Sunday's Stranger
author unknown
The parking lot filled rapidly on Sunday morning as members of the large church congregation filed into church. As usually happens in a church that size, each member had developed a certain comfort zone - a block of space within those four church walls that became theirs after the second or third sitting. It was as much a part of their church experience as the recliner was to the television at home. Some of the older members had been sitting in the same row on the same side for several decades. A team of oxen could not have moved them to the opposite side of the church.
One morning a stranger stood at the edge of the parking lot near a dumpster. As families parked cars and piled out, they noticed him rummaging through the trash.
"Oh no! I don't believe it," whispered a lady to her husband. "That's all we need - a bunch of homeless people milling around here."
One worried little girl tugged on her dad's sleeve. "But Daddy..." Daddy was busy sizing up the bearded stranger, whose baggy, outdated trousers and faded flannel shirt had dusted too many park benches.
"Don't stare at him, honey," he whispered, and hurried her inside.
Soft music filled the high-ceilinged sanctuary as churchgoers settled into their usual spots. The choir sang an opening chorus, "In His presence there is comfort...in His presence there is peace...".
Sunlight suddenly flooded the center aisle. The double doors swung open and the homeless man, sloppy and stooped, headed toward the front.
"Oh no, it's him!" somebody muttered.
"What does he think he's doing, anyway?" snapped an incredulous usher.
The stranger set his bag full of dumpster treasures on the very first pew, which had been upholstered in an expensive soft teal fabric just three months ago.
The music stopped.
And before anyone had a chance to react, he ambled up the stairs and stood behind the fine, hand-crafted oak podium, where he faced a wide-eyed congregation.
The disheveled stranger spoke haltingly at first, in a low, clear voice. Unbuttoning and removing his top layer of clothing, he described Jesus, and the love He has for all people.
"Jesus possesses a sensitivity and love that far surpasses what any of us deserves."
Stepping out of the baggy old trousers, the stranger went on to describe a forgiveness that is available to each and every one of us...without strings attached.
Unconditionally He loves us.
Unconditionally He gave his very life for us.
Unconditionally and forever, we can have the peace and assurance that no matter who we are, where we've come from, or how badly we may have mistreated others or ourselves, there is hope.
In Jesus, there is always hope.
"You see, my friends, it is never too late to change," the man continued.
"He is the Author of change, and the Provider of forgiveness. He came to bring new meaning to 'life'."
Men and women squirmed as reality hit them like an electrical current.
The stranger tugged at his knotted gray beard, and removed it.
"I'm here to tell you that we are loved with a love far beyond human understanding, a love that enables us to accept and love others in return."
Then tenderly he added, "Let's pray together."
That wise pastor - under the guise of a homeless "nobody" - did not preach a sermon that day, but every person left with plenty to think about.
Table For Two
by Kirsten Burgess
He sits by himself at a table for two.
The uniformed waiter returns to his side and asks, "Would you like to go ahead and order, sir?" The man has, after all, been waiting since seven o'clock -- almost half an hour.
"No, thank you," the man smiles. "I'll wait for her a while longer. How about some more coffee?"
"Certainly, sir."
The man sits, his clear blue eyes gazing straight through the flowered centerpiece. He fingers his napkin, allowing the sounds of light chatter, tinkling silverware, and mellow music to fill his mind. He is dressed in sport coat and tie. His dark brown hair is neatly combed, but one stray lock insists on dropping to his forehead. The scent of his cologne adds to his clean cut image. He is dressed up enough to make a companion feel important, respected, loved. Yet he is not so formal as to make one uncomfortable. It seems that he has taken every precaution to make others feel at ease with him.
Still, he sits alone.
The waiter returns to fill the man's coffee cup. "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"
"No, thank you."
The waiter remains standing at the table. Something tugs at his curiosity. "I don't mean to pry, but..." His voice trails off. This line of conversation could jeopardize his tip.
"Go ahead," the man encourages. His is strong, yet sensitive, inviting conversation.
"Why do you bother waiting for her?" the waiter finally blurts out. This man has been at the restaurant other evenings, always patiently alone.
