Food for thought

29. Puppies For Sale

Dan Clark


A store owner was tacking a sign above his door that read “Puppies For Sale.” Signs like that have a way of attracting small children, and sure enough, a little boy appeared under the store owner’s sign. “How much are you going to sell the puppies for?” he asked.

The store owner replied, “Anywhere from $30 to $50.”

The little boy reached in his pocket and pulled out some change. “I have $2.37,” he said. “Can I please look at them?”

The store owner smiled and whistled and out of the kennel came Lady, who ran down the aisle of his store followed by five teeny tiny balls of fur. One puppy was lagging considerable behind. Immediately the little boy singled out the lagging limping puppy and said, “What’s wrong with that little dog?”

The store owner explained that the veterinarian had examined the little puppy and had discovered it didn’t have a hip socket. It would always limp. It would always be lame. The little boy became excited. “That’s the little puppy that I want to buy.”

The store owner said, “No, you don’t want to buy that little dog. If you really want him, I’ll just give him to you.”

The little boy got quite upset. He looked straight into the store owner’s eyes, pointing his finger and said, “I don’t want you to give him to me. That little dog is worth every bit as much as all the other dogs and I’ll pay full price. In fact I’ll give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents a month until I have him paid for.

The store owner countered, “You really don’t want to buy this little dog. He is never going to be able to jump and play with you like the other puppies.”

To this, the little boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left leg supported by a big metal brace. He looked up at the store owner and softly replied, “Well, I don’t run so well myself, and the little puppy will need someone who understands!”

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

30. Coffee Shop Kindness


Christine Walsh


My senior year of high school was an extremely hectic one, to say the least. If I wasn’t studying and worrying about my grades, I was juggling multiple extracurricular activities or attempting to make sense of my plans for college. It seemed as if my life had turned into one crazy cloud of confusion and I was stumbling around blindly, hoping to find some sort of direction.

Finally, as senior year began to wind down, I got a part-time job working at the local coffee shop. I had figured that the job would be easy and, for the most part, stress-free. I pictured myself pouring the best gourmet coffees, making delicious doughnuts, and becoming close friends with the regular customers.

What I hadn’t counted on were the people with enormous orders who chose to use the drive-thru window, or the women who felt that the coffee was much too creamy, or the men who wanted their iced coffees remade again and again until they reached a certain level of perfection. There were moments when I was exasperated with the human race as a whole, simply because I couldn’t seem to please anyone. There was always too much sugar, too little ice, and not enough skim milk. Nevertheless, I kept at it.

One miserable rainy day, one of my regular customers came in looking depressed and defeated. My co-worker and I asked what the problem was and if we could help, but the customer wouldn’t reveal any details. He just said he felt like crawling into bed, pulling the sheets up over his head, and staying there for a few years. I knew exactly how he felt.

Before he left, I handed him a bag along with his iced coffee. He looked at me questioningly because he hadn’t ordered anything but the coffee. He opened the bag and saw that I had given him his favorite type of doughnut.

“It’s on me,” I told him. “Have a nice day.”

He smiled and thanked me before turning around and heading back out into the rain.

The next day was a horrible one. The rain was still spilling down from the sky in huge buckets and everyone in my town seemed to be using the drive-thru window because no one wanted to brave the black skies or the thunder and lightning.

I spent my afternoon hanging out the window, handing people their orders and waiting as they slowly counted their pennies. I tried to smile as the customers complained about the weather, but it was difficult to smile as they sat in their temperature-controlled cars with the windows rolled up, while I dealt with huge droplets of water hanging from my visor, a shirt that was thoroughly soaked around the collar, and an air conditioner that blasted out cold air despite the fact that it was only sixty-seven degrees outside. On top of that, no one felt like tipping that day. Every time I looked into our tip jar, with its small amount of pennies, I grew more depressed.

Around seven o’clock that evening, however, my day took a turn for the better. I was in the middle of making another pot of vanilla hazelnut decaf when the customer from the day before drove up to the window. But instead of ordering anything, he handed me a single pink rose and a little note. He said that not too many people take the time to care about others and he was glad there were still people like me in the world. I was speechless and very touched; I hadn't thought that I had done anything incredible. After a moment, I came to my senses and thanked him. He told me I was welcome and with a friendly wave he drove away.

I waited until I saw his Jeep exit the parking lot, then I ran to the back of the shop and read the note. It read:

Christine,

Thanks for being so sweet, kind and thoughtful yesterday. I was sincerely touched by you. It is so nice to meet someone that’s genuinely nice, warm and sensitive and unselfish. Please don’t change your ways because I truly believe that you will excel. Have a great day! Hank

As time went on, I did come across more complaining customers. But anytime I felt depressed or just plain sick of coffee, I thought of Hank and his kindness.
Then I would smile, hold my head up high, clear my throat and ask politely, “How can I help you?”

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

31. A Thanksgiving Story

Andréa Nannette

Help carry one another’s burdens and in this way you will obey the law of Christ.
Gal. 6:2

It was the day before Thanksgiving -- the first one my three children and I would be spending without their father, who had left several months before. Now the two older children were very sick with the flu, and the eldest had just been prescribed bed rest for a week.

It was a cool, gray day outside, and a light rain was falling. I grew wearier as I scurried around, trying to care for each child: thermometers, juice, diapers. And I was fast running out of liquids for the children. But when I checked my purse, all I found was about $2.50 -- and this was supposed to last me until the end of the month. That’s when I heard the phone ring.

It was the secretary from our former church, and she told me that they had been thinking about us and had something to give us from the congregation. I told her that I was going out to pick up some more juice and soup for the children, and I would drop by the church on my way to the market.

I arrived at the church just before lunch. The church secretary met me at the door and handed me a special gift envelope. “We think of you and the kids often,” she said, “and you are in our hearts and prayers. We love you.” When I opened the envelope, I found two grocery certificates inside. Each was worth $20. I was so touched and moved, I broke down and cried.

