Money-Making Job!

When my husband Greg left his 9-to-5 job and started a home business, we explained to our three- and five-year-old girls, Anna and Laura, that Daddy didn't have to go to an office anymore. He had a new office in the basement and people would pay him to do projects. It sounded somewhat suspicious, though, when we overheard Anna tell her friend, "Daddy doesn't have to go to work anymore. He just makes money in the basement."

source unknown

Real Dilbertisms

A magazine ran a Dilbert quotes contest. The only requirement is that the quotes sent in had to be real. So.... here are some actual quotes from managers in today's business world:
Winning Quote (from Charles Hurst at Sun Micro)

As of tomorrow, employees will only be able to access the building using individual security cards. Pictures will be taken next Wednesday and employees will receive their cards in two weeks. 

Runners-Up
* What I need is a list of specific unknown problems we will encounter.
* How long is this Beta guy going to keep testing our stuff?
* E-mail is not to be used to pass on information or data. It should be used only for company business.
* Turnover is good for the company, as it proves that we are doing a good job in training people.
* This project is so important, we can't let things that are more important interfere with it.
* Doing it right is no excuse for not meeting the schedule. No one will believe you solved this problem in one day! We've been working on it for months. Now, go act busy for a few weeks and I'll let you know when it's time to tell them.

source unknown

Always Give 100% at Work

10% Monday
25% Tuesday
40% Wednesday
20% Thursday
5% Friday

Top Ten Things You'll Never Hear from a Consultant

10. You're right; we're billing way too much for this.
9. Bet you I can go a week without saying "synergy" or "value-added."
8. How about paying us based on the success of the project?
7. This whole strategy is based on a Harvard business case I read.
6. Actually, the only difference is that we charge more than they do.
5. I don't know enough to speak intelligently about that.
4. Implementation? I only care about writing long reports.
3. I can't take the credit. It was Ed in your marketing department.
2. The problem is, you have too much work for too few people.
1. Everything looks okay to me.

source unknown

Tiredness

If you are one of those people that feels tired of working too much, it is good to remember the words of Bernard Shaw who wrote, "The year is made up of 365 days each having 24 hours, 12 of which are night time hours which add up to a total of 182 days. This leaves you with 183 days to work minus 52 sundays which leaves you 131 days to work minus 52 saturdays, which leaves you 79 days to work. But there are 4 hours each day set aside for eating which adds up to 60 days, which leaves you 19 days for working. But you are entitled to 15 days (give or take one day) for your vacation, which means you have 4 days left for work minus 3 days you usually take off due to illness or other emergencies, which leaves you one day to work which happens to be Labour Day which is a holiday."

So, why are you tired?

Career Choice

An acquaintance of mine who is a physician told this story about her then four year old daughter. On the way to preschool, the doctor had left her stethoscope on the car seat, and her little girl picked it up and began playing with it. Be still, my heart, thought my friend, my daughter wants to follow in my footsteps!
Then the child spoke into the instrument: "Welcome to McDonald's. May I take you order?"

source unknown

Lucky the Dog

Anyone who has pets will really like this. You'll like it even if you don't and you may even decide you need one!
Mary and her husband Jim had a dog named 'Lucky.' Lucky was a real character. Whenever Mary and Jim had company come for a weekend visit they would warn their friends to not leave their luggage open because Lucky would help himself to whatever struck his fancy. Inevitably, someone would forget and something would come up missing.
Mary or Jim would go to Lucky's toy box in the basement and there the treasure would be, amid all of Lucky's other favourite toys. Lucky always stashed his finds in his toy box and he was very particular that his toys stay in the box.
It happened that Mary found out she had breast cancer. Something told her she was going to die of this disease....in fact , she was just sure it was fatal.
She scheduled the double mastectomy, fear riding her shoulders. The night before she was to go to the hospital she cuddled with Lucky. A thought struck her...what would happen to Lucky? Although the three-year-old dog liked Jim, he was Mary's dog through and through. If I die, Lucky will be abandoned, Mary thought. He won't understand that I didn't want to leave him. The thought made her sadder than thinking of her own death.
The double mastectomy was harder on Mary than her doctors had anticipated and Mary was hospitalised for over two weeks. Jim took Lucky for his evening walk faithfully, but the little dog just drooped, whining and miserable.
Finally the day came for Mary to leave the hospital. When she arrived home, Mary was so exhausted she couldn't even make it up the steps to her bedroom. Jim made his wife comfortable on the couch and left her to nap. Lucky stood watching Mary but he didn't come to her when she called. It made Mary sad but sleep soon overcame her and she dozed.
When Mary woke for a second she couldn't understand what was wrong.
She couldn't move her head and her body felt heavy and hot. But panic soon gave way to laughter when Mary realised the problem She was covered, literally blanketed, with every treasure Lucky owned! While she had slept, the sorrowing dog had made trip after trip to the basement bringing his beloved mistress all his favourite things in life. He had covered her with his love.
Mary forgot about dying. Instead she and Lucky began living again, walking further and further together every day. It's been 12 years now and Mary is still cancer-free. Lucky? He still steals treasures and stashes them in his toy box but Mary remains his greatest treasure.
Remember...live every day to the fullest. Each minute is a blessing from God. And never forget....the people who make a difference in our lives are not the ones with the most credentials, the most money, or the most awards They are the ones that care for us.

source unknown

"I'd Rather Have Jesus."