Says the man quietly, "Because she needs me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir, no offense, but assuming that she needs you, she sure isn't acting much like it. She's stood you up three times just this week."
The man winces, and looks down at the table. "Yes, I know."
"Then why do you still come here and wait?"
"Cassie said that she would be here."
"She's said that before," the waiter protests. "I wouldn't put up with it. Why do you?"
Now the man looks up, smiles at the waiter, and says simply, "Because I love her."
The waiter walks away, wondering how one could love a girl who stands him up three times a week. The man must be crazy, he decides. Across the room, he turns to look at the man again. The man slowly pours cream into his coffee. He twirls his spoon between his fingers a few times before stirring sweetener into his cup. After staring for a moment into the liquid, the man brings the cup to his mouth and sips, silently watching those around him. He doesn't look crazy, the waiter admits. Maybe the girl has qualities that I don't know about. Or maybe the man's love is stronger than most. The waiter shakes himself out of his musings to take an order from a party of five.
The man watches the waiter, wonders if he's ever been stood up. The man has, many times. But he still can't get used to it. Each time, it hurts. He's looked forward to this evening all day. He has many things, exciting things, to tell Cassie. But, more importantly, he wants to hear Cassie's voice. He wants her to tell him all about her day, her triumphs, her defeats....anything, really. He has tried so many times to show Cassie how much he loves her. He'd just like to know that she cares for him, too. He sips sporadically at the coffee, and loses himself in thought, knowing that Cassie is late, but still hoping that she will arrive.
The clock says nine-thirty when the waiter returns to the man's table. "Is there anything I can get for you?"
The still empty chair stabs at the man. "No, I think that will be all for tonight. May I have the check please?"
"Yes, sir."
When the waiter leaves, the man picks up the check. He pulls out his wallet and signs. He has enough money to have given Cassie a feast. But he takes out only enough to pay for his five cups of coffee and the tip. Why do you do this, Cassie, his mind cries as he gets up from the table.
"Good-bye," the waiter says, as the man walks towards the door.
"Good night. Thank you for your service."
"You're welcome, sir," says the waiter softly, for he sees the hurt in the man's eyes that his smile doesn't hide.
The man passes a laughing young couple on his way out, and his eyes glisten as he thinks of the good time he and Cassie could have had. He stops at the front and makes reservations for tomorrow. Maybe Cassie will be able to make it, he thinks.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow for party of two?" the hostess confirms.
"That's right," the man replies.
"Do you think she'll come??" asks the hostess. She doesn't mean to be rude, but she has watched the man many times alone at his table for two.
"Someday, yes. And I will be waiting for her." The man buttons his overcoat and walks out of the restaurant, alone. His shoulders are hunched, but through the windows the hostess can only guess whether they are hunched against the wind or against the man's hurt.
As the man turns toward home, Cassie turns into bed. She is tired after an evening out with friends. As she reaches toward her night stand to set the alarm, she sees the note that she scribbled to herself last night. "7:00," it says. "Spend some time in prayer." Darn, she thinks. She forgot again. She feels a twinge of guilt, but quickly pushes it aside. She needed that time with her friends. And now she needs her sleep. She can pray tomorrow night.
Jesus will forgive her. And she's sure He doesn't mind.
Terribly Tragically Sad Man
a modern parable by Loren Seibold
Once there was a boy who lived in a big house on a hill. He loved dogs and horses, sports cars and music. He climbed trees and went swimming, played football and admired pretty girls. Except for having to tidy up after himself, he had a nice life.
One day the boy said to God, "I've been thinking, and I know what I want to become when I become a man."
"What?" said God.
"I want to live in a big house with a veranda across the front and two St. Bernard dogs and a garden out back. I want to marry a woman who is tall and very beautiful and kind, who has long, black, hair and blue eyes, who plays the guitar and sings in a clear, high voice. I want three strong sons to play ball with. When they grow up, one will be a great scientist, one will be a politician and the youngest will be a professional athlete.