“Thank you very much,” I said, as we hugged each other. “Please give our love and thanks to the church.” Then I drove to a store near our home and purchased some much-needed items for the children.

At the check-out counter I had a little over $14.00 worth of groceries, and I handed the cashier one of the gift certificates. She took it, then turned her back for what seemed like a very long time. I thought something might be wrong. Finally I said, “This gift certificate is a real blessing. Our former church gave it to my family, knowing I’m a single parent trying to make ends meet.“

The cashier then turned around, with tears in her loving eyes, and replied, “Honey, that’s wonderful! Do you have a turkey?”

“No. It’s okay because my children are sick anyway.”

She then asked, “Do you have anything else for Thanksgiving dinner?”

Again I replied, “No.”

After handing me the change from the certificate, she looked at my face and said, “Honey, I can’t tell you exactly why right now, but I want you to go back into the store and buy a turkey, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie or anything else you need for a Thanksgiving dinner.”

I was shocked, and humbled to tears. “Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes! Get whatever you want. And get some Gatorade for the kids.”

I felt awkward as I went back to do some more shopping, but I selected a fresh turkey, a few yams and potatoes, and some juices for the children. Then I wheeled the shopping cart up to the same cashier as before. As I placed my groceries on the counter, she looked at me once more with giant tears in her kind eyes and began to speak.

“Now I can tell you. This morning I prayed that I could help someone today, and you walked through my line.” She reached under the counter for her purse and took out a $20 bill. She paid for my groceries and then handed me the change. Once more I was moved to tears.

The sweet cashier then said, “I am a Christian. Here is my phone number if you ever need anything.” She then took my head in her hands, kissed my cheek and said, “God bless you, honey.”

As I walked to my car, I was overwhelmed by this stranger’s love and by the realization that God loves my family too, and shows us his love through this stranger’s and my church’s kind deeds.

The children were supposed to have spent Thanksgiving with their father that year, but because of the flu they were home with me, for a very special Thanksgiving Day. They were feeling better, and we all ate the goodness of the Lord’s bounty -- and our community’s love. Our hearts were truly filled with thanks.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

32. Life Still Has A Meaning


Author unknown


If there is a future there is time for mending-
Time to see your troubles coming to an ending.


Life is never hopeless however great your sorrow-
If you're looking forward to a new tomorrow.


If there is time for wishing then there is time for hoping-
When through doubt and darkness you are blindly groping.


Though the heart be heavy and hurt you may be feeling-
If there is time for praying there is time for healing.

So if through your window there is a new day breaking-
Thank God for the promise, though mind and soul be aching,


If with harvest over there is grain enough for gleaning-
There is a new tomorrow and life still has meaning.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

33. A Perfect Mistake

Cheryl Walterman Stewart


Grandpa Nybakken loved life -- especially when he could play a trick on somebody. At those times, his large Norwegian frame shook with laughter while he feigned innocent surprise, exclaiming, “Oh, forevermore!” But on a cold Saturday in downtown Chicago, Grandpa felt that God played a trick on him, and Grandpa wasn’t laughing.

Mother’s father worked as a carpenter. On this particular day, he was building some crates for the clothes his church was sending to an orphanage in China. On his way home, he reached into his shirt pocket to find his glasses, but they were gone. He remembered putting them there that morning, so he drove back to the church. His search proved fruitless.

When he mentally replayed his earlier actions, he realized what happened. The glasses had slipped out of his pocket unnoticed and fallen into one of the crates, which he had nailed shut. His brand new glasses were heading for China!

The Great Depression was at its height, and Grandpa had six children. He had spent twenty dollars for those glasses that very morning.

“It’s not fair,” he told God as he drove home in frustration. “I’ve been very faithful in giving of my time and money to your work, and now this.”

Several months later, the director of the orphanage was on furlough in the United States. He wanted to visit all the churches that supported him in China, so he came to speak on Sunday night at my grandfather’s small church in Chicago. Grandpa and his family sat in their customary seats among the sparse congregation.

“But most of all,” he said, “I must thank you for the glasses you sent last year. You see, the Communists had just swept through the orphanage, destroying everything, including my glasses. I was desperate.”

“Even if I had the money, there was simply no way of replacing those glasses. Along with not being able to see well, I experienced headaches every day, so my coworkers and I were much in prayer about this. Then your crates arrived. When my staffed removed the covers, they found a pair of glasses lying on top.”

The missionary paused long enough to let his words sink in. Then, still gripped with the wonder of it all, he continued: “Folks, when I tried on the glasses, it was as thought they had been custom-made just for me! I want to thank you for being a part of that!”

The people listened, happy for the miraculous glasses. But the missionary surely must have confused their church with another, they thought. There were no glasses on their list of items to be sent overseas.

But sitting quietly in the back, with tears streaming down his face, an ordinary carpenter realized the Master Carpenter had used him in an extraordinary way.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

34. Gifts of the Heart


Sheryl Nicholson


In this hustle-bustle world we live in, it's so much easier to charge something on a credit card rather than give a gift of the heart.

And gifts of the heart are especially needed during the holidays.

A few years ago, I began to prepare my children for the fact that Christmas that year was going to be a small one. Their response was, "Yeah sure, Mom, we've heard that before!" I had lost my credibility because I had told them the same thing the previous year, while going through a divorce. But then I had gone out and charged every credit card to the max. I even found some creative financing techniques to pay for their stocking stuffers. This year was definitely going to be different, but they weren't buying it.

A week before Christmas, I asked myself, What do I have that will make this Christmas special? In all the houses we had lived in before the divorce, I had always made time to be the interior decorator. I had learned how to wallpaper, to lay wooden and ceramic tiles, to sew curtains out of sheets and even more. But in this rental house there was little time for decorating and a lot less money. Plus, I was angry about this ugly place, with its red and orange carpets and turquoise and green walls. I refused to put money into it. Inside me, and inner voice of hurt pride shouted, "We're not going to be here that long!"