That's still the wish of George Beverly Shea as he reaches 100 years of age

by Dan Wooding, Founder of ASSIST Ministries

SANTA ANA, CA (ANS) - It is hard to believe it, but George Beverly Shea, the singer with the colorful bass-baritone voice who sang at Billy Graham's crusades for almost six decades, will be celebrating his 100th birthday on Sunday, Feb. 1 (2009).
And, as incredible as it might seem at his age, Bev Shea, who has brought us over 70 albums of timeless songs and classic hymns, has released his latest CD. Called "I'd Rather Have Jesus" (Word Records), which is a 20-song treasury celebrating his life and ministry.
In a phone interview some time ago from his home in North Carolina for my Front Page Radio show on KWVE 107.9 in Southern California, Bev Shea talked about his incredible life as Billy Graham's singer.
But he began with a surprise. Although he is known as "America's Beloved Gospel Singer," he was actually born in Canada!
"Yes, I was born in Canada; it was in a town called Winchester, Ontario, which is 35 miles from Ottawa, the capital city of Canada," he said. "My dad was a preacher there for 20 years and then he went to Ottawa for 10 years. After that he moved down to the New York area. I followed him there during my 20s.
"His final pastorate was in Syracuse, New York and he decided he'd better go to Heaven."
Bev then spoke about his time at Houghton College in Houghton, New York.
"The college is near Buffalo and Rochester and is a fine college," he said.
He also revealed that it was his mother who first spotted his musical talent.
"I'm in the middle of eight children and my Mother noticed that I couldn't stay away from the piano," he said. "When I was very young, before the others came along, I was banging on the piano and so she took time to teach me some chords, like people do on a guitar these days. I took lessons for a while, but I found out that I would rather just develop different chords in all the different keys and play by ear. I don't do it for people today, but I still play like this for my wife and for my own enjoyment morning and night."
His first meeting with Billy Graham
I then asked Mr. Shea how he first met Billy Graham.
"Oh, that was marvelous," he said. "I had worked for 10 years during the Twenties in New York in the medical department of the Mutual Life Insurance Company," he said. "During that time, I met Dr. Houghton, Pastor of Calvary Baptist Church, and he heard me sing a few songs. Then he was transferred to Chicago to become the president of Moody Bible Institute and we met again at a Bible conference in Pennsylvania. He said, 'I'd like to ask you if you have ever considered Christian broadcasting. I told him that I didn't know it was available. That's how it went in 1939. I accepted and went to Chicago, staying there five and a half years.
"One morning, there was a rap on my office door. I looked out and there was a tall young man with blond hair and we shook hands. He was 21 and I was 31. It was Billy Graham and he had traveled in from Wheaton College on a train just to say 'hello.' He said he listened to my morning hymn show called 'Hymns From The Chapel.' That's how we first got acquainted.
"I came into this work with Mr. Graham in 1947 after we had exchanged letters and talked on the phone. He said he wanted me to be his gospel singer. I thanked him, but told him the only gospel singers I've ever heard about would sing a verse or two and stop and talk awhile. 'Would I have to do that?' I asked him. He chuckled and said, 'I hope not.' With that, I said, 'Well, I'd like to come with you. That was in November of 1947 and I've been with him ever since."
Bev said that his first meetings with Mr. Graham took place at the Old Armory in Charlotte, North Carolina.
When asked if he remembered what he sang on the first night, he replied, "Yes I do. I sang 'I Will Sing The Wondrous Story', the old congregational hymn. And I remember that someone in the audience gave that information to Billy Graham's mother and she wrote me a note in which she said, 'Whenever you come around, please sing that again.'"
Memories of the 1949 Los Angeles crusade
Bev Shea then talked about his memories of Billy Graham's historic "Big Tent" crusade in Los Angeles, which launched the young evangelist into international prominence.
"Yes, we had those tents at the corner of Washington and Hill Streets," he said. "It was supposed to be for only three weeks, but the Lord was moving mightily and different ones came to the Lord such as Stuart Hamblen, who wrote, 'It Is No Secret' and 'This Old House.' Because of what was happening, the local committee asked Mr. Graham to continue, so we were there for a whole eight weeks."
I asked him to recall how this became the turning point for Billy Graham.
"Well, of course that happened when William Randolph Hearst issued the directive to his staff to 'Puff Graham.' That happened, and we saw more and more people come to the meetings after that."
How Stuart Hamblen wrote "It Is No Secret."
 Bev then shared how Hamblen came to write 'It Is No Secret.'
"What happened was that Stuart Hamblen had accepted Christ at the Los Angeles meetings and he'd done some movies with John Wayne," said Bev. "One day, John Wayne was walking along Hollywood Boulevard there and the two met up. John Wayne had read about Stuart's conversion and asked him, 'What's this I hear about you Stuart, going forward at Mr. Graham's meetings?' They apparently talked for a while and then Stuart said, 'It's no secret what God did for me. If he can do it for me, He can do for anyone.' And the movie star said, 'That sounds like a song to me.' I'm not sure if that's true or not. And so Stuart Hamblen sat down at his Hammond organ at home and wrote this wonderful song that I still sing today at Mr. Graham's meetings."
I then told Bev Shea that the first I had heard him sing was in 1954 when I was part of a massive crowd of 120,000 at London's Wembley Stadium. I asked him for his recollections of those times in the UK.
"The Harringay arena seated some 12,000 and it was filled every night," he began. "And then someone thought of the idea of carrying the meetings by landlines to other parts of the United Kingdom. During the War, they had extra phone lines that they used and somebody saw those idle lines and got them all hooked up. And so one night we had some fifty areas hooked up to Harringay. They were listening in churches, auditoriums in Wales and Scotland, and Ireland. It was marvelous!"
Winston Churchill
I wondered if Bev Shea had ever met Winston Churchill during his visits to Britain.
"I never met him, but I heard Mr. Churchill in Parliament and I also heard his speech in Ibrox Stadium, Glasgow, when he was running again for Parliament. He talked for 70 minutes. I was sitting beside Mr. Graham and he was very impressed with Mr. Churchill's oratory."
The Queen Mother
He then spoke about an experience with the Queen Mother. "I never got to meet her before she passed away a couple of years ago," Bev said. "But back in the fifties, when she was Queen she and King George VI decided to visit Washington, DC, Mrs. Roosevelt entertained them at the White House. There was some entertainment that night. They had Chief White Feather, an Indian who was an opera singer. He sang two arias and then, when the audience wanted more, he said, 'May I sing something from my heart' and then he sang, 'I'd Rather Have Jesus,' the song I had the privilege of writing the music to, but not the words; they were written by Rhea Miller. After he had sung that song, the Queen looked at him and said, 'That song bespeaks the sentiment of my heart and that of my husband.' Isn't that beautiful?"
Richard Nixon
Bev Shea then spoke of his encounters with Richard Nixon who attended the 1957 New York Crusade at Yankee Stadium.
"He came on a very hot night and we had about 90,000 people there," he said.
I then asked if he had ever sung for Nixon at the White House after he became president. "Yes, I did," he replied. "It was in the East Room and Mr. Graham spoke at the very first service he held there. Nixon had decided to hold Sunday morning services and not everybody agreed with the idea, but he liked to do that. Congressmen and others came, and I sang, 'How Great Thou Art.' Then we had had breakfast upstairs. Being a Canadian I thought that was really something.
"Afterwards, Nixon sat down at an old banged up Steinway piano and went up and down the keys and he began singing, 'He will hold me fast, for my saviour loves me, so he will hold me fast.' I wondered where he ever heard that. I kept inquiring and I understand when he was thirteen or fourteen years of age he went to the Paul Rader meetings in Los Angeles and that was the signature song every night for the choir."
Favourite hymns
I then asked Mr. Shea to name some of his favourite hymns.
"I'm never tired of 'How Great Thou Art,'" he said. "It seems like I've sung it so many times but the words are almost like scripture, you know. And there are others that I like when I go to my the organ I have at home here or the piano I often sing, 'I Saw One Hanging In A Tree.' and also 'And can it be.' And then 'Great Is Thy Faithfulness' is another that I love. I knew the man who wrote the music for that. His name was William Runyan and he worked at Moody Bible Institute.
Guinness Book of World Records
Bev Shea then revealed that he has been honoured by the Guinness Book of World Records for having sung before more people 220 million -- more than anyone else in history.
"They sent me a certificate that my wife, Karlene, framed and put on the wall here at my home," he said. "The truth is that they didn't come to hear me; they came to hear Billy Graham."
I interjected by saying, "Yes, but they came to hear you as well!"
Bev Shea said that he is excited to be able to participate in the upcoming festival in Baltimore. When asked if he would be singing, he laughed and said, "Well that's what they call it. They're going to give me a microphone and I will sing."
Health
Bev suffered a heart attack in 2004. He spoke about his hospitalization in the same hospital where Billy Graham was also being treated.
"I wrote him a little note to that said, 'I don't like to leave you here, but they say I can go home now.'"
When asked how he would describe his friend, Billy Graham, he replied, "If he'd never met the Lord, he still would have been a gracious gentleman. But he met the Lord, the Lord transformed his life at a young age, gave him that great gift of just interpreting the Word and bringing in the net."
He said he meant by "bringing in the net" the invitation to receive Christ at the end of each service.
"When I sit there on the platform and pray, I have to admit that once in a while I peek and see them coming forward by the hundreds," he said. "What a thrill that is. And his son, Franklin, is being blessed and is doing very well. He's quite a preacher. I went down to Mobile, Alabama, with my wife and he had me do some numbers. We also did New Orleans with Billy and Cliff Barrows."
I then asked him how he met his present wife, Karlene.
"It has been 20 years of bliss," he said. "I was a widower for 10 years in a suburb of Chicago and that's a long time. When we were over in Korea in 1984, Billy brought me into his room and said, 'I've been talking to Ruth my wife in Montreat this morning on the phone and we think that 10 years is enough, and he so mentioned Karlene's name."
He was right, and Bev and Karlene were married in Montreat, North Carolina.
"Mr. Graham didn't do the service," said Bev. "We had pastor of our church here, and he put on his nice robe and we were married in Billy's home."
He said that he and Billy Graham, aged 90, keep in touch regularly. "He called me on the phone just the other day," he said. "He lives just a mile away from me." What an example they all are for those who think we should retire at 65!