"I want to be an adventurer who sails vast oceans and climbs tall mountains and rescues people. And I want to drive a red Ferrari and never have to tidy up after myself."
"That sounds like a nice dream," said God. "I want you to be happy."
One day, playing ball, the boy hurt his knee. After that he couldn't climb tall mountains or even tall trees, much less sail vast oceans. So he studied marketing and started a medical-supplies business.
He married a girl who was very beautiful and very kind and who had long, black hair. But she was short, not tall, and had brown eyes, not blue. She couldn't play the guitar, or even sing. But she prepared wonderful meals seasoned with rare Chinese spices and painted magnificent pictures of birds.
Because of his business, he lives in a city near the top of a tall apartment building that overlooked the blue ocean and the city's twinkling lights. He didn't have room for two St. Bernards, but he had a fluffy cat.
He had three daughters, all very beautiful. The youngest, who was in a wheelchair was the loveliest. The three daughters loved their father very much. They didn't play ball with him, but sometimes they went to the park and tossed a Frisbee - except for the youngest, who sat under a tree strumming her guitar and singing lovely, haunting songs.
He made enough money to live comfortably but he didn't drive a red Ferrari. Sometimes he had to pick up things and put them away - even things that didn't belong to him. After all, he had three daughters.
Then one morning, the man awoke and remembered his dream. "I am very sad," he said to his best friend.
"Why?" asked his friend.
"Because I once dreamed of marrying a tall woman with black hair and blue eyes who would play the guitar and sing. My wife can't play the guitar or sing. She has brown eyes, and she's not tall."
"Your wife is very beautiful and very kind, "said his friend. "She creates splendid pictures and delectable food." But the man wasn't listening.
"I am very sad," the man confessed to his wife one day. "Why?" asked his wife. "Because I once dreamed of living in a big house with a veranda, and of having two saint Bernards and a garden out back. Instead I live in an apartment in a high rise building."
"Our apartment is comfortable and we can see the ocean from our couch," said his wife. "We have love, laughter and paintings of birds and a fluffy cat-not to mention three beautiful children." But the man wasn't listening.
"I am very sad," the man said to his therapist. "Why?" asked the therapist. "Because I once dreamed that I would grow up to be a great adventurer. Instead, I am a bald businessman with a bad knee."
"The medical supplies you sell save many lives," said the therapist. But the man wasn't listening. So his therapist charged him $110 and sent him home.
"I am very sad," the man said to his accountant. "Why?" asked the accountant. "Because I once dreamed of driving a red Ferrari and never having to tidy up myself. Instead, I take public transportation and sometimes I still have to clean up."
"You wear good suits. You eat at fine restaurants, and you've toured Europe," said his accountant. But the man wasn't listening. His accountant charged him $100 anyway. He was dreaming of a red Ferrari himself.
"I am very sad," the man said to his clergyman. "Why?" asked the clergyman. "Because I once dreamed of having three sons: a great scientist, a politician and a professional athlete. Instead, I have three daughters and the youngest can't even walk."
"But, your daughters are beautiful and intelligent," said the clergyman. "They love you very much and they've all done well. One is a nurse, another is an artist and the youngest teaches music to children."
But the man wasn't listening. He was so sad that he became very sick. He lay in a white hospital room surrounded by nurses in white uniforms. Tubes and wires connected his body to blinking machines that he had once sold to the hospital.
He was terribly, tragically sad. His family, friends and clergyman gathered around his bed. They were all deeply sad too. Only his therapist and his accountant remained happy.
Then one night, when everyone except the nurses had gone home, the man said to God, "Remember when I was a boy and I told you all the things I wanted?"
"It was a lovely dream," said God.
"Why didn't you give me those things?" asked the man.
"I could have," said God. "But I wanted to surprise you with things you didn't dream of. I suppose you have noticed what I have given you: a kind beautiful wife; a good business; a nice place to live; three beautiful daughters-one of the best packages that I've put together…"
"Yes," interrupted the man. "But I thought you were going to give me what I really wanted."