Nobody else seemed to mind about the house, except my daughter Lisa, who always tried to make her room her special place. It was time to express my talents. I called my ex-husband and asked that he buy a specific bedspread for Lisa. Then I bought the sheets to match.

On Christmas Eve, I spent $15 on a gallon of paint. I also bought the prettiest stationery I'd ever seen. My goal was simple: I'd paint and we and stay busy until Christmas morning, so I wouldn't have time to feel sorry for myself on such a special family holiday.

That night, I gave each of the children three pieces of stationery with envelopes. At the top of each page were the words, "What I love about my sister Mia," "What I love about my brother Kris," What I love about my sister Lisa" and "What I love about my brother Erik." The kids were 16, 14, 10 and 8, and it took some convincing on my part to assure them that they could find just one thing they liked about each other. As they wrote in privacy, I went to my bedroom and wrapped their few store-bought gifts.

When I returned to the kitchen, the children had finished their letters to one another. Each name was written on the outside of the envelope. We exchanged hugs and goodnight kisses and they hurried off to bed. Lisa was given special permission to sleep in my bed, with the promise not to peek until Christmas morning.

I got started in the wee hours of Christmas morn, I finished the curtains, painted the walls and stepped back to admire my masterpiece. Wait-why not put rainbows and clouds on the walls to match the sheets? So out came my makeup brushes and sponges, and at 5 A.M. I was finished. Too exhausted to think about being a poor "broken home," as statistics said, I went to my room and found Lisa spread-eagled in my bed. I decided I couldn't sleep with arms and legs all over me, so I gently lifted her up and tiptoed her into her room. As I laid her head on the pillow, she said, "Mommy, is it morning yet?"

"No sweetie, keep your eyes closed until Santa comes."

I awoke that morning with a bright whisper in my ear. "Wow, Mommy, it's beautiful!"

Later, we all got up and sat around the tree and opened the few wrapped presents. Afterward the children were given their three envelopes. We read the words with teary eyes and red noses. Then we got to "the baby of the family's" notes. Erik, at 8, wasn't expecting to hear anything nice. His brother had written: "What I love about my brother Erik is that he's not afraid of anything." Mia had written, "What I love about my brother Erik is he can talk to anybody!" Lisa had written, "What I love about my brother Erik he can climb trees higher than anyone!"

I felt a gentle tug at my sleeve, then a small hand cupped around my ear and Erik whispered, "Gee, Mom, I didn't even know they like me!"

In the worst of times, creativity and resourcefulness had given us the best of times. I'm now back on my feet financially, and we've had many "big" Christmases with lots of presents under the tree… but when asked which Christmas is our favorite, we all remember that one.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

Very nice stories sis HNDT!
Thanks for great work!

You're very welcome.

Will try to find some more good ones.

Thank you VG for dropping by.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

35. One Day

Unknown


One day, when I was a freshman in high school,

I saw a kid from my class was walking home from school.

His name was Kyle.

It looked like he was carrying all of his books.

I thought to myself, "Why would anyone bring home all his books on a Friday? He must really be a nerd."

I had quite a weekend planned (parties and a football game with my friends tomorrow afternoon), so I shrugged my shoulders and went on.

As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him.
They ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt. His glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him. He looked up and I saw this terrible sadness in his eyes.

My heart went out to him. So, I jogged over to him and as he crawled around looking for his glasses, and I saw a tear in his eye. As I handed him his glasses, I said, "Those guys are jerks. They really should get lives."

He looked at me and said, "Hey thanks!"

There was a big smile on his face.

It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude.

I helped him pick up his books, and asked him where he lived.

As it turned out, he lived near me, so I asked him why I had never seen him before.
He said he had gone to private school before now. I would have never hung out with a private school kid before.
We talked all the way home, and I carried some of his books.

He turned out to be a pretty cool kid. I asked him if he wanted to play a little football with my friends.
He said yes. We hung out all weekend and the more I got to know Kyle, the more I liked him, and my friends thought the same of him.

Monday morning came, and there was Kyle with the huge stack of books again.

I stopped him and said, "Boy, you are gonna really build some serious muscles with this pile of books everyday!"
He just laughed and handed me half the books.

Over the next four years, Kyle and I became best friends.

When we were seniors, we began to think about college. Kyle decided on Georgetown, and I was going to Duke.

I knew that we would always be friends, that the miles would never be a problem.

He was going to be a doctor, and I was going for business on a football scholarship. Kyle was valedictorian of our class.
I teased him all the time about being a nerd. He had to prepare a speech for graduation.

I was so glad it wasn't me having to get up there and speak.

Graduation day, I saw Kyle.

He looked great.

He was one of those guys that really found himself during high school.

He filled out and actually looked good in glasses.

He had more dates than I had and all the girls loved him.

Boy, sometimes I was jealous.

Today was one of those days.

I could see that he was nervous about his speech.

So, I smacked him on the back and said, "Hey, big guy, you'll be great!"

He looked at me with one of those looks (the really grateful one) and smiled.

"Thanks," he said.

As he started his speech, he cleared his throat, and began:

"Graduation is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings, maybe a coach...but mostly your friends... I am here to tell all of you that being a friend to someone is the best gift you can give them. I am going to tell you a story."

I just looked at my friend with disbelief as he told the story of the first day we met.

He had planned to kill himself over the weekend.

He talked of how he had cleaned out his locker so his Mom wouldn't have to do it later and was carrying his stuff home.

He looked hard at me and gave me a little smile.

"Thankfully, I was saved. My friend saved me from doing the unspeakable."

I heard the gasp go through the crowd as this handsome, popular boy told us all about his weakest moment.

I saw his Mom and dad looking at me and smiling that same grateful smile.

Not until that moment did I realize it's depth.

Never underestimate the power of your actions.

With one small gesture you can change a person's life.


