Scott Hanson is a news reporter and anchor with WESH-Channel 2 in Orlando, Florida. This piece was excerpted from the Orlando Sentinel Star newspaper. It is worth a careful reading, so take your time - and think long and hard about it!! :-)
My father died on Jan 02, 1995. He left no forwarding address.
Therefore, it fell to me to collect his mail. I didn't expect much really, since my sisters and I had been careful to notify his bank, insurance agent and a host of other businesses that one of their customers was no more.
You would think a death notice would cut down on the amount of correspondence from those firms. Quite the contrary. Instead - for months, mind you - my deceased father continued to receive mail from companies that had been told of his passing but pressed on, determined to contact him anyway.
The first to hope for a reply from beyond the grave was my father's bank.
Dear Mr. Hanson,
Our records indicate payment is due for overdraft protection on your checking account. Efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Therefore, we are automatically withdrawing your monthly $28.00 service charge from your account. Please adjust your records accordingly.
Sincerely,
The Phoenix Branch
Dear Phoenix Branch,
This is to notify you once again that Mr. Hanson died Jan 02, 1995. It is therefore unlikely he will be overdrawing his account. Please close his account, and adjust your books accordingly.
Sincerely,
Scott Hansom
Later that same week, I received this note from Dad's insurance company. Again, this is a firm that had been told in no uncertain terms of his death.
Dear Mr. Hanson,
It's time to renew your auto insurance policy! To continue your coverage, you must send $54.17 to this office immediately. Failure to do so will result in the cancellation of your policy, and interruption of your coverage.
Sincerely,
Your Insurance Agent
Dear Insurance Agent,
This is to remind you that Mr. Hanson has been dead since January. As such, the odds he'll be involved in a collision are quite minimal. Please cancel the policy, and adjust your books accordingly.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson.
The next day, I went to my mailbox to find this:
Dear Mr. Hanson,
Let me introduce myself. I am a psychic reader, and it is very important that you contact me immediately. I sense that you are about to enter a time of unprecedented financial prosperity. Please call the enclosed 900 number immediately, so I can tell you how best to take full advantage of the opportunities that are coming your way.
Sincerely,
Your Psychic Reader
Dear Psychic Reader,
My father regrets he will be unable to call your 900 number. As a psychic reader, I'm sure you already know my father is dead, and had been for more that three weeks when you mailed your letter to him. I sense my father would be more than happy to take you up on your offer of a psychic reading, should you care to meet with him personally.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson
P.S. Should you be in contact with my father in the future, please ask him if he'd like to renew his car insurance.
A few months of calm passed, and then these arrived:
Dear Mr. Hanson,
Our records indicate a balance of $112 has accrued for overdraft protection on your checking account. Efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Please pay the minimum amount due, or contact this office to make other arrangements. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving all of your future borrowing needs.
Sincerely,
Your Bank's San Diego District Office
Dear San Diego District Office,
I am writing to you for the third time now to tell you my father died in January. Since then, the number of checks he's written has dropped dramatically. Being dead, he has no plans to use his overdraft protection or pay even the minimum amount due for a service he no longer needs.
As for future borrowing needs, well, don't hold your breath.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson
Dear Mr. Hanson,
Records show you owe a balance of $54.17 to your insurance agent. Efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful. Therefore, the matter has been turned over to us for collection.
Please remit the amount of $54.17 to our office or we will be forced to take legal action to collect the debt.
Sincerely,
Your Insurance Agent's Collection Agency
Dear Collection Agency,
I told your client. Now I'm telling you. Dad's dead. He doesn't need insurance. He's dead. Dead, dead, dead. I doubt even your lawyers can change that. Please adjust your books accordingly.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson
A few more months, and:
Dear Mr. Hanson,
Our records show an unpaid balance of $224 has accrued for overdraft protection on your checking account. Our efforts to contact you have proven unsuccessful.
Please remit the amount in full to this office, or the matter will be turned over to a collection agency. Such action will adversely affect your credit history.
Sincerely,
Your Bank's Los Angeles Regional Office
Dear Los Angeles Regional Office,
I am writing for the fourth time to the fourth person at the fourth address to tell your bank that my father passed away in January. Since that time, I've watched with a mixture of amazement and amusement as your bank continues to transact business with him. Now, you are even threatening his credit history.
It should come as no surprise that you have received little response from my deceased father. It should also be small news that his credit history is of minor importance to him now.
For the fourth and final time, please adjust your books accordingly.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson
Dear Mr. Hanson,
This is your final notice of payment due to your insurance agent. If our firm does not receive payment of $54.17, we will commence legal action on the matter. Please contact us at once.
Sincerely,
Your Insurance Agent's Collection Agency
Dear Insurance Agent's Collection Agency,
You may contact my father via the enclosed 900 number.
Sincerely,
Scott Hanson
It has now been a couple of months since I've heard from these firms. Either the people writing these letters finally believe my father is dead, or they themselves have died and are now receiving similar correspondence. Actually, there has been a lesson in these letters. Any one of them would be cause for great worry, if sent to a living person. The dead are immune from corporate bullying. There's nothing like dying to put business correspondence in its proper perspective.
Dying is a little harder than it might seem!
Friday, October 05, 2012
Thursday, October 04, 2012
One for the Team
This story was told by an old priest one Sunday. It is a true story of when he served in the military.
One day their drill sergeant came out and threw a hand grenade into a group of young soldiers. The man all ran away and took cover away from the grenade. Then the drill sergeant told them that the grenade was not set to explode and he just did it to see their reaction. The next day a newly recruited soldier joined the group. The drill sergeant told the other soldiers not to tell the new soldier what was going to happen. As the drill sergeant came out and threw the grenade into the crowd of soldiers, the new soldier, not knowing it wasn't going to explode, threw himself on top of the grenade to prevent it from killing the other men. He was willing to die for his fellow soldiers.
That year the young man was awarded the only medal for courage and bravery that had not been won during battle.
One day their drill sergeant came out and threw a hand grenade into a group of young soldiers. The man all ran away and took cover away from the grenade. Then the drill sergeant told them that the grenade was not set to explode and he just did it to see their reaction. The next day a newly recruited soldier joined the group. The drill sergeant told the other soldiers not to tell the new soldier what was going to happen. As the drill sergeant came out and threw the grenade into the crowd of soldiers, the new soldier, not knowing it wasn't going to explode, threw himself on top of the grenade to prevent it from killing the other men. He was willing to die for his fellow soldiers.
That year the young man was awarded the only medal for courage and bravery that had not been won during battle.
Kim Noone from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
A Love Story
One day, I woke early in the morning to watch the sunrise. Ah the beauty of God's creation is beyond description. As I watched, I praised God for His beautiful work. As I sat there, I felt the Lord's presence with me. He asked me, “Do you love me?" I answered, “Of course, God! You are my Lord and Saviour!"
Then He asked, “If you were physically handicapped, would you still love me?" I was perplexed. I looked down upon my arms, legs and the rest of my body and wondered how many things I wouldn't; be able to do, the things that I took for granted.
And I answered, “It would be tough Lord, but I would still love You."
Then the Lord said, “If you were blind, would you still love my creation?" How could I love something without being able to see it? Then I thought of all the blind people in the world and how many of them still loved God and His creation. So I answered, “Its hard to think of it, but I would still love you."
The Lord then asked me, “If you were deaf, would you still listen to my word?" How could I listen to anything being deaf? Then I understood. Listening to God's Word is not merely using our ears, but our hearts. I answered, “It would be tough, but I would still listen to Your word."
The Lord then asked, “If you were mute, would you still praise My Name?" How could I praise without a voice? Then it occurred to me: God wants us to sing from our very heart and soul. It never matters what we sound like. And praising God is not always with a song, but when we are persecuted, we give God praise with our words of thanks. So I answered, “Though I could not physically sing, I would still praise Your Name.
And the Lord asked, “Do you really love Me?" With courage and a strong conviction, I answered boldly, Yes Lord! I love You because You are the one and true God!" I thought I had answered well, but God asked, then why do you sin?"
I answered, "Because I am only human. I am not perfect."
"Then why in times of peace do you stray the furthest? Why only in times of trouble do you pray in earnest?"
No answers. Only tears.
The Lord continued: “Why only sing at fellowships and retreats? Why seek Me only in times of worship? Why ask things so selfishly? Why ask things so unfaithfully?"
The tears continued to roll down my cheeks.
Why are you ashamed of Me? Why are you not spreading the good news? Why in times of persecution, you cry to others when I offer My shoulder to cry on? Why make excuses when I give you opportunities to serve in My Name?"
I tried to answer, but there was no answer to give.
"You are blessed with life. I made you not to throw this gift away. I have blessed you with talents to serve Me, but you continue to turn away. I have revealed My Word to you, but you do not gain in knowledge. I have spoken to you but your ears were closed. I have shown My blessings to you, but your eyes were turned away. I have sent you servants, but you sat idly by as they were pushed away. I have heard your prayers and I have answered them all."
Do you truly love me?"
I could not answer. How could I? I was embarrassed beyond belief. I had no excuse. What could I say to this? When I my heart had cried out and the tears had flowed, I said, Please forgive me Lord. I am unworthy to be Your child."
The Lord answered, “ That is My Grace, My child."
I asked, “ Then why do you continue to forgive me? Why do You love me so?"
The Lord answered, “ Because you are My creation. You are my child. I will never abandon you. When you cry, I will have compassion and cry with you. When you shout with joy, I will laugh with you. When you are down, I will encourage you. When you fall, I will raise you up. When you are tired, I will carry you. I will be with you till the end of days, and I will love you forever."
Never had I cried so hard before. How could I have been so cold? How could I have hurt God as I had done? I asked God, “How much do You love me?"
The Lord stretched out His arms, and I saw His nail-pierced hands. bowed down at the feet of Christ, my Saviour. And for the first time, I truly prayed.
Then He asked, “If you were physically handicapped, would you still love me?" I was perplexed. I looked down upon my arms, legs and the rest of my body and wondered how many things I wouldn't; be able to do, the things that I took for granted.
And I answered, “It would be tough Lord, but I would still love You."
Then the Lord said, “If you were blind, would you still love my creation?" How could I love something without being able to see it? Then I thought of all the blind people in the world and how many of them still loved God and His creation. So I answered, “Its hard to think of it, but I would still love you."
The Lord then asked me, “If you were deaf, would you still listen to my word?" How could I listen to anything being deaf? Then I understood. Listening to God's Word is not merely using our ears, but our hearts. I answered, “It would be tough, but I would still listen to Your word."
The Lord then asked, “If you were mute, would you still praise My Name?" How could I praise without a voice? Then it occurred to me: God wants us to sing from our very heart and soul. It never matters what we sound like. And praising God is not always with a song, but when we are persecuted, we give God praise with our words of thanks. So I answered, “Though I could not physically sing, I would still praise Your Name.
And the Lord asked, “Do you really love Me?" With courage and a strong conviction, I answered boldly, Yes Lord! I love You because You are the one and true God!" I thought I had answered well, but God asked, then why do you sin?"
I answered, "Because I am only human. I am not perfect."
"Then why in times of peace do you stray the furthest? Why only in times of trouble do you pray in earnest?"
No answers. Only tears.
The Lord continued: “Why only sing at fellowships and retreats? Why seek Me only in times of worship? Why ask things so selfishly? Why ask things so unfaithfully?"
The tears continued to roll down my cheeks.
Why are you ashamed of Me? Why are you not spreading the good news? Why in times of persecution, you cry to others when I offer My shoulder to cry on? Why make excuses when I give you opportunities to serve in My Name?"
I tried to answer, but there was no answer to give.
"You are blessed with life. I made you not to throw this gift away. I have blessed you with talents to serve Me, but you continue to turn away. I have revealed My Word to you, but you do not gain in knowledge. I have spoken to you but your ears were closed. I have shown My blessings to you, but your eyes were turned away. I have sent you servants, but you sat idly by as they were pushed away. I have heard your prayers and I have answered them all."
Do you truly love me?"
I could not answer. How could I? I was embarrassed beyond belief. I had no excuse. What could I say to this? When I my heart had cried out and the tears had flowed, I said, Please forgive me Lord. I am unworthy to be Your child."
The Lord answered, “ That is My Grace, My child."
I asked, “ Then why do you continue to forgive me? Why do You love me so?"
The Lord answered, “ Because you are My creation. You are my child. I will never abandon you. When you cry, I will have compassion and cry with you. When you shout with joy, I will laugh with you. When you are down, I will encourage you. When you fall, I will raise you up. When you are tired, I will carry you. I will be with you till the end of days, and I will love you forever."
Never had I cried so hard before. How could I have been so cold? How could I have hurt God as I had done? I asked God, “How much do You love me?"
The Lord stretched out His arms, and I saw His nail-pierced hands. bowed down at the feet of Christ, my Saviour. And for the first time, I truly prayed.
author unknown
Tuesday, October 02, 2012
Last spring a duck entered our backyard journeying eastward, eleven little ducklings in file behind her. It was an outrageous appearing, really, since we live in the midst of the concrete city. The only waters east of us are the pools at the state hospital, four miles away, which distance is an odyssey! Between here and there are vast tracts of humanity, fences, houses, shopping malls - and immediately to our east, Bayard Park of tall trees and lawns.
Yet this duck moved her brood with a quick skill as if she knew exactly where she was going.
Buff brown generally, vague markings on her wings, a smooth pate with a cowlick at the back, she and her name were the same: blunt and unremarkable. The ducklings were puffballs with butch haircuts, obedient and happy. Big-footed, web-footed, monstrous-footed, floppy-footed, the children followed their mother as fast as drips down windowpanes, peeping, questioning, keeping together, trusting her judgement.
And she, both blunt and busy, led them into our yard, which is surrounded by a wooden palisade fence. Maybe she came this way for a rest.
But we have a dog. He rose to his feet at the astonishing sight. He raised his ears and woofed. The ducks back-pedalled to the wall of the house and turned eastward under the eaves' protection and waddled hard, her ducklings in a mad zip behind her. But the dog is leashed and could not reach the wall. This part of the passage, at least, was safe. The next was not.
Without pausing, the buff duck spread her wings, beat the air, and barely cleared the fence, landing in the middle of Bedford Avenue between our yard and the park. There she set up a loud quacking, like a reedy woodwind: Come! Come!
Eleven ducklings scurried to the fence, then raced along it till they found a crack: Plip! Plip! - they popped through as quick as they could, but their mother must have been driven into the park. By the time they gained the wider world she had disappeared. The babies bunched in confusion, peeping, peeping grievously. One bold soul ventured down Bedford to the alley behind our yard. The others returned through the fence.
Immediately the mother was back on Bedford, the one bold child behind her, scolding the rest like an angry clarinet: Now! Here! Come here now!
Well, in a grateful panic ten ducklings rushed the crack in the fence, thickening there, pushing, burning with urgency, trying hard to obey their mother-
Not fast enough.
A car roared south on Bedford. Another. The duck beat retreat to the farther curb. Joggers came jogging. A knot of teenagers noticed the pretty flow of ducklings from under our fence and ran toward it. The tiny flock exploded in several directions. The mothers cries grew hectic and terrified: Come! Come! - her beak locked open. She raced up and down the park's edge, and there was but one puffball following her.