"And I thought you were going to give me what I really wanted," said God. "What did you want?" asked the man. It had never occurred to him that God was in want of anything.
"I wanted to make you happy with what I had given you," said God.
The man lay in the dark all night, thinking. Finally he decided to dream a new dream, one he wished he had dreamed years before. He decided to dream that what he wanted most were the very things he already had.
And the man got well and lived happily in the high rise, enjoying his children's beautiful voices, his wife's deep brown eyes and her glorious paintings of birds. And at night he gazed at the ocean and contentedly watched the lights of the city twinkling on, one by one.
Thanks A Heap
author unknown
Remember the first car you ever owned. Chances are that it was not a new automobile. In fact, it may have been quite a few years old. In my case, my first car was older than I was.
Your first car was most likely far less than your ideal car. You'd seen the movies and watched the television commercials, and you knew what you really would have liked in an automobile. Red and fast, sleek and stylish, powerful and convertible. It was easy to imagine yourself, wind blowing through you hair, cruising past your friends in a beautiful auto. Most likely, this day dream was not to be.
Your first car quite possibly had faded paint, a bald snow tire on the front right, a couple of missing lug nuts, a couple of dents, some loose cylinders, a less than fully charged battery, a rusty fender or two, a noisy muffler, stains on the upholstery, and it drifted right if you took your hand off the wheel. It wasn't perfect, but it was yours, and nothing could dampen your excitement at being able to drive. From the look on your face when you were behind the wheel, people would have thought you were driving a Ferrari. You were free at last!! Sure you had to jump start the thing once in a while, and it overheated on long hills, but it was worth it.
Each of us has a physical body that's kind of like that first car. God gave us life and turned us loose upon the world, and we're not quite perfect. We're too tall to fit comfortably in a 737 economy seat, too short to play in the NBA. We're not smart enough to understand nuclear physics, or even supply side economics. We don't look as good as Tom Cruise or Pamela Anderson. We can't sing like Hootie or the Blowfish. Our nose might have belonged to Jimmy Durante. Our eyes are a strange shade of green. Our ears remind us of Dumbo. Our hair is Phyillis Diller like. We've never been in a major motion
picture. We were born into a family that couldn't have possibly been from
the same planet. We're just not as cool as James Bond. We don't even want to talk about out behavior problems. We're wanna-be Rolls Royces stuck in '65 Chevrolets. Perhaps if we were Rolls Royces, many of our problems would simply disappear.
The problem is that the '65 Chevy is the only physical form that we'll ever have. It will never be a Mercedes, a Rolls Royce, or a Ferrari, or even an Indy race car. It's what God made us and we're stuck with it.
Often, we're spend a substantial amount of time yearning to be that fancy
car. Sometimes we feel that if we can't have the Rolls, why bother getting on the road. We let the '65 Chevy fall into disrepair and don't realize what it can do for us. If we tune the engine, clean the upholstery, install new tires, fix the dents, and wax the paint, the less than perfect car will serve us
well. With the proper maintenance and care, it may not win the Daytona 500, but it will certainly help us reach our destination safe and sound. And in many cases, a '65 Chevy can be a lot more fun than a stuffy Rolls Royce.
The thing that we really need to remember is that our '65 Chevy is a gift from God. The soul that occupies the driver's seat needs to find that enthusiasm, excitement, and gratitude of a teenager with a first car. After all, the gift of life is something to truly get excited about, something to appreciate each and every day. Imagine what it would be like to awaken each day and feel blessed for the opportunity to be able to drive, to be grateful for the fact that you've got wheels and can do a lot with what you've got, and to avoid dwelling on the dents, stains, and other apparent shortcomings. You can get on the road and go, and be joyful all the way.
The Treasure
by Alice Gray
from "More Stories for the Heart"
The cheerful girl with bouncy golden curls was almost five. Waiting with her mother at the checkout stand, she saw them: a circle of glistening white pearls in a pink foil box. "Oh please, Mommy. Can I have them? Please, Mommy, please!"
Quickly the mother checked the back of the little foil box and then looked back into the pleading blue eyes of her little girl's upturned face.