Got this wonderful story from a friend.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

36. The Rich Family

Eddie Ogan


I’ll never forget Easter 1946. I was fourteen, my little sister, Ocy, was twelve and my older sister, Darlene, was sixteen. We lived at home with our mother, and the four of us knew what it was to do without. My dad had died five years before, leaving Mom with no money and seven school-aged kids to raise.

By 1946, my older sisters were married and my brothers had left home. A month before Easter, the pastor of our church announced that a special holiday offering would be taken to help a poor family. He asked everyone to save and give sacrificially.

When we got home, we talked about what we could do. We decided to buy fifty pounds of potatoes and live on them for a month. This would allow us to save twenty dollars of our grocery money for the offering. Then we thought that if we kept our electric lights turned out as much as possible and didn’t listen to the radio, we’d save money on that month’s electric bill. Darlene got as many house- and yard-cleaning jobs as possible, and both of us baby-sat for everyone we could. For fifteen cents we could buy enough cotton loops to make three potholders to sell for a dollar. We made twenty dollars on potholders. That month was one of the best of our lives.

Every day we counted the money to see how much we had saved. At night we’d sit in the dark and talk about how the poor family was going to enjoy having the money the church would give them. We had about eighty people in church, so we figured that whatever amount of money we had to give, the offering would surely be twenty times that much. After all, every Sunday the pastor had reminded everyone to save for the sacrificial offering.

The night before Easter, we were so excited we could hardly sleep. We didn’t care that we wouldn’t have new clothes for Easter; we had seventy dollars for the sacrificial offering. We could hardly wait to get to church! On Sunday morning, rain was pouring. We didn’t own an umbrella, and the church was over a mile from our home, but it didn’t seem to matter how wet we got. Darlene had cardboard in her shoes to fill the holes. The cardboard came apart, and her feet got wet.

But we sat in church proudly. I heard some teenagers talking about our old dresses. I looked at them in their new clothes, and I felt rich.

When the sacrificial offering was taken, we were sitting in the second row form the front. Mom put in the ten-dollar bill, and each of us kids put in a twenty-dollar bill.

We sang all the way home from church. At lunch, Mom had a surprise for us. She had bought a dozen eggs, and we had boiled Easter eggs with our fried potatoes! Late that afternoon, the minister drove up in his car. Mom went to the door, talked with him for a moment, and then came back with an envelope in her hand. We asked what it was, but she didn’t say a word. She opened the envelope and out fell a bunch of money. There were three crisp twenty-dollar bills, one ten-dollar bill and seventeen one-dollar bills.

Mom put the money back in the envelope. We didn’t talk, just sat and stared at the floor. We had gone from feeling like millionaires to feeling poor. We kids had such a happy life that we felt sorry for anyone who didn’t have our Mom and our late Dad for parents and a house full of brothers and sisters and other kids visiting constantly. We thought it was fun to share silverware and see whether we got the spoon or the fork that night. We had two knives that we passed around to whoever needed them. I knew we didn’t have a lot of things that other people had, but I’d never thought we were poor.

That Easter day I found out we were. The minister had brought us the money for the poor family, so we must be poor, I thought. I didn’t like being poor. I looked at my dress and worn-out shoes and felt so ashamed -- I didn’t even want to go back to church. Everyone there probably already knew we were poor!

I thought about school. I was in the ninth grade and at the top of my class of over one hundred students. I wondered if the kids at school knew that we were poor. I decided that I could quit school since I had finished the eighth grade. That was all the law required at that time.

We sat in silence for along time. Then it got dark, and we went to bed. All that week, we girls went to school and came home, and no one talked much. Finally, on Saturday, Mom asked us what we wanted to do with the money. What did poor people do with money? We didn’t know. We’d never know we were poor. We didn’t want to go to church on Sunday, but Mom said we had to. Although it was a sunny day, we didn’t talk on the way. Mom started to sing, but no one joined in, and she sang only one verse.

At church we had a missionary speaker. He talked about how churches in Africa made buildings out of sun-dried bricks, but they needed money to buy roofs. He said one hundred dollars would put a roof on a church. The minister added, “Can’t we all sacrifice to help these poor people?” We looked at each other and smiled for the first time in a week.

Mom reached into her purse and pulled out the envelope. She passed it to Darlene, Darlene gave it to me, and I handed it to Ocy. Ocy put it in the offering.

When the offering was counted, the minister announced that it was a little over one hundred dollars. The missionary was excited. He hadn’t expected such a large offering form our small church. He said, “You must have some rich people in this church.” Suddenly it struck us! We had given eighty-seven dollars of that “little over one hundred dollars.”

We were the rich family in the church! Hadn’t the missionary said so? From that day on, I’ve never been poor again.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

37. Dance With Me


Jean Harper


When we’re young and we dream of love and fulfillment, we think perhaps of moon-drenched Parisian nights or walks along the beach at sunset.

No one tells us that the greatest moments of a lifetime are fleeting, unplanned and nearly always catch us off guard.

Not long ago, as I was reading a bedtime story to my seven-year-old daughter, Annie, I became aware of her focused gaze. She was starring at me with a faraway, trancelike expression. Apparently, completing The Tale of Samuel Whiskers was not as important as we first thought.

I asked what she was thinking about.

“Mommy,” she whispered, “I just can’t stop looking at your pretty face.”

I almost dissolved on the spot.

Little did she know how many trying moments the glow of her sincerely loving statement would carry me through over the following years.

Not long after, I took my four-year-old son to an elegant department store, where the melodic notes of a classic love song drew us toward a tuxedoed musician playing a grand piano. Sam and I sat down on a marble bench nearby, and he seemed as transfixed by the lilting theme as I was.

I didn’t realize that Sam had stood up next to me until he turned, took my face in his little hands and said, “Dance with me.”

