michael was trying to help her babies.)  One by one the babies continued to jump.  Each time Michael hid under the awning just to reach out in the nick of time as the duckling made its free fall. At the scene the busy downtown sidewalk traffic came to a standstill.  Time after time, Michael was able to catch the remaining eight and set them by their approving mother.

At this point Michael realized the duck family had only made part of its dangerous journey.  They had two full blocks to walk across traffic, crosswalks, curbs and past pedestrians to get to the closest open water, the San Antonio River, site of the famed “River Walk.”

The onlooking office secretaries and several San Antonio police officers joined in.  An empty copy-paper box was brought to collect the babies. They carefully corralled them, with the mother’s approval, and loaded them in the container.  Michael held the box low enough for the mom to see her brood.

He then slowly navigated through the downtown streets toward the San Antonio River.  The mother waddled behind and kept her babies in sight, all the way.  As they reached the river, the mother took over and passed him, jumping in the river and quacking loudly.  At the water’s edge, Michael tipped the box and helped shepherd the babies toward the water and to the waiting mother after their adventurous ride.

All ten darling ducklings safely made it into the water and paddled up snugly to momma.  Michael said the  mom swam in circles, looking back toward the beaming bank bookkeeper, and proudly quacking.  At last, all present and accounted for:  “We’re all together  again.  We’re here!  We’re here!”  And here’s a family portrait before they head outward to  further adventures…

Like all of us in the big times of our life, they never could have made it alone without lots of helping hands.  I think it gives the name of San Antonio’s famous “River Walk” a whole new meaning!

GPS Trackers – for your finances

Who Am I? – “One day a young naturalist who was passing by a farm, inquired of the owner why it was that an Eagle, the King of all birds, would be confined to live in the barnyard with the chickens.

“Since I have given it chicken feed and trained it to be a chicken, it has never learned to fly,” replied the owner.  “It behaves as chickens behave, so, it is no longer an Eagle.”  “Still,” insisted the naturalist, “it has the heart of an Eagle and can be taught to fly.”  Gently the naturalist took the Eagle in his arms and said,,

“You belong to the sky and not to the earth.  Stretch forth your wings and fly.”

The Eagle, however, was confused; he did not know who he was.  Seeing the chickens eating their food, he jumped down to be with them again.

Undismayed, the naturalist took the Eagle on the following day up on the roof of the house and urge him again, saying, “You are an Eagle.  Stretch forth your wings and fly.”  But the Eagle was afraid of his unknown self and world and jumped down once more for the chicken food.

On the third day the naturalist rose early and took the Eagle out of the barnyard to a high mountain.  There he held the King of birds high above him and encourage him again, saying “You are an Eagle.  You belong to the sky as well as the earth.  Stretch forth your wings now and fly.”

The Eagle looked back towards the barnyard and up to the sky.  Still he did not fly.  Then the naturalist lifted him straight towards the sun and it happened that the Eagle began to tremble; slowly he stretched his wings.   At last, with a triumphant cry he soared into the heavens.

It may be that the Eagle still remembers the chickens with nostalgia; it may even be that he occasionally revisits the barnyard, But as far as anyone knows, he has never returned to lead the life of a chicken.

” HE IS AN EAGLE”

By Jerry Fankhauser

Living the American Dream

An Obituary printed in the London Times – sure makes you think

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.  He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

Knowing when to come in out of the rain; Why the early bird gets the worm; Life isn’t always fair; and maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don’t spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.  It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an Aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn’t defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot.   She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.  He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers;

I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I’m A Victim

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.  Do You still remember him? 

Financial Crisis – Help

As the Story Goes - There was a Young Boy, An Old Wise Man, and A Donkey all Traveling on a Long Journey Together.

As they came upon a little town - the Young Boy and the Old man, had walked a long way – Giving their Faithful Donkey a Rest – They decided both would ride the donkey through town to rest their weary legs.  As people watched they began to whisper, how could both of them ride that poor donkey, what cruelty to an animal.

Not long after the first town they came upon a second - the young boy said to the old man – You stay on the donkey and rest a bit more – While I lead you through town.  Once again people started to whisper, how terrible it was – that the old man was making the young boy walk – when he looked so tired and his shoes so worn out.

They journeyed farther, as they came to a third little town, the old man said to the young man, you have been so kind to give me rest – now it is your turn to ride the donkey – as I lead you through town.
Once again, people began to whisper – What an awful, rude, lazy young man to make the old man walk.

The Moral of the Story?
Until You have walked a Mile in my Moccasins –
How can You Judge Me???

Personal financial software

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 as 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 really caring.  “Oh, I don’t know, I just like the feel of sand.” That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.

A sandpiper glided by. “That’s a joy,” the child said. “It’s a what?” “It’s a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.”

The bird went gliding 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.  “Robert,” I answered. “I’m Robert Peterson.” “Mine’s Wendy… I’m six.”  “Hi, Wendy.”  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, Mr. P,” she called. “We’ll have another happy day.”

The next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and 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 ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.

“Hello, Mr. 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 to even greet 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 to her and shouted, “Because my mother died!” and thought, Why was I saying this to a little child?

“Oh,” she said quietly, “then this is a bad day.”  “Yes,” I said, “and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!” “Did it hurt?” she inquired.  “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 Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was.”  “Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke 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 what I had just said.

Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn’t tell you.” Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath.  “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 to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with “MR. P” printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues – a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed: THE  SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy’s mother in my arms. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I uttered 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 harmony, courage, and undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand — who taught me the gift of love.

This is suppose to be a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. It happened over 20 years ago and the incident changed his life forever.  It serves as a reminder to all of us that we need to take time to enjoy living and life and each other. The price of hating other human beings is loving oneself less.

Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what is truly important or what is only a momentary setback or crisis.

This week, be sure to give your loved ones an extra hug, and by all means, take a moment … even if it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses. This comes from someone’s heart, and is read by many and now I share it with you…

May God Bless us everyone who reads this! There are NO coincidences! Everything that happens to us happens for a reason. Never brush aside anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they can teach us!

Thank You Robert Peterson for such an inspiration message!

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