source unknown

NOTE: George Beverly Shea passed into the  presence of God on April 16 2013

Records of a Somewhat Ordinary Life

Good reasons to journal 

by Gordon MacDonald

Forty years ago I committed myself to the discipline of journaling. I've never counted, but I probably have about 70 volumes of writing, which chronicle something about each of the days that make up those many years.
I wrote my first reflective words on a Saturday evening. Earlier in the day, I reached a moment when I felt overwhelmed by physical exhaustion, emotional depletion, and spiritual emptiness. Leaving the breakfast table, I lurched to our living room where I spent several hours sobbing, flushing myself of pent up frustration that must have been piling up for a long, long time. I have often compared that hitting-the-wall morning to the experience one reads about in the life of Elijah when he went to wilderness and informed God of his intention to resign.
When, several hours later, there were no tears left, I continued to muse quietly on what had happened. The catharsis that morning had never happened to me before. What had it meant? If Heaven has ever spoken directly to me, it happened then. I heard, "Now you know what it's like to live out of an empty soul."
An empty soul! That was it. I'd neglected my interior life for far too long. In fact, I'd probably never seriously cultivated it before. I depended on the relatively superficial energies of natural ability, visionary idealism, and youthful strength to do ministry. And, for the most part, I'd made it work … until that Saturday morning. Now it was as if God was saying (as I think he said to Elijah), "This far, but no farther."
Somewhere during the brooding process of that Saturday afternoon, I came to the realization that I needed to write down the thoughts that were surging within me. I recalled that many of the great saints had done similarly, and their journals were of inestimable value to people who wanted to understand more completely the ways of spiritually guided people.
I drove to an office supplies store where I purchased a spiral bound notebook. Back in our living room, I started writing. The words from that day fairly flew out of me and onto the page. It was the first time I ever tried to describe myself to myself. But it was a satisfying experience as I forced into words the feelings that had been boiling in me. The writing seemed to take on a life of its own; I felt like a spectator to the writing event. Each day that followed, I began a fresh entry in that notebook until, two or three months later, it was filled. And then I bought another and continued what became a daily habit.
That original journal lies in a safe in our basement with several dozen others that I have filled with daily reflections over these forty years. I should mention that when I purchased my first computer in the early 1980s, I switched from handwritten notebooks to printed ones.
From that first day until now, there has hardly been a day that I have not written at least a few paragraphs describing the condition of my heart and the activity of my days.
These journals contain the record of events, of people I have been with, of my present feelings, of my sense of God's voice in my life. Often I write about the things I'm learning through my reading and what others are teaching me. Occasionally, I write my prayers when concentration is difficult. I regularly write out Scripture verses, impressive quotes, even bits of poetry that I've written. The journal is a good place to confess anger, disappointment, and disagreement. It's also a good place to record blessings and strong senses of satisfaction.
Over the years, I have built disciplines of personal worship around my journal entries. Writing (or typing) things down helped me to be more concrete in my attempts to have communion with Jesus. If I felt nudged by the Holy Spirit or if I felt rebuked, I wrote it down. If I wanted to test the sensibility of my thoughts, I put them into written words. In the journal I tested my dreams and my intentions about this and that. More than a few times, confiding to my journal caused me to realize how silly or childish my moods and attitudes were.
As time passed, I took the time to look back and assemble the story of my life. It helped me to see how utterly faithful God has been to me. The journal helped me to see the mountain-high stack of blessings that have come to me, the grace that has been poured out upon me.
In all of these ways, my journal has become a best-friend.
A few years after I began doing all of this, my wife, Gail, caught the journaling bug and began her own process of personal writing. She has far surpassed me, I think, in the discipline. Now, given our mutual efforts, there is not much about our journey together that isn't a matter of record. What our children are going to do with all this stuff when we die is beyond me.
But if they wish, our children and grandchildren will be able to get rather deep inside the lives of two somewhat ordinary parents who have shared a life together and, for the most part, made a go of it. Here and there in the pages they'll find the stories of much of their lives as children, teenagers, and adults as their parents have seen it. They'll read about our affection for them, our hopes, and our concerns. But most importantly, they'll find in our journals the record of the favor of God even when one or both of us stumbled and went off the tracks. Realizing the other day that I was in my fortieth year of journaling, I went to the safe in the basement and retrieved that first journal and turned to page one, written late on that Saturday when it appeared to me as if everything in my life was falling apart. Down a few lines on the first page were these words: "It seems presumptuous to think that my life's notes will have any value once I am gone. Yet perhaps the greatest contribution one might leave for his children would be a personal chronicle of living—unbridled, unglossed, real to the core …"

source unknown

Woman Sells Her Virginity at Auction

Natalie, a 22-year-old woman from San Diego, California, has decided to pay for her Masters Degree by selling something that is precious and belongs only to her: her virginity. She got the idea from her sister, who was able to save up enough money for her own degree by working as a prostitute for three weeks.
Natalie realises that the idea may seem appalling to some, but she is unconcerned: "I know that a lot of people will condemn me for this because it's so taboo, but I really don't have a problem with that." Sadly, the degree Natalie would like to earn with the money is in Marriage and Family Counseling.
Even more sadly, her offer has been met with wide appeal by a variety of men. In fact, over 10,000 men responded to the auction, with the highest bidder offering more than 3.7 million dollars.
That kind of massive response was a surprise even to Natalie. She said, "It's shocking that men will pay so much for someone's virginity, which isn't even prized so highly anymore."

"Student Auctions off Virginity for Offers of More Than £2.5 Million," U.K. Daily Telegraph (12 Jan 2009)

Atheistic Journalist Supports Evangelism in Africa

Matthew Parris is a newspaper columnist for The Times of London and a self-described atheist. Surprisingly, though, in a December 2008 column he wrote an article titled "As an atheist, I truly believe Africa needs God." Parris admits that saying this runs counter to his beliefs, but he cannot ignore the difference that he sees in African Christians. Parris, who grew up in Africa, writes:
Before Christmas I returned, after 45 years, to the country that as a boy I knew as Nyasaland. Today it's Malawi, and The Times Christmas Appeal includes a small British charity working there…. It inspired me, renewing my flagging faith in development charities. But traveling in Malawi refreshed another belief, too—one I've been trying to banish all my life, but an observation I've been unable to avoid since my African childhood. It confounds my ideological beliefs, stubbornly refuses to fit my world view, and has embarrassed my growing belief that there is no God.
Now a confirmed atheist, I've become convinced of the enormous contribution that Christian evangelism makes in Africa: sharply distinct from the work of secular NGOs, government projects, and international aid efforts. These alone will not do. Education and training alone will not do. In Africa Christianity changes people's hearts. It brings a spiritual transformation. The rebirth is real. The change is good….
[When I lived in Africa] we had working for us Africans who had converted and were strong believers. The Christians were always different. Far from having cowed or confined its converts, their faith appeared to have liberated and relaxed them. There was a liveliness, a curiosity, an engagement with the world—a directness in their dealings with others—that seemed to be missing in traditional African life. They stood tall.

Matthew Parris, "As an atheist, I truly believe Africa needs God," The Times of London Online (27 December 2008)

Take My Son

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, and he was carrying me to safety when 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 this package. 'I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted 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 their 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 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.

source unknown

Tony Campolo Experiences Powerful Moment at Funeral

I went to my first black funeral when I was 16 years old. A friend of mine, Clarence, had died. The pastor was incredible. From the pulpit he talked about the Resurrection in beautiful terms. He had us thrilled. He came down from the pulpit, went to the family, and comforted them from the fourteenth chapter of John. "Let not your heart be troubled," he said, "'You believe in God, believe also in me,' said Jesus. Clarence has gone to heavenly mansions."
Then, for the last 20 minutes of the sermon, he actually preached to the open casket. Now, that's drama! He yelled at the corpse: "Clarence! Clarence!" He said it with such authority. I would not have been surprised had there been an answer. He said, "Clarence, there were a lot of things we should have said to you that we never said to you. You got away too fast, Clarence. You got away too fast." He went down this litany of beautiful things that Clarence had done for people. When he finished—here's the dramatic part—he said, "That's it, Clarence. There's nothing more to say. When there's nothing more to say, there's only one thing to say. Good night. Good night, Clarence!" He grabbed the lid of the casket and slammed it shut. "Good night, Clarence!" Boom!
Shock waves went over the congregation. As the preacher then lifted his head, you could see there was this smile on his face. He said, "Good night, Clarence. Good night, Clarence, because I know, I know that God is going to give you a good morning!" The choir stood and starting singing, "On that great morning, we shall rise, we shall rise." We were dancing in the aisles and hugging each other. I knew the joy of the Lord, a joy that in the face of death laughs and sings and dances, for there is no sting to death.

source unknown

Anything at all?

A student comes to a young professor's office hours. She glances down the hall, closes his door, kneels pleadingly.
"I would do anything to pass this exam." She leans closer to him, flips back her hair, gazes meaningfully into his eyes. "I mean..." she whispers, "...I would do...anything."
He returns her gaze. "Anything?"
"Anything."
His voice softens. "Anything??"
"Absolutely anything."
His voice turns to a whisper. "Would you...study?"