The simple unity of twelve was torn apart. My city is deadly to certain kinds of families.
Five ducklings shot back and forth inside our yard now, but the hole through the fence led to roaring horrors and they couldn't persuade themselves to hazard it again - though they could hear their mother. That unremarkable duck (no - intrepid now and most remarkable) was hurling herself in three directions, trying to compose her family into unity again: eastward she flew into the park, south toward violent alleys, then back west to the impassive fence. Hear me now, hear me and come! Her children were scattered. She was but one.
I saw a teenager chase one duckling. He was laughing gaily in the game. He reached down and scooped up the tiny life in his great hand and peered at it and threw it up into the air. The baby fell crazily to the ground. The youth chased it again.
"Don’t!" I yelled.
"Why not?" the kid said, straightening himself. “What? Does this duckling belong to you?"
But where was the mother now? I didn't see her anywhere. And now it was bending into later afternoon.
I poured some water into a pan and placed it by the back wall of our house for those ducklings still dithering in our yard. They huddled away from the dog. But the dog had lost interest. They crept sometimes toward the hole in the fence. Now and again a duckling looked through. Their peeping, peeping was miserable. What do you do for innocents in the city - both the wild and the child? By nightfall they had all vanished.
No, not all. I can tell you of two.
The next day we heard a scratching in the vent pipe of our clothes drier. I went down in the basement and disconnected the shaft and found a shivering duckling who must have fallen down from the outside opening. Perhaps it had sought cover and didn't know the cave went down so deep. It had spent a long dark night alone in its prison.
And then at church on Sunday, a friend of mine said,
"Weirdest thing! I saw this duck crossing highway 41 -"
"What?" I cried. “A duck? Alone?"
"Well, no, not alone," said my friend. “I almost ran over her. I guess she didn't fly on account of baby ducks can't fly, and she was protecting it."
"Michelle," I said, “what do you mean it? How many ducklings did she have?"
"One. Just one."
Doesn't this remind you of our lives in regard to our faith? The unremarkable man without his degree in theology who leads the way. We begin by following him in that ragged zipper line, following directly in every footstep, doing the best we can, but then, the challenge becomes too scary, our trust fails, or we run into that mean giant who is prepared to throw us around with no regard for the fragility of our infant faith. And those in the end who began as one of eleven, or fifty, or even one hundred, find that their leader is guiding only one unlost child across that huge highway called life.
How many of those we made our commitments with or those we know of are still “hanging in there" with their faith? I know of quite a few that I knew of that now no longer seem to care. And what can we do about it? I think it is merely a case of hanging in there ourselves, believing what at times seems unbelievable, and trying to show those other lost ducklings the way back over the hill to that unremarkable man who died on the cross for us.
Yet this duck moved her brood with a quick skill as if she knew exactly where she was going.
Buff brown generally, vague markings on her wings, a smooth pate with a cowlick at the back, she and her name were the same: blunt and unremarkable. The ducklings were puffballs with butch haircuts, obedient and happy. Big-footed, web-footed, monstrous-footed, floppy-footed, the children followed their mother as fast as drips down windowpanes, peeping, questioning, keeping together, trusting her judgement.
And she, both blunt and busy, led them into our yard, which is surrounded by a wooden palisade fence. Maybe she came this way for a rest.
But we have a dog. He rose to his feet at the astonishing sight. He raised his ears and woofed. The ducks back-pedalled to the wall of the house and turned eastward under the eaves' protection and waddled hard, her ducklings in a mad zip behind her. But the dog is leashed and could not reach the wall. This part of the passage, at least, was safe. The next was not.
Without pausing, the buff duck spread her wings, beat the air, and barely cleared the fence, landing in the middle of Bedford Avenue between our yard and the park. There she set up a loud quacking, like a reedy woodwind: Come! Come!
Eleven ducklings scurried to the fence, then raced along it till they found a crack: Plip! Plip! - they popped through as quick as they could, but their mother must have been driven into the park. By the time they gained the wider world she had disappeared. The babies bunched in confusion, peeping, peeping grievously. One bold soul ventured down Bedford to the alley behind our yard. The others returned through the fence.
Immediately the mother was back on Bedford, the one bold child behind her, scolding the rest like an angry clarinet: Now! Here! Come here now!
Well, in a grateful panic ten ducklings rushed the crack in the fence, thickening there, pushing, burning with urgency, trying hard to obey their mother-
Not fast enough.
A car roared south on Bedford. Another. The duck beat retreat to the farther curb. Joggers came jogging. A knot of teenagers noticed the pretty flow of ducklings from under our fence and ran toward it. The tiny flock exploded in several directions. The mothers cries grew hectic and terrified: Come! Come! - her beak locked open. She raced up and down the park's edge, and there was but one puffball following her.
The simple unity of twelve was torn apart. My city is deadly to certain kinds of families.
Five ducklings shot back and forth inside our yard now, but the hole through the fence led to roaring horrors and they couldn't persuade themselves to hazard it again - though they could hear their mother. That unremarkable duck (no - intrepid now and most remarkable) was hurling herself in three directions, trying to compose her family into unity again: eastward she flew into the park, south toward violent alleys, then back west to the impassive fence. Hear me now, hear me and come! Her children were scattered. She was but one.
I saw a teenager chase one duckling. He was laughing gaily in the game. He reached down and scooped up the tiny life in his great hand and peered at it and threw it up into the air. The baby fell crazily to the ground. The youth chased it again.
"Don’t!" I yelled.
"Why not?" the kid said, straightening himself. “What? Does this duckling belong to you?"
But where was the mother now? I didn't see her anywhere. And now it was bending into later afternoon.
I poured some water into a pan and placed it by the back wall of our house for those ducklings still dithering in our yard. They huddled away from the dog. But the dog had lost interest. They crept sometimes toward the hole in the fence. Now and again a duckling looked through. Their peeping, peeping was miserable. What do you do for innocents in the city - both the wild and the child? By nightfall they had all vanished.
No, not all. I can tell you of two.
The next day we heard a scratching in the vent pipe of our clothes drier. I went down in the basement and disconnected the shaft and found a shivering duckling who must have fallen down from the outside opening. Perhaps it had sought cover and didn't know the cave went down so deep. It had spent a long dark night alone in its prison.
And then at church on Sunday, a friend of mine said,
"Weirdest thing! I saw this duck crossing highway 41 -"
"What?" I cried. “A duck? Alone?"
"Well, no, not alone," said my friend. “I almost ran over her. I guess she didn't fly on account of baby ducks can't fly, and she was protecting it."
"Michelle," I said, “what do you mean it? How many ducklings did she have?"
"One. Just one."
Doesn't this remind you of our lives in regard to our faith? The unremarkable man without his degree in theology who leads the way. We begin by following him in that ragged zipper line, following directly in every footstep, doing the best we can, but then, the challenge becomes too scary, our trust fails, or we run into that mean giant who is prepared to throw us around with no regard for the fragility of our infant faith. And those in the end who began as one of eleven, or fifty, or even one hundred, find that their leader is guiding only one unlost child across that huge highway called life.
How many of those we made our commitments with or those we know of are still “hanging in there" with their faith? I know of quite a few that I knew of that now no longer seem to care. And what can we do about it? I think it is merely a case of hanging in there ourselves, believing what at times seems unbelievable, and trying to show those other lost ducklings the way back over the hill to that unremarkable man who died on the cross for us.
Extract taken from Little Lamb, who made thee?, Walter Wangerin, Jr.
Monday, October 01, 2012
Honesty....
A rather hefty woman stood in front of me in a line of people waiting to board a charter flight for Europe. The clerk asked her the routine questions and then came to, “Personal weight?"
"One hundred and eighty," she replied. “Why do you need to know that?" “That's how we compute our fuel consumption." She thought a minute and then leaned forward and whispered confidentially, "Up that 20 pounds"
"One hundred and eighty," she replied. “Why do you need to know that?" “That's how we compute our fuel consumption." She thought a minute and then leaned forward and whispered confidentially, "Up that 20 pounds"
contributed by Mrs. B. R. Kirkindall to the October 1981 edition of Reader's Digest
Sunday, September 30, 2012
My Commitment As A Christian
I'm part of the fellowship of the unashamed. I have stepped over the line. The decision has been made. I'm a disciple of Jesus Christ. I won't look back, let up, slow down, back away, or be still. My past is redeemed, my present makes sense, my future is secure. I'm finished and done with low living, sight walking, small planning, smooth knees, colourless dreams, tamed visions, mundane talking, cheap living, and dwarfed goals. I no longer need pre-eminence, prosperity, position, promotions, plaudits, or popularity. I don't have to be right, first, tops, recognized, praised, regarded, or rewarded. I now live by faith, lean on His presence, walk by patience, lift by prayer, and labour by power.
My face is set, my gait is fast, my goal is heaven, my road is narrow, my way rough, my companions few, my Guide reliable, my mission clear. I cannot be bought, deluded, or delayed. I will not flinch in the face of sacrifice, hesitate in the presence of the adversary, negotiate at the table of the enemy, or meander in the maze of mediocrity. I won't give up, shut up, let up, until I have stayed up, stored up, prayed up, paid up, preached up for the cause of Christ. I am a disciple of Jesus. I must go till He comes, give till I drop, preach till all know, and work till He stops me. And when He comes for His own, He will have no problem recognising me... my banner will be clear!
My face is set, my gait is fast, my goal is heaven, my road is narrow, my way rough, my companions few, my Guide reliable, my mission clear. I cannot be bought, deluded, or delayed. I will not flinch in the face of sacrifice, hesitate in the presence of the adversary, negotiate at the table of the enemy, or meander in the maze of mediocrity. I won't give up, shut up, let up, until I have stayed up, stored up, prayed up, paid up, preached up for the cause of Christ. I am a disciple of Jesus. I must go till He comes, give till I drop, preach till all know, and work till He stops me. And when He comes for His own, He will have no problem recognising me... my banner will be clear!
source unknown
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Wooden Bowl
A frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law, and four-year grandson. The old man's hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered. The family ate together at the table. But the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth. The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess.
"We must do something about Grandfather," said the son. “ I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor." So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner. There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner. Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl. When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction, sometime he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone. Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food. The four-year-old watched it all in silence.
One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor. He asked the child sweetly, “What are you making?"
Just as sweetly, the boy responded, “Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food when I grow up." The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.
The words so struck the parents that they were speechless. Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done. That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the family table.
For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.
"We must do something about Grandfather," said the son. “ I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor." So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner. There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner. Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl. When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction, sometime he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone. Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food. The four-year-old watched it all in silence.
One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor. He asked the child sweetly, “What are you making?"
Just as sweetly, the boy responded, “Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food when I grow up." The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.
The words so struck the parents that they were speechless. Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done. That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the family table.
For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.
source unknown
Friday, September 28, 2012
Moving Mountains
There were two warring tribes in the Andes, one that lived in the lowlands and the other high in the mountains. The mountain people invaded the lowlanders one day, and as part of their plundering of the people, they kidnapped a baby of one of the lowlander families and took the infant with them back up into the mountains.
The lowlanders didn't know how to climb the mountain. They didn't know any of the trails that the mountain people used, and they didn't know where to find the mountain people or how to track them in the steep terrain.
Even so, they sent out their best party of fighting men to climb the mountain and bring the baby home. The men tried first one method of climbing and then another. They tried one trail and then another. After several days of effort, however, they had climbed only a couple of hundred feet. Feeling hopeless and helpless, the lowlander men decided that the cause was lost, and they prepared to return to their village below.
As they were packing their gear for the descent, they saw the baby's mother walking toward them. They realised that she was coming down the mountain that they hadn't figured out how to climb. And then they saw that she had the baby strapped to her back. How could that be?
One man greeted her and said, “We couldn't climb this mountain. How did you do this when we, the strongest and most able men in the village, couldn't do it?"
She shrugged her shoulders and said, “It wasn't your baby."
The lowlanders didn't know how to climb the mountain. They didn't know any of the trails that the mountain people used, and they didn't know where to find the mountain people or how to track them in the steep terrain.
Even so, they sent out their best party of fighting men to climb the mountain and bring the baby home. The men tried first one method of climbing and then another. They tried one trail and then another. After several days of effort, however, they had climbed only a couple of hundred feet. Feeling hopeless and helpless, the lowlander men decided that the cause was lost, and they prepared to return to their village below.
As they were packing their gear for the descent, they saw the baby's mother walking toward them. They realised that she was coming down the mountain that they hadn't figured out how to climb. And then they saw that she had the baby strapped to her back. How could that be?
One man greeted her and said, “We couldn't climb this mountain. How did you do this when we, the strongest and most able men in the village, couldn't do it?"
She shrugged her shoulders and said, “It wasn't your baby."
Jim Stovell, from “Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul, 1997
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Running For Your Life
I have survived the Noosa triathlon and can finally move again with relative ease. Monday was a bit of a shocker with sore bits that have never been sore before and a nasty sunburnt back adding to the joy of it all but bygones to that I say.
The race was fantastic and the support of the crowd just awesome. There were dramas aplenty 48 hours prior to my leaving being told I may have had a stress fracture in my foot by a sports Dr and that I was on the cusp of withdrawing. Bone scans and x-rays later I'm saying to him “drugs thank you darling, give me drugs" and he did. No problems. Then on the way to the airport my bike decides to become airborne on the Tullamarine freeway at 100km and I'm staring at $700 of bike and accessories bouncing merrily along just waiting to be collected by a semi. This didn't happen and I got her put back together in Noosa. I figure with this build up I've got to make it through.
The swim was in a canal and luckily it snaked around a corner so I couldn't have heart palpitations as I saw how far 1.5km actually was. 30, 50m swimming pools lined up end to end is tough to envision. Being the slow poke that I am I had about 6 waves of competitors swimming past and over me but I managed to not get kicked in the head, well not too hard at least. The 40km bike ride had an impressive 3km hill in it, the little devil. Quite a challenge but all these spinning classes with Alex - the Queen of Hills had me well prepared for the challenge. Onwards I climbed chatting away to people who passed me. Just out on a relaxing bike ride I kept telling myself, la de dah, embrace the hills, embrace the hills. Folks, don't underestimate the power of denial and delusion.
The best part of the ride was when I got to enjoy the benefits of the “what goes up must come down" theory and I flew down a whopping great hill at the 30km point even letting out a “whoo hoooooooo" (very un-triathlete of me I know). I should have just stuck a card onto my spokes with a peg and really made the ride worthwhile. I had a chick pass me a little bit after the hill, I had passed her at the top of it (I remember this clearly as the incidents of me passing anyone were few indeed!) and she yelled at me “Girl, you have no fear. You're unreal!" I then ate her dust. More bygones.