"A dollar ninety-five. That's almost $2.00 If you really want them, I'll think of some extra chores for you and in no time you can save enough money to buy them for yourself. Your birthday's only a week away and you might get another crisp dollar bill from
Grandma."
As soon as Jenny got home, she emptied her penny bank and counted out 17 pennies. After dinner, she did more than her share of chores and she went to the neighbor and asked Mrs. McJames if she could pick dandelions for ten cents. On her birthday, Grandma did give her another new dollar bill and at last she had enough money to buy the necklace.
Jenny loved her pearls. They made her feel dressed up and grown up. She wore them everywhere--Sunday school, kindergarten, even to bed. The only time she took them off was when she went swimming or had a bubble bath. Mother said if they got wet, they might turn her neck green.
Jenny had a very loving daddy and every night when she was ready for bed, he would stop whatever he was doing and come upstairs to read her a story. One night when he finished the story, he asked Jenny, "Do you love me?"
"Oh yes, Daddy. You know that I love you."
"Then give me your pearls."
"Oh, Daddy, not my pearls. But you can have Princess--the white horse from my collection. The one with the pink tail. Remember, Daddy? The one you gave me. She's my favorite."
"That's okay, Honey. Daddy loves you. Good night." And he brushed her cheek with a kiss.
About a week later, after the story time, Jenny's daddy asked again, "Do you love me?"
"Daddy, you know I love you."
"Then give me your pearls."
"Oh Daddy, not my pearls. But you can have my babydoll. The brand new one I got for my birthday. She is so beautiful and you can have the yellow blanket that matches her sleeper."
"That's okay. Sleep well. God bless you, little one. Daddy loves you." And as always, he brushed her cheek with a gentle kiss.
A few nights later when her daddy came in, Jenny was sitting on her bed with her legs crossed Indian-style. As he came close, he noticed her chin was trembling and one silent tear rolled down her cheek.
"What is it, Jenny? What's the matter?"
Jenny didn't say anything but lifted her little hand up to her daddy. And when she opened it, there was her little pearl necklace. With a little quiver, she finally said, "Here, Daddy.
It's for you."
With tears gathering in his own eyes, Jenny's kind daddy reached out with one hand to take the dime-store necklace, and with the other hand he reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue velvet case with a strand of genuine pearls and gave them to Jenny. He had had them all the time. He was just waiting for her to give up the dime-store stuff so he could give her genuine treasure.
So like our heavenly Father. What are you hanging on to?
Through His Eyes
From a lesson by Jeff Walling
The day is over. You are driving home. You tune in your radio. You hear a little blurb about a little village in India where some villagers have died suddenly, strangely, of a flu that has never been seen before. It's not influenza, but three or four fellows are dead, and it's kind of interesting, and they're sending some doctors over there to investigate it.
You don't think much about it, but on Sunday, coming home from church, you hear another radio spot. Only they say it's not three villagers, it's 30,000 villagers in the back hills of this particular area of India, and it's on TV that night. CNN runs a little blurb; people are heading there from the CDC in Atlanta because this disease strain has never been seen before.
By Monday morning when you get up, it's the lead story. For it's not just India; it's Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and before you know it, you're hearing this story everywhere and they have coined it now as "the mystery flu." The President has made some comment that he and everyone are praying and hoping that all will go well over there.
But everyone is wondering, "How are we going to contain it?" That's when the President of France makes an announcement that shocks Europe. He is closing their borders. No flights from India, Pakistan, or any of the countries where this thing has been seen.
And that's why that night you are watching a little bit of CNN before going to bed. Your jaw hits your chest when a weeping woman is translated from a French news program into English: "There's a young man lying in a hospital in Paris dying of the mystery flu." It has come to Europe. Panic strikes. As best they can tell, once you get it, you have it for a week and you don't know it. Then you have four days of unbelievable symptoms. And then you die.