The Greater Danger

The world is in greater peril from those who tolerate or encourage evil than from those who actually commit it

- Albert Einstein -

A Lesson from the "Maggies"

A film made in 2002, The Magdalene Sisters, told the sad story of the "maggies" of Ireland. They got that nickname from Mary Magdalene, a revealing story in itself. The gospels mention only one fact of Mary Magdalene's past, that Jesus had driven seven demons from her. Nevertheless, a tradition grew that Mary Magdalene must have been the same woman as the prostitute who washed Jesus' feet with her hair. Hence when a strict order of nuns agreed to take in young women who had become pregnant out of wedlock, they labeled the fallen girls "maggies."
The maggies came to public attention in the 1990s when the order sold its convent, bringing to light the existence of the graves of 133 maggies who had spent their lives working as virtual slaves in the convent laundry. The media soon scouted out a dozen such "Magdalen laundries" across Ireland—the last one closed in 1996—and soon relatives and survivors were spilling accounts of the slave-labour conditions inside. Thousands of young women spent time in the laundries, some put away just for being "temptresses," forced to work unpaid and in silence as a form of atonement for their sins. The nuns took away illegitimate children born to these women to be raised in other religious institutions.
A public outcry erupted, and eventually campaigners raised money for a memorial, a bench in St. Stephen's Green, a park in downtown Dublin. I determined to visit the memorial on a trip to Ireland. It was a typical grey day in Dublin, with a sharp September wind and the threat of rain in the air. I asked a policeman and a park guide about the memorial to the maggies, and they both looked at me quizzically. "Dunno that one. Sorry."
One by one, my wife and I examined the bronze statues and impressive fountains, mostly honoring fighters for Irish independence. Only by accident did we stumble across a modest bench beside a magnolia tree. A couple was sitting on it, but behind their backs we could see brass-colored lettering. We asked if they would mind moving aside for a moment so we could read the inscription. The plaque reads, "To the women who worked in the Magdalen laundry institutions and to the children born to some members of those communities—reflect here upon their lives."
Walking away from the humble memorial, I found myself reflecting not simply on their lives but also on the sharp contrast between how Jesus treated moral failures and how we his followers often do. Jesus appointed the Samaritan woman as his first missionary. He defended the woman who anointed him with expensive perfume: "Wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her." And Mary Magdalene, she of the seven demons, he honoured as the very first witness of the Resurrection—a testimony at first discounted by his more prestigious followers. Where we shame, he elevates.

Philip Yancey, "God of the Maggies," Christianity Today magazine (1 May 2003)

Perils of a Public Christian

I needed a stimulus to tend my "interaction economy." by Gordon MacDonald
One morning last month, I arrived at London's Heathrow Airport at 5 am to check in for an early flight. I was physically tired and emotionally spent from several days of giving lectures and sermons. The woman at the ticket counter hardly looked up as she asked where I was going and how many bags I'd be checking.
"I'm headed for Boston," I said, "and I'm not checking anything."
For the first time she looked up and over the counter at my well-worn Brookstone roller bag (advertised to conform to FAA specifications for carry-on luggage) and said, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to check that."
My amygdala (the fear-sensor in the brain) immediately awoke, prompting memories of misplaced luggage and long waits at baggage-claim in Boston. I said (trying to be calm) that I didn't want to check my bag, that I'd carried it with me on the flight over to the UK a few days before, and I carry this particular bag on flights all the time.
The woman replied rather bureaucratically: "I'm telling you that they're not going to let you take that bag on the plane." I had the distinct impression that we were not connecting.
Conscious of my rising frustration, I deliberately coached myself into calmness and into a choice of words that would not accelerate tension between us. "Is there any way we could start this conversation over again and rethink the problem?" I asked. She took a very deep breath. Perhaps she was trying to keep cool also.
"Do you see that over there?" she asked, pointing to a contraption made of tubes that outlined the shape of an apparently legal suitcase. "If you can fit your bag in that thing, I'll let you take it with you."
I went over to the thing and lifted my bag into it. With a modicum of encouragement, it fit. I returned to the ticket counter feeling inwardly smug but careful not to show it. The woman made no comment except, "Passport, please." I handed it over.
She opened my passport and studied it. Then looking up and engaging me for the first time with any sort of feeling that suggested personal contact, she said, "Are you the Gordon MacDonald who writes books—Christian books?"
"Yes, I do write," I said.
The change in atmosphere was instant. A broad smile came over her face as she said, "I've got several of your books at home. In fact I'm reading your latest book right now. I can't believe I'm meeting you."
It was one of those moments you enjoy just a little too much. I had migrated from chump to champ in three seconds. We went on to exchange a bit of warm conversation (no one was waiting in line behind me). Finally, she sent me on my way to passport-control with my roller bag and a final word of gratitude for my writing.
Forgive me if this story seems self-serving. But there is a point to be made about a lesson that was reinforced in me. Not everything in life has to be learned the hard way.
At 5 am one's capacity not to vent in irritability or contentiousness is strained. While I'm not normally pugnacious, it would have been easy to have expressed my feelings harshly toward the woman who wanted to separate me from my bag. No small matter for a frequent flyer. I'm the customer, after all; she is the vendor. She is a stranger, an employee of an airline that often seems to care little about me. And who would ever know about my less-than-Jesus-like behavior in such a depersonalised location as Heathrow airport?
This time, while tempted to protest in strong terms not necessarily approved by God, I hadn't. But suppose I had. How would the woman behind the counter have felt about my books then? Had I acted rudely, what impression would she have formed of me or the things about which I write?
A few days after this encounter, I was scheduled to speak to seminary students about the "fruit of the (Holy) Spirit," one of St. Paul's many lists of Christian virtues and character-qualities in the New Testament. "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control," the old apostle wrote to people who had formerly assumed these categories of behavior to be weaknesses rather than strengths. As I prepared that talk, my memory kept retrieving the exchange at the Heathrow ticket counter. If you're a Calvinist, you might believe that God set the moment up to test my worthiness to speak on the subject of the fruit of the Spirit.
Quite likely I will never again meet that woman—whose name I never got—this side of eternity. But I wonder how often she is likely to pick up a Christian book and remember how one such author she met behaved in a moment of stress. Hopefully she'll recall the one she met chose to be patient, kind, gentle, and reasonably self-controlled … a sampler of Paul's "fruits."
A friend of mine has suggested to me that all day long in our human transactions, we inject into the commonwealth of human relationships either a bit of virtue or a bit of evil. It's that simple, he says: one or the other. There is, he adds, no exchange between people that can be considered neutral. It's either value-added or value-subtracted. It's easy to subscribe to this idea when one is among friends. A bit scarier if you believe it can also happen when you're in an airport a few thousand miles away from home where nobody knows your name.

source unknown

A Story Told To The Annual Pennsylvania Community Bankers Association by Charlie "T" Jones

I've never written and only rarely tell of my first banker experience.
It happened in 1936. I was nine years old and the depression was still in full force. We came from Alabama and settled in Lancaster County in a little row home, which my father managed to rent. It was getting near Christmas and my dear dad had nothing to spend for Christmas for his five children ages 1-9. In desperation, he went to the bank to try to persuade them that he was a safe risk for a small loan. He explained his predicament, no job, no collateral, and 5 small children with Christmas approaching. As he should have known, the banker would have to decline his request, but he had an alternative offer for my dad to consider. He explained that if my dad could postpone celebrating Christmas a day or two, the children wouldn't know it and everything would be reduced in the stores, and he would only need half the amount he was requesting. He said if this was agreeable he would approve the loan for a smaller amount. Of course my dad gratefully accepted his offer. I have experienced many Christmas's but this was the one I remember the best. Christmas Eve after we were all tucked in bed, the downstairs front door slammed open. There was a lot of noise and footsteps and my father rushed down the stairs to see what was happening.
I followed a few minutes later, and saw him sitting on the bottom step with his head in his hands. I couldn't understand why he was weeping. When I reached the bottom step, I could see no one in the hallway, but the hall was lined with boxes. There were boxes of food, clothing and candy. There was a riding fire engine and a four-foot folding white paneled dollhouse. We never had a Christmas like that and we never knew who or why they did it. We didn't belong to a church and the friends we had were as poor as we were. My dad returned to the bank to repay the loan. The banker surprised my dad by telling him that there was no record of his loan.
I only understood that Christmas experience years later when Jesus became my Lord and Saviour. How blessed some of us are to see God’s love working in and through His children. John 3:16 is where it begins but those unknown servants were practicing 1st John 3:16. "Hereby perceive we the love of God, how He laid down his life for us: so we ought to lay down our lives for others."

source unknown

Dad Wouldn’t Let Go

Some years ago, on a hot summer day in south Florida, a little boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole behind his house. In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out the back door, leaving behind shoes, socks, and shirt as he went. He flew into the water, not realising that as he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore.
His father, working in the yard, saw the two as they got closer and closer together. In utter fear, he ran toward the water, yelling to his son as loudly as he could.
Hearing his voice, the little boy became alarmed and made a U-turn to swim to his father. It was too late. Just as he reached his father, the alligator reached him.
From the dock, the father grabbed his little boy by the arms just as the alligator snatched his legs. That began an incredible tug-of-war between the two. The alligator was much stronger than the father, but the father was much too passionate to let go.
A farmer happened to drive by, heard his screams, raced from his truck, took aim and shot the alligator.
Remarkably, after weeks and weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived. His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the animal and on his arms were deep scratches where his father's fingernails dug into his flesh in his effort to hang on to the son he loved.
The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma, asked if he would show him his scars. The boy lifted his pant legs. And then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, 'But look at my arms. I have great scars on my arms, too. I have them because my Dad wouldn't let go.'
You and I can identify with that little boy. We have scars, too. No, not from an alligator, but the scars of a painful past. Some of those scars are unsightly and have caused us deep regret. But some wounds, my friend, are because God has refused to let you go. In the midst of your struggle, He's been there holding on to you.
The Scripture teaches that God loves you. You are a child of God. He wants to protect you and provide for you in every way. But sometimes we foolishly wade into dangerous situations, not knowing what lies ahead. The swimming hole of life is filled with peril - and we forget that the enemy is waiting to attack. That's when the tug-of-war begins - and if you have the scars of His love on your arms, be very, very grateful. He did not and will not ever let you go.
Never judge another person's scars, because you don't know how they got them. Also, it is so important that we are not selfish, to receive the blessings of these messages, without forwarding them to someone else. Right now, someone needs to know that God loves them, and you love them, too - enough to not let them go.