The first 2 km of the 10 km run was the worst part of the race for me. The lactic acid in my legs after being on the bike for 90 mins was just a treat and I had to run past the grandstand and past the endless stream of triathletes coming in from their run as I was starting mine. Man they looked hammered and it put the fear into me for sure. I ended up walking for about 5 minutes and getting my psychological self together. It was about 25 degrees and humid and you just can't get prepared for this in Melbourne during training. I then got it sorted and ran the next 8km well and happy. The final 2km of the race was amazing with so many of the triathletes having finished up ages ago and were going home. They were walking past me on either side as I was finishing the run and everyone was clapping and yelling encouragement to me. The finish line appeared as I ran over the bridge and I have never seen such a beautiful sight in all my life. I had envisioned the moment in training at least every Sunday for 5 months but nothing comes close to the feeling of getting over it and still feeling well.
So all up I came stone cold motherless last in the Noosa triathlon which is the second biggest triathlon in the world. Dawn Fraser handed out the awards for God's sake! Individually there were people who did longer swims, bike and run legs than me I'm happy to say. Hey at least I'm consistently slow. You just have to love a sport though that sees you come last yet still allows you to take out 3rd place in your category and win a $75 gift voucher.
Thanks everyone for your support and patience with me over the past 5 months as you've heard ad nauseam about this. Given I couldn't run 400m without 4 breaks this time last year to say I am incredibly proud of this achievement is an understatement. Trust me when I say there were tears aplenty with my coach in the transition area after it all. Relief, elation, joy, pride, awe and disbelief for me as well. Loving life. xx Torn
The race was fantastic and the support of the crowd just awesome. There were dramas aplenty 48 hours prior to my leaving being told I may have had a stress fracture in my foot by a sports Dr and that I was on the cusp of withdrawing. Bone scans and x-rays later I'm saying to him “drugs thank you darling, give me drugs" and he did. No problems. Then on the way to the airport my bike decides to become airborne on the Tullamarine freeway at 100km and I'm staring at $700 of bike and accessories bouncing merrily along just waiting to be collected by a semi. This didn't happen and I got her put back together in Noosa. I figure with this build up I've got to make it through.
The swim was in a canal and luckily it snaked around a corner so I couldn't have heart palpitations as I saw how far 1.5km actually was. 30, 50m swimming pools lined up end to end is tough to envision. Being the slow poke that I am I had about 6 waves of competitors swimming past and over me but I managed to not get kicked in the head, well not too hard at least. The 40km bike ride had an impressive 3km hill in it, the little devil. Quite a challenge but all these spinning classes with Alex - the Queen of Hills had me well prepared for the challenge. Onwards I climbed chatting away to people who passed me. Just out on a relaxing bike ride I kept telling myself, la de dah, embrace the hills, embrace the hills. Folks, don't underestimate the power of denial and delusion.
The best part of the ride was when I got to enjoy the benefits of the “what goes up must come down" theory and I flew down a whopping great hill at the 30km point even letting out a “whoo hoooooooo" (very un-triathlete of me I know). I should have just stuck a card onto my spokes with a peg and really made the ride worthwhile. I had a chick pass me a little bit after the hill, I had passed her at the top of it (I remember this clearly as the incidents of me passing anyone were few indeed!) and she yelled at me “Girl, you have no fear. You're unreal!" I then ate her dust. More bygones.
The first 2 km of the 10 km run was the worst part of the race for me. The lactic acid in my legs after being on the bike for 90 mins was just a treat and I had to run past the grandstand and past the endless stream of triathletes coming in from their run as I was starting mine. Man they looked hammered and it put the fear into me for sure. I ended up walking for about 5 minutes and getting my psychological self together. It was about 25 degrees and humid and you just can't get prepared for this in Melbourne during training. I then got it sorted and ran the next 8km well and happy. The final 2km of the race was amazing with so many of the triathletes having finished up ages ago and were going home. They were walking past me on either side as I was finishing the run and everyone was clapping and yelling encouragement to me. The finish line appeared as I ran over the bridge and I have never seen such a beautiful sight in all my life. I had envisioned the moment in training at least every Sunday for 5 months but nothing comes close to the feeling of getting over it and still feeling well.
So all up I came stone cold motherless last in the Noosa triathlon which is the second biggest triathlon in the world. Dawn Fraser handed out the awards for God's sake! Individually there were people who did longer swims, bike and run legs than me I'm happy to say. Hey at least I'm consistently slow. You just have to love a sport though that sees you come last yet still allows you to take out 3rd place in your category and win a $75 gift voucher.
Thanks everyone for your support and patience with me over the past 5 months as you've heard ad nauseam about this. Given I couldn't run 400m without 4 breaks this time last year to say I am incredibly proud of this achievement is an understatement. Trust me when I say there were tears aplenty with my coach in the transition area after it all. Relief, elation, joy, pride, awe and disbelief for me as well. Loving life. xx Torn
source unknown
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Ready for an Opportunity
Look Out, Baby, I'm Your Love Man Mamie Brown, a kitchen worker and maid, adopted Les Brown and his twin brother shortly after their birth in a poverty-stricken Miami neighbourhood.
Because of his hyperactivity and non-stop jabber, Les was placed in special education classes for the learning disabled in grade school and throughout high school. Upon graduation, he became a city sanitation worker in Miami Beach. But he had a dream of being a disc jockey. At night he would take a transistor radio to bed where he listened to the local jive-talking deejays. He created an imaginary radio station in his tiny room with its torn vinyl flooring. A hairbrush served as his microphone as he practiced his patter, introducing records to his ghost listeners.
His mother and brother could hear him through the thin walls and would shout at him to quit flapping his jaws and go to sleep. But Les didn't listen to them. He was wrapped up in his own world, living a dream.
One day Les boldly went to the local radio station during his lunch break from mowing grass for the city. He got into the station manager's office and told him he wanted to be a disc jockey. The manager eyed this dishevelled young man in overalls and a straw hat and inquired, “Do you have any background in broadcasting?"
Les replied, “No sir, I don't."
Well, son, I'm afraid we don't have a job for you then."
Les thanked him politely and left. The station manager assumed that he had seen the last of this young man. But he underestimated the depth of Les Brown's commitment to his goal. You see, Les had a higher purpose than simply wanting to be a disc jockey. He wanted to buy a nicer house for his adoptive mother, whom he loved deeply. The disc jockey job was merely a step toward his goal.
Mamie Brown had taught Les to pursue his dreams, so he felt sure that he would get a job at that radio station in spite of what the station manager had said. And so Les returned to the station every day for a week, asking if there were any job openings. Finally the station manager gave in and took him on as an errand boy - at no pay. At first, he fetched coffee or picked up lunches and dinner for the deejays who could not leave the studio. Eventually his enthusiasm for their work won him the confidence of the disc jockeys who would send him in their Cadillacs to pick up visiting celebrities such as the Temptations and Diana Ross and the Supremes. Little did any of them know that young Les did not have a driver's license.
Les did whatever was asked of him at the station - and more. While hanging out with the deejays, he taught himself their hand movements on the control panel. He stayed in the control rooms and soaked up whatever he could until they asked him to leave. Then, back in his bedroom at night, he practiced and prepared himself for the opportunity that he knew would present itself.
One Saturday afternoon while Les was at the station, a deejay named Rock was drinking while on the air. Les was the only other person in the building, and he realized that Rock was drinking himself toward trouble. Les stayed close. He walked back and forth in front of the window in Rock's booth. As he prowled, he said to himself. “Drink, Rock, drink!"
Les was hungry, and he was ready. He would have run down the street for more booze if Rock had asked. When the phone rang, Les pounced on it. It was the station manager, as he knew it would be.
"Les, this is Mr. Klein."
"Yes," said Les. “I know."
"Les, I don't think Rock can finish his program."
"Yes sir, I know."
"Would you call one of the other deejays to come in and take over?"
"Yes, sir. I sure will."
But when Les hung up the telephone, he said to himself, “Now, he must think I'm crazy."
Les did dial the telephone, but it wasn't to call in another deejay. He called his mother first, and then his girlfriend. “You all go out on the front porch and turn up the radio because I'm about to come on the air!" he said. He waited about 15 minutes before he called the general manager. “Mr. Klein, I can't find nobody," Les said.
Mr. Klein then asked, “Young man, do you know how to work the controls in the studio?"
"Yes sir," replied Les.
Les darted into the booth, gently moved Rock aside and sat down at the turntable. He was ready. And he was hungry. He flipped on the microphone switch and said,
"Look out! This is me LB, triple P - Les Brown, Your Platter Playing Poppa. There were none before me and there will be none after me. Therefore, that makes me the one and only. Young and single and love to mingle. Certified, bona fide, indubitably qualified to bring you satisfaction, a whole lot of action. Look out, baby, I'm your lo-o-ove man!" Because of his preparation, Les was ready. He “wowed" the audience and his general manager. From that fateful beginning, Les went on to a successful career in broadcasting, politics, public speaking and television.
Because of his hyperactivity and non-stop jabber, Les was placed in special education classes for the learning disabled in grade school and throughout high school. Upon graduation, he became a city sanitation worker in Miami Beach. But he had a dream of being a disc jockey. At night he would take a transistor radio to bed where he listened to the local jive-talking deejays. He created an imaginary radio station in his tiny room with its torn vinyl flooring. A hairbrush served as his microphone as he practiced his patter, introducing records to his ghost listeners.
His mother and brother could hear him through the thin walls and would shout at him to quit flapping his jaws and go to sleep. But Les didn't listen to them. He was wrapped up in his own world, living a dream.
One day Les boldly went to the local radio station during his lunch break from mowing grass for the city. He got into the station manager's office and told him he wanted to be a disc jockey. The manager eyed this dishevelled young man in overalls and a straw hat and inquired, “Do you have any background in broadcasting?"
Les replied, “No sir, I don't."
Well, son, I'm afraid we don't have a job for you then."
Les thanked him politely and left. The station manager assumed that he had seen the last of this young man. But he underestimated the depth of Les Brown's commitment to his goal. You see, Les had a higher purpose than simply wanting to be a disc jockey. He wanted to buy a nicer house for his adoptive mother, whom he loved deeply. The disc jockey job was merely a step toward his goal.
Mamie Brown had taught Les to pursue his dreams, so he felt sure that he would get a job at that radio station in spite of what the station manager had said. And so Les returned to the station every day for a week, asking if there were any job openings. Finally the station manager gave in and took him on as an errand boy - at no pay. At first, he fetched coffee or picked up lunches and dinner for the deejays who could not leave the studio. Eventually his enthusiasm for their work won him the confidence of the disc jockeys who would send him in their Cadillacs to pick up visiting celebrities such as the Temptations and Diana Ross and the Supremes. Little did any of them know that young Les did not have a driver's license.
Les did whatever was asked of him at the station - and more. While hanging out with the deejays, he taught himself their hand movements on the control panel. He stayed in the control rooms and soaked up whatever he could until they asked him to leave. Then, back in his bedroom at night, he practiced and prepared himself for the opportunity that he knew would present itself.
One Saturday afternoon while Les was at the station, a deejay named Rock was drinking while on the air. Les was the only other person in the building, and he realized that Rock was drinking himself toward trouble. Les stayed close. He walked back and forth in front of the window in Rock's booth. As he prowled, he said to himself. “Drink, Rock, drink!"
Les was hungry, and he was ready. He would have run down the street for more booze if Rock had asked. When the phone rang, Les pounced on it. It was the station manager, as he knew it would be.
"Les, this is Mr. Klein."
"Yes," said Les. “I know."
"Les, I don't think Rock can finish his program."
"Yes sir, I know."
"Would you call one of the other deejays to come in and take over?"
"Yes, sir. I sure will."
But when Les hung up the telephone, he said to himself, “Now, he must think I'm crazy."
Les did dial the telephone, but it wasn't to call in another deejay. He called his mother first, and then his girlfriend. “You all go out on the front porch and turn up the radio because I'm about to come on the air!" he said. He waited about 15 minutes before he called the general manager. “Mr. Klein, I can't find nobody," Les said.
Mr. Klein then asked, “Young man, do you know how to work the controls in the studio?"
"Yes sir," replied Les.
Les darted into the booth, gently moved Rock aside and sat down at the turntable. He was ready. And he was hungry. He flipped on the microphone switch and said,
"Look out! This is me LB, triple P - Les Brown, Your Platter Playing Poppa. There were none before me and there will be none after me. Therefore, that makes me the one and only. Young and single and love to mingle. Certified, bona fide, indubitably qualified to bring you satisfaction, a whole lot of action. Look out, baby, I'm your lo-o-ove man!" Because of his preparation, Les was ready. He “wowed" the audience and his general manager. From that fateful beginning, Les went on to a successful career in broadcasting, politics, public speaking and television.
source unknown
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Unleashing the Leaders Around You
Unleashing the leaders around you to lead well means allowing others to lead
The need to control may be one of the most destructive traits in church leaders. The attempt to dictate the outcome of every decision, to weigh in on every proposal, is like acid rain, which poisons the environment of leadership.
The most damage is often done by the leader who manipulates subtly, who outwardly talks about team leadership, but rules like an iron-fisted Kaiser. I think it was Peter Drucker, the father of modern management, who said to beware of the person who talks loudly about participatory leadership; that person is likely a dictator.
In Orbiting the Giant Hairball, Gordon MacKenzie, long-time creative director at Hallmark, describes what, in that environment, seems to me to be a healthy team leader:
"My last boss at Hallmark, a fellow by the name of Bob Kipp, sat at the wheel of one of the corporate speedboats. I was at the end of a towline on water skis. We spent our time together skimming across the great Lake Hallmark.
Kipp was so sure of who he was and why he was where he was and where the power was that he was not threatened at all when I would ski around in a wide arc until I was up even with the boat and sometimes even past it. He knew I was not going to start pulling the boat with him in it. It just doesn't work that way. The power remains in the boat. But, in allowing me to ski past him - in a sense, allowing me to lead - he would unleash in me an excitement about our enterprise that served our shared goals."
Then MacKenzie drives home his point: "If you are in a position of power and want to lead well, remember: Allow those you lead ... To lead ... when they feel the need. All will benefit."
The need to control may be one of the most destructive traits in church leaders. The attempt to dictate the outcome of every decision, to weigh in on every proposal, is like acid rain, which poisons the environment of leadership.
The most damage is often done by the leader who manipulates subtly, who outwardly talks about team leadership, but rules like an iron-fisted Kaiser. I think it was Peter Drucker, the father of modern management, who said to beware of the person who talks loudly about participatory leadership; that person is likely a dictator.
In Orbiting the Giant Hairball, Gordon MacKenzie, long-time creative director at Hallmark, describes what, in that environment, seems to me to be a healthy team leader:
"My last boss at Hallmark, a fellow by the name of Bob Kipp, sat at the wheel of one of the corporate speedboats. I was at the end of a towline on water skis. We spent our time together skimming across the great Lake Hallmark.
Kipp was so sure of who he was and why he was where he was and where the power was that he was not threatened at all when I would ski around in a wide arc until I was up even with the boat and sometimes even past it. He knew I was not going to start pulling the boat with him in it. It just doesn't work that way. The power remains in the boat. But, in allowing me to ski past him - in a sense, allowing me to lead - he would unleash in me an excitement about our enterprise that served our shared goals."