If only those women strolling under the Paris moon knew the joy of such an invitation made by a round-cheeked boy with baby teeth. Although shoppers openly chuckled, grinned and pointed at us as we glided and whirled around the open atrium, I would not have traded a dance with such a charming young gentleman if I’d been offered the universe.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

38. Weakness Or Strength

Unknown Author


Sometimes your biggest weakness can become your biggest strength. Take, for example, the story of one 10-year-old boy who decided to study judo despite the fact that he had lost his left arm in a devastating car accident.

The boy began lessons with an old Japanese judo master. The boy was doing well, so he couldn't understand why, after three months of training, the master had taught him only one move.

"Sensei," the boy finally said, "shouldn't I be learning more moves?"

"This is the only move you know, but this is the only move you'll ever need to know," the sensei replied.

Not quite understanding, but believing in his teacher, the boy kept training.

Several months later, the sensei took the boy to his first tournament.

Surprising himself, the boy easily won his first two matches. The third match proved to be more difficult, but after some time, his opponent became impatient and charged; the boy deftly used his one move to win the match. Still amazed by his success, the boy was now in the finals.

This time, his opponent was bigger, stronger, and more experienced. For a while, the boy appeared to be overmatched. Concerned that the boy might get hurt, the referee called a time-out. He was about to stop the match when the sensei intervened.

"No," the sensei insisted, "Let him continue."

Soon after the match resumed, his opponent made a critical mistake: he dropped his guard. Instantly, the boy used his move to pin him. The boy had won the match and the tournament. He was the champion.

On the way home, the boy and sensei reviewed every move in each and every match. Then the boy summoned the courage to ask what was really on his mind.

"Sensei, how did I win the tournament with only one move?"

"You won for two reasons," the sensei answered. "First, you've almost mastered one of the most difficult throws in all of judo. Second, the only known defense for that move is for your opponent to grab your left arm."

The boy's biggest weakness had become his biggest strength.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

39. Everything I Need To Know About Life I Learned From a Jigsaw Puzzle


Unknown Author


Don't force a fit. If something is meant to be, it will come together naturally.

When things aren't going so well, take a break. Everything will look different when you return.

Be sure to look at the big picture. Getting hung up on the little pieces only leads to frustration.

Perseverance pays off. Every important puzzle went together bit by bit, piece by piece.

When one spot stops working, move to another. But be sure to come back later (see above).

The creator of the puzzle gave you the picture as a guidebook.

Variety is the spice of life. It's the different colors and patterns that make the puzzle interesting.

Establish the border first. Boundaries give a sense of security and order.

Don't be afraid to try different combinations. Some matches are surprising.

Take time to celebrate your successes (even little ones).

Anything worth doing takes time and effort. A great puzzle can't be rushed.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

40. The Precious Present


Timothy Ray Miller


This is the precious present, regardless of what yesterday was like, regardless of what tomorrow may bring.

When your inner eyes open, you can find immense beauty hidden within the inconsequential details of daily life.

When your inner ears open, you can hear the subtle, lovely music of the universe everywhere you go.

When the heart of your heart opens, you can take deep pleasure in the company of the people around you --family, friends, acquaintances, or strangers--including those whose characters are less than perfect, just as your character is less than perfect.

When you are open to the beauty, mystery, and grandeur of ordinary existence, you "get it" that it always has been beautiful, mysterious, and grand and always will be.

This is the precious present.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

I think It's too long to read. I think we should give some hot topics to discuss?

THẠCH VŨ

[sm=welcome.gif] ThachVu,

Trích đoạn: THACHVU

I think It's too long to read. I think we should give some hot topics to discuss?

Well ! If you try to read all 40 "short" stories at one time, then... Yes, it's too long.
However, if you just read 1, or 2 at a time then it's not that long. Don't you think?

If you want to discuss a topic, you can always start a new post.
Just make sure that the topic doesn't involve politics, religions.... or sensitive subjects.

Thank you for your comments, and looking forward to reading your posts.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

A CUP OF WATER.

A group of working adults got together to visit their University lecturer.
The lecturer was happy to see them. Conversation soon turned into complaints about stress in work and life.
It seems like every one present is very stressed out about their job and their family situation at home.

The lecturer just smiled and went to the kitchen to get an assortment of cups - some porcelain, some in
plastic, some in glass, some plain looking and some looked rather expensive and exquisite.
The lecturer offered his former students the cups to get drinks for themselves.

When all the students had a cup in hand with water, the lecturer spoke: "If you noticed, all the nice looking, expensive cups were taken up, leaving behind the plain and cheap ones. While it is normal that you only want the best for yourselves, that is the source of your problems and stress. What all you wanted was water, not the cup, but we unconsciously went for the better cups."

"Just like in life, if Life is Water, then the jobs, money and position in society are the cups. They are just tools to hold/maintain Life, but the quality of Life doesn't change."

"If we only concentrate on the cup, we won't have time to enjoy/taste the water in it."


**********

Hope you all will enjoy the story. Got it from a friend via email.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

Ronny's Book

At first glance, Ronny looked like every other kid in the first-grade classroom where I volunteered as the Reading Mom. Wind-blown hair, scuffed shoes, a little bit of dirt behind his ears, some kind of sandwich smear around his mouth.

On closer inspection, though, the layer of dirt on Ronny’s face, the crusty nose, and the packed grime under his fingernails told me he didn’t get dirty at school. He arrived that way.

His clothes were ragged and mismatched, his sneakers had string for laces, and his backpack was no more than a plastic shopping bag.

Along with his outward appearance, Ronny stood apart from his classmates in other ways, too. He had a speech impediment, wasn’t reading or writing at grade-level, and had already been held back a year, making him eight-years-old in the first grade. His home life was a shambles with transient parents who uprooted him at their whim. He had yet to live a full year in any one place.

I quickly learned that beneath his grungy exterior, Ronny possessed a spark, a resilience that I’d never seen in a child who faced such tremendous odds.