source unknown

Atheist Author Experiences Love of Christian Author

In connection with their book Is Christianity Good for the World?, evangelical theologian Douglas Wilson and leading atheist Christopher Hitchens have hit the road to debate the issues that divide the two. Wilson's son, Nate, is riding along. In an on-line update about the tour for ChristianityToday.com, Nate shared what struck him most about the first few stops in New York, Philadelphia, and Washington, D.C.:
To be honest, the most interesting moments have all been outside the formal events—discussions over meals, in cabs and elevators. Both men share a love of poetry (over lunch, they gave an antiphonal recitation of "Jabberwocky"), a love of the English language and the well-turned phrase, and have spent a good ten minutes spouting favourite lines from the British writer P. G. Wodehouse to mutual laughter. And both men have a respect for each other—though clearly not for their conflicting opinions of God and the nature of the world.
At the King's College debate, Hitchens professed disdain for the biblical admonition to "love your enemies," calling it total nonsense. And yet, as he appears in Christian forums, wrangling with a Christian man, that is exactly what he is experiencing firsthand. The exchanges are heated. No punches have been pulled, and no one is pretending like the gulf between atheism and Christianity is anything but dark and profound. Yet underlying it all, there is an affection shown to him that is just as profound.
Hitchens said he wanted all his enemies destroyed. Wilson countered with qualified agreement, saying that God destroys all his enemies, but doesn't only destroy them in the traditional way, as understood by man, but also destroys his enemies by making them friends.

source unknown

Importing the Idol of Consumerism

My friend Ashish came from Northern India to visit me in Chicago. We were eating at Gino's Pizzeria one day and ran into a youth pastor I know, along with his youth group. Just returned from Central America, they were debriefing. "So what did you learn from your trip?" Ashish asked. Student after student obsessed about the poverty of "those poor people." After they left, Ashish said, "Why do they think we're so poor?"
"Ashish," I retorted, "you are poor compared to any of those kids. It's hard to get their minds off their consumerist passions. I'm glad they experienced some dissonance."
"I'm sick of sympathy from Westerners who think we need more stuff," Ashish rebutted. "What does that have to do with our happiness? Please don't help import the consumerism idol into India."
He then told about the American group that was just with him in Delhi. "They were concerned about the bicycle I use to get back and forth to church. They told me they'd all chipped in to get me a car! That was the last thing I wanted. I think I 'rained on their parade,' as you say, when I told them that members in my church could use those same dollars to help start a micro-enterprise. They thought I was just being supersacrificial."

source unknown

An Hour of Your Time

A man came home from work late, tired and irritated, to find his 5-year old son waiting for him at the door.
SON: 'Daddy, may I ask you a question?'
DAD: 'Yeah sure, what it is?' replied the man.
SON: 'Daddy, how much do you make an hour?'
DAD: 'That's none of your business. Why do you ask such a thing?' the Man said angrily.
SON: 'I just want to know. Please tell me, how much do you make an hour?'
DAD: 'If you must know, I make $50 an hour.'
SON: 'Oh,' the little boy replied, with his head down.
SON: 'Daddy, may I please borrow $25?'
The father was furious, 'If the only reason you asked that is so you can borrow some money to buy a silly toy or some other nonsense, then you march yourself straight to your room and go to bed. Think about why you are being so selfish. I don't work hard everyday for such childish frivolities.'
The little boy quietly went to his room and shut the door. The man sat down and started to get even angrier about the little boy's questions. How dare he ask such questions only to get some money?
After about an hour or so, the man had calmed down, and started to think:
Maybe there was something he really needed to buy with that $25.00 and he really didn't ask for money very often. The man went to the door of the little boy's room and opened the door.
'Are you asleep, son?' He asked.
'No daddy, I'm awake,' replied the boy.
'I've been thinking, maybe I was too hard on you earlier' said the man. 'It's been a long day and I took out my aggravation on you. Here's the $25 you asked for.'
The little boy sat straight up, smiling. 'Oh, thank you daddy!' he yelled. Then, reaching under his pillow he pulled out some crumpled up bills.
The man saw that the boy already had money, started to get angry again. The little boy slowly counted out his money, and then looked up at his father.
'Why do you want more money if you already have some?' the father grumbled, 'because I didn't have enough, but now I do,' the little boy replied.
'Daddy, I have $50 now. Can I buy an hour of your time? Please come home early tomorrow. I would like to have dinner with you.' The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little son, and he begged for his forgiveness.
It's just a short reminder to all of you working so hard in life. We should not let time slip through our fingers without having spent some time with those who really matter to us, those close to our hearts.
Do remember to share that $50 worth of your time with someone you love. If we die tomorrow, the company that we are working for could easily replace us in a matter of hours. But the family & friends we leave behind will feel the loss for the rest of their lives.

source unknown

A Scary Kind of Love

Why fully devoted followers can be really threatening by Gordon MacDonald
While hiking in Switzerland this past month, I came to a town in which one of my favourite hotels is located. It's a very Swiss hotel, not overly expensive, with a wonderful view of the mountains. I stay there at least one night every time I go to Switzerland. And last month I intended to stay there again.
But the man at the desk turned me away. "You have no reservation," he said, "and the hotel is full for the night."
I tried to coax him to find a way to let me in: "I come here every year … you've always had a room for me before … I only have this one night … this is my favourite hotel." Most New England inn keepers would have caved in to my efforts at charm, but not the man at the desk of the Swiss hotel.
When I realised his mind was made up, I was really piqued. But not so that he would have noticed. Christians, after all, act nice. But inside I felt rejected and disappointed. I really wanted to say as I went out the door, "I never liked your stupid hotel anyway. I only stay here because it's cheap." But the truth is that I did like it. Strange, the conflicted attitudes that breed like bacteria in the human heart when one feels rejected.
Then in my Bible reading a day or two later, I came across that story in which the disciples of Jesus sought accommodations for themselves and the Lord in a Samaritan village. They, like me, were turned away. But on this occasion, the issue was more than just a no-vacancy problem. The disciples were Jews, and the Samaritans held them in contempt. We're talking real animosity here.
As I brooded on the Bible story I remembered first that the Samaritans violated the principle of Middle Eastern hospitality: one never turns away someone in search of shelter and replenishment. I should have reminded my Swiss "friend" about that.
But returning to the story, I saw that the more important thing had to do with the disciples' handling of the matter. Their attitude was far uglier than my feelings at the Swiss hotel.
"Lord," they asked when they returned to him, "do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?" How's that for going over the top? Thankfully, I did not say (or think) that when I was told there was no room for me at the Swiss hotel.
Fire from heaven? Three years with the Saviour (give or take) and this is the best reaction the disciples can come up with? One might want to question the discipling ability of Jesus.
The feelings of the Twelve toward the Samaritans is just plain hateful. You want to ask them if they'd forgotten, among other things, that there were children in that village.
So what's in the human heart that generates such vindictiveness? What is it that causes us to feel justified to wish ill toward an adversary, to speak bitterly to (and about) those with whom we disagree, to support spokespersons who are capable of communicating in the meanest of ways?
The same day as I read the Bible story, I came across this comment from another source: devotion leads to hatred. Since I have tried to live a devoted life (to Jesus), I immediately rejected the comment. But when I remembered the story of the disciples and their attitude, I revisited the idea that devotion of a kind might indeed lead to hatred. And I became very uncomfortable.
I wanted to ask, "What kind of devotion are we talking about?" Can devotion actually go off the rails and become something else? Can we become blinded by devotion and end up being more like those we think of as the undevoted?
One day Jesus was asked about the great commandment. "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with your soul and with all your mind," he answered. If he'd left it there, he would have enjoyed universal agreement from those who'd posed the question.
The fact is that these words, left alone, describe a popular, even naïve, kind of devotion which permits people to indulge in bias, arrogance, and even murder in the name of God … if they "love" him enough. The words themselves provide a terrible license to say, "I love God, and since you don't, you are nothing. And since you are nothing, I can speak of you, treat you, and scorn you in any way I choose."
But the Lord went on in his response to the question. "The second is like (the first) … meaning there are really two (not one!) great commandments, and they are like con-joined twins: they cannot be separated. "Love your neighbour as yourself." Everything, in the law and the prophets, he added, hangs on the connection of these two ideas, he said.
In that one paragraph, Jesus united all the teaching of Scripture, everything he came to do and say. Your love for God is evidenced and defined by your love for your neighbour. And we all know what Jesus meant by the word "neighbour."
For me this was a fresh burst of insight and renovation of spirit. Devotion to God without devotion to my neighbor can indeed lead to hatred because it is a devotion made up of words and self-centeredness. Devotion to God without the qualifying force of the second commandment does in fact lead to calling fire down from heaven. It permits a rather sophisticated, self-righteous perspective that leads to slander, scorn, gossip, hateful talk, and various behaviors that can lead to forms of violence. And I find the roots of all of these things deep within me.
All this thinking because a Swiss inn-keeper couldn't find me a room.
Oh, I found another hotel.