Then MacKenzie drives home his point: "If you are in a position of power and want to lead well, remember: Allow those you lead ... To lead ... when they feel the need. All will benefit."
Dave Goetz
Monday, September 24, 2012
Management of the Absurd: Paradoxes in Leadership
"Knowing how people grow, for example, does not mean we know how to grow them. Experts in child development are no better than anyone else at raising their own children." (p. 40)
"Absurd as it seems, the way to judge your effectiveness is to assess the quality of the discontent you engender, the ability to produce movement from low-order discontent to high-order discontent." (p. 94)
"Real creativity, the kind that is responsible for breakthrough changes in our society, always violates the rules. That is why it is so unmanageable and that is why, in most organizations, when we say we desire creativity we really mean manageable creativity. We don't mean raw, dramatic, radical creativity that requires us to change." (p. 103)
"While they might like to think they are organized for creativity, companies that are sizable and think of themselves as permanent cannot encourage creative acts as well as a new and relatively temporary organization can." (p. 104)
"It presents us with the paralysing absurdity that the situations we try hardest to avoid in our organizations would actually be the most beneficial for them." (p. 126)
"The best leaders make their organizations places where their passion becomes the organizing force. 'Amateur' stems from the Latin word amator, which means 'lover'. Amateurs do what they do out of love. That is a word that does not often arise in conversation about management development, yet love is fundamental to good leadership, because leadership is all about caring. Indeed, caring is the basis for community, and the first job of the leader is to build community, a deep feeling of unity, a fellowship
* One of the great dilemmas is that the erosion of community almost always happens in the name of progress
* Once the human organization gets to be large-scale, it is difficult to make it work as effectively as it did when it was smaller. That is the reason for the current move to more entrepreneurial organizations. There are those who feel that the future of organizations will be in a reversion to small units because, for one thing, only in smaller units are the bonds holding people together affectional rather than simply functional, and affection is the basis of community. For example, only prisons housing fewer than twenty inmates are likely to be rehabilitative*leadership is like being in love." (p. 159) Whenever I have the arrogance or audacity to believe that I can reform people, I get nowhere. But when I fundamentally recognize that I cannot possibly accomplish those reforms, I can move ahead with a more humble posture and, paradoxically, perhaps then there is a chance that the situation can change. The absurd lesson is to recognize that it is a lost cause and work on it anyway." (p. 164)
"Absurd as it seems, the way to judge your effectiveness is to assess the quality of the discontent you engender, the ability to produce movement from low-order discontent to high-order discontent." (p. 94)
"Real creativity, the kind that is responsible for breakthrough changes in our society, always violates the rules. That is why it is so unmanageable and that is why, in most organizations, when we say we desire creativity we really mean manageable creativity. We don't mean raw, dramatic, radical creativity that requires us to change." (p. 103)
"While they might like to think they are organized for creativity, companies that are sizable and think of themselves as permanent cannot encourage creative acts as well as a new and relatively temporary organization can." (p. 104)
"It presents us with the paralysing absurdity that the situations we try hardest to avoid in our organizations would actually be the most beneficial for them." (p. 126)
"The best leaders make their organizations places where their passion becomes the organizing force. 'Amateur' stems from the Latin word amator, which means 'lover'. Amateurs do what they do out of love. That is a word that does not often arise in conversation about management development, yet love is fundamental to good leadership, because leadership is all about caring. Indeed, caring is the basis for community, and the first job of the leader is to build community, a deep feeling of unity, a fellowship
* One of the great dilemmas is that the erosion of community almost always happens in the name of progress
* Once the human organization gets to be large-scale, it is difficult to make it work as effectively as it did when it was smaller. That is the reason for the current move to more entrepreneurial organizations. There are those who feel that the future of organizations will be in a reversion to small units because, for one thing, only in smaller units are the bonds holding people together affectional rather than simply functional, and affection is the basis of community. For example, only prisons housing fewer than twenty inmates are likely to be rehabilitative*leadership is like being in love." (p. 159) Whenever I have the arrogance or audacity to believe that I can reform people, I get nowhere. But when I fundamentally recognize that I cannot possibly accomplish those reforms, I can move ahead with a more humble posture and, paradoxically, perhaps then there is a chance that the situation can change. The absurd lesson is to recognize that it is a lost cause and work on it anyway." (p. 164)
from Richard
Farson's "Management of the Absurd: Paradoxes in Leadership".
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Practical Theology 101
John Powell, A Professor at Loyola University in Chicago writes about a student in his Theology of Faith class named Tommy:
Some twelve years ago, I stood watching my university students file into the classroom for our first session in the Theology of Faith. That was the first day I first saw Tommy. My eyes and my mind both blinked.
He was combing his long flaxen hair, which hung six inches below his shoulders. It was the first time I had ever seen a boy with hair that long. I guess it was just coming into fashion then. I know in my mind that it isn't what's on your head but what's in it that counts; but on that day I was unprepared and my emotions flipped. I immediately filed Tommy under “S" for strange ... very strange.
Tommy turned out to be the “atheist in residence" in my Theology of Faith course. He constantly objected to, smirked at, or whined about the possibility of an unconditionally loving Father-God. We lived with each other in relative peace for one semester, although I admit he was for me, at times, a serious pain in the back pew.
When he came up at the end of the course to turn in his final exam, he asked, in a slightly cynical tone:
"Do you think I'll ever find God?" I decided instantly on a little shock therapy.
"No!" I said very emphatically.
"Oh," he responded, “I thought that was the product you were pushing."
I let him get five steps from the classroom door and then called out: “Tommy! I don't think you'll ever find him, but I am absolutely certain that he will find you!" He shrugged a little and left my class and my life. I felt slightly disappointed at the thought that he had missed my clever line: “He will find you!" At least I thought it was clever.
Later I heard that Tommy had graduated and I was duly grateful. Then a sad report, I heard that Tommy had terminal cancer. Before I could search him out, he came to see me. When he walked into my office, his body was very badly wasted, and the long hair had all fallen out as a result of chemotherapy. But his eyes were bright and his voice was firm, for the first time, I believe.
"Tommy, I've thought about you so often. I hear you are sick!" I blurted out.
"Oh, yes, very sick. I have cancer in both lungs. It's a matter of weeks."
"Can you talk about it, Tom?"
"Sure, what would you like to know?"
"What's it like to be only twenty-four and dying?"
"Well, it could be worse."
"Like what?"
"Well, like being fifty and having no values or ideals, like being fifty and thinking that booze, seducing women, and making money are the real biggies in life."
I began to look through my mental file cabinet under “S" where I had filed Tommy as strange. (It seems as though everybody I try to reject by classification God sends back into my life to educate me.)
But what I really came to see you about," Tom said, “is something you said to me on the last day of class." (He remembered!)
He continued, “I asked you if you thought I would ever find God and you said, 'No!' which surprised me. Then you said, 'But he will find you.'
I thought about that a lot, even though my search for God was hardly intense at that time. (My “clever" line. He thought about that a lot!) But when the doctors removed a lump from my groin and told me that it was malignant, then I got serious about locating God. And when the malignancy spread into my vital organs, I really began banging bloody fists against the bronze doors of heaven.
But God did not come out. In fact, nothing happened. Did you ever try anything for a long time with great effort and with no success? You get psychologically glutted, fed up with trying.. And then you quit. Well, one day I woke up, and instead of throwing a few more futile appeals over that high brick wall to a God who may be or may not be there, I just quit.
I decided that I didn't really care about God, about an afterlife, or anything like that. I decided to spend what time I had left doing something more profitable ... I thought about you and your class and I remembered something else you had said: 'The essential sadness is to go through life without loving. But it would be almost equally sad to go through life and leave this world without even telling those you loved that you had loved them.'
So I began with the hardest one: my Dad. He was reading the newspaper when I approached him."
"Dad". . .
"Yes, what?" he asked without lowering the newspaper.
"Dad, I would like to talk with you."
"Well, talk."
"I mean ... It's really important."
The newspaper came down three slow inches. “What is it?"
"Dad, I love you. I just wanted you to know that." Tom smiled at me and said with obvious satisfaction, as though he felt a warm and secret joy flowing inside of him: “The newspaper fluttered to the floor. Then my father did two things I could never remember him ever doing before. He cried and he hugged me.
And we talked all night, even though he had to go to work the next morning. It felt so good to be close to my father, to see his tears, to feel his hug, to hear him say that he loved me. It was easier with my mother and little brother. They cried with me, too, and we hugged each other, and started saying real nice things to each other. We shared the things we had been keeping secret for so many years. I was only sorry about one thing: that I had waited so long. Here I was just beginning to open up to all the people I had actually been close to."
"Then, one day I turned around and God was there. He didn't come to me when I pleaded with him. I guess I was like an animal trainer holding out a hoop, 'C'mon, jump through.' 'C'mon, I'll give you three days - three weeks.' Apparently God does things in his own way and at his own hour.
"But the important thing is that he was here. He found me. You were right. He found me even after I stopped looking for him."
"Tommy," I practically gasped, “I think you are saying something very important and much more universal than you realize. To me, at least, you are saying that the surest way to find God is not to make him a private possession, a problem solver, or an instant consolation in time of need, but rather by opening to love.
You know, the Apostle John said that. He said God is love, and anyone who lives in love is living with God and God is living in him.'
"Tom, could I ask you a favour? You know, when I had you in class you were a real pain. But (laughingly) you can make it all up to me now. Would you come into my present Theology of Faith course and tell them what you have just told me? If I told them the same thing it wouldn't be half as effective as if you were to tell them."
"Oooh . . . I was ready for you, but I don't know if I'm ready for your class."
"Tom, think about it. If and when you are ready, give me a call." In a few days Tommy called, said he was ready for the class, that he wanted to do that for God and for me. So we scheduled a date.
However, he never made it. He had another appointment, far more important than the one with me and my class. Of course, his life was not really ended by his death, only changed.
He made the great step from faith into vision. He found a life far more beautiful than the eye of man has ever seen or the ear of man has ever heard or the mind of man has ever imagined.
Before he died, we talked one last time. “I'm not going to make it to your class," he said.
"I know, Tom."
"Will you tell them for me? Will you... tell the whole world for me?"
"I will, Tom. I'll tell them. I'll do my best."
So, to all of you who have been kind enough to hear this simple statement about love, thank you for listening. And to you, Tommy, somewhere in the sunlit, verdant hills of heaven: “I told them, Tommy ... as best I could."
Some twelve years ago, I stood watching my university students file into the classroom for our first session in the Theology of Faith. That was the first day I first saw Tommy. My eyes and my mind both blinked.
He was combing his long flaxen hair, which hung six inches below his shoulders. It was the first time I had ever seen a boy with hair that long. I guess it was just coming into fashion then. I know in my mind that it isn't what's on your head but what's in it that counts; but on that day I was unprepared and my emotions flipped. I immediately filed Tommy under “S" for strange ... very strange.
Tommy turned out to be the “atheist in residence" in my Theology of Faith course. He constantly objected to, smirked at, or whined about the possibility of an unconditionally loving Father-God. We lived with each other in relative peace for one semester, although I admit he was for me, at times, a serious pain in the back pew.
When he came up at the end of the course to turn in his final exam, he asked, in a slightly cynical tone:
"Do you think I'll ever find God?" I decided instantly on a little shock therapy.
"No!" I said very emphatically.
"Oh," he responded, “I thought that was the product you were pushing."
I let him get five steps from the classroom door and then called out: “Tommy! I don't think you'll ever find him, but I am absolutely certain that he will find you!" He shrugged a little and left my class and my life. I felt slightly disappointed at the thought that he had missed my clever line: “He will find you!" At least I thought it was clever.
Later I heard that Tommy had graduated and I was duly grateful. Then a sad report, I heard that Tommy had terminal cancer. Before I could search him out, he came to see me. When he walked into my office, his body was very badly wasted, and the long hair had all fallen out as a result of chemotherapy. But his eyes were bright and his voice was firm, for the first time, I believe.
"Tommy, I've thought about you so often. I hear you are sick!" I blurted out.
"Oh, yes, very sick. I have cancer in both lungs. It's a matter of weeks."
"Can you talk about it, Tom?"
"Sure, what would you like to know?"
"What's it like to be only twenty-four and dying?"
"Well, it could be worse."
"Like what?"
"Well, like being fifty and having no values or ideals, like being fifty and thinking that booze, seducing women, and making money are the real biggies in life."
I began to look through my mental file cabinet under “S" where I had filed Tommy as strange. (It seems as though everybody I try to reject by classification God sends back into my life to educate me.)
But what I really came to see you about," Tom said, “is something you said to me on the last day of class." (He remembered!)
He continued, “I asked you if you thought I would ever find God and you said, 'No!' which surprised me. Then you said, 'But he will find you.'
I thought about that a lot, even though my search for God was hardly intense at that time. (My “clever" line. He thought about that a lot!) But when the doctors removed a lump from my groin and told me that it was malignant, then I got serious about locating God. And when the malignancy spread into my vital organs, I really began banging bloody fists against the bronze doors of heaven.
But God did not come out. In fact, nothing happened. Did you ever try anything for a long time with great effort and with no success? You get psychologically glutted, fed up with trying.. And then you quit. Well, one day I woke up, and instead of throwing a few more futile appeals over that high brick wall to a God who may be or may not be there, I just quit.
I decided that I didn't really care about God, about an afterlife, or anything like that. I decided to spend what time I had left doing something more profitable ... I thought about you and your class and I remembered something else you had said: 'The essential sadness is to go through life without loving. But it would be almost equally sad to go through life and leave this world without even telling those you loved that you had loved them.'
So I began with the hardest one: my Dad. He was reading the newspaper when I approached him."
"Dad". . .
"Yes, what?" he asked without lowering the newspaper.
"Dad, I would like to talk with you."
"Well, talk."
"I mean ... It's really important."
The newspaper came down three slow inches. “What is it?"
"Dad, I love you. I just wanted you to know that." Tom smiled at me and said with obvious satisfaction, as though he felt a warm and secret joy flowing inside of him: “The newspaper fluttered to the floor. Then my father did two things I could never remember him ever doing before. He cried and he hugged me.
And we talked all night, even though he had to go to work the next morning. It felt so good to be close to my father, to see his tears, to feel his hug, to hear him say that he loved me. It was easier with my mother and little brother. They cried with me, too, and we hugged each other, and started saying real nice things to each other. We shared the things we had been keeping secret for so many years. I was only sorry about one thing: that I had waited so long. Here I was just beginning to open up to all the people I had actually been close to."
"Then, one day I turned around and God was there. He didn't come to me when I pleaded with him. I guess I was like an animal trainer holding out a hoop, 'C'mon, jump through.' 'C'mon, I'll give you three days - three weeks.' Apparently God does things in his own way and at his own hour.
"But the important thing is that he was here. He found me. You were right. He found me even after I stopped looking for him."
"Tommy," I practically gasped, “I think you are saying something very important and much more universal than you realize. To me, at least, you are saying that the surest way to find God is not to make him a private possession, a problem solver, or an instant consolation in time of need, but rather by opening to love.