I worked with all the students in Ronny’s class on a one-on-one basis to improve their reading skills. Each day, Ronny’s head twisted around as I came into the classroom, and his eyes followed me as I set up in a corner, imploring, “Pick me! Pick me!” Of course I couldn’t pick him every day. Other kids needed my help, too.

On the days when it was Ronny’s turn, I’d give him a silent nod, and he’d fly out of his chair and bound across the room in a blink. He sat awfully close -- too close for me in the beginning, I must admit -- and opened the book we were tackling as if he were unearthing a treasure the world had never seen.

I watched his dirt-caked fingers move slowly under each letter as he struggled to sound out “Bud the Sub.” It sounded more like “Baw Daw Saw” when he said it because of his speech impediment and his difficulty with the alphabet.

Each word offered a challenge and a triumph wrapped as one; Ronny painstakingly sounded out each letter, then tried to put them together to form a word. Regardless if “ball” ended up as Bah-lah or “bow,” the biggest grin would spread across his face, and his eyes would twinkle and overflow with pride. It broke my heart each and every time. I just wanted to whisk him out of his life, take him home, clean him up and love him.

Many nights, after I’d tucked my own children into bed, I’d sit and think about Ronny. Where was he? Was he safe? Was he reading a book by flashlight under the blan-kets? Did he even have blankets?

The year passed quickly and Ronny had made some progress but hardly enough to bring him up to grade level. He was the only one who didn’t know that, though. As far as he knew, he read just fine.

A few weeks before the school year ended, I held an awards ceremony. I had treats, gifts and certificates of achievement for everyone: Best Sounder-Outer, Most Expressive, Loudest Reader, Fastest Page-Turner.

It took me awhile to figure out where Ronny fit; I needed something positive, but there wasn’t really much. I finally decided on “Most Improved Reader” -- quite a stretch, but I thought it would do him a world of good to hear.

I presented Ronny with his certificate and a book -- one of those Little Golden Books that cost forty-nine cents at the grocery store checkout. Tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking the ever-permanent layer of dirt as he clutched the book to his chest and floated back to his seat. I choked back the lump that rose in my throat.

I stayed with the class for most of the day; Ronny never let go of the book, not once. It never left his hands.

A few days later, I returned to the school to visit. I noticed Ronny on a bench near the playground, the book open in his lap. I could see his lips move as he read to himself

His teacher appeared beside me. “He hasn’t put that book down since you gave it to him. He wears it like a shirt, close to his heart. Did you know that’s the first book he’s ever actually owned?”

Fighting back tears, I approached Ronny and watched over his shoulder as his grimy finger moved slowly across the page. I placed my hand on his shoulder and asked, “Will you read me your book, Ronny?” He glanced up, squinted into the sun, and scooted over on the bench to make room for me.

And then, for the next few minutes, he read to me with more expression, clarity, and ease than I’d ever thought possible from him. The pages were already dog-eared, like the book had been read thousands of times already.

When he finished reading, Ronny closed his book, stroked the cover with his grubby hand and said with great satisfaction, “Good book.”

A quiet pride settled over us as we sat on that play-ground bench, Ronny’s hand now in mine. I at once wept and marveled at the young boy beside me. What a powerful contribution the author of that Little Golden Book had made in the life of a disadvantaged child.

At that moment, I knew I would get serious about my own writing career and do what that author had done, and probably still does -- care enough to write a story that changes a child’s life, care enough to make a difference.

I strive to be that author.

By Judith A. Chance

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

Wonderful, I like reading English book and here I can find alot of interesting book for reading. I hope you can help me to improve my English. Thanks inadvanced.
your friend Lee

www.sinhvien.cn

Trích đoạn: NuHiepDeThuong

You're very welcome.

Will try to find some more good ones.

Thank you VG for dropping by.

I read alot of your posts and I think your English is very good. I am very pleased to make friend with U, NuHiepDeThuong. I olso have a website named: www.sinhvien.cn (for students in China). If you have time please give me a hand to deverlop our website and forum. You will be Moderator and admin the English club in www.sinhvien.cn?
Thanhk in advanced !

Lee

www.sinhvien.cn

read alot of your posts and I think your English is very good. I am very pleased to make friend with U, NuHiepDeThuong. I olso have a website named: www.sinhvien.cn (for students in China). If you have time please give me a hand to deverlop our website and forum. You will be Moderator and admin the English club in www.sinhvien.cn?
Thanhk in advanced !

Lee

Hi bh_study AKA Lee,

Sorry for the late reply.

I'm glad that you've enjoyed reading my posts.

Will check out your website soon.

Thanks for the invitation & hope that I could give you a helping hand.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

i am is what i am - a dreamer, always (!)


.."The airport please!" - i spoke to the cabbie while opening the cab's door and entering it. It is eight o'clock in the morning, my flight home will not be for another four hours, but i could not stay another minute in the hotel room. There's something about hotels that always gave me the spooky feelings; feelings of chills and emptiness.

i arrived at the airport about 3 hours early, found myself a waiting seat by the glass overlooking the airstrip, gazing at the planes parked outside, amazed by these giant steel-birds, admired those who first thought of flying. "Amazing isn't it" (!?) - A middle-aged woman sitting two chairs away from me spoke; her shape was black in the yellow square sun. "Pardon me?" - i replied. "The planes! ..They always make you daydreaming, don't they!?" - she said while pointing at the parked planes, and with the look of distance. Gently, i nodded and smiled, then slid down from my seat and rested my neck on top of the back-rest, arms folded, eyes closed, and let my mind and thoughts mingled.

…*Day-Dreaming*… - how i hated those words. i needed to change; to adapt with the surroundings. i longed to be just like other people, and not always just a dreamer. Someone once told me, "your eyes see things they're not supposed to see" - it did not make sense to me, but just to please them, since then, i vowed to myself to try harder to be like others.