source unknown

God Uses Woman's Painful Past to Minister to Homeless Women

In a recent issue of Today's Christian, Carol Heath shared her moving testimony:
I hated everything about my life.
After twenty-three years in a loveless marriage with little respect, my divorce was now final. I had to leave my dream house in Anderson, South Carolina, and move to a dilapidated rental house on a dead-end street. Even worse, I matched that awful house. Staring at the dingy floor, I felt ugly, used up, and broken. So many years of my life gone. Wasted.
Dropping to my knees, I traced a huge split in the linoleum as I prayed, "God, help me. If you get me out of this, I'm yours. Whatever you want. I just need three things—a job, a new life, and to be loved."
With no college degree and little employment history, my options were limited. Then word of a job opportunity came through my previous mission work. I'd be managing My Sister's Place, a shelter [in northern Georgia] for homeless women and their children. The position would provide a place for me to live and a salary. I didn't think I had much left to offer, but at least I'd be needed and loved. It sounded too good to be true. …
My Sister's Place took in addicts, alcoholics, mentally ill, single and divorced women with children, and some who never learned to manage money. …
I didn't demand perfection, but somehow after I arrived, housekeeping dropped off. Chores were forgotten and duties half done. After a month I awoke to discover dirty dishes in the sink, ants crawling over the countertop, beds unmade, and cups covering the coffee table. God, you tricked me—put me in charge of bunch of women who act like spoiled teenagers.
"None of you appreciate me!" I slapped the dirty counter. "Can't you see how hard I'm trying?" My hands shook as I slung the Tupperware cups into the sink. "When are you going to grow up? I don't like being here, in case you didn't notice. If any of you don't want to help out, you know where the door is."
They scattered like rats. All except Gail. I stomped back to the bedrooms and ordered the rest of them to get busy making beds. That night for supper, I fixed turkey again from our collection. Some church had donated twelve.
After supper we went through our usual routine—Family Time, Devotional, and Prayer Circle. I offered no prayers. I didn't even hold hands.
After we finished, I peeled off down the street in my van, screaming out to God. "This is too hard. I can't do it." I found a used fast-food napkin under the seat to wipe my eyes. "I still hate my life," I sobbed. "I'm lonely no matter how many women you stick me with." God seemed far away and silent.
I drove until almost midnight and then U-turned my car back toward home. Stepping out into the dewy air, I stood in the damp, overgrown grass in the front yard and listened to laughter. I realized the ruckus was coming from behind the house. My tennis shoes squished as I trudged toward the voices. Peeking around the corner, I spotted the women. In the darkness their lighted cigarettes dotted the back porch like tiny red beacons. I inhaled, recalling the days when I'd smoked. Way back when.
"That Ms. Carol, something's riled her today."
"Yeah, I ain't getting in her way."
Then Gail piped up. "Y'all give her a break. She's one of us." She paused to take a drag from her cigarette. "She's got nowhere to go. We're her family now. We should treat her that way."
I didn't speak to any of them that night. I knew it was impossible—I could never be like them.
Early the next morning, I heard a faint knock on my bedroom door. Gail tiptoed in with a cup of coffee. "Here, Ms. Carol. Just the way you like it." She grinned and stuck her stubby hair behind her ears. "Sorry about yesterday. We're gonna do better."
"How come you smile all the time?" I grabbed the mug and moved over to give her room on my bed. Gail spent half her day in addiction classes, then went straight to Krystal's to flip burgers.
"I have so much," she said.
"Honey, look around. You don't have that much." I patted her skinny, tattooed arm.
"I have you," she said in her throaty voice. "I'm glad you're here. We need you. Bad." Smile lines formed at the edges of her 47-year-old blue eyes. Lines just like mine. Gail hugged me with all her might. In her arms, something angry inside me began to melt.
My sweet Lord, [I thought]. I understand way too much about abusive relationships. You've been preparing me for this job for years. I know how they feel. I've been there…I am them. …
[Later that day], I drove to the co-op to pick up free food. As I shopped I prayed, "God, show me how to really love these women."
Filling up my bag with fruits and vegetables, I noticed something I'd never seen. Long-stem pink roses. They reminded me of my yard in South Carolina. The man behind the table said, "Take some. Every day, if you want. They'll just get thrown out."
Free roses! What woman doesn't love roses?
That night, we celebrated with store-bought hamburger meat—a rare treat. I took my time and made homemade spaghetti, and found a vase under the sink for the pink roses. Smiling, I arranged donated candles all over the table. This looks special. Something I'd love myself.
"Attention ladies," I said, tapping my tea glass with my fork. "We have a new tradition—our family's tradition. Every night we'll have fresh roses and candles on our table."
In the soft glow of candlelight, my precious family and I reached out and held hands as we said our blessing. Gail, my new sister and best friend, sat on my right side and squeezed my hand tightly. I squeezed back—hard.

source unknnown

Betty's Secret Ingredient

Is magnanimity the reputation of your church? by Mark Labberton
On a dark and dismal day a while back, my wife and I went for coffee at a place we like. We each ordered a latté and chose a pastry to split. The clerk, noting the other pastry we almost chose, put it in a separate bag and said, "Here, I think you'd really like this one too."
No doubt we would, I thought, nearly objecting. Then I saw in his eyes that he was giving us a gift. That was just the start.
One of this bakery's specialties is their chicken pot-pie, and that sounded like perfect comfort food on such a day. So as we came to the cash register, we told our clerk we wanted to buy one of those as well. He placed a full, delicious looking pot-pie in our bag, and then stepped to another part of bakery. When he returned he had a scrumptious, whole apple pie that he gently laid in our bag as well, saying, "You will love this. It goes great with the chicken pot pie." It was a gift, simply and unmistakably.
Welcome to Bake Sale Betty's, an unmarked bakery on an unattractive corner in Oakland. Over the years, their building has been the site of many failed businesses, mostly the check-cashing ilk. Betty's is not failing. In fact, Betty's rules and it has for several years.
Betty herself wears a shiny electric-blue synthetic wig, sells fried chicken sandwiches by the hundreds, serves unusual and delicious pastries, bakes a chicken pot-pie that makes all others incidental. The long lines out the door, wending alongside uncovered ironing boards and stools that are Betty's outside seating, tells you it's a popular place.
But the most important ingredient isn't one you can see: magnanimity.
I am not a frequent, known, or favoured customer at Betty's. I don't believe I looked especially desperate the morning my wife and I showed up for coffee. I think I looked like I could buy what they were selling if I needed or wanted to do so. And Betty's is clearly a business that sells outstanding food. But Betty and her husband have chosen to do business magnanimously.
It would be easy to imagine that in the cynical atmosphere of the San Francisco Bay Area all this could be sneered at as customer manipulation, cheap advertising, or worse, economic stupidity! What people of every colour, stripe, and class do instead is just get in line and smile, whether you end up paying for all you take away or not. Betty's doesn't add any hooks like punched coupon cards, or fliers to pass along to friends, or cute one-liners about future purchases or obligations.
Some places I go for coffee have small tasting plates of cookie crumbs or pastry fragments to tempt the customer. Not Betty's. The place is heaped up with piles of their delectable goods and what they give away is the whole thing or nothing. It's unexpected. It's shocking. It's joyful. It's magnanimous. It's tastes like grace.
For a pastor, Betty's begs lots of questions: Is such magnanimity the spirit and reputation of my church or of yours? Is heaped-up, open-handed goodness without strings the love we share with people who come to our doors, whether they're regulars or not? Why do so many of us who claim to be ambassadors for abundant grace live lives of stingy scarcity?
At Betty's I was given something really good and the giving of it was so free, so unself-conscious, and so personal. Is this how people leave after a visit to our church?
In the late afternoon of that same day, I unexpectedly found myself back at Betty's to meet a friend. Again, a cup of coffee was all I had in mind, though I admit I was looking forward to the pot pie and apple pie later than night. As we stood in line, a clerk came along handing to each person a delicious, warm cookie, presumably to make up for our wait in line. When we got to the front, I ordered a coffee and my friend ordered a coffee and a fried chicken sandwich. I asked our clerk out of curiosity how much an apple pie cost. He told me, wondering if I wanted one.
"No, I am set," I said, smiling. As he finished gathering our order together, the clerk stuck in a large piece of apple pie, and two forks and said, "you will really enjoy this."
And we did. And we'll be back: magnanimity is in short supply and Betty's is the place. Is the church too?