You know, the Apostle John said that. He said God is love, and anyone who lives in love is living with God and God is living in him.'
"Tom, could I ask you a favour? You know, when I had you in class you were a real pain. But (laughingly) you can make it all up to me now. Would you come into my present Theology of Faith course and tell them what you have just told me? If I told them the same thing it wouldn't be half as effective as if you were to tell them."
"Oooh . . . I was ready for you, but I don't know if I'm ready for your class."
"Tom, think about it. If and when you are ready, give me a call." In a few days Tommy called, said he was ready for the class, that he wanted to do that for God and for me. So we scheduled a date.
However, he never made it. He had another appointment, far more important than the one with me and my class. Of course, his life was not really ended by his death, only changed.
He made the great step from faith into vision. He found a life far more beautiful than the eye of man has ever seen or the ear of man has ever heard or the mind of man has ever imagined.
Before he died, we talked one last time. “I'm not going to make it to your class," he said.
"I know, Tom."
"Will you tell them for me? Will you... tell the whole world for me?"
"I will, Tom. I'll tell them. I'll do my best."
So, to all of you who have been kind enough to hear this simple statement about love, thank you for listening. And to you, Tommy, somewhere in the sunlit, verdant hills of heaven: “I told them, Tommy ... as best I could."
source unknown
Saturday, September 22, 2012
The Mountain of the Golden Footprints
Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Sarah who lived in the village below the Mountain of the Golden Footprints. She was feeling very sad and depressed. Nothing or no one could make her happy. She had been very unhappy and depressed for a long time. “What is the use of going on?" she said. Nothing anyone said seemed to make a difference.
Her best friend went to visit Sarah and told her the story of the Mountain of the Golden Footprints. “It is a special place where as the sun sets you can look out over the city and see sparkling golden footprints on the places and people where you have made a difference."
"But I haven't made any difference in anyone's life," she said. There won't be any golden footprints for me to see. So why should I bother to go there?"
"But," said her friend, “If you don't see any golden footprints, there is a special village on the other side of the mountain. That is a place for all those people who haven't made a difference. It is comfortable and very pretty and there you can be happy. So you see, you have other options besides not going on with your life. If you went to the village on the other side of the mountain, I would miss you, but it would be better than your not being alive. You have nothing to lose."
So Sarah decided to give it a try. After all, she only wanted to do something. She could not go on the way she was. Besides, although she was sure she would not see any golden footprints, she had a little glimmer of hope that going there would make a difference in her life. The village on the other side of the mountain also sounded like it could be a place where she could be happy.
She waked up the path to the top of the Mountain of the Golden Footprints. It was a long walk and sometimes very difficult. But she had made the decision to go to the top and continued on, although sometimes she just wanted to stop climbing and curl up and cease to exist.
She reached to top and came to the lookout point. She was greeted by a woman called Faith who watched over the Mountain of the Golden Footprints.
Sarah sat on a rock at the top of the mountain and looked out over her village far below. Although the sun was not setting yet, she felt inside as though she were looking out over her life. She could see her house and the house of her friend, the house of her parents, her school, and many places from her childhood. She remembered many things as she looked out over these places, some sad and some happy.
And as she was thinking about her life, the sun began to set. She did not really pay any attention since she did not expect to see any golden footprints. But soon a golden twinkling light began to appear in the park in the middle of the village. She did not still believe it could possible be a Golden Footprint. “Look," Faith said excitedly, “There is you first Golden Footprint!"
"But how could that be?" asked Sarah. “ I don't ever remember anything I did in the part that could have possible made a difference."
"That is my department," answered Faith. “I have watched people make Golden Footprints from this mountain top for many years. I remember all the Golden Footprint happenings."
"One day a long time ago, when you were a little child, you went laughing through the park. There was a man sitting there who had just left his wife and child over a silly argument. He say your laughter and missed his child so much that he returned to this family and lived with them happily ever after."
"Well, that was kind of accidental. I certainly didn't know I had done that," said Sarah. As she finished speaking, another golden sparkling footprint appeared on the house of her friend.
"Well, I have loved my friend very much."
" Remember when she was very sick? You went to see her and brought her flowers and stayed with her and talked many hours and held her hand. If you had not done that, she would not have survived."
"But how could that be?" asked Sarah. “I'm not a doctor. I do not give medicine. How could I have saved her life?"
"The doctor gave her good medicine, but you gave her hope. You gave her strength and courage so that her body could make the medicine work."
And as she finished speaking, the valley below was aglow with Golden Footprints. There was one on the school where her smile and love for learning had inspired a fellow student to stay in school and become a great philosopher. There was one over a tree that she had planted in the yard of her house, and one over the flowers that she had planted. There was one over the place where her stubbornness had convinced the King that the village needed a smoother road for travellers, and he had smiled at her outspokenness and feisty nature.
There was a footprint right on top of the roof of her house. That was where she had taken her children one night to watch the stars.
There was one over the pub in the village. There was where she had met her husband and they had fallen in love.
"I had forgotten all those things," said Sarah. “I was so depressed that I only remembered the sad things and not the good things. I guess I have made a difference."
"And you will in the future. There are stars to show your grandchildren and a birthday to spare with your friend. And your husband needs a romantic evening at the pub," said Faith.
Sarah sat for a long time until the sun had set and the Golden Footprints disappeared and the lights of the village were lit in the streets and homes below and flickered, not as Golden Footprints, but as tiny footprints of fireflies. Soon Sarah would start the climb down the mountain, guided by the tiny lights below. Sarah smiled and thanked Faith. She started on her way down the mountain and knew that someday she would tell others about the Mountain of the Golden Footprints and make a difference in their lives.
Her best friend went to visit Sarah and told her the story of the Mountain of the Golden Footprints. “It is a special place where as the sun sets you can look out over the city and see sparkling golden footprints on the places and people where you have made a difference."
"But I haven't made any difference in anyone's life," she said. There won't be any golden footprints for me to see. So why should I bother to go there?"
"But," said her friend, “If you don't see any golden footprints, there is a special village on the other side of the mountain. That is a place for all those people who haven't made a difference. It is comfortable and very pretty and there you can be happy. So you see, you have other options besides not going on with your life. If you went to the village on the other side of the mountain, I would miss you, but it would be better than your not being alive. You have nothing to lose."
So Sarah decided to give it a try. After all, she only wanted to do something. She could not go on the way she was. Besides, although she was sure she would not see any golden footprints, she had a little glimmer of hope that going there would make a difference in her life. The village on the other side of the mountain also sounded like it could be a place where she could be happy.
She waked up the path to the top of the Mountain of the Golden Footprints. It was a long walk and sometimes very difficult. But she had made the decision to go to the top and continued on, although sometimes she just wanted to stop climbing and curl up and cease to exist.
She reached to top and came to the lookout point. She was greeted by a woman called Faith who watched over the Mountain of the Golden Footprints.
Sarah sat on a rock at the top of the mountain and looked out over her village far below. Although the sun was not setting yet, she felt inside as though she were looking out over her life. She could see her house and the house of her friend, the house of her parents, her school, and many places from her childhood. She remembered many things as she looked out over these places, some sad and some happy.
And as she was thinking about her life, the sun began to set. She did not really pay any attention since she did not expect to see any golden footprints. But soon a golden twinkling light began to appear in the park in the middle of the village. She did not still believe it could possible be a Golden Footprint. “Look," Faith said excitedly, “There is you first Golden Footprint!"
"But how could that be?" asked Sarah. “ I don't ever remember anything I did in the part that could have possible made a difference."
"That is my department," answered Faith. “I have watched people make Golden Footprints from this mountain top for many years. I remember all the Golden Footprint happenings."
"One day a long time ago, when you were a little child, you went laughing through the park. There was a man sitting there who had just left his wife and child over a silly argument. He say your laughter and missed his child so much that he returned to this family and lived with them happily ever after."
"Well, that was kind of accidental. I certainly didn't know I had done that," said Sarah. As she finished speaking, another golden sparkling footprint appeared on the house of her friend.
"Well, I have loved my friend very much."
" Remember when she was very sick? You went to see her and brought her flowers and stayed with her and talked many hours and held her hand. If you had not done that, she would not have survived."
"But how could that be?" asked Sarah. “I'm not a doctor. I do not give medicine. How could I have saved her life?"
"The doctor gave her good medicine, but you gave her hope. You gave her strength and courage so that her body could make the medicine work."
And as she finished speaking, the valley below was aglow with Golden Footprints. There was one on the school where her smile and love for learning had inspired a fellow student to stay in school and become a great philosopher. There was one over a tree that she had planted in the yard of her house, and one over the flowers that she had planted. There was one over the place where her stubbornness had convinced the King that the village needed a smoother road for travellers, and he had smiled at her outspokenness and feisty nature.
There was a footprint right on top of the roof of her house. That was where she had taken her children one night to watch the stars.
There was one over the pub in the village. There was where she had met her husband and they had fallen in love.
"I had forgotten all those things," said Sarah. “I was so depressed that I only remembered the sad things and not the good things. I guess I have made a difference."
"And you will in the future. There are stars to show your grandchildren and a birthday to spare with your friend. And your husband needs a romantic evening at the pub," said Faith.
Sarah sat for a long time until the sun had set and the Golden Footprints disappeared and the lights of the village were lit in the streets and homes below and flickered, not as Golden Footprints, but as tiny footprints of fireflies. Soon Sarah would start the climb down the mountain, guided by the tiny lights below. Sarah smiled and thanked Faith. She started on her way down the mountain and knew that someday she would tell others about the Mountain of the Golden Footprints and make a difference in their lives.
source unknown
Friday, September 21, 2012
Some Through The Fire
Tertullian said, “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church." Many are the heroic stories of men and women of faith who entered into their eternal reward through gates of splendour and gates of martyrdom. Consider the death of Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna ( Parables, Etc. Oct, 1981, Volume 1, Number 8) and the list of heroes in Hebrews 11. Following is the account of the Scottish Reformer, George Wishart, from Thunder Over Scotland. Then there was a heavy hand at the latch. It was time to prepare the prisoner for his execution. As trumpeters sounded the signal, the executioners arrayed Wishart in a vestment of black linen. One tied small bags of gunpowder to various parts of the reformer's body. Then they conducted him to the stake. His guards surrounded him as they marched from the room, not in fear of his escape, but almost in a gesture of protection. Each one whispered words of encouragement as they passed by. Into this fellowship had come a spirit of love and support that no one could have considered possible. Sustained by this feeling, Wishart walked through the courtyard of the castle, out the gate, and across the drawbridge to the street beyond where a large crowd of the curious and supporters and opponents alike had gathered to witness the execution. The stake was surrounded by faggots which would soon be burning to consume his body. There Wishart fell to his knees and exclaimed, “Saviour of the world, have mercy upon me. Heavenly Father, into your hands I commend my spirit." Rising from his knees, Wishart turned to the crowd surrounding him. He spoke clearly. “Christian brothers and sisters, be not offended at the word of God on account of the tortures you see prepared for me. Love the word which publisheth salvation, and suffer patiently for the gospel's sake. For preaching that gospel I am now to suffer. And I suffer gladly for the redeemer's sake. Should any of you be called on to endure persecution, fear not those who can destroy the body, for they cannot slay the soul. Most falsely have I been accused of teaching that the soul shall sleep after death till the last day. I believe my soul shall sup with my Saviour this night." After a brief pause, as his words sank in upon his hearers, he continued, “I beseech you, brothers and sisters, exhort your prelates to acquaint themselves with the word of God, so that they may be ashamed to do evil, and learn to do good; for if they will not turn from their sinful way, the wrath of God shall fall upon them suddenly and they shall not escape." “Sir, I pray you to forgive me," cried the man who was to light the faggots. “I am not guilty of your death." Wishart kissed him on the cheek and replied, “Lo, here is a token that I forgive thee; my heart, do your office." A torch was touched to the dried faggots at the feet of the reformer. Quickly the hungry fingers of flame reached for his clothing and his body. The bags of gunpowder attached to him flashed as the fire reached them. Within minutes the life of the young man ceased, and his body was reduced to ashes . . . Among those who watched the tragic scene from the depths of the crowd was the friend and confidant of Wishart, John Knox. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his hand clenched and unclenched, wishing for that two-handed sword. He wanted to cry out in protest against what he had seen. Instead, this priest whom Wishart had led to Christ vowed that the cause for which his friend had given his life would not be lost. The Bible which Wishart had held high throughout his ministry would be the cornerstone of Knox's witness for Christ.
James Baird, Thunder Over Scotland (Green Leaf Press, 1982) pages 185-188.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Indifference
In a way, to be indifferent to that suffering is what makes the human being inhuman. Indifference, after all, is more dangerous than anger and hatred. Anger can at times be creative. One writes a great poem, a great symphony, one does something special for the sake of humanity because one is angry at the injustice that one witnesses. But indifference is never creative. Even hatred at times may elicit a response. You fight it. You denounce it. You disarm it. Indifference elicits no response. Indifference is not a response.
Indifference is not a beginning, it is an end. And, therefore, indifference is always the friend of the enemy, for it benefits the aggressor - never his victim, whose pain is magnified when he or she feels forgotten. The political prisoner in his cell, the hungry children, the homeless refugees -- not to respond to their plight, not to relieve their solitude by offering them a spark of hope is to exile them from human memory. And in denying their humanity we betray our own.
Indifference, then, is not only a sin, it is a punishment. And this is one of the most important lessons of this outgoing century's wide-ranging experiments in good and evil.
Indifference is not a beginning, it is an end. And, therefore, indifference is always the friend of the enemy, for it benefits the aggressor - never his victim, whose pain is magnified when he or she feels forgotten. The political prisoner in his cell, the hungry children, the homeless refugees -- not to respond to their plight, not to relieve their solitude by offering them a spark of hope is to exile them from human memory. And in denying their humanity we betray our own.
Indifference, then, is not only a sin, it is a punishment. And this is one of the most important lessons of this outgoing century's wide-ranging experiments in good and evil.
Elie Wiesel, The Perils of Indifference, April 12, 1999
delivered in the East Room of the White House
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
John 3:16
In the city of Chicago, one cold, dark night, a blizzard was setting in. A little boy was selling newspapers on the corner, the people were in and out of the cold. The little boy was so cold that he wasn't trying to sell many papers. He walked up to a policeman and said, “Mister, you wouldn't happen to know where a poor boy could find a warm place to sleep tonight would you? You see, I sleep in a box up around the corner there and down the alley and it's awful cold in there, of a night. Sure would be nice to have a warm place to stay." The policeman looked down at the little boy and said, “You go down the street to that big white house and you knock on the door. When they come out the door you just say John 3:16 and they will let you in."
So he did, he walked up the steps to the door, and knocked on the door and a lady answered. He looked up and said, “John 3:16." The lady said “Come on in, Son." She took him in and she sat him down in a split bottom rocker in front of a great big old fireplace and she went off. He sat there for a while, and thought to himself “John 3:16.... I don't understand it but it sure makes a cold boy warm."