_"Flight 2240 to LA is now boarding", the airport's PA system announced, disrupted my thoughts. i startled and got up from my seat, slowly walked to the gate and boarded the plane - settled back in my seat on the plane, my face feeling unwashed and swollen from the intermittent sleep i got from the night before, feeling thirsty from too many cigarettes. The airplane took off. i tried to take a nap, but the sounds of the jet engines were too loud, roaring like a king of beast in battles, defending his turf against intruders. Tired, my eyes wandered outside of the window, then thoughts began to dance in my head once again - i leaned closer to the window, staring drowsily at the distant clouds; one shaped like a bearded-man, one shaped like a white horse, and some shaped like a herd of sheeps; imagined riding those clouds silently into the everlasting garden - where ..there are peace and love, where ..there's cool green grass, there, where men may lie and rest.. -- Then suddenly it dawned on me - i could never change, i did not even want to. If this were dreaming, then i would stay a dreamer - i would rather be me than anyone..

..For the next hours, i shut my eyes and let my mind indulging in thoughts of the faraway sacred place - a place that shaped my dreams..

:)

"..the imagination, the one reality
in this imagined world.."

ROSE

The first day of school our Professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn't already know. I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder.

I turned around to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.
She said, "Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I'm eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?"
I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant squeeze.
"Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked.
She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, andhave a couple of kids."
"No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
"I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!"she told me.

After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake.

We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.

Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went.

She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.

At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium. As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed, she leaned into the microphone and simply said, "I'm sorry I'm so
jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know."

As we laughed she cleared her throat and began, "We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success. You have to laugh and find humor every day. You've got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die. We have so many people walking around who are dead and don't even know it! There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up. If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one productive thing, you will turn twenty years
old. If I am eighty-seven years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn eighty eight. Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding opportunity in change. Have no regrets. The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only
people who fear death are those with regrets."

She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose."

She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.

At the year's end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago.

One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep.

Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all you can possibly be.

These Words have been passed along in loving memory of ROSE.

REMEMBER, GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY. GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL.
We make a Living by what we get, We make a Life by what we give.

*******

Source : email from a friend.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

To NuHiepDeThuong.
I looking forward to seeing you in my website. Maybe you were so busy so you didn't have free time to give me a hand, right?
Anyway thank you, nice to be your friend :).

From Lee in Beijing

www.sinhvien.cn

Trích đoạn: bh_study

To NuHiepDeThuong.
I looking forward to seeing you in my website. Maybe you were so busy so you didn't have free time to give me a hand, right?
Anyway thank you, nice to be your friend :).

From Lee in Beijing

Hi bh_study,

For some unknown reasons, I couldn't sign up at your website ... Will try again soon.

Thank you for your understanding. Have a nice day.

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

Symptoms of Inner Peace

Be on the lookout for symptoms of inner peace.

The hearts of a great many have already been exposed to inner peace and it is possible that people everywhere could come down with it in epidemic proportions. This could pose a serious threat to what has, up to now, been a fairly stable condition of conflict in the world.

Some signs to look for:

A tendency to think and act spontaneously rather than on fears based on past experiences.

An unmistakeable ability to enjoy each moment.

A loss of interest in judging other people.

A loss of interest in interpreting the actions of others.

A loss of interest in conflict.

A loss of the ability to worry. (This is a very serious symptom.)

Frequent, overwhelming episodes of appreciation.

Contented feelings of connectedness with others and nature.

Frequent attacks of smiling.

An increasing tendency to let things happen rather than make them happen.

An increased susceptibility to the love offered by others as well as the uncontrollable urge to extend it.

Be Forewarned!!! If you have all or even most of the above symptoms, please be advised that your condition may be too far advanced to turn back. If you are exposed to anyone exhibiting several of these symptoms, remain exposed at your own risk. This condition of inner peace is likely well into its infectious stage.


********

Source : Spiritual.com

Author : Unknown

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

Eight Gifts You Can Afford


THE GIFT OF LISTENING

But you must REALLY listen.

No interrupting, no daydreaming, no planning your response. Just listening.


THE GIFT OF AFFECTION

Be generous with appropriate hugs, kisses, pats on the back and handholds. Let these small actions demonstrate the love you have for family and friends.


THE GIFT OF LAUGHTER

Clip cartoons. Share articles and funny stories. Your gift will say, "I love to laugh with you".


THE GIFT OF A WRITTEN NOTE

It can be a simple "Thanks for the help" note or a full sonnet. A brief, handwritten note may be remembered for a lifetime, and may even change a life.


THE GIFT OF A COMPLIMENT

A simple and sincere, "You look great in red", "You did a super job" or "That was a wonderful meal" can make someone's day.


THE GIFT OF A FAVOR

Every day, go out of your way to do something kind.


THE GIFT OF SOLITUDE

There are times when we want nothing better than to be left alone. Be sensitive to those times and give the gift of solitude to others.


THE GIFT OF A CHEERFUL DISPOSITION

The easiest way to feel good is to make other feel good.



**********
Source : Spiritual.com

Author : Unknown

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

  
   As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a wallet someone had lost in the street. I picked it up and looked inside to find some identification so I could call the owner. But the wallet contained only three dollars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been in there for years.
 
 The envelope was worn and the only thing that was legible on it was the return address. I started to open the letter, hoping to find some clue.  Then I saw the dateline--1924. The letter had been written almost sixty years ago.
 
   It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting on powder blue stationery with a little flower in the left-hand corner. It was a "Dear John" letter that told the recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael, that the writer could not see him any more because her mother forbade it.  Even so, she wrote that she would always love him.
   It was signed, Hannah.
 
   It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way except for the name Michael, that the owner could be identified. Maybe if I called information, the operator could find a phone listing for the address on the envelope.
 
   "Operator," I began, "this is an unusual request. I'm trying to find the owner of a wallet that I found. Is there anyway you can tell me if there is a phone number for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?"
 
   She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who hesitated for a moment then said, "Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I can't give you the number." She said, as a courtesy, she would call that number, explain my story and would ask them if they wanted her to connect me. I waited a few minutes and then she was back on the line.  "I have a party who will speak with you."
 