source unknown

NFL Star Refuses to Have Sex Before Marriage

NFL running back Shaun Alexander writes:
At the University of Alabama, I was meeting women from a lot of different backgrounds. My mother had taught me never to exploit women—that sex was meant only for marriage—and to treat women with respect. I knew the boundary lines it wasn't right to cross… I knew if I didn't keep my focus, I could fall. And it could occur anytime.
One time it almost did. It happened the first year of college when I'd gone home for a visit. To protect her privacy, I'll call her Sherron. One night we were alone in my room while my mum was gone. We were kissing, and I thought seriously about having sex with her. But something in me kept whispering, This isn't right.
Just then the phone ran. It was my mother, and she asked, "Is everything good, Shaun?"
"Uh…yeah, Mum," I said. "It's good."
"What's going on?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing," I answered. "Sherron is here and we're going to go out and eat and probably go to a movie. Something like that."
"Okay, that's fine," Mum said. "I'm going to stay in Covington with your grandma, so I'll call you tomorrow."
As I hung up, thoughts raced through my mind. What am I doing here? Something isn't right about this. This is so easy and nobody else will know. But I'll know, and God will know. It was more than wrestling with my thoughts. I was in a full-out fight. I had to decide who my body would serve.
Just then, Sherron leaned close to me and whispered, "I've brought condoms."
My thoughts were racing. Mainly I was thinking, Am I one of those rotten guys who says he loves Jesus but folds when it's easy or when he won't get caught? "No, we can't do this," I finally said.
"Why not?"
"We're not supposed to."
"What does that mean?" Sherron asked.
I jumped up and pulled her to her feet. "It means we're going out." I hurried her out to the car, and we drove to the mall. That was the closest I ever got to having sex before marriage. Mum's phone call had kept me from making a big mistake. Many times I've been grateful to my mother for calling exactly when she did.

source unknown

There is a God in the Post Office

This is one of the kindest things I've ever experienced. I have no way to know who sent it, but there is a beautiful soul working in the dead letter office of the US postal service.

Our 14 year old dog, Abbey, died last month. The day after she died, my 4 year old daughter Meredith was crying and talking about how much she missed Abbey. She asked if we could write a letter to God so that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her. I told her that I thought we could so she dictated these words:
Dear God,
Will you please take care of my dog? She died yesterday and is with you in heaven. I miss her very much. I am happy that you let me have her as my dog even though she got sick.
I hope you will play with her. She likes to play with balls and to swim. I am sending a picture of her so when you see her. You will know that she is my dog. I really miss her.
Love, Meredith.

We put the letter in an envelope with a picture of Abbey and Meredith and addressed it to God/Heaven. We put our return address on it. Then Meredith pasted several stamps on the front of the envelope because she said it would take lots of stamps to get the letter all the way to heaven. That afternoon she dropped it into the letter box at the post office. A few days later, she asked if God had gotten the letter yet. I told her that I thought He had.
Yesterday, there was a package wrapped in gold paper on our front porch addressed, 'To Meredith, 'in an unfamiliar hand. Meredith opened it. Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers called, 'When a Pet Dies.' Taped to the inside front cover was the letter we had written to God in its opened envelope. On the opposite page was the picture of Abbey & Meredith and this note:

Dear Meredith,
Abbey arrived safely in heaven.
Having the picture was a big help. I recognized Abbey right away.
Abbey isn't sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me just like it stays in your heart. Abbey loved being your dog. Since we don't need our bodies in heaven, I don't have any pockets to keep your picture in, so I am sending it back to you in this little book for you to keep and have something to remember Abbey by.
Thank you for the beautiful letter and thank your mother for helping you write it and sending it to me. What a wonderful mother you have. I picked her especially for you.
I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much.
By the way, I'm easy to find, I am wherever there is love.
Love, God

source unknown

Kids Collect Pennies to Purchase New Fire Truck

Shortly after the tragedy of 9/11, a wonderful story of giving was reported by Page Ivey of The Associated Press. It emerged from a school house in Columbia, South Carolina.
First you have to have some historical perspective. Two years after the Civil War, with much of Columbia still in ruins, some of the bitterness over the North-South conflict was put aside by a single gesture: New York firefighters set out to collect pennies to buy Columbia a firetruck.
On February 17, 1865, a devastating blaze…had devoured over 36 blocks, or about one-third of the city. Columbia had lost most of its firefighting equipment during the Civil War and desperately used bucket brigades in their attempt to douse flames.
Not long after, New York City firemen, many of them former Union soldiers, raised $5,000—mostly in pennies—and put a hose-reel wagon on a steamship bound for Columbia, South Carolina. It was March of 1867. On the way, the ship sank, but instead of giving up, they took up another collection and sent a second hose-reel wagon in June of that same year.
So overwhelmed was former Confederate Colonel Samuel Melton that he made a promise on behalf of South Carolina's capital city to return the kindness "should misfortune ever befall the Empire City."
After 9/11, White Knoll principal Nancy Turner and her teachers were trying to find some tangible way their students could respond to the attacks. The children were too young to give blood, and no one liked the idea of simply sending money to an impersonal national fund. Eventually the decision was made to collect money to buy a fire truck.
Then Turner stumbled on records of New York's long-ago gift while researching the cost and what type of truck to buy. It was easy to get city leaders and the state governor, Jim Hodges, to join in. Columbia's fire chief was a New York native. The effort was renamed "South Carolina Remembers." After 134 years, the day to remember came and the children of Columbia took it on themselves to honor that pledge.
They collected pennies at football games, held bake sales, and sold T-shirts in a drive to raise the $350,000 needed to replace one of the dozens of New York City firetrucks destroyed in the 9/11 attacks.
The idea began from a lesson in giving. Donations poured in. One donor wrote: "When I was growing up in Columbia, Mama always said you need to return a kindness. I know she'd be as glad as I am to be part of this wonderful thank-you gesture."
In notes to the students, donors told personal stories connecting them with loved ones who died on 9/11, to firefighters, and in one case, to Confederate soldiers. In her article, Page Ivey tells about one of the most unforgettable donations, coming from Russell Siller of Rockville Centre, New York. Siller's brother, Stephen, was part of the elite firefighter force Squad 1. He died that terrible day. Siller wrote: "At a time like this, when the whole nation is still mourning its loss, what a powerful and poetic message your efforts send to all of us. I am proud that New York's bravest sent you a fire truck in your city's time of need. … To think that you would honor a pledge made so many years ago! The new fire truck will become a symbol for your love for your country, and for New York's bravest."