Later she came back and asked him “Are you hungry?" He said, “Well just a little. I haven't eaten in a couple of days and I guess I could stand a little bit of food." The lady took him in the kitchen and sat him down to a table full of wonderful food. He ate and ate until he couldn't eat any more. Then he thought to himself “ John 3:16... Boy, I sure don't understand it, but it sure makes a hungry boy full."
She took him upstairs to a bathroom to a huge bathtub filled with warm water and he sat there and soaked for a while. As he soaked, he thought to himself, “John 3:16... I sure don't understand it, but it sure makes a dirty boy clean. You know, I've not had a bath, a real bath, in my whole life. The only bath I ever had was when I stood in front of that big old fire hydrant as they flushed it out."
The lady came in and got him, and took him to a room and tucked him into a big old feather bed and pulled the covers up around his neck and kissed him goodnight and turned out the lights. As he laid in the darkness and looked out the window at the snow coming down on that cold night he thought to himself, “John 3:16... I don't understand it, but it sure makes a tired boy rested."
The next morning she came back up and took him down again to that same big table full of food. After he ate she took him back to that same big old split bottom rocker in front of the fireplace and she took a big old Bible and sat down in front of him and she looked up at and she asked, “Do you understand John 3:16?"
He said, “No, Ma'am, I don't. The first time I ever heard it was last night when the policeman told me to use it." She opened the Bible to John 3:16 , and she began to explain to him about Jesus. Right there in front of that big old fireplace he gave his heart and life to Jesus. He sat there and thought, “John 3:16. I don't understand it, but it but it sure makes a lost boy feel safe."
You know, I have to confess I don't understand it either, how God would be willing to send His Son to die for me, and how Jesus would agree to do such a thing. I don't understand it either, but it sure does make life worth living.
So he did, he walked up the steps to the door, and knocked on the door and a lady answered. He looked up and said, “John 3:16." The lady said “Come on in, Son." She took him in and she sat him down in a split bottom rocker in front of a great big old fireplace and she went off. He sat there for a while, and thought to himself “John 3:16.... I don't understand it but it sure makes a cold boy warm."
Later she came back and asked him “Are you hungry?" He said, “Well just a little. I haven't eaten in a couple of days and I guess I could stand a little bit of food." The lady took him in the kitchen and sat him down to a table full of wonderful food. He ate and ate until he couldn't eat any more. Then he thought to himself “ John 3:16... Boy, I sure don't understand it, but it sure makes a hungry boy full."
She took him upstairs to a bathroom to a huge bathtub filled with warm water and he sat there and soaked for a while. As he soaked, he thought to himself, “John 3:16... I sure don't understand it, but it sure makes a dirty boy clean. You know, I've not had a bath, a real bath, in my whole life. The only bath I ever had was when I stood in front of that big old fire hydrant as they flushed it out."
The lady came in and got him, and took him to a room and tucked him into a big old feather bed and pulled the covers up around his neck and kissed him goodnight and turned out the lights. As he laid in the darkness and looked out the window at the snow coming down on that cold night he thought to himself, “John 3:16... I don't understand it, but it sure makes a tired boy rested."
The next morning she came back up and took him down again to that same big table full of food. After he ate she took him back to that same big old split bottom rocker in front of the fireplace and she took a big old Bible and sat down in front of him and she looked up at and she asked, “Do you understand John 3:16?"
He said, “No, Ma'am, I don't. The first time I ever heard it was last night when the policeman told me to use it." She opened the Bible to John 3:16 , and she began to explain to him about Jesus. Right there in front of that big old fireplace he gave his heart and life to Jesus. He sat there and thought, “John 3:16. I don't understand it, but it but it sure makes a lost boy feel safe."
You know, I have to confess I don't understand it either, how God would be willing to send His Son to die for me, and how Jesus would agree to do such a thing. I don't understand it either, but it sure does make life worth living.
- Author Unknown
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Coincidence?
A reader has supplied this variation on the long arm of coincidence that relates Presidents John Kennedy and Abraham Lincoln.
Both Kennedy and Lincoln were connected with civil rights.
Lincoln was elected 1860, Kennedy in 1960.
Both wives lost a child at the time of living at the White House.
Both were killed on a Friday in the presence of their wives. Both were shot in the head from behind.
The successors both to Lincoln and Kennedy were named Johnson. Both were Southern Democrats and in the Senate - Andrew Johnson born in 1808. Lyndon Johnson born 1908.
Both Lincoln and Kennedy are seven-lettered names, and their assassinators, John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald, both have 15 letters in their names.
John Wilkes Booth was born in 1839 and Lee Harvey Oswald in 1939. Both were Southerners favoring unpopular ideas and both were assassinated before their trials,
Lincoln's secretary, whose name was Kennedy, advised Lincoln not to go to the theatre, and Kennedy's secretary, whose name was Lincoln, advised Kennedy not to go to Dallas. Booth shot Lincoln in a theatre and ran to a warehouse; Oswald shot Kennedy from a warehouse and ran to a theatre.
Both Kennedy and Lincoln were connected with civil rights.
Lincoln was elected 1860, Kennedy in 1960.
Both wives lost a child at the time of living at the White House.
Both were killed on a Friday in the presence of their wives. Both were shot in the head from behind.
The successors both to Lincoln and Kennedy were named Johnson. Both were Southern Democrats and in the Senate - Andrew Johnson born in 1808. Lyndon Johnson born 1908.
Both Lincoln and Kennedy are seven-lettered names, and their assassinators, John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald, both have 15 letters in their names.
John Wilkes Booth was born in 1839 and Lee Harvey Oswald in 1939. Both were Southerners favoring unpopular ideas and both were assassinated before their trials,
Lincoln's secretary, whose name was Kennedy, advised Lincoln not to go to the theatre, and Kennedy's secretary, whose name was Lincoln, advised Kennedy not to go to Dallas. Booth shot Lincoln in a theatre and ran to a warehouse; Oswald shot Kennedy from a warehouse and ran to a theatre.
Check out http://www.snopes.com/history/american/lincoln-kennedy.asp for more detail...
Monday, September 17, 2012
The Four Chaplains
On the evening of Feb. 2, 1943, the U.S.A.T. Dorchester, crowded with 902 servicemen, merchant seamen and civilian workers, was torpedoed by a German submarine off the coast of Newfoundland. The transport sank in fire and smoke in 27 minutes.
The ship's crew launched lifeboats and rafts. Many servicemen jumped into the water. Two of the three escort ships, the Coast Guard cutters Comanche and Escanaba, circled the Dorchester rescuing 231 survivors. The third cutter, CGC Tampa, continued on, escorting the remaining two ships in the convoy.
According to those present, four Army chaplains aboard the Dorchester brought hope in despair and light in darkness. Those chaplains were Lt. George L. Fox, Methodist; Lt. Alexander D. Goode, Jewish; Lt. John P. Washington, Roman Catholic; and Lt. Clark V. Poling, Dutch Reformed. Quickly and quietly the four chaplains spread out among the soldiers. There they tried to calm the frightened, tend the wounded and guide the disoriented toward safety.
When most of the men were topside, the chaplains opened a storage locker and began distributing life jackets. When there were no more life jackets in the locker, the chaplains removed theirs and gave them to four frightened young men. As the ship went down, survivors in nearby rafts could see the four chaplains - arms linked and braced against the slanting deck. Their voices could also be heard offering prayers.
The Distinguished Service Cross and Purple Heart were awarded posthumously on December 19, 1944, to the next of kin by Lt. Gen. Brehon B. Somervell, Commanding General of the Army Service Forces, in a ceremony at the post chapel at Fort Myer, VA.
The ship's crew launched lifeboats and rafts. Many servicemen jumped into the water. Two of the three escort ships, the Coast Guard cutters Comanche and Escanaba, circled the Dorchester rescuing 231 survivors. The third cutter, CGC Tampa, continued on, escorting the remaining two ships in the convoy.
According to those present, four Army chaplains aboard the Dorchester brought hope in despair and light in darkness. Those chaplains were Lt. George L. Fox, Methodist; Lt. Alexander D. Goode, Jewish; Lt. John P. Washington, Roman Catholic; and Lt. Clark V. Poling, Dutch Reformed. Quickly and quietly the four chaplains spread out among the soldiers. There they tried to calm the frightened, tend the wounded and guide the disoriented toward safety.
When most of the men were topside, the chaplains opened a storage locker and began distributing life jackets. When there were no more life jackets in the locker, the chaplains removed theirs and gave them to four frightened young men. As the ship went down, survivors in nearby rafts could see the four chaplains - arms linked and braced against the slanting deck. Their voices could also be heard offering prayers.
The Distinguished Service Cross and Purple Heart were awarded posthumously on December 19, 1944, to the next of kin by Lt. Gen. Brehon B. Somervell, Commanding General of the Army Service Forces, in a ceremony at the post chapel at Fort Myer, VA.
source unknown
Sunday, September 16, 2012
The Smell of Rain
A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the Doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. Still groggy from surgery, her husband David held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news. That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24 weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency caesarean to deliver the couple's new daughter, Danae Lu Blessing. At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound and nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs. I don't think she's going to make it, he said, as kindly as he could. “There's only a 10 percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one." Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Danae would likely face if she survived. She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on. “No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away. Through the dark hours of morning as Danae held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of sleep, growing more and more determined that their tiny daughter would live, and live to be a healthy, happy young girl. But David, fully awake and listening to additional dire details of their daughter's chances of ever leaving the hospital alive, much less healthy, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable. David walked in and said that we needed to talk about making funeral arrangements. Diana remembers, 'I felt so bad for him because he was doing everything, trying to include me in what was going on, but I just wouldn't listen, I couldn't listen.' I said, “No, that is not going to happen, no way! I don't care what the doctors say; Danae is not going to die! One day she will be just fine, and she will be coming home with us!" As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Danae clung to life hour after hour, with the help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure. But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Danae's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially raw, the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Danae struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl. There was never a moment when Danae suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Danae turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later-though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were slim Danae went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted. Today, five years later, Danae is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She shows no signs, what so ever, of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she is everything a little girl can be and more-but that happy ending is far from the end of her story. One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Danae was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ballpark where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing. As always, Danae was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, Danae asked, “Do you smell that?" Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, “Yes, it smells like rain." Danae closed her eyes and again asked, “Do you smell that? “ Once again, her mother replied, “Yes, I think we're about to get wet, it smells like rain. Still caught in the moment, Danae shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, “No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest." Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Danae then happily hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rain came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along. During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Danae on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.
source unknown
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Daddy did Jesus really die that way....Then we must get saved
This is a true story. It just happened this Good Friday. It was Good Friday and you could hear a pin drop in the church. The police were lined up on the sidewalk outside this little church.. Men were standing at the entrance of the church, unsure of what was going to happen. There was a man, standing outside with a sign, protesting the meeting. The building was filled beyond capacity. The network TV camera trucks were surrounding the church. Their TV satellite dishes were poised to broadcast any news from within the church. It was the lead story on the 11:00am news and the 5:30pm news on ABC, CBS & NBC. It would be broadcast again on all the networks. Over 2 million people were waiting to see what was going to happen at this little church in Kirkland, WA.
On the non-Christian radio talk shows, the news of this little church had caught the imagination of a whole state, 24 hours a day, for 4 days. Even now, three weeks later, they are still talking about it on the radio. Pastors are calling in to explain why Jesus had to die. People are calling in asking, “Why, if God is love, why would He want to kill?" People are asking, “Why would a loving God want to kill His own son?" People are asking, “Why would God be so unkind as to have a need to kill animals before Jesus? Why would killing anything make God feel better?" Ministers, theologians, philosophers, historians and teachers all called to express their views. Some quoted the Bible, and some quoted history. All expressed their thoughts. Some said, “God would not do it the same today." Some said they could not believe in a God Who had a need for death. Some said, “It would terrorize children." Some said if that was Christianity, they would never believe.
What we had for about three weeks was a miracle. A whole state wrestled with Soteriology. A whole state wrestled with the subject of salvation. The news media talked about a Saviour. The TV news media talked about the price of sin. The radio talked about a need for a Saviour. They talked in restaurants. They talked in stores. They talked in schools. They talked about it everywhere.
Back in the church, the TV camera crews were set-up in the balcony. The newspaper reporters and photographers were everywhere. The congregation had been there early, so they could get seats. Now, it was time to see what the Lord would do. Then it happened. Jerry Gaffney walked in with a small, black lamb, named Alfalfa. He brought Alfalfa up on the platform. Then Jerry knelt down to pet the lamb. Not a sound was made in the building. This little lamb had caught the hearts and the attention of a whole state. Camera flashes went off, TV camera lights came on, reporters sat on the edge of their seats.
People were trying to save the lamb. Over 180 people per hour had called in to save the lamb. Bomb threats were called in to save the lamb. Many death threats on Jerry's life were called in to save the lamb. I know it makes no sense. They wanted to kill a man to save a lamb. Because Jerry is Jewish, many anti-Semitic threats were called in. “We don't need this Jewish Jesus. We don't need this Old Testament, Jewish stuff." They called in and said they were ashamed of this kind of Jesus. By the way, most of the calls were from Christian believers. They would say, “I am a Christian but....." They were so angry that they wanted to crucify. It reminded us of a crowd 2000 years ago that turned on another man. It reminded us of a people who were so upset they cried, “Crucify!" Hundreds and hundreds called to express their views.
It was so wonderful, we almost wanted to cry. Never before in the history of Washington had so many people thought about Jesus, and wrestled over salvation in such a short period of time. Jesus had provoked them to think about their souls.
What could have stirred up so much commotion? Being Jewish, I had spoken many times about Passover. Many times, at many churches, I had explained that we were to take a lamb into our homes for five days. Many times, I spoke about how we were supposed to fall in love with the lamb. Now a whole state had fallen in love with this lamb. Many times, I spoke about how we would have to kill the lamb for Passover, as a sacrifice to God, in obedience to His Word. I also said in many other churches I would not kill the lamb. I also had said two weeks earlier at this church I would not kill the Lamb. I also said I would only demonstrate the price of sin. I also had said two week earlier I would put up a drop cloth to hide the lamb, and then squirt blood on it to re-enact the death of a lamb.
NOW HERE IS THE MIRACLE.
All of this is on tape, but few outside the church have asked. Somehow, the word got out that I really was going to kill the lamb. A Pastor put out a press release at 4:00 pm Friday saying the lamb would live. Channel 4 put it on their web-site that the lamb would live. Here is the miracle again. Even though they knew we were not going to kill the lamb, the TV and newspaper people stayed and reported the story.
We picked little Alfalfa up and put him on the altar. As we did this, people screamed, “Don't kill the lamb!" The lights went dark, and the lamb was gone. Only a single spotlight shone on the empty table where Alfalfa had been. The only thing that was left was a blood-stained tablecloth. There was a gasp in the congregation. They whispered, “Did he really kill the lamb?" I walked over to another curtain and said, “Why is there so much stress about something I am going to barbecue? Why aren't we concerned about this Lamb Who died?" We then opened a curtain that revealed a man on a cross. He really looked as if he had just been crucified.
The sight of him horrified many in the crowd. Their breath was almost taken away to see something so real. His hands and feet looked as if they were bleeding. His brow had scars from the thorns. His face looked as if he had been beaten.