Britain closes its borders, but it's too late. South Hampton, Liverpool, North Hampton, and its Tuesday morning when the President of the United States makes the following announcement: "Due to a national security risk, all flights to and from Europe and Asia have been canceled. If your loved ones are overseas, I'm sorry. They cannot come back until we find a cure for this thing."
Within four days our nation has been plunged into an unbelievable fear. People are selling little masks for your face. People are talking about what if it comes to this country, and preachers on Tuesday are saying, "It's the scourge of God."
It's Wednesday night and you are at a church prayer meeting when somebody runs in from the parking lot and says, "Turn on a radio, turn on a radio." And while the church listens to a little transistor radio with a microphone stuck up to it, the announcement is made. "Two women are lying in a Long Island hospital dying from the mystery flu." Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the country.
People are working around the clock trying to find an antidote. Nothing is working. California. Oregon. Arizona. Florida. Massachusetts. It's as though it's just sweeping in from the borders. And then, all of a sudden the news comes out. The code has been broken. A cure can be found. A vaccine can be made. It's going to take the blood of somebody who hasn't been infected, and so, sure enough, all through the Midwest, through all those channels of emergency broadcasting, everyone is asked to do one simple thing: "Go to your downtown hospital and have your blood type taken. That's all we ask of you. And when you hear the sirens go off in your neighborhood, please make your way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospitals."
Sure enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night, there is a long line, and they've got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it. Your wife and kids are out there, and they take your blood type and they say, "Wait here in the parking lot and if we call your name, you can be dismissed and go home."
You stand around scared with your neighbors, wondering what in the world is going on, and that this is the end of the world. Suddenly a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He's yelling a name and waving a clipboard. What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says, "Daddy, that's me." Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy. "Wait a minute, hold it!" And they say, "It's okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure. We want to make sure he doesn't have the disease. We think he has got the right type."
Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and hugging one another - some are even laughing. It's the first time you have seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old Doctor walks up to you and says, "Thank you, sir. Your son's blood type is perfect. It's clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine."
As the word begins to spread all across that parking lot full of folks, people are screaming and praying and laughing and crying. But then the gray-haired doctor pulls you and your wife aside and says, "May we see you for a moment? We didn't realize that the donor would be a minor and we need... we need you to sign a consent form."
You begin to sign and then you see that the number of pints of blood to be taken is empty. "H-h-h-how many pints?" And that is when the old doctor's smile fades and he says, "We had no idea it would be a small child. We weren't prepared. We need it all."
"But - but..."
"You don't understand. We are talking about the world here. Please sign. We - we need it all - we need it all!"
"But can't you give him a transfusion?"
"If we had clean blood we would. Can you sign? Would you sign?"
In numb silence you do. Then they say, "Would you like to have a moment with him before we begin?"
Can you walk back? Can you walk back to that room where he sits on a table saying, "Daddy? Mommy? What's going on?" Can you take his hands and say, "Son, your mommy and I love you, and we would never ever let anything happen to you that didn't just have to be. Do you understand that?"
And when that old doctor comes back in and says, "I'm sorry, we've - we've got
to get started. People all over the world are dying."
Can you leave? Can you walk out while he is saying, "Dad? Mom? Dad? Why -
why have you forsaken me?"
And then next week, when they have the ceremony to honor your son, some folks sleep through it, and some
folks don't even come because they go to the lake, and some folks come with a pretentious smile and just
pretend to care. Would you want to jump up and say, "MY SON DIED! DON'T YOU CARE?" Is that what He wants
to say? "MY SON DIED. DON'T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE?"
"Father, seeing it from your eyes breaks our hearts. Maybe now we can begin to comprehend the great
love you have for us. Amen."
Time and Love
author unknown
Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others including Love.
One day it was announced to the feelings that the island would sink, so all prepared their boats and left. Love was the only one who stayed.
Love wanted to persevere until the last possible moment.
When the island was almost sinking, Love decided to ask for help. Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said "Richness, can you take me with you?" Richness answered, "No, I can't there is a lot of gold and silver
in my boat. There is no place here for you." Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel, "Vanity, please help me!" "I can't help you Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered.