source unknown

Along Came a Teacher

For those who don't fit the system, a gifted instructor can make the difference by Gordon MacDonald
In the world we pay athletes and CEO's the big bucks. But it's the educator who contributes most to society. And, similarly, in the church there are some preachers who get all the praise and recognition. But it's the discipler of no more than a handful who builds saints.
This truth was reconfirmed for me today. From a box of family memorabilia has come a bundle of report cards that chart my passage through public school from kindergarten to 6th grade. I read them this morning for the first time in 60 years.
The cards dredge up a lot of past unhappiness for me. In kindergarten (PS 33 in Queens, New York) children received grades for such things as sitting correctly, using a handkerchief, ability to dress alone, working and playing well with others, and ability to express oneself. I got all S's meaning satisfactory. I should have stayed in kindergarten.
4th and 5th grade (Fairfax School in Cleveland Heights, Ohio), were another story. My grades in arithmetic and spelling were U's for unsatisfactory. I received acceptable grades in geography and English. In the section called "note to parents," were these words: "Gordon would do much better if he applied himself…he is careless in doing his work and loiters away his time." In another report card, "Gordon still takes too long in getting started in his assignments. He is quick to find excuses for not getting his work done." Months later: "Gordon needs firm handling…his greatest failings are his inability to follow directions and lack of concentration." Boil all the comments down, and it comes to this: Gordon doesn't fit into the system.
As I said, I felt a fresh hurt from deep inside myself as I read these report cards. They aroused memories of a generally unhappy childhood where members of my family struggled to be civil to one another. More than a few times I remember leaving a contentious home and walking or biking to school alone, crying all the way. It was a poor way to start most school days.
Each report card has the signature of either my father or my mother showing that they once read them. I remember a student or two who tried to forge their parents' names. I wasn't as daring. I always feared my parents' reactions. "You should be ashamed of these marks. You are better than this." Or they would say, "I don't understand it; you have such potential." Ever heard this one? "You're not keeping your mind on your work; you've got to apply yourself."
Each morning during the two-week turnaround time I would count down the days remaining until I absolutely had to get one of their signatures. On the final day, just as I was headed out the door for school, I would shove it front of the nearest parent and say, "Could you sign this?"
The bad report cards would result in losing radio privileges (no TVs yet), after-school play time, and promises that my homework would be carefully, parentally monitored—which rarely happened because my parents were too involved with church work. Their stick and carrot philosophy rarely worked.
Truth be told, I rarely did well in any of my organised educational experiences. I simply did not fit the overly regulated, highly programmed classrooms. My temperament was that of an artist with his own agenda, his own way of seeing, and his own internal schedule.
Then in the 6th grade, the teacher's reports change. "Gordon works fairly well under pressure." Mid-term: "Gordon has been so much more helpful this period. He is beginning to grow up." End of the year: "Gordon is usually manly and thoughtful of others…. It delights me to have him accept responsibility so well." My grades in citizenship, math, history, and geography were all S+.
Growth! The onset of maturity.
I remember my teacher that year, Mary D. Barbour, with fondness. She was tough, serious, demanding. But she was also quick to affirm progress and reward initiative. She must have intuited my uniqueness because she chose to teach into it rather than against it. I responded by giving her my best.
Every once in a while in the course of my education—both my Christian and my public education—along came a teacher (like Mary Barbour) who sensed my complex ways. Somehow she or he knew how to redirect me and cause me to give my best. They were the true teachers, the real disciplers, and I remember every one of them by name. Their fingerprints are all over me to this day.

source unknown

Wife Places Relationship over Material Value

Last weekend was spent doing one of those uber-stressful things: buying a car. We are a one-car family and tend to drive our cars until they die. Our trusty Sebring could no longer be trusted, so it was time to replace it. For us, a major purchase like this is almost traumatic. We are very careful and have a purchasing style that might drive others insane. …
We've been married 20 years and have never bought a new car. It was sort of a policy of ours with the whole depreciation thing in the first year. But as we shopped we found that the models that we chose were not depreciating in value to make it worth our while. So, following a certain train of logic (reliability + features + cost) this family ended up with a bright, shiny, spanking-new, kiwi-green Honda Element. Our first new car.
Now, one of the reasons we always bought used is a concept called "the kiss factor." … When my husband was younger, he had an uncle who told him that if he ever got a new car, the first thing he needed to do was take a hammer and give it a whack, hence giving it its first dent. In other words, "kiss" it.
His logic was that if it was already "kissed" then all that fuss and stress over having something new and trying to keep it new would evaporate into practical everyday life. Practical. Sensible. Would I do it to our bright shiny spanking new, kiwi-green, Honda Element? Not on your life.
However, the downside that remained without "kissing" our bright, shiny, spanking-new, kiwi-green, Honda Element is that I, in fact, did feel a certain weird, low-grade anxiety about keeping it new—and that is not our family's style. When we get something—blender, luggage, whatever—we use the snot out of it. But this was a new car. …
But there was one factor I had not considered: my sweet husband.
I had driven it home from the dealership Saturday night, and then my husband carefully parked it across the lawn… . Sunday morning we needed to take the Sebring to that great car lot in the sky (Carmax). The plan was he would move the Element for me and then I would drive it following him (for his last drive in the Sebring). I realised that I forgot my keys. I ran back in the house, grabbed my keys, and ran back outside—just in time to see our bright, shiny, spanking-new, kiwi-green Honda Element with its bumper squared off against a tree. …
Knowing full well that he had just backed into the tree, I heard myself saying, "You didn't; you didn't," while feeling something rise up in me.
Now, this is one of those pivotal moments that tell you a lot about yourself. Looming on my emotional horizon was a dark cloud of disappointment, blame, and something even uglier. The temptation to place something of material value over a relationship.
Recognising the moment, I snapped out of my "you didn't" chant, and looking at my husband's expression of utter disbelief, I started to laugh. Examining the damage, we looked at each other and both began to laugh. "I guess it's been kissed," we said. Now I can relax.

source unknown

God Uses Saxophone to Change Woman's Perspective

Robin Lee Shope, a self-confessed "garage sale junkie," shares how she was consumed by disappointment over a lost bargain—until God changed her tune:
I parked in front of the house [that was holding the inside moving sale]. The front door was open as if urging, Come in and buy my treasures. As I wandered through the house, searching for hidden gems, I found a case under a pile of old bedspreads in the back bedroom. Inside was a shiny saxophone, beautifully engraved with the figure of a woman. It was vintage, in pristine condition, and mine for only $20.
Unfamiliar with the going rate for instruments, I called my husband to do a quick eBay search. No way could I afford to end up with another white elephant to store in my shed. It was crowded enough!
I heard Rick's fingers tapping, then silence. "There aren't any listed."
Odd. It seemed to me that someone should have at least one saxophone for sale. "You're sure?"
"Not one."
I ended the call, worried. I was $20 poorer and the proud owner of a shiny saxophone that might not sell. What did I know about musical instruments? All I could play was the radio. As I was leaving, an elderly man stopped me. "Can I buy that saxophone from you?" he asked hopefully. "I'll give you $20 more than what you paid."
I was thrilled. I'd not only recoup my 20 dollars, I'd make 20 more—and within minutes of my purchase. I viewed it as God's unexpected provision, a blessing. …
[Later that day] I sat at the computer, pulled up the eBay homepage, and entered the type of saxophone I'd owned for less than five minutes. To my horror, three exact matches popped up, all selling for over $500. "Rick!" I wailed, pointing at the screen. "Look!"
He wrinkled his nose. "Oh."
"You said there weren't any saxophones listed!" I felt weak. I was losing consciousness.
"That's weird. When I looked there weren't any listed."
Suddenly, I realised the problem: Rick hadn't gone to the eBay homepage; he'd gone to my seller's page. Of course I didn't have a sax listed. I had an enamel coffee pot with no bids, a sunbonnet girl quilt with no bids, and a primitive cabinet, also without a bid. I'd sold the sax cheap. God wanted to bless me abundantly, but I'd blown it! It was as if someone had snatched money right out of my pocket, and I'd let it happen. …
It was done. Finished. No chance for a do-over. Yet I couldn't let it go. Late at night I sat sleepless, angry with myself for harbouring ill feelings. My brain kept replaying the moment I sold the sax, while a bitter little voice whispered that the old man had probably pawned it. I felt envious, consumed by greed—and guilty. God was revealing a side of me that I hadn't known existed.
I opened the Bible to Galatians 6: "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Next I turned in my concordance to the verses on praising God and made note cards of ten verses. Each time I thought about the sax, I lifted my arms and praised God, thanking him and quoting Scripture. "Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you" (1 Thess. 5:18). I was amazed by how my turmoil fled, leaving behind pure happiness. It set me free, and once more my life became enjoyable. I even let Rick off the hook, so his life became enjoyable as well!
A few months later as I was perusing a garage sale, I spied my sax buyer hunched over a box, sifting through old sheet music. Feeling the old twinge of regret, I pretended not to see him. But he recognised me and cheerfully called out, "Hello there! Have you found any treasures today?"
"No." …
[And] as I turned to walk away, he caught hold of my arm. "I want you to know that because of your spontaneous generosity, I rekindled my old passion for the saxophone. Being retired, I now volunteer my time to teach kids how to play." He wiggled his fingers over the keys of an invisible sax. It was then I noticed his frailty, his worn clothes, and his scuffed shoes.
And suddenly I understood. I thought he'd stolen my blessing, when in fact he was my blessing. God's provision is for us all. And I was blessed to have received it twice, and in the most unusual place.
I'd call that a double blessing.

source unknown