I fell at his feet and prayed, as if he was the real Jesus. I prayed as if He had done this for my sins. I spoke about the eight places Jesus bled and died.
1: I spoke about the blood on His brow - how He died to His will.
2: I spoke about the blood on His head - how satan mocked His authority.
3: I spoke about the blood on His face - how satan mocked His reputation.
4: I spoke about the blood on His cheeks when they plucked out His beard - how satan shamed His traditions.
5: I spoke about the blood on His back - how satan mocked His strength - how Jesus said, when you are weak then you are strong
6: I spoke about the blood on His hands - how satan mocked the hands that made the world
7: I spoke about the blood on His feet - how satan mocked His freedom to go where He wanted to go.
8: I spoke about the blood on His side - how satan mocked the desires of His heart.
I asked some men to help me take Jesus off the cross. They carried him to a tomb in the back. Again, when we took him down, the congregation saw the marks on his back and almost started to cry. The Lord had made everything so real.
I then said, “I have some good news. I know the end of the story. My Jesus is alive!" As I said the words, Jesus came walking out. He came walking out with Alfalfa, the little black lamb. When the congregation saw Jesus and the little lamb, they jumped to their feet and cheered. I said, “We have the good news. Jesus did all this for you."
When I gave the altar call, over 200 ran to the altar to get right with God. A little 7-year old girl looked at her daddy and said, “Daddy, did Jesus really do that for us?" He said, “Yes, Honey." She then said, “We must go down and get saved." One of the men who worked for the press fell on his knees and gave his heart to Jesus. One of the ministers spoke with him for 45 minutes. He said, “I have been to many church services. I have been to Jewish services, Buddhist services and other Christian services, but this is the clearest presentation of the gospel of Jesus I have ever seen. I have a lot of thinking to do." Another man from the press fell to his knees and could only say, “Oh my, oh my, oh my."
The evening news blasted across the air-ways, “Alfalfa lives, but sin is very expensive." It was the lead story for two days. They showed Jesus in a good way, not a bad one. They talked about our Jesus. They talked about the price of sin. They talked about the need for a Saviour. It was in the newspapers, “The lamb lives, but sin is very expensive." The News Media was broadcasting the good news about Jesus. Over 2 million heard the good news of the Gospel of Jesus. I could think of no better way to give the Glory to Jesus than this. Have I been persecuted and falsely accused. The word says rejoice and I am.
What was the fruit? We baptized in water over 40 people Easter Sunday night. Only 27 were scheduled, but 13 more wanted to be baptized , even though they had no change of clothes. Last Sunday night, we baptized another 20. What was the fruit? Over 220 people have signed a 24-hour prayer, praise and intercession clock. That is 10 people per hour 24 hours a day, either praying, worshiping or interceding for revival in WA. We are going to pray till we see the Pacific Northwest saved. The meetings are going into their 9th week. We are meeting Tuesday - Friday 10:30 am and 7:00pm. People are running to the Lord every night. Thirty people made decisions for Jesus just last night alone.
On the non-Christian radio talk shows, the news of this little church had caught the imagination of a whole state, 24 hours a day, for 4 days. Even now, three weeks later, they are still talking about it on the radio. Pastors are calling in to explain why Jesus had to die. People are calling in asking, “Why, if God is love, why would He want to kill?" People are asking, “Why would a loving God want to kill His own son?" People are asking, “Why would God be so unkind as to have a need to kill animals before Jesus? Why would killing anything make God feel better?" Ministers, theologians, philosophers, historians and teachers all called to express their views. Some quoted the Bible, and some quoted history. All expressed their thoughts. Some said, “God would not do it the same today." Some said they could not believe in a God Who had a need for death. Some said, “It would terrorize children." Some said if that was Christianity, they would never believe.
What we had for about three weeks was a miracle. A whole state wrestled with Soteriology. A whole state wrestled with the subject of salvation. The news media talked about a Saviour. The TV news media talked about the price of sin. The radio talked about a need for a Saviour. They talked in restaurants. They talked in stores. They talked in schools. They talked about it everywhere.
Back in the church, the TV camera crews were set-up in the balcony. The newspaper reporters and photographers were everywhere. The congregation had been there early, so they could get seats. Now, it was time to see what the Lord would do. Then it happened. Jerry Gaffney walked in with a small, black lamb, named Alfalfa. He brought Alfalfa up on the platform. Then Jerry knelt down to pet the lamb. Not a sound was made in the building. This little lamb had caught the hearts and the attention of a whole state. Camera flashes went off, TV camera lights came on, reporters sat on the edge of their seats.
People were trying to save the lamb. Over 180 people per hour had called in to save the lamb. Bomb threats were called in to save the lamb. Many death threats on Jerry's life were called in to save the lamb. I know it makes no sense. They wanted to kill a man to save a lamb. Because Jerry is Jewish, many anti-Semitic threats were called in. “We don't need this Jewish Jesus. We don't need this Old Testament, Jewish stuff." They called in and said they were ashamed of this kind of Jesus. By the way, most of the calls were from Christian believers. They would say, “I am a Christian but....." They were so angry that they wanted to crucify. It reminded us of a crowd 2000 years ago that turned on another man. It reminded us of a people who were so upset they cried, “Crucify!" Hundreds and hundreds called to express their views.
It was so wonderful, we almost wanted to cry. Never before in the history of Washington had so many people thought about Jesus, and wrestled over salvation in such a short period of time. Jesus had provoked them to think about their souls.
What could have stirred up so much commotion? Being Jewish, I had spoken many times about Passover. Many times, at many churches, I had explained that we were to take a lamb into our homes for five days. Many times, I spoke about how we were supposed to fall in love with the lamb. Now a whole state had fallen in love with this lamb. Many times, I spoke about how we would have to kill the lamb for Passover, as a sacrifice to God, in obedience to His Word. I also said in many other churches I would not kill the lamb. I also had said two weeks earlier at this church I would not kill the Lamb. I also said I would only demonstrate the price of sin. I also had said two week earlier I would put up a drop cloth to hide the lamb, and then squirt blood on it to re-enact the death of a lamb.
NOW HERE IS THE MIRACLE.
All of this is on tape, but few outside the church have asked. Somehow, the word got out that I really was going to kill the lamb. A Pastor put out a press release at 4:00 pm Friday saying the lamb would live. Channel 4 put it on their web-site that the lamb would live. Here is the miracle again. Even though they knew we were not going to kill the lamb, the TV and newspaper people stayed and reported the story.
We picked little Alfalfa up and put him on the altar. As we did this, people screamed, “Don't kill the lamb!" The lights went dark, and the lamb was gone. Only a single spotlight shone on the empty table where Alfalfa had been. The only thing that was left was a blood-stained tablecloth. There was a gasp in the congregation. They whispered, “Did he really kill the lamb?" I walked over to another curtain and said, “Why is there so much stress about something I am going to barbecue? Why aren't we concerned about this Lamb Who died?" We then opened a curtain that revealed a man on a cross. He really looked as if he had just been crucified.
The sight of him horrified many in the crowd. Their breath was almost taken away to see something so real. His hands and feet looked as if they were bleeding. His brow had scars from the thorns. His face looked as if he had been beaten.
I fell at his feet and prayed, as if he was the real Jesus. I prayed as if He had done this for my sins. I spoke about the eight places Jesus bled and died.
1: I spoke about the blood on His brow - how He died to His will.
2: I spoke about the blood on His head - how satan mocked His authority.
3: I spoke about the blood on His face - how satan mocked His reputation.
4: I spoke about the blood on His cheeks when they plucked out His beard - how satan shamed His traditions.
5: I spoke about the blood on His back - how satan mocked His strength - how Jesus said, when you are weak then you are strong
6: I spoke about the blood on His hands - how satan mocked the hands that made the world
7: I spoke about the blood on His feet - how satan mocked His freedom to go where He wanted to go.
8: I spoke about the blood on His side - how satan mocked the desires of His heart.
I asked some men to help me take Jesus off the cross. They carried him to a tomb in the back. Again, when we took him down, the congregation saw the marks on his back and almost started to cry. The Lord had made everything so real.
I then said, “I have some good news. I know the end of the story. My Jesus is alive!" As I said the words, Jesus came walking out. He came walking out with Alfalfa, the little black lamb. When the congregation saw Jesus and the little lamb, they jumped to their feet and cheered. I said, “We have the good news. Jesus did all this for you."
When I gave the altar call, over 200 ran to the altar to get right with God. A little 7-year old girl looked at her daddy and said, “Daddy, did Jesus really do that for us?" He said, “Yes, Honey." She then said, “We must go down and get saved." One of the men who worked for the press fell on his knees and gave his heart to Jesus. One of the ministers spoke with him for 45 minutes. He said, “I have been to many church services. I have been to Jewish services, Buddhist services and other Christian services, but this is the clearest presentation of the gospel of Jesus I have ever seen. I have a lot of thinking to do." Another man from the press fell to his knees and could only say, “Oh my, oh my, oh my."
The evening news blasted across the air-ways, “Alfalfa lives, but sin is very expensive." It was the lead story for two days. They showed Jesus in a good way, not a bad one. They talked about our Jesus. They talked about the price of sin. They talked about the need for a Saviour. It was in the newspapers, “The lamb lives, but sin is very expensive." The News Media was broadcasting the good news about Jesus. Over 2 million heard the good news of the Gospel of Jesus. I could think of no better way to give the Glory to Jesus than this. Have I been persecuted and falsely accused. The word says rejoice and I am.
What was the fruit? We baptized in water over 40 people Easter Sunday night. Only 27 were scheduled, but 13 more wanted to be baptized , even though they had no change of clothes. Last Sunday night, we baptized another 20. What was the fruit? Over 220 people have signed a 24-hour prayer, praise and intercession clock. That is 10 people per hour 24 hours a day, either praying, worshiping or interceding for revival in WA. We are going to pray till we see the Pacific Northwest saved. The meetings are going into their 9th week. We are meeting Tuesday - Friday 10:30 am and 7:00pm. People are running to the Lord every night. Thirty people made decisions for Jesus just last night alone.
source unknown
Friday, September 14, 2012
Reaching God’s Perfection
In Brooklyn, New York, Chush is a school that caters to learning-disabled children. Some children remain in Chush for the their entire school career, while others can be mainstreamed into conventional school. At a Chush fundraising dinner, the father of a Chush child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended.
After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, “Where is the perfection in my son Ryan? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God's perfection?" The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father's anguish and stilled by the piercing query. “I believe, “the father answered, “that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that he seeks is in the way people react to this child." He then told the following story about his son Ryan.
One afternoon Ryan and his father walked past a park where some boys Ryan knew were playing baseball. Ryan asked, “Do you think they will let me play?" Ryan's father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Ryan's father understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging. Ryan's father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Ryan could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said, “We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning."
Ryan's father was ecstatic as Ryan smiled broadly. Ryan was told to put on a glove and go out to play short centre field. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Ryan's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Ryan's team scored again and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Ryan was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Ryan bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game?
Surprisingly, Ryan was given the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Ryan didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However as Ryan stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Ryan should at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came in and Ryan swung clumsily and missed. One of Ryan's teammates came up to Ryan and together they held the bat and faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Ryan. As the pitch came in, Ryan and his teammate swung the bat together and they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Ryan would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman. Everyone started yelling, “Ryan, run to first. Run to first." Never in his life had Ryan run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide-eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder understood what the pitcher's intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman's head. Everyone yelled, “Run to second. Run to second." Ryan ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Ryan reached second base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, “Run to third." As Ryan rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, “Ryan run home." Ryan ran home, stepped on home plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero, as he had just hit a “grand slam" and won the game for his team. “That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, “those 18 boys reached their level of God's perfection."
After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, “Where is the perfection in my son Ryan? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God's perfection?" The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father's anguish and stilled by the piercing query. “I believe, “the father answered, “that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that he seeks is in the way people react to this child." He then told the following story about his son Ryan.
One afternoon Ryan and his father walked past a park where some boys Ryan knew were playing baseball. Ryan asked, “Do you think they will let me play?" Ryan's father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Ryan's father understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging. Ryan's father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Ryan could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said, “We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning."
Ryan's father was ecstatic as Ryan smiled broadly. Ryan was told to put on a glove and go out to play short centre field. In the bottom of the eighth inning, Ryan's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Ryan's team scored again and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Ryan was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Ryan bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game?
Surprisingly, Ryan was given the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Ryan didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However as Ryan stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Ryan should at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came in and Ryan swung clumsily and missed. One of Ryan's teammates came up to Ryan and together they held the bat and faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Ryan. As the pitch came in, Ryan and his teammate swung the bat together and they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Ryan would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman. Everyone started yelling, “Ryan, run to first. Run to first." Never in his life had Ryan run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide-eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder understood what the pitcher's intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman's head. Everyone yelled, “Run to second. Run to second." Ryan ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Ryan reached second base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, “Run to third." As Ryan rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, “Ryan run home." Ryan ran home, stepped on home plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero, as he had just hit a “grand slam" and won the game for his team. “That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, “those 18 boys reached their level of God's perfection."
source unknown
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Forgiving the Dead Man Walking:
Christianity's Unique Witness by Charles Colson
Dead Man Walking's gripping portrayal of a man on death row made it one of the most powerful films to come out of Hollywood in recent memory. But believe it or not, it only told half the story - and it left out the best part.
The power of Dead Man Walking was its portrayal of the inherent dignity and value of even a hardened criminal. But the story behind the story - the story of the victim - goes even further, depicting the uniquely Christian message of forgiveness.
Sixteen-year-old Debbie Morris was out on a date with her boyfriend, Mark, one Friday evening. After pizza and a movie, they stopped for milkshakes.
But when a stranger put a revolver to Mark's head, their pleasant night out turned into several hours of torture, rape, and attempted murder. It ended with Mark shot, but alive, and Debbie deeply wounded. But Debbie would not find true healing until she was able to comprehend and embrace the forgiveness only God can provide.
Although the film Dead Man Walking depicted Debbie's kidnappers as one man, there were actually two: Robert Lee Willie and Joe Vaccaro. They kidnapped and robbed them, leaving Mark for dead. Before releasing Debbie, they tormented and raped her repeatedly.
When the two men were captured, Vaccaro received five life sentences and, as the film showed, Willie was executed for his crimes - he eventually admitted involvement in several murders, including butchering another girl.
But Debbie's anguish did not end when Willie was sentenced to die. Despite those who urged her to “get on with her life," her emotional ordeal continued. As Debbie writes in her book, Forgiving the Dead Man Walking, “Justice doesn't really heal all the wounds."
It was when Debbie found the grace to forgive Robert Willie, the day he was to be executed, that she finally knew release from suffering. In prayer - for herself and for Willie - she discovered that only God's grace is sufficient to bind up the wounds of the human heart.
Forgiveness, you see, is much more than telling ourselves that an offense just doesn't matter anymore. On the contrary, forgiveness recognizes the debt for what it is.