Sadness was close by so love asked for help, "Sadness, Let me go with you" "Oh Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself!" Happiness passed by Love too, but she was so happy that she did not even hear when Love called her!
Suddenly, there was a voice, "Come Love, I will take you."
It was an elder. Love felt so blessed and overjoyed that she even forgot to ask the elder his name. When they arrived on dry land, the elder went on his own way. Love realizing how much she owed the elder, asked Knowledge,
another elder, "Who helped me?" "It was Time," Knowledge answered. "Time?" asked Love. "But why did Time help me?"
Knowledge smiled with deep Wisdom and answered, "Because only Time is capable of understanding how great Love is."
There was once a bridge which spanned a large river. During most of the day the bridge sat with its length running up and down the river paralleled with the banks, allowing ships to pass through freely on both sides of the bridge. But at certain times each day, a train would come along and the bridge would be turned sideways across the river, allowing a train to cross it.
A switchman sat in a shack on one side of the river where he operated the controls to turn the bridge and lock it into place as the train crossed. One evening as the switchman was waiting for the last train of the day to come, he looked off into the distance through the dimming twilight and caught sight of the train lights. He stepped onto the control and waited until the train was within a prescribed distance when he was about to turn the bridge. He turned the bridge into position, but, to his horror, he found the locking control did not work. If the bridge was not securely in position, it would wobble back and forth at the ends when the train came onto it, causing the train to jump the track and go crashing into the river. This would be a passenger train with many people aboard.
He left the bridge turned across the river, and hurried across the bridge to the other side of the river, where there was a lever switch he could hold to operate the lock manually. He would have to hold the lever back firmly as the train crossed. He could hear the rumble of the train now, and he took hold of the lever and leaned backward to apply his weight to it, locking the bridge. He kept applying the pressure to keep the mechanism locked. Many lives depended on this man's strength.
Then, coming across the bridge from the direction of his control shack, he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. "Daddy, where are you?" His four-year-old son was crossing the bridge to look for him. His first impulse was to cry out to the child, "Run! Run!" But the train was too close; the tiny legs would never make it across the bridge in time. The man almost left his lever to run and snatch up his son and carry him to safety. But he realized that he could not get back to the lever. Either the people on the train or his little son must die.
He took a moment to make his decision. The train sped safely and swiftly on its way, and no one aboard was even aware of the tiny broken body thrown mercilessly into the river by the onrushing train. Nor were they aware of the pitiful figure of the sobbing man, still clinging tightly to the locking lever long after the train had passed. They did not see him walking home more slowly than he had ever walked; to tell his wife how their son had brutally died.
Now if you comprehend the emotions which went through this man's heart, you can begin to understand the feelings of our Father in Heaven when He sacrificed His Son to bridge the gap between us and eternal life. Can there be any wonder that He caused the earth to tremble and the skies to darken when His son died? How does He feel when we speed along through life without giving a thought to what was done for us through Jesus Christ?
When was the last time you thanked Him for the sacrifice of His Son?
The carpenter I hired to help me restore an old farmhouse had just finished a rough first day on the job. A flat tire made him lose an hour of work, his electric saw quit and now his ancient pickup truck refused to start.
While I drove him home, he sat in stony silence. On arriving, he invited me in to meet his family. As we walked toward the front door, he paused briefly at a small tree, touching the tips of the branches with both hands. When opening the door he underwent an amazing transformation. His tanned face was wreathed in smiles and he hugged his two small children and gave his wife a kiss.
Afterward, he walked me to the car. We passed the tree and my curiosity got the better of me. I asked him about what I had seen him do earlier. "Oh, that's my trouble tree," he replied. "I know I can't help having troubles on the job, but one thing for sure, troubles don't belong in the house with my wife and children. So I just hang them up on the tree every night when I come home. Then in the morning I pick them up again." "Funny thing is," he smiled, "when I come out in the morning to pick em up, there aren't nearly as many as I remember hanging up the night before."
Everybody needs a trouble tree.
A True Story
by Sister Helen P. Mrosia
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 mischievousness 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.
|
|