   I asked the woman on the other end of the line if she knew anyone by the name of Hannah. She gasped, "Oh! We bought this house from a family who had a daughter named Hannah. But that was 30 years ago!"
 
   "Would you know where that family could be located now?" I asked.
 
   "I remember that Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home some years ago," the woman said. "Maybe if you got in touch with them they might be able to track down the daughter."
 
   She gave me the name of the nursing home and I called the number. They told me the old lady had passed away some years ago but they did have a phone number for where they thought the daughter might be living.
 
   I thanked them and phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.
 
   This whole thing was stupid, I thought to myself. Why was I making such a big deal over finding the owner of a wallet that had only three dollars and a letter that was almost 60 years old?

   Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was supposed to be living and the man who answered the phone told me, "Yes, Hannah is staying with us. "
 
   Even though it was already 10 p.m., I asked if I could come by to see her.
"Well," he said hesitatingly, "if you want to take a chance, she might be in the day room watching television."
 
   I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home. The night nurse and a guard greeted me at the door. We went up to the third floor of the large building. In the day room, the nurse introduced me to Hannah.
 
   She was a sweet, silver-haired old timer with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.
 
   I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw the powder blue envelope with that little flower on the left, she took a deep breath and said, "Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever had with Michael."
 
   She looked away for a moment deep in thought and then said Softly, "I loved him very much. But I was only 16 at the time and my mother felt I was too young. Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like Sean Connery, the actor."
 
   "Yes," she continued. "Michael Goldstein was a wonderful person. If you should find him, tell him I think of him often. And," she hesitated for a moment, almost biting her lip, "tell him I still love him. You know," she said smiling as tears began to well up in her eyes, "I never did marry. I guess no one ever matched up to Michael..."
 
   I thanked Hannah and said goodbye. I took the elevator to the first floor and as I stood by the door, the guard there asked, "Was the old lady able to help you?"
 
   I told him she had given me a lead. "At least I have a last name. But I think I'll let it go for a while. I spent almost the whole day trying to find the owner of this wallet."
 
   I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown leather case with red lacing on the side. When the guard saw it, he said, "Hey, wait a minute! That's Mr. Goldstein's wallet. I'd know it anywhere with that bright red lacing. He's always losing that wallet. I must have found it in the halls at least three times."
 
   "Who's Mr. Goldstein?" I asked as my hand began to shake.
 
   "He's one of the old timers on the 8th floor. That's Mike Goldstein's wallet for sure. He must have lost it on one of his walks."
 
   I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to the nurse's office. I told her what the guard had said. We went back to the elevator and got on.  I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.
 
   On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, "I think he's still in the day room. He likes to read at night. He's a darling old man."
 
   We went to the only room that had any lights on and there was a man reading a book. The nurse went over to him and asked if he had lost his wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with surprise, put his hand in his back pocket and said, "Oh, it is missing!"
 
   "This kind gentleman found a wallet and we wondered if it could be yours?"
 
   I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet and the second he saw it, he smiled with relief and said, "Yes, that's it! It must have dropped out of my pocket this afternoon. I want to give you a reward."
 
   "No, thank you," I said. "But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet."
 
   The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. "You read that letter?"
 
   "Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is."
 
   He suddenly grew pale. "Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was? Please, please tell me," he begged.
 
   "She's fine...just as pretty as when you knew her." I said softly.
 
   The old man smiled with anticipation and asked, "Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow." He grabbed my hand and said, "You know something, mister, I was so in love with that girl that when that letter came, my life literally ended. I never married. I guess I've always loved her. "
 
   "Mr. Goldstein," I said, "Come with me."
 
   We took the elevator down to the third floor. The hallways were darkened and only one or two little night-lights lit our way to the day room where Hannah was sitting alone watching the television. The nurse walked over to her.
 
   "Hannah," she said softly, pointing to Michael, who was waiting with me in the doorway. "Do you know this man?"
 
   She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn't say a word. Michael said softly, almost in a whisper, "Hannah, it's Michael. Do you remember me?"
 
   She gasped, "Michael! I don't believe it! Michael! It's you! My Michael!" He walked slowly towards her and they embraced. The nurse and I left with tears streaming down our faces.
 
 "See," I said. "See how the Good Lord works!  If it's meant to be, it will be."
 
   About three weeks later I got a call at my office from the nursing home.
"Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!"
 
   It was a beautiful wedding with all the people at the nursing home dressed up to join in the celebration. Hannah wore a light beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall.  They made me their best man.
 
   The hospital gave them their own room and if you ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a 79-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this couple.
 
   A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly 60 years.   



http://www.spiritual-endeavors.org/

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love

I am not sure if the following story is "soup for the soul" but I really like it.
I hope you will like it too.
A Christmas Tale: José's Sandals
By Paulo Coelho
 

Top of Form

I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas. I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas.
 
I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me.
 
"Hello Barry, how are you today?"

"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. They sure look good."

 "They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"

 "Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."

 "Good. Anything I can help you with?"

 "No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."

 "Would you like to take some home?" asked Mr. Miller.

 "No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."

 "Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"

 "All I got's my prize marble here."

 "Is that right? Let me see it" said Miller.

 "Here 'tis. She's a dandy."

 "I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?" the store owner asked.
 
"Not zackley but almost."

 "Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble" . Mr. Miller told the boy.

 "Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller."
 
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store."

 I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved toColorado, but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles.

 Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died.

 They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.

 Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts...all very professional looking.

 They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket.

 Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.

 Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband's bartering for marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.
 
"Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them.  Now , at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size....they came to pay their debt."

 "We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho."

 With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.
 

The Moral : We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds. Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.



IT'S NOT WHAT YOU GATHER, BUT WHAT YOU SCATTER THAT TELLS WHAT KIND OF LIFE YOU HAVE LIVED!

Thân,
NHDT

Peace is the way of love