And it doesn't just liberate the debtor from his debt - it transforms the heart of the one who forgives. In fact, forgiveness is an imitation of God's own act of forgiveness on the Cross. By forsaking what we are legitimately owed, we recognize that we, too, have been forgiven a debt we can never repay.
And that's why true forgiveness is both a beacon and scandal to the secular mind.
Secular society has nothing that resembles the forgiveness that the Gospel makes possible, what Debbie Morris experienced.
And it simply cannot make sense of parents who would forgive the killers of their children, like those murdered at Columbine, so much in the news this week. Remember those scenes, so vivid on television? Of the parents forgiving Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris. Of the crosses on the side of the hill. Their forgiving witness is an unmistakable presentation of the transforming love of the Gospel.
We may never be called to forgive an offense as grave as that inflicted on Debbie Morris - or the families of Littleton, Colorado. But we must be prepared to forgive, not only for our own sakes, but for the sake of our Christian witness. And when we do, we give the world something better than a good movie plot - we give them a glimpse of The Greatest Story Ever Told.
Dead Man Walking's gripping portrayal of a man on death row made it one of the most powerful films to come out of Hollywood in recent memory. But believe it or not, it only told half the story - and it left out the best part.
The power of Dead Man Walking was its portrayal of the inherent dignity and value of even a hardened criminal. But the story behind the story - the story of the victim - goes even further, depicting the uniquely Christian message of forgiveness.
Sixteen-year-old Debbie Morris was out on a date with her boyfriend, Mark, one Friday evening. After pizza and a movie, they stopped for milkshakes.
But when a stranger put a revolver to Mark's head, their pleasant night out turned into several hours of torture, rape, and attempted murder. It ended with Mark shot, but alive, and Debbie deeply wounded. But Debbie would not find true healing until she was able to comprehend and embrace the forgiveness only God can provide.
Although the film Dead Man Walking depicted Debbie's kidnappers as one man, there were actually two: Robert Lee Willie and Joe Vaccaro. They kidnapped and robbed them, leaving Mark for dead. Before releasing Debbie, they tormented and raped her repeatedly.
When the two men were captured, Vaccaro received five life sentences and, as the film showed, Willie was executed for his crimes - he eventually admitted involvement in several murders, including butchering another girl.
But Debbie's anguish did not end when Willie was sentenced to die. Despite those who urged her to “get on with her life," her emotional ordeal continued. As Debbie writes in her book, Forgiving the Dead Man Walking, “Justice doesn't really heal all the wounds."
It was when Debbie found the grace to forgive Robert Willie, the day he was to be executed, that she finally knew release from suffering. In prayer - for herself and for Willie - she discovered that only God's grace is sufficient to bind up the wounds of the human heart.
Forgiveness, you see, is much more than telling ourselves that an offense just doesn't matter anymore. On the contrary, forgiveness recognizes the debt for what it is.
And it doesn't just liberate the debtor from his debt - it transforms the heart of the one who forgives. In fact, forgiveness is an imitation of God's own act of forgiveness on the Cross. By forsaking what we are legitimately owed, we recognize that we, too, have been forgiven a debt we can never repay.
And that's why true forgiveness is both a beacon and scandal to the secular mind.
Secular society has nothing that resembles the forgiveness that the Gospel makes possible, what Debbie Morris experienced.
And it simply cannot make sense of parents who would forgive the killers of their children, like those murdered at Columbine, so much in the news this week. Remember those scenes, so vivid on television? Of the parents forgiving Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris. Of the crosses on the side of the hill. Their forgiving witness is an unmistakable presentation of the transforming love of the Gospel.
We may never be called to forgive an offense as grave as that inflicted on Debbie Morris - or the families of Littleton, Colorado. But we must be prepared to forgive, not only for our own sakes, but for the sake of our Christian witness. And when we do, we give the world something better than a good movie plot - we give them a glimpse of The Greatest Story Ever Told.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
How Do You Live Your Dash?
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning...to the end.
He noted that first came her date of birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years. (1934 -1998)
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth...
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own;
The cars...the house...the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we live our dash.
So think about this long and hard...
Are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we've never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile...
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy's being read
With your life's actions to rehash...
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you lived your dash?
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning...to the end.
He noted that first came her date of birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years. (1934 -1998)
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth...
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own;
The cars...the house...the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we live our dash.
So think about this long and hard...
Are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we've never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile...
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy's being read
With your life's actions to rehash...
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you lived your dash?
- Author Unknown
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
A Tribute to Charles M. Schulz (1922 - 2000)
Creator of the “Peanuts" Gang
The late Earle Nightingale, writer and publisher of inspirational and motivational newsletters, once told a story about a boy named Sparky. For Sparky, school was all but impossible. He failed every subject in the eighth grade. He flunked physics in high school, getting a grade of zero. Sparky also flunked Latin, algebra, and English. He didn't do much better in sports. Although he did manage to make the school's golf team, he promptly lost the only important match of the season. There was a consolation match; he lost that too.
Throughout his youth Sparky was awkward socially. He was not actually disliked by the other students; no one cared that much. He was astonished if a classmate ever said hello to him outside of school hours. There's no way to tell how he might have done at dating. Sparky never once asked a girl to go out in high school. He was too afraid of being turned down.
Sparky was a loser. He, his classmates...everyone knew it. So he rolled with it. Sparky had made up his mind early in life that if things were meant to work out, they would. Otherwise he would content himself with what appeared to be his inevitable mediocrity.
However, one thing was important to Sparky - drawing. He was proud of his artwork. Of course, no one else appreciated it. In his senior year of high school, he submitted some cartoons to the editors of the yearbook. The cartoons were turned down. Despite this particular rejection, Sparky was so convinced of his ability that he decided to become a professional artist.
After completing high school, he wrote a letter to Walt Disney Studios. He was told to send some samples of his artwork, and the subject for a cartoon was suggested. Sparky drew the proposed cartoon. He spent a great deal of time on it and on all the other drawings he submitted. Finally, the reply came from Disney Studios. He had been rejected once again. Another loss for the loser. So Sparky decided to write his own autobiography in cartoons. He described his childhood self - a little boy loser and chronic underachiever. The cartoon character would soon become famous worldwide. For Sparky, the boy who had such lack of success in school and whose work was rejected again and again was Charles Schulz. He created the “Peanuts" comic strip and the little cartoon character whose kite would never fly and who never succeeded in kicking a football - Charlie Brown.
The late Earle Nightingale, writer and publisher of inspirational and motivational newsletters, once told a story about a boy named Sparky. For Sparky, school was all but impossible. He failed every subject in the eighth grade. He flunked physics in high school, getting a grade of zero. Sparky also flunked Latin, algebra, and English. He didn't do much better in sports. Although he did manage to make the school's golf team, he promptly lost the only important match of the season. There was a consolation match; he lost that too.
Throughout his youth Sparky was awkward socially. He was not actually disliked by the other students; no one cared that much. He was astonished if a classmate ever said hello to him outside of school hours. There's no way to tell how he might have done at dating. Sparky never once asked a girl to go out in high school. He was too afraid of being turned down.
Sparky was a loser. He, his classmates...everyone knew it. So he rolled with it. Sparky had made up his mind early in life that if things were meant to work out, they would. Otherwise he would content himself with what appeared to be his inevitable mediocrity.
However, one thing was important to Sparky - drawing. He was proud of his artwork. Of course, no one else appreciated it. In his senior year of high school, he submitted some cartoons to the editors of the yearbook. The cartoons were turned down. Despite this particular rejection, Sparky was so convinced of his ability that he decided to become a professional artist.
After completing high school, he wrote a letter to Walt Disney Studios. He was told to send some samples of his artwork, and the subject for a cartoon was suggested. Sparky drew the proposed cartoon. He spent a great deal of time on it and on all the other drawings he submitted. Finally, the reply came from Disney Studios. He had been rejected once again. Another loss for the loser. So Sparky decided to write his own autobiography in cartoons. He described his childhood self - a little boy loser and chronic underachiever. The cartoon character would soon become famous worldwide. For Sparky, the boy who had such lack of success in school and whose work was rejected again and again was Charles Schulz. He created the “Peanuts" comic strip and the little cartoon character whose kite would never fly and who never succeeded in kicking a football - Charlie Brown.
source unknown
Monday, September 10, 2012
Rules for Writers
1. Verbs HAS to agree with their subjects.
2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
3. And don't start a sentence with a conjunction.
4. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
5. Avoid clichés like the plague. (They're old hat.)
6. Be more or less specific.
8. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are (usually) unnecessary.
9. Also too, never, ever use repetitive redundancies.
10. No sentence fragments.
11. Don't use no double negatives.
12. Proffered carefully to see if you any words out.
2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
3. And don't start a sentence with a conjunction.
4. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
5. Avoid clichés like the plague. (They're old hat.)
6. Be more or less specific.
8. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are (usually) unnecessary.
9. Also too, never, ever use repetitive redundancies.
10. No sentence fragments.
11. Don't use no double negatives.
12. Proffered carefully to see if you any words out.
source unknown
Sunday, September 09, 2012
World-renowned Writer
There was once a young man who, in his youth, professed his desire become a great writer. When asked to define “great" he said, “I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level - stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!" He now works for Microsoft, writing error messages.
Saturday, September 08, 2012
Working Together
Jean Nidetch, a 214 pound homemaker desperate to lose weight, went to the New York City Department of Health, where she was given a diet devised by Dr. Norman Jolliffe. Two months later, discouraged about the 50 plus pounds still to go, she invited six overweight friends home to share the diet and talk about how to stay on it. Today, 28 years later, one million members attend 25,0000 Weight Watchers meetings in 24 countries every week. Why was Nidetch able to help people take control of their lives? To answer that, she tells a story. When she was a teenager, she used to cross a park where she saw mothers gossiping while the toddlers sat on their swings, with no one to push them. “I'd give them a push," says Nidetch. “And you know what happens when you push a kid on a swing? Pretty soon he's pumping, doing it himself. That's what my role in life is - I'm there to give others a push."
Irene Sax in Newsday: Liberating Ministry From The Success Syndrome, K Hughes, Tyndale, 1988, p. 143
Friday, September 07, 2012
Words
Flatter me, and I may not believe you. Criticise me, and I may not like you. Ignore me, and I may not forgive you. Encourage me, and I will not forget you.
- William Arthur Ward
Thursday, September 06, 2012
Getting Up Again
CBS News anchor Dan Rather admits he was always fascinated by the sport of boxing, even though he was never good at it. “In boxing you're on your own; there's no place to hide," he says. “At the end of the match only one boxer has his hand up. That's it. He has no one to credit or to blame except himself." Rather, who boxed in high school, says his coach's greatest goal was to teach his boxers that they absolutely, positively, without question, had to be “get up" fighters. “If you're in a ring just once in your life - completely on your own - and you get knocked down but you get back up again, it's an never-to-be-forgotten experience. Your sense of achievement is distinct and unique. And sometimes the only thing making you get up is someone in your corner yelling."
Reader's Digest, Dec, 1990
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
Something to Hang on to..
The American painter, John Sargent, once painted a panel of roses that was highly praised by critics. It was a small picture, but it approached perfection. Although offered a high price for it on many occasions, Sargent refused to sell it. He considered it his best work and was very proud of it. Whenever he was deeply discouraged and doubtful of his abilities as an artist, he would look at it and remind himself, “I painted that." Then his confidence and ability would come back to him.
Bits and Pieces, September 19, 1991, p. 9
Tuesday, September 04, 2012
Small Things Count
One man who was ousted from his profession for an indiscretion took work as a hod carrier simply to put bread on the table. He was suddenly plunged into a drastically different world; instead of going to an office each day, he was hauling loads of concrete block up to the fifth level of a construction site. Gone was the piped-in music in the corridors; now he had to endure blaring transistors. Any girl who walked by was subject to rude remarks and whistles. Profanity shot through the air, especially from the foreman, whose primary tactics were whining and intimidation; “For --- sake, you ---, can't you do anything right? I never worked with such a bunch of --- in all my life..." Near the end of the third week, the new employee felt he could take no more. “I'll work till break time this morning," he told himself, “and then that's it. I'm going home." He'd already been the butt of more than one joke when his lack of experience caused him to do something foolish. The stories were retold constantly thereafter. “I just can't handle any more of this." A while later, he decided to finish out the morning and then leave at lunchtime. Shortly before noon, the foreman came around with paychecks. As he handed the man his envelope, he made his first civil comment to him in three weeks. “Hey, there's a woman working in the front office who knows you. Says she takes care of your kids sometimes." “Who?" He named the woman, who sometimes helped in the nursery of the church where the man and his family worshiped. The foreman then went on with his rounds. When the hod carrier opened his envelope, he found, along with his check, a handwritten note from the payroll clerk: “When one part of the body of Christ suffers, we all suffer with it. Just wanted you to know that I'm praying for you these days." He stared at the note, astonished at God's timing. He hadn't even known the woman worked for this company. Here at his lowest hour, she had given him the courage to go on, to push another wheelbarrow of mortar up that ramp.
Dean Merrill, Another Chance, Zondervan, 1981, p. 138
Monday, September 03, 2012
A Small Gift
An elderly widow, restricted in her activities, was eager to serve Christ. After praying about this, she realized that she could bring blessing to others by playing the piano. The next day she placed this small ad in the Oakland Tribune: “Pianist will play hymns by phone daily for those who are sick and despondent - the service is free." The notice included the number to dial. When people called, she would ask, “What hymn would you like to hear?" Within a few months her playing had brought cheer to several hundred people. Many of them freely poured out their hearts to her, and she was able to help and encourage them.
source unknown
Sunday, September 02, 2012
The Power of Belief
It wasn't like Scott Kregel to give up. He was a battler, a dedicated athlete who spent hour after hour perfecting his three throw and jump shot during the hot summer months of 1987. But just before fall practice everything changed. A serious car accident left Scott in a coma for several days. When he awoke, a long rehabilitation process lay ahead. Like most patients with closed head injuries, Scott balked at doing the slow, tedious work that was required to get him back to normal - things such as stringing beads. What high school junior would enjoy that? Tom Martin, Scott's basketball coach at the Christian school he attended, had an idea. Coach Martin told Scott that he would reserve a spot on the varsity for him - if he would cooperate with his therapist and show progress in the tasks he was asked to do. And Tom's wife Cindy spent many hours with Scott, encouraging him to keep going. Within 2 months, Scott was riding off the basketball court on his team-mates' shoulders. He had made nine straight free throws to clinch a triple-overtime league victory. It was a remarkable testimony of the power of encouragement.
Daily Bread
Saturday, September 01, 2012
Tipping the Scales
Edward Steichen, who eventually became one of the world's most renowned photographers, almost gave up on the day he shot his first pictures. At 16, young Steichen bought a camera and took 50 photos. Only one turned out - a portrait of his sister at the piano. Edward's father thought that was a poor showing. But his mother insisted that the photograph of his sister was so beautiful that it more than compensated for 49 failures. Her encouragement convinced the youngster to stick with his new hobby. He stayed with it for the rest of his life, but it had been a close call. What tipped the scales? The vision to spot excellence in the midst of a lot of failure.
source unknown
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)